“I think a lot of them are open all night.”
So the minute Mrs. McKenze’s disappeared back inside her room with the aspirin and a sandwich, we dive into our food as we dig through the room’s phone book. And almost right away we discover that there are about a hundred wedding chapels in Las Vegas.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say through a mouthful. “It’ll take us all night to call these!”
“And what if they didn’t make an appointment? Some people just show up, wait in line, and get married.”
I shake my head. “I’m never going to find her.”
“You’re just now getting that?” Then she rubs it in by pointing to an ad that reads, Love in the Fast Lane—Drive-Thru Weddings. “I doubt people get appointments for that.” She points to another ad, for the Love Me Tender Wedding Chapel that has a picture of a white gazebo with Elvis playing an acoustic guitar. “Can you see your mom getting married by Elvis?”
“No! I can’t see my mom doing any of this stuff! I can’t even believe she’d get married here! It’s so tacky!”
Marissa takes a huge bite of her sandwich but still manages to say, “She’s never had a wedding, right? So maybe because you and your grandmother are against her marrying Casey’s dad, this is the closest she can get to a dream wedding.”
“Getting married in Las Vegas is not even close to a dream wedding!”
Marissa shrugs. “Maybe getting married here has just been stigmatized.”
“Stigmatized? Stigmatized?”
“Sure. Here, look at this,” she says, pointing to another ad. “This one offers limousine transportation, a fresh floral bouquet, professional photographs.… And the wedding parties I’ve seen at the chapel downstairs are always decked out.” She shrugs. “They look classy.”
“Classy,” I say, staring at her like she’s lost her very last marble.
She gets up and goes to the sink for a glass of water. “I’m just saying, if there are a hundred chapels, not all of them are going to be tacky!”
“Well, great,” I say, getting up for a glass of my own. “If there are a hundred potentially untacky chapels, how will I ever find the one she’s going to? And since my mom’s not staying at this hotel after all, how will I ever find her?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time!”
“I didn’t know there were a hundred chapels! That changes everything!”
For a while we both focus on eating instead of talking. And then Marissa tosses her sandwich wrapper in the trash and says, “Maybe you should call and ask your grandmother?”
“No! And she wouldn’t tell me anyway. She’s weird about my mother.” I toss my wrapper, too. “I think she’s afraid of her.”
“She’s … but why? Your mother may be full of herself, but she’s not someone I’d be afraid of.”
I think about this a minute and then kind of shake my head. “It’s more like she’s afraid of her reaction to things. Maybe when you don’t have much family, you’re afraid to lose what you do have?”
We sit around some more, and finally Marissa grabs the phone book and says, “Well, let’s start at the top and work our way down.”
“You’re serious?”
“You got a better idea?”
Just then Mrs. McKenze comes out of the bedroom and says, “The CCDC is open until midnight.”
Marissa looks up. “The CCDC?”
“Listen to me,” Mrs. McKenze mutters. “I sound like a pro.” She takes a deep breath and says, “The Clark County Detention Center, also known as the jail.”
“Oh.”
“And I won’t be able to visit or even talk to your father”—she looks at her pad of paper—“also known as inmate zero-one-zero-seven-two-nine-zero-one … until we go down to the CCDC in person to register.”
“But when’s he getting out?” Marissa asks.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen tonight.” She checks her notes. “We can post bail until midnight, but I don’t think they’ll just release him. I think there’s a whole procedure they follow.”
“How far away is the jail?”
“Only a few miles.” She looks back at her notes. “On South Casino Center Boulevard.”
Marissa mutters, “How appropriate.”
Mrs. McKenze turns to me. “So I’m sorry, Sammy, but we have to go. You’re welcome to stay here, but honestly, I can’t take on worrying about you. I’ve got too much to deal with as it is.”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her. “I really appreciate you letting me stay here.”
She grabs her blazer and purse. “Someday I want to hear about your mother, but not now.”
