Part Seven
Tazia, Las Vegas, 1917-1927
Chapter 26

Adolfo, the owner of Mancini’s Market, takes Tazia’s grocery items off the shelves as she reads from her list. When she asks for tomatoes, however, he goes to the back of the store where he keeps the best ones. “Because you make tomato sauce like my mama’s.” He kisses his fingertips, then fetches an anise cookie, baked by his wife, from the jar on the counter. “For Gemma.”

Having arrived in Las Vegas a week ago, Tazia marvels at how easily she finds the foods she couldn’t get in Topeka. Garlic. Olive oil. Eggplant. There is no Little Italy to hide her here, but there are plenty of Italians. Most work in the mines or railroads, transplants from northern Nevada, where Italian immigrants settled fifty years ago. The rest run the small businesses that serve them, like this store. Tazia found an apartment a block away. She and Gemma each have a bedroom, along with a parlor and a sunny kitchen where Tazia can cook them nice dinners after Sunday Mass at St. Viator. The rent is cheap, but she will soon run out of money.

“You helped me find a church, maybe you can help me find a job too,” she says to Adolfo. “Preferably working for Italians. So far, all I’ve come across are bars.”

“Have you tried a boarding house? You might even get free rent.”

“I tried one, two streets over, with a big vegetable garden out front.”

“Elda Abbruzo’s place. I buy zucchini from her. Her place is packed with boarders.”

“Yes, all dirty. And drunk.” Tazia shivers, remembering how their red-rimmed eyes stared at her. “Mrs Abruzzo offered me a job, but it’s not where I want to work. Or live with Gemma.”

Adolfo rearranges the peppers. “An Italian restaurant, with a little after-hours gambling?” He winks. Tazia chuckles. She’s not opposed to the idea. Her father and uncles used to bet over which tree would yield the most olives. “I know just the place,” Adolfo continues. “They serve the best Italian food and wine in Clark County.” He points behind him. “They buy my tomatoes.”

Tazia salivates, remembering the tastes of home. She tells Adolfo she’s very interested.

“Go to the Ten Spot Roadhouse on Highway 91. See Mr Salvatore Vannozzi, Sal V, and tell him his associate, Mr Mancini, sent you.” Adolfo bows when Tazia thanks him. “One thing, though. You gotta wear something a little classier to the interview.”

“Why do I have to dress nice to cook?”

“Appearances matter to these guys.”

Tazia doesn’t care about her own clothes, but she wants to afford nice ones for Gemma. Adolfo reaches under the counter and brings out a plaid jumper and white blouse with a lace collar. “My niece outgrew it. I hope Gemma doesn’t mind hand-me-downs.”

“She’ll be thrilled. At her age, she doesn’t know the difference.”

“She will soon enough,” Adolfo says, shaking his head. “But when you get this position, you can buy her brand-new clothes.” He walks Tazia outside. “And stylish outfits for yourself.”

***

“I’m hoping you’ll have a job for me at the Ten Spot, Mr Vanozzi.” Tazia has covered up the holes in her dress with her nonna’s lace shawl. Too late, she sees where the fringe has frayed.

“Call me Mr V.” He twirls his diamond pinky ring. “We serve Italian specialties, drinks. A little roulette, craps, blackjack. Whatever diners like, provided they’re discreet.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets,” Tazia says. She names the dishes her mother taught her to cook: smoked sausage, lasagna with wide egg noodles, spaghettini and meat sauce.

“Old country. Our clientele will appreciate that.” Mr V lights a cigar. “But a pretty young woman like you shouldn’t slave away in the kitchen. What do you say to being a waitress?”

Tazia leans forward. “Does it pay more?”

“A bit. You can also be a table dealer.” Mr V eyes her above the curling smoke. When she nods eagerly, he puffs and says, “But if you really want to increase your tips, you can provide extra services to clients who are looking for more than Chianti and craps.”

