Made in the U.S.A. (13 page)

“Makes you sound like the dweeb you are. No need to advertise it.”

“Lutie . . .” Fate hesitated. “You didn’t steal this, did you?”

“The receipt’s in the sack. Go ahead. Look at it, I know you want to. And here’s something else.” She handed him a ten-dollar bill.

“Gosh, thanks, Lutie. I mean, thanks for the backpack. If I get to go to Paradise, I’ll need this. All the students I saw on the campus today had a backpack.”

“Oh, you’re going to that school. Before long, we’ll be in our own apartment, with a
real
address. Not this one.” She waved the driver’s license, then put it in her jeans.

“What about you, Lutie? What about your school, huh?”

“I’m going to check on that. I think I’ll get my GED. That way I can keep a job and study at night.”

As Lutie bunched up an afghan for a pillow, she said, “Fate, don’t you think it’s weird that Daddy and Floy died on the same day? I mean, I wonder if they died at the same time, at the very same instant? Like they had some kind of connection. You know what I mean?”

Fate avoided a direct response, choosing not to tell her that he’d read Exodus, looking for an answer to the same question.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess if there’d been a connection, it would’ve been between Daddy and Mom. Not Floy. She wasn’t his wife, not his one true love.”

“Lutie, you’re not going to get all creepy on me, are you? Not like one of the Harlequin romance books you and Floy used to read?”

“No, but I just can’t stop thinking about him. All the questions I’ve got in my head. For instance, they said he died of hepatitis. And I don’t even know what hepatitis is. Do you?”

Fate gave Lutie a vague answer, saying there were different kinds of hepatitis, but he didn’t tell her that because their father was a drunk, he had most likely died of hepatitis B. And he didn’t tell her that from what he’d read in the library, their daddy’s last hours—or days—were filled with agony . . . vomiting, diarrhea, a bloated belly, distended veins that ruptured, chest pain, the collapse of his kidneys. His skin the color of a yellow highlighter. And finally, drowning in his own blood as it filled his lungs.

“I just hope he didn’t suffer,” Lutie said.

“I don’t think he did.”

“Seems like we oughta do something for him, Fate. Don’t you think so?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t get to go to his funeral. We don’t even know where he’s buried.”

“I saw a show on TV once, about old convicts who get sick and die in prison. Their bodies are sent home if they’ve got families, so they can bury them. But with Daddy, well, he’s probably buried in the prison cemetery.”

“That’s what I mean. We couldn’t have a funeral, but I think we should do something to say good-bye.”

“You got any ideas?”

“Why don’t we go to a church? I don’t mean for Sunday school and all that, but let’s just go into a church where we can sit and think about Daddy. Think about good times we had with him, like the time he played Santa for us when he put on a pair of old red long johns and—”

“Lutie, he was drunk. Don’t you remember? He fell into the Christmas tree, broke most of the ornaments, smashed the box with the vase in it that he’d got for Floy. They had a big fight over it.”

“Fate, you always remember the stuff that went wrong. Why don’t you try to focus on the fun times, like our camping trip to the Badlands National Park. That was fun.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Bet we could think of lots of nice memories.”

“I suppose.”

“Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s do it tomorrow.”

“All right.”

They were quiet for a long time, as if respecting each other’s private thoughts.

Fate was hoping Lutie had fallen asleep when she said in such a soft voice, he could barely hear her, “You suppose he was thinking about us when he died?”

“Yeah. I bet he was, Lutie. The last thing on his mind would have been us. You and me.”

CHAPTER TEN

L
UTIE HAD TO
wait six days for her next photo session while Philo finished a project in Los Angeles. Six long days and nights of dread, imagining what T. would ask her to do. So by the time she went to “the studio,” she was a wreck. She knew when she’d told T. back at the Carnival Court that she needed more documents, even more than the last time, that she’d be required to show more skin than she had before. She just didn’t know how much.

Philo wrote down what she said she needed: TB and HIV test results, a food handler’s permit, a registration form and Vegas tag for Floy’s car, and school records for Fate’s fourth grade from Miami, Florida—a city about as far away from Spearfish as she could get. She asked Philo to show that her brother was an A student in advanced classes, which she assured him was the truth, a fact that mattered to Philo and T. not at all.