Marissa follows her mom toward the door, but at the last minute she runs back and slips me her room key. “If you want more than that lousy sandwich, there’s a McDonald’s downstairs in the food court. Pizza, too. Just turn right at the fountain, and then stay to the right. You’ll run into it. Everywhere else is super expensive.”
Mrs. McKenze is holding the door, waiting. “Marissa, let’s go!”
“Coming!” Marissa calls over to her mom, then whispers, “Good luck!”
“You too!” I whisper back. “And thank you!” And really, I can’t believe how helpful and nice Marissa’s been. Especially considering her dad’s in jail.
And then they’re gone.
And it’s really quiet.
And for some reason I just sit there, alone in that big hotel room with green glowing lights outside and complete silence inside. And the longer I sit there, the smaller I feel.
The stupider I feel.
What was I thinking?
Then fear starts creeping in. It’s a panicky, spidery feeling that tells me I’m trapped.
Helpless.
And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s feeling helpless.
So I grab the pen and pad by the phone, put the phone book in my lap, and start trying to track down my mother.
Now, during the first few calls I was nervous and kinda stuttery. For one thing, the fact that they even answered the phone surprised me. I was glad they did, but it was late and the idea that you could get married at this hour still seemed … bizarre.
So was having the phone answered by Elvis. I mean, it’s really hard to get out what you need to ask when the person on the other end is going, “Viva Las Vegas, baby!” and making stupid Elvis jokes like “Will you be hitchin’ up your hound dog t’night?”
But after about the tenth wedding chapel, I got the hang of it and just said the same thing, over and over: “Hi, I’m wondering if this is the chapel where Lana Keyes and Warren Acosta will be getting married—it’s either tomorrow or Sunday. I flew in last minute and forgot my invitation.”
And at every single one I got the same basic answer—sorry, not here.
After almost an hour of this I still had miles of numbers to call. And since it had been a lousy sandwich and I was hungry, and there was no way I was going to get through the whole list of chapels before Marissa’s mom got back anyway, I was just talking myself into going down to the food court when I got an idea.
It was a stupid idea, but at that point any idea seemed better than calling another chapel. So I went with the stupid idea.
I dialed 411 and answered the recorded voice with “Las Vegas … Peter Decker.”
A live person came on and said, “I have two. A ‘Peter L.’ and an ‘Elvis Enterprises.’ ”
My heart started pounding. “The Elvis one.”
“Here it is,” she said, and clicked over to a computerized voice.
I scribbled down the number, then hung up and just sat there holding my breath, wondering if it was crazy to call, especially since it was late and I had no idea what I wanted to ask or how he could help me.
But I felt at a total dead end, and the thought of calling the rest of the chapels seemed worse than making one senseless phone call to Elvis.
So I dialed.
And on the fourth ring I heard, “You’ve reach
ed the King. Leave me your name and number and I’ll get back atcha as soon as I’m havin’ a little less conversation. Or if you want to do the Jailhouse Rock, my cell number is—”
I scribbled down the digits he rattled off and before I could talk myself out of it, I dialed his cell.
After the second ring a husky voice says, “You’ve reached the King.”
I go, “Pete?” but it sort of sticks in my throat, so I try again, louder. “Pete Decker? It’s Sammy.”
I can hear a bunch of noise in the background. Cars. People. Horns. Music.
And then the King says, “From Santa Martina?”
“Yes!” And all of a sudden I’m stupidly happy.
“Hey, little mama!” he says, and he sounds stupidly happy, too. “Are you in Vegas?”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates. “Are you callin’ for tickets? ’Cause I don’t have a show yet—I’m just workin’ the Strip.”
“Actually, no, I’m looking for somebody, and I’m wondering if maybe you have connections to wedding chapels.”
“Wedding chapels?”
“Yeah. The person I’m looking for is getting married this weekend.”
“Hang on,” he says, and then he’s gone for, like, two minutes before he says, “Thank you … thank you very much,” to someone and gets back on the phone. “Sorry,” he says in his regular voice. “Photo op.” Then he goes, “Hang on,” again, and two minutes later he’s finally back, saying, “Look, I’m workin’, and Elvis with a cell phone is just tacky. You think maybe you can come down here?”
