The Girl They Sold to the Moon (20 page)

Tilly went straight to her room and inserted her code card. Her hand was shaking so badly she missed the first two swipes. When she got the door open, a blast or warm air hit her. At first she thought the air conditioning had been turned off or was not functioning. Then she noticed the drapes pulled back and the open slider.

Dorothy stood naked outside, next to the rail. Her head tilted back, she looked to be enjoying the warm desert breeze. Without looking in her direction, Dorothy said, “How'd it go, Tilly?”

“Not good. I've been impounded. What are you up to?” She couldn't believe she was carrying on a normal conversation when she felt like imploding with anger and frustration.

“About nine floors or so. I'm so sorry to hear the bad news. I didn't think anything like that would happen to you. To me? Oh, sure, why not? But not to you.”

Tilly sat on the end of her bed, watching Dorothy. “I'm nothing special. I worked the kitchen line just like you. Maybe that's where I really belong.”

“Nah, you belong in the spotlight. They can't keep their eyes off you. You were born to entertain.”

“I just worked harder at it than everyone else. It's a craft, you know?” Tilly tilted her head. “You trying for a natural tan or something?”

Dorothy made a half turn, looking in Tilly's direction. She pulled the ID necklace from her neck and tossed it on the carpet in the middle of the room. “You've always been the best friend anybody could ever have,” said Dorothy. “I just wanted you to know that you were perfect and blameless in all of it.”

Tilly stood up. “Are you all right, Dorothy?”

Dorothy gave Tilly a warm, sincere smile. “Just comes a time when you have to call it in and start over. Hawaii would have been lovely. Live and love long…”

Dorothy sidestepped to the rail, kicked her leg up with a scissor movement, then the other one. She twisted around, showing her back.

“Dorothy!” Tilly screamed, and ran across the carpet. By the time she'd reached the slider opening, Dorothy had kicked off. Tilly threw herself against the rail and looked down. She saw Dorothy's hair fluttering upward against the breeze, the body falling, hands outstretched. The whole thing seemed caught up in a slow, torturous motion Tilly pulled away from the rail, unwilling to see the body hit the pavement below. She heard a sickening thwack and a few screams.

Tilly fell on her knees, her jaw trembling in spasms. “Dorothy?” she whined. She crawled to the I.D. tag on the floor and clutched it to her chest. “Dorothy?”

The world closed in on her like a vise. It squeezed, mashing her into a tight ball. She saw nothing but blurs and smeared images as she pulled her legs into her chest and fought for breath. After the spasms stopped and her lungs filled with air, she let out a piercing scream. It sounded like a steam whistle.

The small assembly gathered in a chapel that was normally reserved for weddings, but this time it served the purpose of conducting a wake. Hearts and cupid angels were taken down by the owners, believing that such props were inappropriate for the venue. A Christian pastor was chosen by default. No one really knew Dorothy's religious affiliation, other than her contract information which stated “Christian—nondenominational.” Flowers were brought in and arranged by the Seven Seas staff. Most of them were sunflowers, representing Dorothy's status in the FTALC community. Invites were sent to the relatives of the deceased, but none had shown up for the meager ceremony. Those in attendance, 20 in all, came from the Seven Seas Hotel and Casino. Dorothy's ashes resided in a small urn, sitting on a table in front of the podium.

Tilly sat in a pew, flanked by Fia on one side and Sue Lin on the other. Ben, the boy that Dorothy had liked, was allowed to attend. Abigail Rogers sat behind Tilly's row, with kitchen workers who had befriended Dorothy during her time at the Seven Seas, along with a few who had transferred from Tranquility Harbor.

A pastor presided, standing next to an easel that held Dorothy's large color portrait, a picture that came from her FTALC photo archives. He began the sermon by reciting Psalm 23, and then talked about the frailty of the human condition—ashes to ashes, dust to dust. When he asked those in attendance for any words or closing statements, Tilly approached the podium, filled with thoughts of her friend and their brief but loving time together.

