Street Smart. Tara Quinn Taylor
that had meant a story for sure.
Today, Francesca was only irritated by the distraction from what mattered. There was no anticipation, no “aha” moment, no real vision of what would be. Just a nagging idea that if she’d had anything left in her, she could have done something. Taken photographs. Told a story…
Still, as the girl finished her conversation, Francesca approached her, holding Autumn’s picture. Her gaze remained at eye level.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I’m looking for my friend. She told me to look her up when I got to town but she moved. The last address I had for her was in those apartments.” She nodded toward the rent-by-the-month place next door. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen her, would you?”
It was one of the lies she’d perfected over the week.
The brunette glanced at the picture. And away.
Another dead end. Francesca wasn’t surprised. She knew she’d have to turn over a lot of nonessential pieces before she found the right one.
And then she realized the girl hadn’t said no. She was looking at the picture again.
“Do you know her?”
Shaking her head, the girl studied Francesca—obviously taking in her tattered clothes, dirty hair, lack of makeup. Even the shoes she’d so carefully aged.
“You hungry?” she asked instead.
No. Not for a long time. “A little.”
“I’ll bet it’s been a while since you had a good meal.”
She shrugged, leaving her shoulders hunched defensively as she’d seen a twenty-something homeless guy do the other day on her way home. He seemed to pretty much hang out in an alleyway between the Lucky Seven and a tattoo parlor.
The girl dropped a buck in the tattered McDonald’s cup. “There’s a discount food mart the next block over. You can get a lot there.”
“Thanks.”
Apparently the gaunt cheeks she’d seen in the bathroom mirror at the Lucky Seven that morning added credibility to the part she was playing. Good to know her lack of desire for any kind of food had paid off somewhere.
“Where you staying?” the young woman asked.
“Around.”
The girl looked at the photo again. She was withholding information. Francesca’s deadened instincts surged for the briefest of seconds.
“You sure you haven’t seen her?” she asked, scuffing her feet. “I could really use a turn of luck.”
“Maybe I have,” the girl said. “I’m not sure.”
Maybe. Those dormant instincts became a little more sharply honed. “Do you have any idea where that might’ve been? Or when?”
The girl, staring at the photo one more time, shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m probably wrong.” She laughed a little nervously. “I’m always thinking I’ve met people before when I haven’t.”
No way, babe. You aren’t getting me this close and then backing up on me. “If there’s a chance you’ve seen her, ever, can you think where it might’ve been?”
With a hand hovering protectively over her extended belly the girl peered down the street, back at the photo and then once again glanced at Francesca’s attire.
Francesca couldn’t take her eyes off that hand. Or breathe.
“You from Sacramento?” the girl asked.
Oh, my God. Eyes raised, Francesca gasped. Coughed. She knows her.
Pain gave way to an excitement that challenged her dormant emotions. Francesca nodded slowly.
The girl nodded, too. Looked back down the street. And then said, “If I’ve seen her, it was probably at Guido’s.”
Guido’s.
Trembling, Francesca scuffed her feet again. “Where’s that?”
The girl gestured toward Las Vegas Boulevard. “Not far,” she said, backing away. “It’s just on the other side of the Strip.” She named a street Francesca had never heard of. “You can walk from here, easy.” She was at the corner by then, and as the light changed, she turned and hurried across the street, heading in the same direction the girl of Francesca’s dream had taken earlier in the week.
Guido’s. An Italian name.
4
It took her fifteen minutes to find Guido’s. But only because she had to walk back to the Lucky Seven and get her car. And then it was another twenty before she actually approached the door. After having seen the place, she’d gone to the motel to change before going in. The crowd seemed too “young adult.”
In her short but not too short denim skirt and tight green T-shirt, she figured she’d blend in just fine. So long as no one looked too closely at the newly acquired lines of strain adorning the corners of her mouth and eyes.
As far as she could tell, if you ignored the thrift store across the street that had so much stacked in side you could hardly see through the window, Guido’s was an almost-nice neighborhood hangout, with a pizza and sandwich sign above the door, in addition to the requisite Vegas marquee with glitter ing lights—this one proclaiming that the city’s best pool and dart games could be found inside. Sitting in the parking lot, she’d actually been relieved. It didn’t seem like a place where her sister would’ve gone to turn tricks. Or model for any of those millions of cards that people used for sidewalk decor each night.
It felt good to think that Autumn had frequented a place as normal-looking as this.
With a deep breath for luck, or strength, or just enough air to endure, she pulled open the darkened glass door. For all she knew, Autumn was in there right now, sharing a pizza with a friend, throwing darts—although her sister had never been the sporty type—waiting tables, even. Anything. Just there.
Francesca panicked. What if she didn’t recognize her? Kids changed a lot from fifteen to seventeen. And the police had warned her that runaways, because most didn’t want to be found, often drastically changed their appearances.
She jumped as pool balls clacked to her left, followed by the sound of at least two dropping into pockets. Voices were little more than white noise, all blending together until she couldn’t make out a single conversation. A strange mixture of New Age and rock music played in the background, but not as loudly as she would’ve figured for a young adult hangout.
As her eyes adjusted slowly from the bright Vegas sun to the track-lighted room with its dark paneling and wood floors, Francesca couldn’t breathe. She wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready to feel again.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
Thoughts of crawling into bed, hiding under the covers and being thankful that her baby sister was alive while she slept away the next ten years consumed her. Ten years from now Autumn would be an adult. With a real life. In control of that life. She’d come back then.
Except if the cops were to be believed, her sister could be involved with all kinds of dangerous people, just to survive. If she wasn’t rescued she could well be dead before ten years were up. Las Vegas runaways had a relatively short life span.
“You coming or going?” The voice was male. Appreciative. And right in front of her.
“Sorry.” Francesca tried to smile at him. “I don’t know,” she answered. He looked Italian. Somehow that made a difference. “I, uh, I’m hoping to meet a friend of mine.”
“You new to town?”
“Yeah.”
He was older than she would’ve expected. Older than she was. Midthirties,