Tazia stands so abruptly her knee whacks the table leg. She limps on the way out, but her head is held high. Even if word gets back to Adolfo and he stops saving his best tomatoes for her, she will find a more respectable place to work. She doesn’t care if the owner isn’t Italian.

***

In fact, when Tazia blushes in response to his question about the job interview, Adolfo stammers an apology and gives her a bag filled with tomatoes, eggplants, and melons. She promises to pay him as soon as she finds work and asks if he has any other suggestions.

“What about the Chinese laundry a few blocks up? The Chink does good work.” He points to his spotless, starched apron and grins. “Not a big talker. Inscrutable, but honest.”

Tazia ignores the slur, thanks Adolfo, and finds her way to the Star Chinese Laundry and its proprietor Ju-Long Pan. Assaulted by steam and chemical smells, she focuses on his wrinkled hands and instinctively trusts him. He shows her around the shop.

“Here, mix soap.” Tazia sees a huge bowl, scoops, and wooden churn. “Lye ash and fat, add bleach for very bad stains. Let soak.” Next is a perforated double tub with a crank. “No can afford electric washing machine.” Tazia watches him turn the crank to rotate a set of paddles that agitate the clothes and linens. Beside that is another tub for rinsing and spinning out excess water, with thicker paddles. After further manual ringing, the laundry goes into a hand-cranked mangle for another squeezing and is draped over racks to dry. Finally, the items are pressed with heavy irons heated on the stove, then bundled and marked with the customer’s number.

“Numbers easier than names. Fewer mistakes.” Ju-long Pan smiles for the first time. “Hard work. You think you can do, Missy?”

“Yes, I can do it. How much?”

“Two dollar a day, six day a week.”

Less than Tazia had hoped, but prices are cheaper than in Chicago and she won’t have to pay for heat and warm clothes here.

“Work twelve hour a day, sometimes fourteen if very busy. Okay? You not have family?” Ju-long Pan looks at Tazia’s bare left hand.

Tazia hesitates. It’s been a while since Ayal’s absence caught her unawares. “A young daughter. Can I bring her here after school and on Saturdays?” The owner raises his eyebrows. Tazia reassures him. “She won’t be any trouble. She can do her homework in the corner and she likes to read and draw. No noise, no running around.”

“You make sure she keep fingers away from mangle? She not splash in bleach?”

Tazia promises. Ju-long Pan extends a wrinkled hand. They shake. “Cannot call each other numbers.” He smiles. “Okay I call you Tazia? You call me Ju-long?” Again, Tazia agrees. If they are to spend that many hours together, first names are good. She begins tomorrow at six. Living so close, she and Gemma can walk to the laundry early, then Gemma can get herself to the nearby school at eight and return after three. The two of them can walk home together at dinnertime.

***

Tazia welcomes the routine, but the days are long and hot. The windows have to stay closed, not only to keep out dust, but also because the shop must be above room temperature for the soap to dissolve stains and the chemicals to kill germs. Tazia’s hands soon look like Ju-long’s. At home in the evening, her fingers snag the material when she tries to embroider. No matter, she’s hasn’t the time or energy for fancy stitching. The only sewing she does now is mending clothes.

The one creature immune to the laundry’s heat is Chlora, the white cat named for chlorine bleach, who sleeps in the sunlight that streams into the front window. Even the normally energetic Gemma wilts after finishing her homework. Sometimes she naps in a hamper of clean clothes. It reminds Tazia of little Paulie hiding in the scrap bins at Triangle. She wonders what became of the mischievous girl, who would be seventeen now, the same age as Tazia when she had Gemma.

Two months into the job, as he cranks the mangle, Ju-long says, “You right, Gemma no trouble. She quiet, also smart. Like ...” his voice trails off and he looks away, turning faster.

Tazia waits for him to continue, then asks, “A child you know?”

“Knew.” Ju-long stops cranking. “A boy ... so long ago.” He sighs.

“You left him in China?” Tazia watches him wipe his face. She does not think it is sweat. “I left family behind too,” she whispers, her hoarse voice unaccustomed to such revelations.