“I only knew Dorothy Prospect through the agency,” Tilly began, clasping her unsteady hands and drawing a shaky breath. “She…was my best friend here. We met during the process…she gave me comfort during that time. If not for her, I might have lost my mind. She came from Bridgeport, New Jersey. I don't even know much about her family or background, since we rarely talked about her past. I just know that Dorothy was a very good person and that she made a terrible mistake.”

Tilly paused, wiped her eyes. “She…she always had something positive and uplifting to say to me. She believed in the good in everybody and wished for their happiness. But she never gave herself credit for how beautiful she really was. I'm going to miss her terribly, and I know I will carry her in my heart forever. May she rest in peace and find glory in the eyes of the Lord.”

Tilly resumed her seat. The pastor ended the ceremony with a small closing prayer. They formed a single file line and stepped past the urn, each speaking a few words, some whispering. When Tilly's turn arrived, she kissed her fingers and touched the urn. She stood for a while, gazing at Dorothy's portrait before she turned and walked out of the chapel. The small assembly filed into the awaiting magbus. Tilly and Fia took up the back seat, both staring at their laps. The driver started the vehicle and turned on to the Strip for the ride back to the Seven Seas. The ride waxed somber, quiet—the collective thoughts of the passengers engaged in a moment of reverence and reflection.

Fia gripped Tilly's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Barely above a whisper, she said, “Now what do you think of this disgusting hole?”

It took Tilly a second to answer. “I'm fed up with it. I've changed my mind. I want to leave.”

“I thought you might. In the meantime, I'll have a talk with Abigail and see if I can make some arrangements.”

Tilly didn't ask her what kind of arrangements. Right now nothing mattered other than her rage and contempt for her father. To think that he had made a chump out of her and the system made her blood pressure go off the scale. Her suspicions about him had been right all along.
I paid the price. I took the sentence
.
You never intended to pick me up. You threw me away like a piece of trash so you could take up your gambling hobby—your disease
. And now, with Dorothy's death, she was fast nearing the brink of a serious mental breakdown.

The magbus stopped at the back entrance of the casino. A few guards stood at the entrance doors, monitoring the offload of wards. Tilly found it bizarre that they would think that anyone would make a break for it. Nevertheless, one of the guards held an arm out, keeping them from entering while he spoke into a headset.

“Neutralize door four-seventy-one for ward intake,” said the guard. After he received a response, he waved for the group to enter.

Tilly guessed that it had something to do with turning their chip alarms off or killing the door sensor in order to allow entry.

Fia leaned close to Tilly and whispered in her ear. “I'm going to talk to Abigail. I'll meet you at your room.” Tilly nodded and stepped through the doors. She followed her assigned carpet pathway, feeling disgust at everything she saw around her. She hated this place—the air she breathed, the floor she walked over, the people, the games, the glitz and bling.
Murderers.

She went straight to her room, entered the bathroom and splashed water on her face. She rubbed her face with a towel, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like she'd aged ten years—felt it. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying. She hadn't eaten in three days. When she stepped into the main room, she stared at the balcony and the fluttering drapes, hating the mere sight of it. Even Dorothy's empty bed brought back memories too painful to bear. She wished she could blow the whole god damned casino to pieces—anything to get it out of her mind. Then again, she could see how easy it had been to walk over to the balcony rail and make the leap. The final solution. Dorothy had been right all along.

Twenty minutes later a knock came to her door. Tilly answered it. Fia, holding a large carryall bag, stepped in and tossed the bag on Dorothy's bed. She spanked her hands. “And that's that. Say hello to your new roommate. They wouldn't allow you to make the transfer to my suite, so I asked if I could come up here. Abigail buckled.”

Tilly felt mildly surprised. “How come you wanted to—”

“Because you need somebody right now,” Fia cut her off. “And I'm that perfect somebody. It's a bad time for someone to be left alone. That includes me. Besides, we have a lot to talk about.”

“I couldn't think of a better roommate right now. It isn't much of a home but we have each other.”

“Honey, that's all we've got. Good on us, then.” Fia opened her bag and fished out a sack. She splayed it open on the small dinette table and slapped a seat next to her. “Indulge!”

