The Art of Disappearing Ivy Pochoda (electronic book reader .TXT) 📖

“All right,” Sandra answered, sounding a little deflated. “But maybe I’ll see you this evening?”

“This evening?”

“At the Castaway.”

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll check it out.”

I left Sandra’s office, navigated my way through the well-secured administration wing of the casino, and onto the gambling floor. The tech men were testing the sound system. The music was just loud and snappy enough to maintain the players’ enthusiasm without agitating them. The soundtrack was a hybrid of Russian folk songs and Muzak. Unmuffled by the jangle of spinning slots, the clatter of roulette wheels, or the shouts of gamblers, the sound of synthesized zithers blared through the pits. I walked past the craps tables, examining the skirts I had commissioned to protect the carpet from the more aggressive dice throwers who took running starts and whose stiletto-heeled girlfriends jumped up and down, tearing the pile with their shoes. Examination complete, I headed to the exit, past the Revolution Bar, where hipsters were encouraged to drop money on aristocratically priced drinks while contemplating the ironies of the Winter Palace.

Out on the Strip, the heat reminded me that I hadn’t been properly outside in more than thirty-six hours. I was starting to lose track of the day and of the time. Despite the temperature, I was hungry. In fact, I was craving a steak—a flat, greasy diner steak. There was a joint just off the Strip I hoped would offer low-key relief from the elaborate Vegas buffets. I was tired of big spreads where cold cuts cuddled up to sashimi, dim sum next to seared quail. But worst of all, buffets sapped my hunger before I even sat down. Overwhelmed by choice and fearful of making a poor selection, I became a grazer, sampling drumsticks and spring rolls to see whether either was worth adding to my tray. By the time I reached my seat with a plate of food, I was unpleasantly full.

The Red Rock Diner offered a steak dinner that got cheaper as the hours got later. At 11 A.M. the price of a well-flattened sixteen-ounce sirloin with “any sort potato” had risen to four dollars from its low of three dollars, 2 A.M. to 6 A.M. At noon, the trampled steak had hit $5.50. During the dinner rush, it would peak at $6.75, before plummeting at 10 P.M. to $4.50, and then back to its 2 A.M. low. Before I sat down, I spun one of the vinyl-covered stools at the lunch counter. It creaked and wobbled until I stopped it with the weight of my body. The Red Rock’s chrome decor was tarnished by a layer of grease from the grill. Years of fry fat, cheese oil, and burger juices settled over the counter, napkin holders, seats, and silverware, giving the restaurant a speckled sheen.

“Steak dinner,” I said to the waitress when she appeared in front of my stool. I was busy finding hidden patterns in the Formica counter and didn’t look up.

“So you know, we don’t do rare, medium rare, anything like that,” the waitress said to my bowed head. “We just do steak.”

“That’s fine.”

“And the potato? You want fries?”

“Anything else? Can I have baked?”

“Baked?” the waitress snorted. “It’s only eleven. You got a while?”

I found it—a widespread pattern of larger and smaller rectangles, each unit of the pattern containing twenty-eight shapes. Task complete, I looked up.

“Yeah?” the waitress asked, casting around the nearly empty diner for someone more important. “Maybe you do have all day?” she said, tapping her nails on the counter. “So—fries, or what?”

She was younger than her voice and wore a mint green uniform that she probably expected to fill out one day. And even though she’d bleached away some of her dyed-black hair and scrubbed the goth eyeliner from her eyes, I recognized her.

“Greta?”

The impatient tapping of her nails ceased. “What?”

“Greta. The girl from Intersection. You were at the magic show.”

“Greta?” the waitress repeated loudly enough for the other two diners, and probably the guy in the kitchen, to hear. “Greta,” she said again. “Intersection?”

I stared at her. “Sure, Intersection.”

“Never been there,” she said with a click of the tongue. “So who is it you want me to be?” Her eyes narrowed fiercely.

“No one,” I said, deciding to humor the teenager. “Fries will be fine.”

“Fries?” she repeated, letting her mocking smile salt her words.

“Yes.”

She made a note on her pad. “By the way, my name is Paula,” she added with a flick of her name tag and a familiar smirk that intimated, as it had before, that she just knew better.

“Okay, sure,” I said as she went into the kitchen to relay my order.

The air conditioner hummed weakly as I counted the minutes until my lunch arrived. Finally, the cook slammed his hand onto the small bell and slid my steak to the newly christened Paula, who thrust the plate in front of me with an arrogant thump.

“Can I have a cup of tea, as well?”

“Hot tea?” she snickered, lifting her eyebrows and betraying her age.

“You’ve never heard of drinking hot tea on a hot day?”

“Never.”

Greta took her time getting my cup. She chatted with the cook and wiped down the far end of the counter. When she finally returned, I had grown tired of looking for a way to hide the fries. “When you’ve got a minute, I’ll take the check. Thanks.” I watched amber tentacles spiral out from the tea bag and into the cloudy water.

“When I’ve got a minute,” Greta said with a look around the empty diner. Then she cast an eye over my plate. Devoured steak. Untouched fries. “Why’d you order them if you didn’t want them?” she asked.

“It was simpler,” I replied.

The other two diners dropped their money on their table and left. When the door shut behind them, Greta came over to me.

“So, is all you do hang out in diners?”

“I do a lot of things,” I said.

“Like follow around that magician?”

“We’re married.”

“Oh,” Greta snorted, not quite believing me. “He still doing the lame show?”

“It wasn’t