LITMIR.BIZ

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be coming straight from work.”

      Then Nicky grabbed my leg and dragged me into the living room to play with his pirate ship.

      Chapter 3

      As I walked from the parking garage into the El Sereno the next evening, I realized Michael hadn’t told me exactly where to find the party. In any other city, I would have asked at the desk, but in Vegas, baby, you just look for the showgirl. Sure enough, there she was, filling an archway with a peacock headdress and displaying a few miles of fishnet-encased leg. She handed me a glow-in-the-dark necklace as she told me to head up the escalator. When I got to the top, another sequined babe pointed the way to the Special Moments Room. A crowd had formed in front of a check-in table. I spotted Michael in the huddle, ensconced in a conversation with a woman I recognized. Jenna Bartolo, whose juice flows from her May-December marriage to a local casino mogul, serves with Michael on the board of the Alliance for the Homeless. She was decked out in a floor-length strapless scarlet dress studded with rhinestones. Bracing myself for a wordless but scathing appraisal of my cotton slacks and knit top, I took a step toward them. Fortunately, my brother saw me before I got any farther. He excused himself and crossed the floor to meet me.

      “Hey! I thought you said this wasn’t black tie!” I said. My brother was wearing a tux.

      “It isn’t. The suit I wanted to wear is at the cleaners.”

      “Jenna Bartolo—”

      “Jenna always dresses to kill. You know that.”

      I glanced around the rest of the crowd. Only a few guys were wearing monkey suits, and there were plenty of people in outfits more like mine. Jenna really did stand out.

      After Michael had procured our name badges, we headed into the Special Moments Room, which looked like it also served as a wedding chapel. One wall was covered in a mural featuring chubby cupids flitting past puffy clouds and floating rosebuds. I was still checking out the gazebo covered in plastic ivy when Michael handed me an orange card.

      “Your Boneyard bus pass,” he said. “I’ve got some schmoozing to do up here, but they’re running shuttles every few minutes. Why don’t you go on over there while it’s still light?”

      Sounded good to me. Old signs are photogenic any time of the day, but a desert sunset makes them positively enchanting. I immediately made my way back past the two feathered females and out to the curb. Joining a line of partygoers, I boarded a shiny black shuttle bus. When I stepped inside, there was exactly one seat left, on a four-person banquette facing the door. I plopped down next to a sixtyish blonde woman in a black silk shell and matching capris. She was balancing a Prada purse on her knees. My little backpack—even though it was made of leather—looked impossibly plebeian sitting next to it on my own knees, so I leaned forward and stuffed it behind my feet. As I straightened back up, I caught sight of my seatmate’s nametag.

       Marilyn Weaver.

      I knew that name. Taking another look at her face, I recognized the strong jawline and high forehead I’d seen in newspaper pictures. Marilyn Weaver was the founder of the Anna Roberts Parks Academy. A private prep school, it generated news stories whenever one of its students won an award, a celebrity gave it a big donation, or someone picked on it for being snobby. I always thought the allegations of elitism were slightly unfair because the school was known for giving full scholarships to students who couldn’t afford the tuition. On the other hand, the children of several Strip performers and high-end casino magnates, including Jenna Bartolo’s stepdaughter, went to school there. The campus—at least what you could see of it from the street—looked like a resort.

      “I like your backpack,” Marilyn said.

      “I like your purse,” I said.

      “Birthday present,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve got a closet full of them. My husband doesn’t have much imagination in that department, and I seem to have birthdays every couple of months these days.”

      The bus pulled out.

      “Ever been to the Boneyard before?” Marilyn asked.

      “My first time,” I said. “How about you?”

      Marilyn laughed. “The signs are old, old friends. My husband’s on the board of the Neon Museum.”

      “Oops,” I said as I connected a couple of mental dots. “I think I should have known that.”

      “I don’t see why,” Marilyn said. “It’s not like he’s the mayor.”

      “He’s Curtis Weaver, though, isn’t he?” I asked. “The architect who’s working on the new service center for the Alliance for the Homeless?” I knew about Curtis Weaver because my claim to volunteer fame is that I write the Alliance’s newsletter. I just never thought about who Mr. Weaver might be married to.

      “Yes, that’s right,” Marilyn said. “Curt’s best intern has been working on their new building nonstop for the last six months. That site of theirs next to the wastewater treatment plant has been a real baptism by fire for the poor boy.” She turned to the young woman sitting next to her.

      “This is my niece,” she said. “Charlene’s visiting from Montana.”

      From her hat to her boots, Charlene looked like an ad for a dude ranch. She responded to my “Nice to meet you” with a husky “Howdy.” If I’d had only her voice to go by, I might well have assumed she was a guy. Charlene was definitely female, however. Her long dark hair flowed over her shoulders, and she was wearing bright red lipstick.

      “Charlene’s in town for the cutting horse trials at the Silverado,” Marilyn said.

      What the hell is a cutting horse? I wondered, but there was no way I’d ask. That’s what Google is for.

      “Charlene’s the defending national champion.”

      Charlene shot her aunt a disapproving look over the top of her glasses. “Don’t boast about me,” she said.

      Marilyn chuckled and patted her knee. “Be proud of your accomplishments, honey,” she said. “I certainly am.”

      Charlene looked away, and Marilyn turned toward me. “What do you do?”

      “I work for the newspaper.”

      Whether that registered with Charlene, I couldn’t tell, but it really got Marilyn’s attention. By the time we reached the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard and McWilliams Avenue, she knew all about my gig at The Light. At first, I’d given her the “assistant editor” line, but she didn’t stop grilling me until she knew the truth about my lowly role.

      “I’m serious about journalism, though,” I said as we climbed off the bus. “Right now I’m looking for a good topic for a freelance piece I can sell to a national magazine. It’s one of the reasons I came tonight.”

      “The Boneyard’s definitely popular for that sort of thing,” Marilyn said as we crunched through the gravel along the chain link fence to the entrance, “but that’s why you might have trouble selling an article about it. Half a dozen photographers show up here every week, and all of them are writers or working with writers. You need a topic with less competition.”

      As we walked past the first cluster of old signs, a tall string bean of a guy wearing a Neon Museum name badge rushed up.

      “Marilyn! Is Curtis here?”

      “No. He had a late meeting. He’s going directly to the El Sereno. If he doesn’t make it, I’m set to give his after-dinner remarks. He gave me his notes.”

      “Okay,” the guy said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

      “Thanks, Brad.”

      Marilyn, Charlene, and I were standing in front of a twelve-foot yellow sign with the words “Gambling Hall” spelled out in red Western-style letters studded with empty lightbulb sockets. Rusty

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