Tilly joined her at the table, staring at the offering, wedges of cheesecake and chocolate éclairs. It looked to be pilfered goods. They had no such treats at the commissary.

“Dig in,” said Fia. “Fuck ‘em. They owe us as much and a whole lot more.” She took a bite and pointed an éclair at Tilly. “I've got a way to bust out of here. It's not totally mapped out, but we can fill in the blanks to make it work.”

Tilly picked at a wedge of cheesecake and tasted it. “I figured you had something going on. I could see it in your eyes after the labor auction.”

“Once we start the ball rolling, it'll pick up speed and there's no brakes to slow it down. Like I say, I haven't got all of the puzzle pieces together yet. Our biggest problem: we need somebody on the outside, someone we can trust.”

Tilly pointed a cheesecake wedge back at her. “I just might be able to fill that order. Buddy Bell is in town. In fact, he lives here.”

“Yeah, but how do we get a hold of him. We need an address. But the way things are censored, we'd need to write to him in Swahili.”

“I already have that covered. He just passed his first note to me.”

“You're kidding. How secure is it?”

“About as good as it can get, considering.” Tilly explained how Buddy had passed a note to her near the big roulette wheel, and the time of the exchange. “One folded up page is just about all we can manage.”

Fia dabbed her mouth with a napkin, then narrowed her eyes. “If this works we'll have a solid team. He has to know that he's part of this, if you catch my meaning. We can't breathe a word of this to anybody else, including your coach.”

“If you mean that Buddy shouldn't feel that he's being used, then you can relax. I'm not totally sure, but I think I might be in love with him. I wouldn't trust him if I didn't.”

“I was hoping you were going to say that. It makes everything that much safer.” She gripped the collar on her suit. “This shit's got to go. We'll need disguises—maybe some type of uniform that's in the casino. I'll draw up a list of examples that we might use.”

“Okay, what about exit strategy? Cameras, guards.”

“I found a blind hallway with a restroom next to it. Right around the corner from it is a fire door and an emergency exit that leads out to a tennis court. There's a camera on the outside of the exit door. That'll be a problem. Probably more in the lot. There's a small walkway on the edge of the tennis court that winds through a garden path. It has tall trees. A parking lot is on the other side of that.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Hell, I'm on the first floor of that wing. I can see it right out my window.”

“Jesus. Okay, the billion imperial question: our leg chips. The minute we pass through an exit, whap! We set the alarm off.”

Fia dismissed it with the way of her hand. “Shit, that was the first thing I had solved. Give me something that can stump me.”

Tilly waited a day before she revised her letter to Buddy. She kept the first draft, but transferred a second part to a new sheet of paper. She figured Buddy would understand that the two parts were written on separate days. The second half of the letter read:

Buddy: (note # 2)

I don't know if you've heard by now, but I am saddened to tell you that Dorothy Prospect committed suicide by leaping from the balcony of the hotel. She will be missed by all of us—all those hearts she touched while employed by the agency. I don't know if I'll ever get over this tragedy. I'm really pissed off at the system right now, and I'm close to snapping. Fia missed out on the labor auction for the second time. It broke her heart.

Fia and I have come to the end of our trial here. We're fed up. There is no other way to tell you other than we're getting the hell out of here and going on the run. To do that we'll need your help. Desperately. I trust you, Buddy. You are the only one I trust right now, besides Fia. You can't breathe a word of this to anybody. I need an answer from you in your next pass with me. If you don't feel like risking it, I want you to tell me.

Love,

Tilly”

Tilly left her room and followed the ward aisle until she came to the meeting place. Pretending to adjust her suit, she looked into the crowd, spotting Buddy cornering a slot machine. He came straight at her. She picked up her pace and walked under the palms. She winked, brushed her hand against his--a perfect pass.

When the time came for Tilly's first show, Sue Lin had her decked out in the multicolored feathers, laying on the encouragement extra thick. Pumping her up and getting her mind off Dorothy and her father was easier said than done.