Lutie was so jumpy when they went back into the photography room that she wrapped herself in her arms as if she were freezing.

“Okay, sweet thing,” T. said, “Philo’s gonna use the same head shot he used on your driver’s license for some of these forms that require a picture ID, then he’s gonna shoot you in your little birthday suit.”

“I, uh . . . I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Sure you can. Here.” He fished a capsule from his pocket. “Take this,” he said. “It’ll help you relax.”

Philo, setting up his equipment, said, “I don’t think she’ll need that, T. I believe I can get these without—”

“You shut your mouth, Philo. I’m still paying your salary, and don’t you forget it,” T. snapped. Then, to Lutie, he said in a softer voice, “Take this, sugar.” He grabbed a bottle of water off a counter, then handed it to her along with the capsule.

While looking directly at T., without a glance at the water or the pill, she swallowed it.

“Good girl. Now—”

“Okay, T.,” Philo said. “You got what you wanted; now, why don’t you go out for a smoke and let me take care of this.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Tarantino.”

As soon as the door closed behind T., Philo asked Lutie if she’d like to take a few minutes to get ready, then change behind one of the backdrops.

She nodded, already feeling the effects of the drug T. had given her.

“Take off all your clothes, then put these on.” He handed her a pair of see-through thongs with black lace, then said, “And would you put your hair in two ponytails and tie them with these?” The bows he gave her to tie her hair were made of pink ribbon.

Minutes later, when she emerged, Philo was ready to shoot. He handed her a pacifier that looked like a small penis and asked her to hold it in such a way that she looked about ready to slide it between her lips.

Feeling as if she were floating somewhere above her own body, she did exactly as Philo asked, and he clicked off the shots in rapid succession. Then, when he asked her to take off the panties and let her hair down, she didn’t give a thought to going behind the backdrop again.

“Would you like me to get you a kimono to put on while I get these next shots set up?”

“No. I’m fine.”

Philo brought her a chair and asked her to sit down with a lollipop in her mouth and one hand holding an opened book, then he told her to touch herself while she tilted her head back, her eyes closed, her mouth open as if she were in a period of ecstasy.

“Lutie,” Philo said in a voice just above a whisper, “you seem like a good kid . . . but most of the girls I meet are ‘good kids’ when they start. And this is none of my affair, but I’m going to tell you anyway. If you have to do business with T., and maybe you’ll have to ’cause Vegas is a tough town to live in when you need help—stay away from the pills and the powder . . . the dope T. will offer you. Free. In the beginning.”

“What did I take? Today.”

“Doesn’t matter much. Probably OxyContin. Next time it might be white bitch or devil’s dandruff or ice. You might have to snort it, smoke it, or inject it. But you use it twice, use any of it twice, and you might never recover from it.

“Now this other stuff you do? Porno or prostitution or . . . worse, you might someday get over that. But dope? Chances are it’ll destroy your life.

“And that’s all I got to say about it ’cause you’ll do what you want to anyway. At least, that’s been my experience.”

When she left, she had all the documents she’d asked for, but this time T. walked with her a few blocks. Time, he said, for them to have a talk.

“You know, Lutie, I’m taking a big chance on you. I could go to jail for the favors I’m doing for you.”

With her high wearing off a bit, she said, “And I know you wouldn’t do that unless you made some money off me.”

“Pocket change. That’s what I make off you. Pocket change. Hardly enough to pay Philo. And his kind of photography doesn’t come cheap.”

“So what is it you want?”

“More. I want more from you. I
expect
more from you.”

“Like what?”

“Movies. Pictures. You’re sweet, young, natural. Hard to find a girl who hasn’t had a tit job yet. See, you look like the all-American girl. You say you’re fifteen, but Philo can make you look twelve. Or younger.”

“You’re talking porno movies, aren’t you? I saw that room with the naked man and woman on a bed, cameras set up, mikes. I know what goes on back there.”

“Now, that’s dangerous talk, Lutie. That kind of talk can get you in real trouble. Talk like that can get you hurt. Oh, yeah. That’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous? How?”

