A Handbook to Luck by Cristina Garcia

fifty-eight. When the driver pulled up to the pink concrete fortress that was the Flamingo Hotel, Enrique tipped him a hundred dollars.
    Outside his father’s penthouse suite, a tall woman was waiting. Her hair was so blond it looked white. She wore vinyl go-go boots and a fishnet dress that displayed her enormous breasts.
    â€œWhere’s your daddy?” she asked politely.
    â€œUh, still playing poker.” Enrique felt himself getting warm all over. His hands dropped to cover the front of his pants.
    â€œMy name’s Lori.” She dragged on a stalklike cigarette and let the smoke accumulate over her head. “I heard you won some chips tonight.”
    Enrique shrugged. In Las Vegas, winning bought you instant privileges, but losing stripped you of them just as quickly. Really, it was a very democratic place.
    â€œWant me to help you spend some?”
    Enrique stared at her in disbelief. He imagined calling Shuntaro in Los Angeles to tell him.
No shit, man, she showed up just like that!
Lori’s face was as white as her hair, except for her eyes, which were huge and brown, with eyelashes so long she looked like those matchbook drawings of a fawn. Her arms were hairless and smooth. Enrique remembered something his father had told him: Beauty is the advance payment on desire.
    When Lori reached for him with her smooth white arms, Enrique trembled. This mortified him so much that he wanted to bolt. The hotel pool would open soon and for a moment he was tempted to go swimming. He could have the pool to himself, swim laps, clear his lungs. Instead Lori tucked his head against the cushion of her breasts and started slow-dancing. Enrique’s cheeks still felt hot but at least his face was hidden. He breathed in her sweat beneath the layers of smoke and perfume.
    Gently, Lori began kissing his hair. Then she brought his left hand to her mouth and sucked on his fingers. Enrique’s whole body boomed with pleasure and fear. This was nothing like the film on prairie chickens. Would she know he was a virgin right off the bat? Why hadn’t his father ever talked to him about sex? Enrique realized with a start that his other hand, the one not being sucked, was resting on the woman’s hip. When he dared lift his head, she leaned toward him and whispered: “What’s your name, sweet pea?”

Marta Claros
    T he marimba band started playing with fresh vigor after their break. The colored lights strung through the cypress trees competed with the stars for attention. In the distance, Marta could make out the hulking presence of the Izalco volcano. She was at the
quinceañera
of her cousin Anita, the daughter of Marta’s stepfather’s twin brother. People said that Anita could play cards and throw dice better than any man, that her fingertips were lucky. It was a good thing she was a girl or she might have become a professional gambler and disgraced her family.
    There were over two hundred people at the birthday party near Lake Coatepeque, all related in one way or another. Anita’s grandmother, Niña Cleotilde, oversaw the festivities from her wicker rocking chair on the porch. Marta smelled
chicha
on the breath of some of the men. She hoped a fight wouldn’t break out and ruin the party. People used to say that her father could make cane spirits that ripped sense out of a man faster than a machete. When she was little, Marta had helped him squeeze the cane in the
trapiche,
the wooden press. The last Marta had heard, Papá had lost everything in the Hundred Hours’ War with Honduras and was trying to cross the border into America.
    The food at the party was delicious, better than anything in the capital, tastier and juicier, as if the fresh air made everything more flavorful. Marta gorged herself on rice with shrimp and roasted turkey from the banquet table. She eyed the platter of almond cookies next to the birthday cake, three tiers coated with fluffy meringue. Perhaps