Page 77 of Shameless in Vegas

THE ADDRESS IS THAT of the seediest, most run-down motel I’ve ever seen in my life. With its flat, red-brick facade and uniform rows of identical rectangular windows, it looks like it was some kind of government building in a former life. Flood lights and security cameras are pointed at a faded, weathered, tacky green awning over the front entrance, above which is a big, red neon sign that spells out the word—you guessed it—Motel. It’s exactly the kind of motel you’d see in a movie about somebody hiding out while running from the cops or the friggin’ mafia, so I guess it’s fitting for someone who’s running from a cartel in real life.

That ends today.

Natalia’s leaving this place with me, and she and I are going to the police together, and then she’s coming back to the far nicer hotel on the other side of the city, and that’s where we’re going to stay for a good,longwhile. Until the cops or the feds can take the information she has about my cousins and use it to put them away for life. Then we may or may not go talk to my parents. I don’t know yet. I kinda don’t feel like dragging them into this. I haven’t caught wind of Papá losing his fucking mind over someone infiltrating his investments, so whatever bunny trail Natalia sent Xavier on must be working for now.

Despite the motel’s seedy appearance, the street it sits on is surprisingly unassuming. Cars are lined up on either side of the street for as far as the eye can see, and beyond that it’s just tall, old oak trees, commercial and industrial businesses, bus stops, and a basketball court. A handful of people minding their business are trudging up and down the sidewalk with feet heavy from a day’s worth of hard labor. A lanky teen whizzes by on a stripped-down bicycle. The shadows from parking signs and utility poles stretch long on the concrete as the light of late afternoon retreats into dusk.

After paying the cabbie, I step out of the car and head toward the green awning. I even tried to dress down in preparation for coming over here, but I still stick out like a sore thumb. The black hoodie is too clean, too new, the gray t-shirt beneath is too fresh, the jeans and sneakers too glaringly expensive. But I can’t worry about that because my goal is to simply get in, get Natalia, and get the fuck out of here.

A bell jingles as I swing open the door to the office and step inside. A beefy guy wearing a sweat-stained, wife-beater tank top is seated behind a sliding glass window, his large hand repeatedly stuffing inside a bag of red Doritos and pulling back out to shove handfuls of the broken chips into his mouth. His face is inclined downward as he watches something on an iPhone that’s seen better days, and his thick shoulders shake every few seconds with wheezing chuckles.

I stop in front of the desk and tap the glass with my index finger. He cuts his eyes up toward my face.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, orange dust sprinkling from one corner of his mouth. “Fresh outta vacancy.”

“My wife’s staying here.” I slip my hands into the pockets of the hoodie. “I need her room number.”

Disinterested, the guy drops his attention back down to his phone. “Then get it from her.”

I pitch forward, leaning my face close to the glass. “I need to get it fromyou.”

He grabs another handful of broken chips, and the bag gets stuck on his hand as he’s trying to pull it back out. “I’m not getting involved in a friggin’ lovers’ quarrel, buddy.” After freeing his hand, he shoos me. “Get it from her or get outta here.”

I attempt to square my gaze on him so I can stare him down, but whatever’s on his iPhone is too enthralling, and he doesn’t look up.

Fine, then.

Slipping my hand into my back pocket, I pull out my wallet and retrieve a hundred-dollar bill, then smack it against the glass with my open palm.

“Her name’s Natalia Esposito. What room is she in?”

The guy drags his gaze up to fix on the bill, then he heaves an irritated sigh as he slides the glass sideways enough to swipe the money out from under my hand. Turning to a computer that appears to be on its last leg, he punches keys and scrolls for a few seconds.

“Room twenty-two,” he mumbles, turning away from the computer and pocketing the hundred. “You’re not getting a key.”

I don’t need a fucking key. I will shoulder the door right off the damn hinges if I have to.

“Thanks.” I pivot and slip out.

I locate her room around back on the second level. The drapes are drawn inside the single window, and I hear nothing but silence when I press my ear against the door. I pull my phone out of my pocket and call her even though I know by now she’s not going to answer. The faintest buzz of her phone vibrating seeps through the thin wall, and yep. She’s in there. And she’s leaving with me.

I knock assertively three times. “Natalia, I’m here. Open up, baby doll.”

The silence persists.

“Querida, open the door,” I say, gently and quietly, but still assertive. “I’ve got us a much better place to stay while we sort all this stuff out, so just let me in, and we can get going.”

I wait for a long stretch of seconds, hear nothing, and then my mind starts going to progressively worse case scenarios.

Clinging to hope that she’s just asleep and can’t hear me, I pound on the door with my fist. “Natalia! Open up, honey. It’s Joaquin.”

Still nothing.

I grip the door knob and wrench it, but it doesn’t give.

“Natalia, I need you to open the door or I’m going to have to force my way in.”

Nothing.

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