It was the eye contact that made Vincent stop. Stop and think. In a line of leggy blond hopefuls on the Gold Sands Stage, this one stood out.
Vincent called out the numbers to leave, with a mumbled “Good luck”. That left five knock-dead gorgeous young women, each one filled with hope and big dreams.
“So, whatcha got? He asked, cigar in mouth.
Some sang, some danced, some did both. Good. Okay. Not bad. Awful. And then there she was, the woman with bold green eyes and defiance etched in every muscle.
“Whatcha do, missy?” Vincent leaned back in the theater chair, crossing his arms, puffing on the cigar.
Belinda McMadden took a breath. This is it. This is now…” and stepped forward. I know this, I can do this. Words of “Ave Maria” filled a shabby lounge with astonishing power and purity.
Vincent leaned forward, his arms resting on the back on the chair in front, the cigar on the floor. Mother of God…Oh, sweet Mother of God… he exhaled.
For one so jaded and so filled with cynicism, Vincent was washed clean by a voice unlike any he had heard. He wept.
“Who ARE you?” he asked.
Belinda handed him a folded and creased envelope, carried all the way from Illinois to Nevada in her bra, too afraid to lose it.
Vincent exhaled, nodding, as he read the letter.
“I’ll do it. You got it, Kid. You got it.”
What did the letter say? Who gave Belinda the letter? Why was it so important?