“I knew this would happen,” Irene complained as Frances steered to the exit. “This time, no shopping!”
Twenty-two
They arrived in Las Vegas the next afternoon, exhausted, dusty from the road (none of them had dared shower at the run-down roadside motel), and starving for something other than truck stop beef jerky.
At the rental address, Frances got out and stared in disbelief at the dilapidated blue house with the bars on the windows and a flat roof in bad need of replacing. “It looked better in the photos.”
“I should hope so, because this looks like it ought to be condemned,” Joan said. “Are we sure it’s not?”
“Hey … do you know where this is?” Edie asked, turning a slow circle. “We used to stay in that apartment house over there.” She pointed down the street, to a three-story brown brick building that looked just as run-down.
“That’s the one,” Frances said. “They tore down the Lucky Saloon across the street.”
“My God, it looks like a flophouse now,” Joan said, squinting in that direction.
“Better than the drug den we’ve rented,” Irene said. “How do we get in? There’s no lockbox.”
“I texted the owner. He’s going to meet us,” Frances said.
Just then, the sound of a coughing engine caused them to turn and look up the street. A beat-up van, painted in various shades of white and paint primer, pulled up behind the Cadillac. A young man climbed out of the driver’s seat, as wiry and thin as he was tall. He had a head of black greasy hair pulled into a low pony. He wore a massive coat on this overly warm day. His black leather boots looked too big for his feet.
From the passenger seat emerged a large man who looked at least twenty years older, browner, and much bigger. Tattoos climbed up his neck to his face.
Frances and company crowded closer together.
“Hey.” The skinny man—he could have passed for sixteen or twenty-six, it was so hard to know these days—sauntered forward. “What’s up, Golden Girls?” He grinned, revealing one of his front teeth capped in gold. “Which one of you is Wilma?”
Edie, Joan, and Irene turned and stared at Frances. And not in an approving way.
“Umm …” Frances raised her hand and stepped forward. Her gaze wandered to his fingernails, painted black, and the heavy chains draped around his pencil-thin waist. “Are you … are you Richard Perkins?” She was sure he’d say no. Because Richard Perkins had to be a computer nerd. That’s what she’d assumed when she’d corresponded with Richard Perkins about this property.
“Yep. But most people call me Skinner. On account of the tattoos.”
Frances blinked.
Richard “Skinner” Perkins smiled. “You can’t see them on account of my clothes.”
“Right.” Frances had no desire to see his tattoos. Mild curiosity, maybe, but nothing so strong she could bear to see him remove a piece of clothing to show her.
“Wilma Thinstone, huh?” Skinner said. “That’s awesome. How’s Fred?”
“Ah—”
“Wanna go in?”
“No,” Edie hissed behind Frances.
“Please,” Frances said.
“Let me grab the key.” The kid loped to the van and opened the driver door. He bent over the front seat while the massive man eyed them impassively. Skinner reappeared with a ring of keys, which he held up and jingled at them. Then he jogged to the door of the house, opened it, and disappeared inside.
Frances looked at the other three, whose earlier looks of dissatisfaction had all morphed into alarm. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m sure it’s fine.” She looked at the bruiser. He waved them on ahead. She followed Skinner into the house.
At the threshold, she paused to peer inside. The place smelled of old gas, but when her eyes adjusted to the light, everything seemed in order. The layout was a tiny little ranch, with two bedrooms, one large single bathroom between them. The kitchen was woefully out of date, but it had the requisite fridge, oven, and microwave.
The others had entered and were huddled together in the square living room.
“So, Skinner,” Edie said. “What do you do for a living? Do you work on the Strip?”
