Макс Коллинз - Road to Paradise

As far as Michael knew, the last time the secret stone-pillar fireplace “door” had been used, an assassin had come into the office and got immediately shot and killed for the trouble. He hoped the new Cal-Neva manager, whoever that might be, wasn’t as quick on the trigger; at least he knew the Garand rifle wasn’t over the mantel anymore — it was in the suitcase in his car, in pieces.

The scraping of stone on stone was unavoidable, so Michael shoved it the hell open, and burst in the office, fanning the .45 around what appeared to be an empty room, illuminated only by the picture window filtering in moonbeams and their reflection off the lake.

The new manager wasn’t here, at least not in his office. Nothing much seemed to have changed, but for a wall arrayed with celebrity and politician photos; they were hanging crooked, which was nothing new for the politicos, anyway.

He cracked the door and looked out into a dark hallway of offices; busy casino noise, and the laughter of those high school kids, echoed down from the lodge — the Indian Lounge was nearby.

He recalled what Anna had said about their home in Paradise Estates — that she felt like a ghost haunting her own house. Michael had that same bizarre sensation setting foot in the Indian Lounge again — his ten years at the Cal-Neva had been his single longest stint at any one facility, and no job had pleased him more; no workplace could have been a better fit.

Now the most familiar face at Cal-Neva over the last decade relegated himself to the shadows of the lounge, which was suitably darkened for the occasion. That was why he’d put on the shirt and tie with sport jacket, to better fit in with the parent chaperones who would be staying on the sidelines, not bugging the kids.

The lounge had the usual streamers and crepe-paper balls in green and gold, the school colors, and another banner over the stage — where a cover band in pirate shirts and bell-bottoms bellowed, “Slow Ride, take it easy!” — said, prom ’73 — highland fling! (the school teams were the Highlanders).

But the open-beamed lounge’s natural decor would have overwhelmed the most ambitious decorating committee, with its black California/Nevada state line painted on the floor through the massive sixty-foot granite-boulder fireplace, and natural wood walls arrayed with deer, elk, and bear trophies and Indian art and blankets.

At least fifty couples were out on the dance floor and at the round tables with gold or green cloths, and the sea of red, white, and light blue tuxes and froufrou pastel gowns made the kids fairly interchangeable in the dim green light. The cover band was doing a badly out-of-tune “Bridge Over Troubled Water” now, but the couples clutching each other out there didn’t seem to mind. He moved along the periphery, trying to get a better vantage point, hoping to spot Anna and Gary...

“Mike!”

He turned and saw the father of one of Anna’s friends from chorus — Dan Miller, an insurance agent from Incline Village — grinning and shoving a hand at him like a spear.

“Dan,” he said with a smile, shaking the moist hand, “nice to see you.”

“So you decided to let Anna come back for the prom!”

“Yes — yes.”

“White of ya! Couldn’t just pull her out of school a few months ’fore the end of her senior year, and expect her to forget her whole damn life! You’re a good parent, Mike. Good parent.”

“Thanks.” Maybe the punch was spiked. “Have you seen Anna?”

“I think they’re up near the stage, her and Gary. Great to see you! Where are you folks again, these days?”

“Great to see you, too,” Michael said, working his voice up, as if having trouble hearing over the band.

And he edged down the wall, getting nearer the front.

There she was.

His beautiful daughter, looking so much like her mother, her head nestled against the chest of blond athletic Gary, one of the few boys here with shorter hair. They stayed in one spot, moving in a barely perceptible circle, both with eyes dreamily closed, lost in a loving embrace.

Anna wore a white dress with none of the silly frills of these other girls, adorned only by a sheer shawl and the orchid corsage at her wrist, her long brown hair braided and ribboned here and there. Gary’s tux was white with slashes of black lapel.

Michael lurched reflexively toward them, then stopped himself. An empty table — its rightful claimants probably out on the dance floor — presented a chair for him to flop into, which he did. Suddenly he felt tired. Old. His eyes filled with tears, and he swallowed hard. Beautiful. How beautiful, how sweet she looked. Sweet and alive...

Even the thought of those Trojans on the nightstand only made him smile. Hadn’t he and Patsy Ann screwed like rabbits in the backseat of her daddy’s Buick on prom night? What had been so awful about that? He had loved Patsy Ann, and she loved him.

He would let them finish their dance.

“...bridge over troubled water...”

At least the guy was back in tune for the finish. Applause rewarded the band, and most of the kids stayed out there for “Right Place, Wrong Time,” a growly fast number. A few other couples threaded back toward their seats, Anna and Gary among them.

The table where Michael sat remained otherwise empty, and while it didn’t belong to Anna and Gary, the couple’s own seats were nearby apparently, because she spotted her father on the way over.

Freezing.

Emotions, in a rapid wave, traveled her features: anger, worry, terror, indignation, frustration, sadness, even regret.

Gary — petrified beside her, holding her hand — only gazed at Michael blankly. The father knew the look — this boy loved this girl, and he would be a man about any decisions he’d made regarding her, would not be afraid to stand up to Daddy.

Anna started to pull away, but Gary shook his head and walked her over to his girlfriend’s father, who remained seated.

The couple just stood there looking at him, Gary pretending to be calm, Anna with chin defiantly up.

Gary said, “We couldn’t let you keep us apart. We... I... really meant no disrespect, sir. But—”

“Please sit down,” Michael said, his voice calm.

Anna and Gary locked eyes.

“Kids — please. Sit. I’m not angry. Really. Just relieved.”

“I’m sorry if you were worried,” she said, her words cold, her chin crinkly, “but my life isn’t about you and Mom, anymore, Daddy. My life is about me, and Gary.”

“Honey — sit. Gary? Help me out here?”

Gary nodded and guided the girl into the chair beside her father. Still, she sat as far away from him as she could manage.

“Please listen to me, both of you,” he said, firmly but with no anger, nothing judgmental. “I understand what tonight is about — I was...”

“You were a kid d yourself once,” she said snippily.

Gary said, “Anna, please... Give him a chance.”

“Thanks, son. Annie, back home, our—”

“ This is home.”

He sat forward. “Sweetheart, our new identities have been exposed.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Our cover’s been blown, back in Arizona. Very bad people know the Smiths are really the Satarianos. You’re in danger. Right now. Right here.”

Her eyes flew wide. “My God... Is Mom okay?”

He said, “Baby, we need to leave. Cal-Neva’s just about the worst place on the face of the earth for us, right now. Gary, you should probably stay.”

“I’m going with you,” he said.

“Gary, that’s not—”

“Daddy!”

Her hand was clutching his arm. Tight. Her eyes were big and wet. Her lips were trembling.

“Daddy... Is Mom... is she...?”