Ju-long sits beside the hamper where Gemma sleeps. His shoulders droop, the first time Tazia has ever seen him look tired. “Will he—your son—ever come here?” she asks.

“Too late.” Ju-long peers at the snoring Gemma. “You lucky have her.” He gently strokes the child’s wild hair. “I like she come here.” So do his customers, men in dark suits with pressed cuffs. When Gemma is awake, she amuses them with stories of playground turf wars. She cajoles them into helping her with her homework, especially arithmetic. “They businessmen. Good with numbers,” Ju-long tells Tazia with a finger to his lips. Like him, she knows not to ask questions.

Gemma soon has them on the floor, playing jacks. “They think it’s a form of gambling,” Tazia jokes to Ju-long. “Look, Mama, a lucky seven,” Gemma sings one afternoon. Tazia peers around a laundry tub to discover that these men have not only been throwing jacks, they’ve been teaching her daughter to throw dice. Next Gemma rolls a two. “Snake eyes. Crap!”

“No more games.” Tazia grabs the dice; Gemma pouts and stamps her foot. Guilt gnaws at Tazia. It’s her fault the child is stuck in this steamy environment. She returns the dice. “Okay, but no more curse words.” Gemma looks contrite and apologizes, then brightens. “Mama, if I roll a two, three, or twelve, can I use a word that means something bad but isn’t naughty?”

Tazia, trying not to smile, waits to hear what her daughter comes up with.

Gemma thinks. “How about ‘wormy tomatoes’?”

Tazia laughs. From the far end of the drying racks, she hears Ju-long tee-hee too.

***

The laundry does well, but things pick up when word gets out that Tazia can do repairs. It starts one day after she hears ripping, followed by a deep voice crying, “Wormy tomatoes!” Tazia finds that Beppe “the Bulldog,” while crouching to play jacks, has caught a heel on his trouser cuff.

“Brand new,” he says with dismay. “Ottavia is gonna kill me.”

“I can fix it,” Tazia offers. It’s funny how these tough men fear their wives. Their children too. No wonder they’d rather hang out here. “Once they’re cleaned, they’ll look better than new.”

“How much?” asks Beppo, trembling.

Tazia makes up a number. “Twenty-five cents. I’ll have them for you tomorrow.”

“Sold!” Beppo says. Ju-Long gives him a spare pair of trousers, one of the many garments that people, inexplicably, fail to pick up. Beppo pats Gemma’s head and slinks on home.

“I keep twenty, give you five,” Ju-Long tells Tazia. She decides not to protest. If not for him, who knows what she’d be doing. Certainly not earning extra nickels for respectable work.

A day after picking up his trousers, Beppo comes back. “When I came home in the wrong pants, Ottavia accused me of messing around, so I confessed what happened. She still got mad, but you fixed the pants so good, she made me bring you these.” He gives Tazia two torn dresses. Then, looking sheepish, he hands her a jacket with a slashed lapel. “Ssh. Ottavia hasn’t seen this.”

Word spreads and soon other clients bring in mending. The wives’ clothes have torn hems or seams; the men’s are ripped and often bloodied. Neither Tazia nor Ju-long asks how they got that way, but between them they marvel at how finely these garments are tailored. Pleased to discover they both care about such things, Tazia shows Ju-long the traditional Assisi designs she embroidered on Gemma’s baby clothes. He shows her his wedding jacket, decorated by his wife-to-be with classic Shu embroidery. Both techniques feature a profusion of blossoms and soaring birds from their respective countries. They look out at the dusty Nevada landscape and sigh.

They rarely talk about their pasts, however. Like their customers, they don’t name people or places, but over time they stop masking the feelings associated with them. Tazia concludes she needn’t hide among people who look like her, only those who share her desire for privacy. She thinks this absentmindedly one day as she pets Chlora. The cat rolls on her back, exposing her soft belly. There, amid the pure white coat, Tazia spots a patch of dark, matted hairs. She flips the cat back on her stomach. As with clients at Star Chinese Laundry, it is best not to look underneath.