“Uh … where are you?”
“Across the street from the Bellagio.”
“What’s the Bellagio?”
“A resort on the Strip. Near Caesars Palace?”
“How far is it from the MGM Grand?”
“It’s not bad. I’m just past Paris Las Vegas.” I hear someone call, “Hey, Elvis!” and then he says, “I gotta go,” and hangs up.
So I scribble a note that says, I’ll be back soon, then I grab my backpack and skateboard and Marissa’s room key and jet out of there.
NINE
I find myself wandering through the casino as I try to get out of the hotel and onto the Strip, and let me tell you, it feels pretty dicey. I mean, I’ve got a backpack and a skateboard and I’m wearing ragged jeans and trashed high-tops, and there’s no way anyone’s going to mistake me for an adult. Plus it’s not like there are other teenagers in the casino. Everyone else is way older, and even the ones who aren’t dressed up are dressed way better than I am.
But there I am, walking between banks of slot machines, past big green gambling tables with dealers and cocktail waitresses and people just hanging around, and nobody says, Hey! What’s that kid doing in here?
It’s like I’m invisible.
Which I guess is a good thing, but still. Something about it makes me feel … strange. Like I could get into serious trouble and no one would care.
Or know.
Or even notice.
Anyway, I don’t actually know where I’m going and I’m afraid to ask. So the whole time I’m walking, I’m nervous, but in a sort of conflicted way. Part of me’s afraid that someone’s going to kidnap me and no one will care, and part of me’s afraid that a casino guard will grab me and lock me up until they track down some adult who’s willing to claim me.
Good luck there.
Anyway, with my eyes darting around for kidnappers and casino guards, it takes me a while to notice that there are signs with arrows hanging from the ceiling that tell you which way to go for what. And when I spot one that says Las Vegas Blvd. thataway, I go thataway until I find the next sign and the next, and finally I see big glass doors that lead outside.
So just getting out of the MGM is like escaping a little city. And then after asking somebody which direction the Bellagio is, I’m still not able to get moving, because I’m stuck in a herd of humans. Seriously, it’s like a cattle drive on the sidewalk. It’s a wide sidewalk, too, but there’s no way I can ride my skateboard. Besides all the pedestrians moseying along, the flow’s being plugged up by people handing out brochures or hawking helicopter rides over Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon.
Now, the Hoover Dam and Grand Canyon people just holler at you, trying to get you to sign up for a ride. It’s the people handing out pamphlets that are like annoying gnats, buzzing around everywhere. They all do this same slapping thing with their little pamphlets. Slap-slap-slap, they flick their stack against their hand, then step in your way and shove one at you.
The first time one got forced on me and I saw that it had pictures of mostly naked women, I dropped it like a nuked potato.
The next time, I shoved it back and snapped, “I’m thirteen, you idiot! You think I’m going to call your stupid Hot Women hotline?”
He either didn’t hear me through his earbuds or didn’t speak English, because he just went back to slap-slap-slapping his stack and turned to the next person coming his way.
Anyway, the farther I walk, the more it seems like the Strip doesn’t know what it wants to be. For example, there’s a store that has fifty-foot M&M’s characters looming above the sidewalk. They’re like Godzilla M&M’s ready to jump down and crush everyone on the sidewalk.
But still.
They’re M&M’s.
Sweet, innocent, yummy candy.
There are also costumed characters like SpongeBob and Patrick who wave at people going by. And people with jewelry carts or in little tiki huts selling sunglasses. And all the lights everywhere are amazing and make you feel like you’re in some fantasy kingdom.
But in between the M&M’s and SpongeBobs and sunglasses are rowdy bars and Pamphlet People and bums with signs that say WHY LIE? I NEED A BEER. Plus wasted musicians with open instrument cases begging for change. And delivery trucks rolling by with skanky pictures of women painted on them. Stuff that makes you remember, Oh yeah, I’m in Sin City. Still. It may be getting close to midnight in Sin City, but there are so many people and so many lights that the seedy things aren’t making me scared, just cautious.