“Oh, if you talked about the movies we make at the studio, say something to the wrong party, well . . .”

“I’m not gonna tell anyone, T. I’m trying to stay out of trouble here myself. I’ve got a little brother to take care of and—”

“I know, honey. I know. And that’s why I’m offering you this opportunity. You can make a lot of money. And you can make it fast in this business.”

“I don’t want to do that, T. Besides, I’ve got a job if I decide to take it.”

“Yeah, I heard. Making beds and cleaning shit out of toilets at the MGM.”

Lutie looked stunned. “How’d you—”

“Not much goes on in Vegas that I don’t know about, darlin’. But let’s get back to you. Here’s the thing: Cleaning hotel rooms is never gonna let you put together enough money to get you and your brother into a decent place. See, you have to lay out a damage deposit, pay first and last months’ rent, put down utility deposits. You have any idea how much you’d need to do that?”

“Well, I guess I hadn’t thought of that.”

“No, ’course not, but T. is trying to take care of you, see? And if movies aren’t your thing, I can get you hooked up with something else.”

“Like what?”

“Well, even with those little bitty boobs, I can get you a job as a stripper . . . or a pro.”

“Pro? You mean a whore?”

“Now wait a minute, babe, you don’t need to be so harsh with me. I’m trying to look after you here.”

“Right.”

“Hey, when you finally realize this stupid plan of yours ain’t gonna work, when you finally see that you can’t make enough money to live anywhere besides your car, when you reach the point where you gotta go Dumpster diving to feed you and your brother, you’ll turn to some kind of business that’ll help you get where you wanna be. And that’s when you’re gonna need me, old T., looking out for your best interests. Keeping you safe, healthy, and whole. You get what I’m saying?”

“I gotta go now, T.”

“Okay, baby girl, but you’ll be back. You’ll be back to see me. And it won’t be long, not nearly as long as you think.”

Lutie went back to Denny’s with her food handler’s permit, which resulted in her first job offer, an eight-hour shift starting that night at eleven p.m. But she wasn’t sure leaving Fate alone all night in the car was a good idea, so she said she couldn’t start that soon.

She checked at a dozen casino restaurants, figuring that waitresses would make better tips there, but most had all the help they needed at the moment, and many already had a waiting list of potential employees. Even the two casinos that did have openings could offer her only night work, which, they explained, was the shift where all their new waitstaff had to start.

She filled out an application at a twenty-four-hour cleaners called Right Away when she saw a Help Wanted sign in the window, but the job was only part-time and the pay was pathetic. She tried for work at tourist spots; bars; flower shops; an import bazaar; a beauty salon where she was offered the job of janitor—shampoo and sweep-up girl, a position scheduled to open up in three weeks; upscale shops in the Fashion Mall and the Midway at Circus Circus.

When she passed a shop called Showgirl Costumes, she noticed a sign on the door, a sign that read, “25 sexy moves taught by a professional pole dancer. We help with costumes, jewelry, and job locations. All physical types considered.” But when she tried to go inside, she found the door was locked.

A short distance away, she went into Biomedics, a blood donation center that paid for plasma. She spoke to a receptionist who gave her an information sheet that listed the regulations and payment disclosure: thirty dollars for the first donation; thirty-five dollars for all that followed.

On her way back to the car, she passed a narrow brick building, the Glenmoor Arms. When she saw the Apartment Available sign in the yard, she went in. The manager, a disinterested woman who appeared to be a little drunk, showed her the apartment, a one-bedroom efficiency with torn shades at the window, a bed with a bare mattress covered with stains, a kitchen with an oven missing its door, and a sink where ants marched from beneath a broken faucet.

The rent, the manager announced, was four hundred dollars, first and last month due upon occupancy, but that included water and trash pickup; a damage deposit of two hundred dollars, nonrefundable if the renter owned a pet; no dopers and no noise after midnight.

When she reached the car, she was surprised to find that Fate hadn’t arrived ahead of her, so she took the time to count the money left from the “donation” made yesterday by the gray-haired ladies. Almost three dollars, an amount that assured her that she and Fate would be going back to the Salvation Army shelter for a free meal that evening.