I looked down at the sandals. “What could you possibly be looking for in these sandals?” I asked.
“It's standard procedure.”
“I've already gone through this at Newark!”
“Sorry. You're going to have to take your shoes off if you want to get on the plane.”
“Uh-?oh,” Lula said to me. “Your face is getting red. Remember about getting to Vegas. Just take the freakin' shoes off.”
“It's not like it's personal,” Connie said. “You should be happy security precautions are in place.”
“Easy for you to say,” I told her. “You're not the one getting picked on. You're not the one getting singled out for a second time. Your tampons and panties aren't getting pawed through.” I stared down at the shoes. There wasn't any way to hide a weapon in them, but I thought I could do some pretty good damage if I hit the security idiot in the head with one. Spike heel directly into the eyeball, I thought. I visualized the bleeding eyeball falling out of the woman's head and felt much more calm. I stepped out of my sandals and waited peacefully for them to be scrutinized.
When we were seated on the plane Lula turned to me. “You know, sometimes you can be real scary. I don't know what you were thinking back there when you took those shoes off, but all the hair stood up on the back of my neck.”
“I had airport rage.”
“Fuckin' A,” Lula said.
Lula had airport rage when we landed and her luggage wasn't there.
Connie had us booked into the Luxor. It was on the Strip, and because the bail bonds conferences were held there every year we got good rates.
“Look at this,” Lula said, head tipped back, taking it all in. “It's a freaking pyramid. It's like being in some big-?ass Egyptian tomb. I love this. I'm ready to gamble. Outta my way. I'm looking for the slots. Where's the blackjack tables?”
I didn't know where Lula's energy came from. I'd exhausted myself trying to stay calm while mentally maiming airport employees, screaming kids, and security personnel.
“I'm going to bed,” I told Lula. “We need to get an early start tomorrow, so don't stay out too late.”
“I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're in Vegas and you're going to bed? Unh uh, girlfriend. I don't think so.”
“I don't gamble. I'm not good at it.”
“You can play slots. There's nothing to slots. You put your money in and you push the button.”
“I'm feeling hot for the craps,” Connie said. “I'm going to drop my suitcase off in the room and then I'm going to hit the craps tables.”
“You see?” Lula said to me. “You don't come with, I'm gonna be all alone on account of Connie's gonna play craps.”
Lula had a point. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to have Lula all alone in Vegas. “Okay,” I said. “I'll tag along, but I'm not playing. I don't know what I'm doing and I always lose.”
“You gotta play once,” Lula said. “It wouldn't be right if you came to Vegas and didn't even play one slot. I bet there's even a law that says you gotta play a slot.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were checked into our room. We all applied fresh lipstick, and we were ready to roll.
“Look out, Vegas, here I come,” Lula said, closing the door behind us.
“I'm wearing my lucky shoes,” Connie said, leading the way down the hall. “I can't lose in my lucky shoes.”
It was the first time I'd ever walked any distance behind Connie and I was knocked over by the sight in front of me. Connie was a small Italian version of Mae West. Her hips were big and round and her boobs were big and round. And when Connie walked everything was in motion. Connie swung her ass down the hall. Connie was a broad. Connie belonged in a gangster movie set in Chicago during Prohibition.
We got to the elevator and the three of us stood waiting for the doors to open, cackling and preening in front of the hall mirror. We stepped into the elevator, went down one floor, and two guys got on. One was about five foot ten, had a big beer belly, and looked to be in his sixties. The other was average build, early forties, and was short enough that his eyes were even with my breasts. They were both dressed in tight white jumpsuits with bell-?bottoms and big stand-?up collars. The jumpsuits were decorated with sequins and glittered under the elevator lights. They had huge rings on their fingers and shoe-?polish-?black pompadour hairdos with long sideburns. They were wearing name tags. The big guy was named Gus and the little guy was named Wayne.
“We're Elvis impersonators,” the little guy said.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Lula said.
“We're part of a convention. There are fourteen hundred Elvis impersonators here at the hotel.”