Now, the lady I’d asked for directions had told me that the giant lit-up O down the Strip was the Bellagio, and since I can now see that, plus a big sign for Caesars Palace, I’m definitely going the right way. But what’s weird is that I keep walking and walking and walking … and walking and walking and walking … but I don’t seem to be getting any closer to the big O or the Caesars Palace sign. It’s like I’m walking on a giant cement treadmill going past the same Pamphlet People over and over, getting nowhere.
Which I guess is because everything is so oversized that even though it looks like it’s right there, it’s not. And when someone tells you that something’s on the next block, what that really means is that it’s a mile away, because the blocks go on forever.
Anyway, I finally make it to a fake Eiffel Tower and a big lit-up hot air balloon that has PARIS written in the middle of it, so I know I’m getting close. And then, as the sidewalk sort of swoops to the right, I spot Elvis.
My heart does a little Wa-hoo! But then I see that there are actually three Elvises.
Whoa, wait—and a Mini-Elvis.
Mini-Elvis is definitely not a kid, but he is … little. I stand off to the side and watch for a while as people go up and have their picture taken with an Elvis, then slip him some money and continue on down the Strip. The Elvises are all wearing some variation on the same white-and-gold Elvis costume, with bell-bottom pants and a wide gold belt, and they’ve all got the black Elvis hair and muttonchops and sunglasses. The Mini-Elvis isn’t getting any takers, and the other three seem to be annoyed that he’s there and keep their distance from him. But I guess no one owns the corner, because Mini-E stays in the game, calling out, “Come on, baby! Let me be your teddy bear!” to women as they walk by.
Anyway, at first I’m not sure which one of the Elvises is Pete. I know it’s not Mini-Elvis, and I know it’s not the luxury-sized Elvis, but either of t
he other two could be him.
Or neither could be.
So I just stand there watching, until finally one of the midsized Elvises does a double take at me, then tosses me a grin and a wink. “Hey, little mama!”
I nod at him, but I’m still not a hundred percent sure it’s Pete until he comes across the walkway and says, “You’re not here alone, are you?”
Now, what’s sort of weird for me about all this is that when Pete worked nights at Maynard’s Market, he was always Elvis. Everything he said was an Elvis phrase or song title. Half the time I couldn’t figure out the meaning of what he was saying, because pretty much the only thing I know about Elvis Presley is from Pete working the counter at Maynard’s.
Anyway, him talking to me now in his regular voice is not something I’m used to. And I’m actually thinking, Are you my Elvis? when he says, “Sammy, you should probably not be cruising the Strip alone on a Friday night. I wouldn’t even suggest it on a Sunday morning, ’cause some of these cats prowl clear through to dawn.” He lifts one of his Elvis eyebrows. “I don’t care how tough you think you are, nobody your size is tough enough.”
“I’m only here because …” And all of a sudden I feel really stupid.
Why did I think an Elvis impersonator could help me?
“Because …?” he asks.
I shake my head and look down. “It’s a long story.”
“Sammy, I don’t have time for a long story. But … tell me you’re not in Vegas alone. How’d you get here?”
I give a little shrug. “Part of the long story.”
“But … why are you here? Can’t you give me the CliffsNotes?”
I take a deep breath and say, “My mom’s getting married to my boyfriend’s father in Vegas this weekend.”
“Ouch,” he says, pulling a face. Then he raises that Elvis eyebrow again and says, “Who knew who first?”
“I knew my boyfriend way first.”
“Dirty pool,” he says with a tisk.
“And she won’t tell me who my dad is.”
This sinks in a minute, then he says, “You have no idea? Why won’t she tell you?”
I shake my head. “She won’t tell me that, either.” Then I add, “She’s a diva.” I swing off my pack and pull out the big card with her pictures on it. “Her name’s Lana Keyes, and she plays Jewel in The Lords of Willow Heights.”