James Swain - Gift sense

"Sounds good to me," the pit boss declared.

It was Nola's best friend Sherry Solomon who bailed her out of jail later that afternoon. Sherry was a Southern California blonde with a great face and killer legs. She had migrated to Vegas the same week as Nola, her '79 Volkswagen van stuffed with her things. They'd gone to dealing school together and for a while shared a crummy one bedroom, until they'd both gotten on their feet. Sherry was a survivor and Nola had called her first, knowing that even though Sherry didn't have five grand to post bond, she probably knew someone who did.

"My ex-boyfriend's brother is a bail bondsman," Sherry explained as she handed the parking attendant three bucks. "Saul Katz. He runs those ugly billboards you see around town. You know: 'Don't bawl-call Saul!' I told him you were square and wouldn't run and leave him holding the bag."

"Thanks, Sherry," Nola said, wiping tears from her eyes.

"Hey-you going to be okay?"

Rummaging around in the glove compartment, Nola extracted a Kleenex and honked her nose savagely. "I spent the last six hours in a room handcuffed to a chair. You know what that feels like? Every guy who looks at you, it's like he owns you. I feel like a piece of meat."

Ten minutes later, Sherry pulled the car into the Jumbo Burger and ordered their usual fare, extra-large crispy fries and diet orange sodas. Back on the highway, her mouth stuffed, Sherry said, "Raul's screwed, isn't he?"

Nola punched a straw through the plastic lid in her soda, the sound like a small gun going off. "Sure looks that way."

"I asked Saul to post his bond…"

Nola laughed bitterly. "And he said, 'For some stinking wetback? Get real, honey.'"

"It wasn't like that. Don't get so down on everybody."

Nola took a long swallow of her drink, then shot her friend a hard, unforgiving look. "In case you hadn't figured it out, I'm fucked, my dear. At least Raul gets to go home. Vegas is home for me. Nick is never going to hire me back, and if they somehow find me guilty, I could do time in the state pen."

"You going to hire an attorney?"

"With whose money?" Nola asked. "My house isn't worth squat. Whatever equity I have is in profit-sharing from work, and I can't touch it." Nola put her chin on her chest and fought back another wave of tears. "I don't know what the hell I'm going to do."

Sherry took the exit for the Meadows and drove past the vacant guardhouse. The identical two-bedroom houses were lined up in neat rows, the sharply pitched roof lines making tepees against the burnt-orange desert. Some days it looked pretty as a picture, others ugly as sin, and she supposed it all depended on your frame of mind. She hit the brakes when she saw a school bus unloading some kids in front of them.

"There's an ugly rumor going around the casino."

Nola perked up, a worried look on her face.

"Wily told one of the dealers that Sammy Mann has a videotape of you and Fontaine having a conversation in the casino parking lot."

"In the parking lot?"

Sherry nodded. She drove down Nola's block, the driveways filled with identical Japanese imports. "Nick has cameras everywhere, even outside."

Nola was sitting up very straight, her face taut and expressionless. "And when did this supposed conversation between me and Fontaine take place?"

"Three days ago. After we got off our shift."

Nola stuck out her tongue and let out a Bronx cheer.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherry said, clearly perplexed.

"It means 'So what?'" Nola said, crossing her arms defiantly. "For the love of Christ, I talk to a hundred people every day when I'm working."

"But Sammy Mann's got it on video."

"So what?" Nola said, starting to fume. "The Enquirer runs pictures of famous people standing next to criminals. It doesn't mean they know them."

"Wily's saying you did it out of spite, that you hate Nick for what he did to you ten years ago."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Nola said, perfectly imitating Nick's annoying yammer.

"Do you?"

"Hate Nick? No more than anyone else who works for him."

"Wily says you were sweet on Fontaine."

"Fontaine was a nice guy. Aren't those the ones we're supposed to like?"

"Did you meet him in a bar or something?"

"For the love of Christ, Sherry. I don't know the guy," Nola practically shouted. "I'd never seen him, and that's the God's honest truth."

Sherry pulled the car up Nola's driveway and put it in park, letting the engine idle. "Sammy and Wily are putting the heat on everyone in the casino. They're asking lots of questions."

"Tell them anything?" Nola asked sarcastically.

"I told them you're the squarest dealer in the joint."

"Thanks for the thumbs-up."

Sherry put her hand on her friend's knee and gave it a squeeze. Once, on a stormy Friday night when no decent man in Las Vegas would have them, they'd shared a bed, an experience that had spiritually bonded them, if only briefly.

"You'd level with me if you knew this guy," Sherry said softly. "Wouldn't you?"

"You sound jealous," Nola teased her.

"Come on. I'm trying to help you."

"Of course I'd level with you," Nola insisted. "You know I can't keep a secret. So the next time Wily bugs you, tell him the truth. I don't know Fontaine."

Nola's lips brushed her best friend's cheek, then she opened her door. "Thanks for the save, Sherry. I really appreciate it."

"What are best friends for?" Sherry said.

Sherry watched Nola disappear into her depressingly plain little house. Her friend was doomed and wasn't doing much to help herself. It made her sick to see Nola throwing her life away, and she put the car into reverse and backed it down the drive.

Sherry did care, almost as much about Nola as herself, and she waited until she was a few blocks away before sticking her hand beneath the seat and switching off the tape recorder.

The police had ripped Nola's place apart, then put everything back where it didn't belong. Going to her bedroom, Nola knelt on the floor, pulled a thin cardboard box from beneath the bed, and removed its flimsy lid. A cry escaped her lips.

Her diary was gone, along with stacks of letters and bank statements and other useless paper she dutifully stored for the IRS each year. Whatever the police hadn't known about her personal life before, they certainly knew now.

The clothes Raul kept in her closet were also gone, and she guessed the cops had packed a suitcase for him, having decided to deport him once they'd realized she wouldn't play ball. What Nazis they were! Without evidence, they'd resorted to breaking the same laws they were sworn to protect. But Raul would get even. Thousands of illegal Mexican immigrants were slipping into Texas every week, and it wouldn't be long before he'd be back on her doorstep, panting like a lovesick pup.

The bathroom had been turned upside down. Towels on the floor, her prescription medicine in the sink. She put the bottles back into the cabinet and tossed out those medications that had expired. Done, she ran her finger across the labels, sensing something was amiss.

"For Christ's sake," she swore.

Her prescription Zoloft, the little blue happy pills that kept her afloat, were gone. Nola's eyes welled with tears. What were the police trying to do, make her go crazy?

In the kitchen, a blinking answering machine awaited her. Six messages. She listened to the first five seconds of each before hitting Erase.

"This is Chantel with MCI-"

"Hi, my name is Robyn with Olin Mott Studios-"

"This is a courtesy call-"

"Fred's Carpet Cleaning here. We're having a special in your-"

"This is AT amp;T-"

The last message was a guy breathing. After ten seconds, the line went dead. Barely able to control herself, Nola punched*69 on her phone.