Twenty-two
They arrived in Las Vegas the next afternoon, exhausted, dusty from the road (none of them had dared shower at the run-down roadside motel), and starving for something other than truck stop beef jerky.
At the rental address, Frances got out and stared in disbelief at the dilapidated blue house with the bars on the windows and a flat roof in bad need of replacing. “It looked better in the photos.”
“I should hope so, because this looks like it ought to be condemned,” Joan said. “Are we sure it’s not?”
“Hey … do you know where this is?” Edie asked, turning a slow circle. “We used to stay in that apartment house over there.” She pointed down the street, to a three-story brown brick building that looked just as run-down.
“That’s the one,” Frances said. “They tore down the Lucky Saloon across the street.”
“My God, it looks like a flophouse now,” Joan said, squinting in that direction.
“Better than the drug den we’ve rented,” Irene said. “How do we get in? There’s no lockbox.”
“I texted the owner. He’s going to meet us,” Frances said.
Just then, the sound of a coughing engine caused them to turn and look up the street.
A beat-up van, painted in various shades of white and paint primer, pulled up behind the Cadillac.
A young man climbed out of the driver’s seat, as wiry and thin as he was tall.
He had a head of black greasy hair pulled into a low pony.
He wore a massive coat on this overly warm day.
His black leather boots looked too big for his feet.
From the passenger seat emerged a large man who looked at least twenty years older, browner, and much bigger. Tattoos climbed up his neck to his face.
Frances and company crowded closer together.
“Hey.” The skinny man—he could have passed for sixteen or twenty-six, it was so hard to know these days—sauntered forward. “What’s up, Golden Girls?” He grinned, revealing one of his front teeth capped in gold. “Which one of you is Wilma?”
Edie, Joan, and Irene turned and stared at Frances. And not in an approving way.
“Umm …” Frances raised her hand and stepped forward.
Her gaze wandered to his fingernails, painted black, and the heavy chains draped around his pencil-thin waist. “Are you … are you Richard Perkins?” She was sure he’d say no.
Because Richard Perkins had to be a computer nerd.
That’s what she’d assumed when she’d corresponded with Richard Perkins about this property.
“Yep. But most people call me Skinner. On account of the tattoos.”
Frances blinked.
Richard “Skinner” Perkins smiled. “You can’t see them on account of my clothes.”
“Right.” Frances had no desire to see his tattoos. Mild curiosity, maybe, but nothing so strong she could bear to see him remove a piece of clothing to show her.
“Wilma Thinstone, huh?” Skinner said. “That’s awesome. How’s Fred?”
“Ah—”
“Wanna go in?”
“No,” Edie hissed behind Frances.
“Please,” Frances said.
“Let me grab the key.” The kid loped to the van and opened the driver door.
He bent over the front seat while the massive man eyed them impassively.
Skinner reappeared with a ring of keys, which he held up and jingled at them.
Then he jogged to the door of the house, opened it, and disappeared inside.
Frances looked at the other three, whose earlier looks of dissatisfaction had all morphed into alarm. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m sure it’s fine.” She looked at the bruiser. He waved them on ahead. She followed Skinner into the house.
At the threshold, she paused to peer inside.
The place smelled of old gas, but when her eyes adjusted to the light, everything seemed in order.
The layout was a tiny little ranch, with two bedrooms, one large single bathroom between them.
The kitchen was woefully out of date, but it had the requisite fridge, oven, and microwave.
The others had entered and were huddled together in the square living room.
“So, Skinner,” Edie said. “What do you do for a living? Do you work on the Strip?”
“Nah,” Skinner said. He turned on a light in the living area. “I just hustle and manage properties. This house belongs to my mom.”
“Oh,” Joan said. “And where is she?”
“Prison,” Skinner said. He walked over to the TV and turned it on. Fox News blasted into their space. Irene lunged for the remote and turned the volume off.
“Everything is set up. We’ve got internet, too,” Skinner said.
“The password is in here.” He picked up a binder and opened it.
“Got some take-out menus, some restaurant ideas. There’s a grocery store up on the main road.
Pretty small, though. We’re in a bit of a food desert in this part of town.
But there’s a liquor store next to the grocery, because I know how you Golden Girls like to party, am I right? ” He mimed tipping a bottle.
“We will now,” Irene muttered.
“Oh, and Todd set up a nice little welcome basket in the kitchen. We’ve got tea and coffee and some other shit if you forgot anything.”
