Free I Don't Like Where This Is Going by John Dufresne Page B

you sure you’re not Canadian? Juice is how I feed my family. Can’t make a living driving people six blocks. Twenty-five hundred cabs in this town.”
    â€œYou own your cab?”
    â€œNo driver owns his cab here. The unions pimp us; the owners fuck us up the ass. Pardon my Serbian.”
    â€œTips aren’t good?”
    â€œAll the money goes to the casinos and the whores.” He held up two fingers. “Two sounds a driver doesn’t want to hear: change in a pocket or bullet in a chamber.”
    We were stopped at a red light in front of Caesars Palace when we both noticed a squabby fellow in a Lakers basketball jersey—15 W ORLD P EACE —and bulky denim shorts, harassing a young girl. She walked in a circle, trying ineffectively to get away from this lout, who was screaming in her face and poking her shoulder with his stubby forefinger. Ilarion hit the horn, threw the cab in park, opened his door, stepped outside, and told the punk to stop right now or face the wrath of Ilarion. The Laker gave him the finger, but walked away just the same. That’s when I recognized the victim as the girl I’d seen at the Crisis Center two days ago. And she was still crying. I wondered if she had ever stopped. I handed Ilarion a twenty, thanked him, and hopped out. He said, “Watch yourself, my friend.”
    Now that World Peace had fled the field of combat, the frazzled girl put her face in her hands and took a deep breath. She had slipped her arms up to the elbows into the sleeves of a thin green hooded sweatshirt, and left the rest of the sweatshirt doffed. She saw me watching her and told me to fuck off.
    I said, “I know you.”
    â€œYou wish you did.”
    â€œI mean I know who you are.”
    She had the monogram PG tattooed on her upper arm. Parental Guidance? The swelling on her face had diminished and she’d hidden the bruise with makeup.
    I said, “PG?”
    â€œPretty Girl.”
    â€œYou were at the Crisis Center. I volunteer there.”
    â€œYou’ll go to heaven.”
    â€œAre you okay?”
    â€œYou want a date?”
    â€œThey took you to Refuge House.”
    â€œAnd I left.”
    â€œWhere are you staying?”
    â€œIn the tunnels. With the mole people.”
    â€œWhy not Refuge House?”
    â€œGirls don’t stay at Refuge House. They’re shipped out.”
    â€œProbably want to get you away from your triggers.”
    She shook her head. “You’re clueless.”
    She told me she could take care of herself, had been since she was twelve. No, she had no phone, no change of clothes, no friends in Vegas, and nowhere to go except underground. I told her I wanted to get her a room for the night. She asked if I came with the room. I did not. Had she eaten? She had not. Supper and a room, I said. With a room she could soak in a hot tub, wash her clothes, watch a movie, get a good night’s sleep, and go back to the Crisis Center tomorrow. I said, “I’ll be there at ten.”
    She smiled. “I’ll be sleeping.”
    A short, heavyset woman wearing a Reno Aces ball cap and a GIRLS ! GIRLS ! GIRLS ! DIRECT TO YOU IN 20 MINUTES OR LESS T-shirt handed me several advertising photos of naked women. I handed them back, pointed at her T-shirt, and said, “Fewer.”
    â€œQué?”
    â€œYour T-shirt is grammatically abusive.”
    â€œNo entiendo.”
    â€œI thought prostitution was illegal in Las Vegas.”
    â€œProstitute? No! Girlfriend? Sí!”
    A blonde woman in a blue cape sat on the sidewalk playing a small accordion and singing opera with a piercing falsetto. Her cigar box was empty. The T-shirt lady smiled, pointed her chin at my companion, and said, “Ya tiene las manos llenas.”
    The girl told me her name was Ruby Tuesday; she was eighteen; she grew up in Smallville. Three lies. I was the handsomest guy she’d seen all day. Four. I suggested we duck