What’s Your Name?
Las Vegas, Nevada

‘Used to be a big mafia town,’ said the Cowboy. ‘Some reckon it still is.’

The morning had raised a radioactive orange. We were on the outskirts of Vegas, heading in. Telegraph wires crossed the road like pencil marks against the sky. Huge trucks rumbled on to our road from massive spirals of tarmac. And we continued onwards, past palm trees outside car dealerships opening for another day of sweaty sales talk.

We passed a huge green rectangle that rose from the central reservation. It announced Sunset Road to be half a mile away, that Galleria Drive was three-quarters of a mile distant, and it was two miles to Russell Drive. These places meant something to somebody. People lived there. Maybe even fourteen-year-olds … like us.

‘They say there’s hundreds of bodies buried in the desert. It’s not healthy to imagine it too vividly. Hell, there’s nothing like the Las Vegas Expressway to get you down. If a mafioso offers to give you a lift home, you say no, you hear me? That’s all I’m saying.’

He held the steering wheel with his huge leathery hands and he shook his head ruefully. Jennifer sat between us with a straight back. Her good hand was in her lap, her bad hand was in the sling. And if it wasn’t for her eyes being shut, you’d have thought she was studying the rear of the tank-sized four-by-four up ahead and, in particular, the bumper sticker that said IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU’RE TOO FRICKING CLOSE. As it was, it looked as if she were meditating, her face perfectly at ease.

‘You’ve been here before?’ I asked the Cowboy, daring to chat, given confidence by the weird situation, feeling more like I was in a video game than a pick-up.

‘Too many times. You see, young man, as a marshal one duty was to catch folks who’d jumped bail. You know what that means?’ I said that I did, even though I wasn’t 100 per cent. ‘A lot of them travel to Vegas. Ask me why.’

With the quick fingers of one hand he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his denim jacket, selected one, found a lighter, lit it and puffed. This was all done in about ten seconds, the cab filling with that sharp smell, despite the Cowboy winding down his window.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Because they’re fools. They reckon if they can win the jackpot or lay low in a motel long enough we’d forget them. Neither ever happens. They’re always caught. Folk can only keep running for so long. It gets tiring.’

‘Tell me about it.’ (And the Cowboy actually laughed.)

‘Why were you going to LA with her? What’s your story?’

I took a deep breath. Did he really want to know? Should I say? I decided to chance telling the truth/welling up.

‘I won this all-expenses-paid trip to Hollywood. My poem won a competition—’

‘A poem?’

I nodded.

‘Well, are you going to share or no?’

‘I’d prefer not to.’

The Cowboy shrugged.

‘Anyway, I’d have a studio tour, I’d be shown the sights, and I’d be an extra in a superhero movie. But … I missed my connecting flight in Chicago. I should have been there on Tuesday and they were shooting my scene today. At midday.’

‘I hate to break it to you, son, but you’re not going to make it.’

He took a hand from the steering wheel and pointed a fat finger at the clock in the centre of the dashboard.

Just gone half past eight.

My tiny voice: ‘I know.’

‘Anyhow, I asked why you were travelling with young Jennifer here. Wouldn’t it have been a hell of a lot less hassle if you’d stayed on that Greyhound back there? You’d be in Hollywood by now, doing what you do. Walk of Stars and whatnot. You’d have got there for your filming. Mark my words, she’s as crooked as a Virginia fence.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Jennifer is stubborn.’

‘She tripped over my luggage. That’s how she hurt her wrist. I felt kind of responsible. It’s okay. I guess your priorities change as you get older.’

‘You ain’t knee-high to a lamb.’

‘No, I mean, like, since meeting Jennifer. I’m older than I was back then.’

There came more chest-rattling laughter. Luckily he didn’t start coughing.

‘You don’t think I never ran away from home when I was a kid, son? I understand.’

Was he smirking? Was that an actual smirk in the corner of his mouth, hiding underneath the plentiful hair of his moustache?

‘So how’d you find us? Again? Did you have a tracker? Like Batman?’

As he glanced over, his face softened. He looked as if he could have been someone’s grandfather rather than a gnarly old gunslinger.

‘Pardon me?’

‘Batman uses a tracking device shaped like a bat.’

‘I’m sure he does.’

He didn’t sound impressed. I’d avoid further superhero chat.

‘I’m not a geek. Like, coming to America has kind of put me off all that.’

‘Makes no difference to me, son. There’s no shame in liking what you like. Hell, I used to collect stamps when I was your age. They probably don’t exist any more. No, I used … older ways of tracking you. A few tricks I picked up. And, don’t be telling anyone this, but you two being dressed up in fancy dress half the time I was running you down kinda made spotting you easier.’

‘Jennifer –’ I checked she was still asleep before continuing – ‘she really thought it was her mum in there. Or, you know, the ashes.’ I persevered. ‘I think she thought she was doing the right thing, bringing it to LA. You should have seen her face when I broke it. I thought she was going to collapse. And then all the money fell out and … what was all that stuff?’

‘You want to take some advice from an old timer, son, and not ask too many questions about your friend’s grandmother. I’ll leave it to your imagination why someone might want to hide away that kind of loot.’

I didn’t give up.

‘Jennifer was going to see her dad. He’s in prison. She wanted to be a family again. Did you know that?’

‘Her father?’

‘Like I said, she didn’t know there was money in the urn. She just wanted to be with her dad.’

‘She tell you that?’

‘She did. And, I mean, I can deal with missing the movie shoot but it’s pretty sad that Jennifer didn’t get to see her dad. Family, you know? I mean, I miss mine and they’re a nightmare and I’ve only been away for a couple of days. Seems harsh on her.’

Cigarette between fingers, he dropped open his mouth like he had something to say. But, instead, he raised a hand to scratch the white stubble on his chin. He cleared his throat.

‘Nothing more important than your family, Jacob,’ he said, his voice quieter now, more like he was talking to himself.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked. ‘Sir?’

(Americans respond well to being called ‘sir’.)

I swear the thick bark of his face reddened. A tiny amount. The smallest blush ever recorded, but still …

‘Why d’you want to know?’

‘It’s just …’ I shrugged. ‘You know mine. Seems weird.’

‘Dorothy Cave.’ I raised a hand to my mouth. ‘Go ahead,’ he said, even smiling. ‘I’ve heard it all before.’

‘Dorothy?’

‘Call me Dot if you have to call me anything. My mother, God rest her soul, was crazy about The Wizard of Oz. Only had the one child, which was kind of rare back then. Anyhow, when she was pregnant, she and my father decided to call the baby Dorothy. Caused me no end of grief along the way and no denying it. Sometimes I wonder whether I’d have ended up working in an office if they’d called me Michael.’

He flicked his cigarette stub out of the window, winding it up.

We came off the main road and drove down streets of pretty bungalows, stopping for red lights hanging from wires that stretched across the streets. Each house had a perfect front lawn. Trees lined our path. The sudden green gave the place a weird otherness, like an app with the colour settings turned to max.

If this was Las Vegas, it wasn’t how I imagined it. There wasn’t a single miniature Eiffel Tower. There were no neon lights. And I’d seen nobody dressed as Elvis. In fact, I’d seen nobody.

‘Jacob,’ said the Cowboy. ‘Your heart’s in the right place. Don’t you let nobody tell you otherwise.’