“Todd?” Frances said.
“Todd.” Skinner pointed to the big guy. “I do DoorDash and Uber, too. I can give you a lift anywhere you need to go. I’m a one-stop kind of guy.”
“I have a question,” Edie said.
“Shoot, Blanche.”
Edie hesitated.
Skinner laughed. “Bruh! You’ve gotta see the resemblance. You’re Blanche, and you’re Dorothy,” he said, pointing at Joan, “And you’re Rose, and you’re—”
“I’ll kill you if you say it,” Irene bit out.
Skinner slapped his hands against his bony knees and howled. “This is what I’m saying!” he crowed. “So, what’s your question?”
“I forgot,” Edie said.
“Hey, nice wheels,” Skinner said, looking out the open door at the old Cadillac.
“Thanks,” Joan said.
“Do you have a card, young man?” Edie asked primly.
“A card,” Skinner slowly repeated. “What’s that?”
“A business card.”
“Nah. Just put my digits in your phone.”
Edie’s stared at him. He held out his hand, and then Edie stared at that.
“I’ve got it,” Frances said quickly. “I’ve got your, ah, digits in my phone.”
“Sick,” Skinner opined. “You need anything, text me. I mean anything. Even if I haven’t done it before, I’ll figure it out. I’m up for anything.”
“Anything?” Irene said, nodding approvingly. “Like … anything?”
“Hell, yeah,” Skinner said jovially. “By the way, you can walk to the Strip from here. If you go out the back gate and walk up the alley, you’ll be there in two minutes. But I’d recommend you go in groups. And don’t carry a lot of cash on you, if you know what I mean.”
“What if we hit it big on the slots?” Edie asked.
“Text me. I’ll pick you up and drive you down the alley. One-stop shop,” he reminded her. The four of them stared at him. Skinner put his hands on his hips and surveyed the four of them. “So look, girls, I know what’s going down in here.” He looked at Todd and Todd nodded that he did, too.
“Shit,” Edie whispered.
“This is my mom’s house. So, please don’t be bringing a bunch of dudes over here.”
The four of them were stunned into silence.
“This is a quiet little neighborhood. Gotta respect the hood.”
“Y-yes,” Frances stammered. “We will. Thanks, Skinner.”
“No problem, Rose. Call me.” He waved jauntily, then walked out the open door behind Todd, taking care to close it behind him.
The four of them lunged for the front window and watched as they climbed into that old beat-up van that looked like it had rolled right off a junkyard lot and puttered away.
“He might be useful,” Edie mused.
“Agreed,” Irene said. She turned away from the window. “Joan and I will take the king bed. You two can have the twins.” She hoisted a bag over her shoulder and walked in the direction of the room with the king-sized bed, Joan following behind her.
“Hey,” Frances whispered. “Have you noticed how those two are always in the same room?”
Edie looked at her for a long moment. “They’re together, Franny.”
“What?”
“Oh my God. I hope your powers of observation improve before we do our thing.” She picked up her Louis Vuitton tote and walked into the bedroom with the twins.
Frances was going to have to do more than improve her powers of observation.
She had no idea Irene swung that way, but suddenly, everything was making sense.
A half century ago, she hadn’t understood the strange relationship between Irene and Joan.
How close they seemed to be at times, when Frances assumed they were working on the next heist. But then at other times, they’d be awkward around each other.
She remembered once she’d asked Irene if she and Joan were fighting.
Irene had appeared surprised by the question.
“No. Why would you say that? What have you seen?”
Frances shrugged. “Just that you’re not talking.”
Irene had glanced almost longingly over her shoulder at Joan, who was busy on the small balcony. “We’re not fighting. It’s just … sometimes, we don’t agree about what’s next.”
“Is that all?” Frances laughed it off. Because the four of them often didn’t agree about what was next. But they always figured it out, and she assumed Irene and Joan would, too.
God, but she’d been so myopic and na?ve then.
A half century ago, most people who were attracted to the same sex stayed in the shadows. She couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been for Joan and Irene to be together when it wasn’t accepted in society. When the four of them were living on the edge of society as it was.
She couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been if Joan and Irene had been uncertain if their closest friends would accept them. And honestly? Standing here now, Frances wasn’t sure how she would have received the news back then. She’d been so wrong about so many things.
Thankfully, the world had changed, and she had changed with it. How wonderful for two of her best friends to reignite a love from long ago. She was happy for them. And determined to be the most supportive friend.