by Blake Crouch
“No, what do you call that?”
“I call that you ain’t gotta do shit ever again money. I call that living right for the rest of your life money. Don’t tell me some part of you hasn’t always dreamed of robbing a casino.”
She was starting to see it—her place in this madness.
They had walked half a mile, and she was dripping with sweat. She looked back at the visitor’s center.
“Richter’s phone,” she said. “You want me to grab it. That’s why you want me, right?”
Isaiah grinned. “Among other things.”
“What other things?”
“Whatever we need. But nothing you can’t handle. And if you ain’t down for that, I’m happy to pay you a flat rate for the grab. But if you want to be in on the split, you see this thing through to the end.”
“I don’t do jobs that require guns,” she said. “Not for any amount of money.”
“Well, I guess it’s your lucky day.”
“No guns? Seriously?”
“No guns for the takedown. Too noisy. Too messy. But if things turn to shit after, I make no promises. If you need to think it over, I can give you one hour. But the clock is ticking.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t need to think it over.”
6
Letty rolled down Las Vegas Boulevard at sunset, the Strip already aglow.
It had been five years since her last visit, and she was happy to see that everything about this city still got under her skin in the best kind of way. Where most people saw absurdity and flash, she saw art and life and possibility. There was the Venetian, lit up like a white angel. The MGM Grand the color of money or the guy at the Blackjack table losing his shirt while everyone around him wins.
She loved the universal hustle.
The bellboys, the strippers, the hookers, the dealers, the doormen, the bartenders.
Everyone angling.
She could live here.
# # #
Isaiah had checked her into a Prestige suite at the Palazzo. After a week of Motel 6’s and worse, this elevation into luxury made her exuberant.
She ordered up room service, then headed downstairs to find an outfit for the evening with the envelope of hundos that Isaiah had provided as a starting expense account.
She bought a dress at Chloe’s.
Pumps at Christian Louboutin.
Had a makeover at a salon called Fresh.
By ten o’clock she looked like a completely different creature. The seven-day accumulation of road grunge gone. She stood at the window in the living room of her suite looking down at the traffic moving along Sands Avenue twenty-eight floors below. Across the street, she had a perfect view of their ultimate target.
The sleek curve of the Wynn.
But tonight wasn’t about money or a vault.
Tonight was all on her.
Richter and his crew would be at Tryst at 11:00 p.m.
A knock at her door pulled her away from the window.
Through the peephole, she saw a bellboy.
Opened the door.
“I have a package for you, ma’am.”
She took the small box and gave him a five-spot.
Letty carried it into the kitchen. It resembled a jewelry box. Simple. Elegant. Gold paper. Her phone rang as she tugged off the white ribbon and tore at the wrapping paper.
“Hello?”
“Get my package?”
“You really shouldn’t have.”
She lifted the top off the box.
A black iPhone and a photograph.
The photo was a headshot of a white man with a shaven head and a few days’ worth of stubble darkening his jaw line. For some reason the smooth head and intense eyes reminded Letty of a thug in a European heist flick. Otherwise, he was unremarkable. Nothing like how she’d imagined the legend. Then again, maybe that was the point.
Isaiah said, “I’ll need access to Richter’s phone for one hour. This is his replacement.”
“Does it work?”
“No. It was impossible for Mark to replicate his contact list, apps, text, call history. Safer play to swap it for a non-functioning phone. It’ll power up and display a black screen. What I’m asking isn’t easy. I need you to swap his current phone out for this one. Then you’re going to have to hand off his phone to my contact at the club. He’ll find you, so don’t worry about that. Then you have to entertain Richter for an hour while my guy builds the clone. Then you have to switch his real phone back for the fake.”
She said, “What if he freaks when his phone doesn’t work?”
“If he’s into you, maybe he doesn’t even think about his phone for an hour.”
“This is a tall order,” she said. “Just so you know.”
“Tall orders come with big paydays. You got this, Letisha?”
“Yeah. And by the way, it’s Letty. I go by Letty.”
“Aiight. Since we turning into homies, I go by Ize.”
“See you in the club, Ize.”
7
Even at 10:30, the line to get into Tryst was ridiculous. Letty was pretty sure she looked fabulous, but in the back of her mind, her age kept popping. Fifteen years older than almost everyone around. She didn’t look thirty-six, at least not tonight. Could’ve possibly passed for something that started with a 2 depending on the lighting, but still...
The group ahead of her consisted of two couples.
One of the guys was trying to talk to a doorman in black slacks and a muscle-T with the cold eyes of an assassin. A man who had heard every plea to get inside. He was flipping pages on a clipboard and shaking his head.
“I don’t see you on anybody’s guest list. And just to be straight up with you, there’s no way you’re going inside wearing sandals and shorts.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding you? Go put on some adult clothes and try again.”
“This is bullshit.”
The doorman looked past the group, met eyes with Letty.
She pushed her way through to the velvet rope.
“How’s your night going?” she asked.
“No complaints. What’s your name?”
“I’m not on anybody’s guest list.”
“We’re pretty full tonight.”
“How about I just give you a hundred bucks?”
She already had it in her hand. The doorman looked down, took it, opened the velvet rope.
She tried not to let it eat at her as she moved through the lounge area toward the entrance, the house music beginning to build. She’d had to slide a bribe to get in. Couldn’t deny it. It stung.
The lounge was a spread of reserved tables and clusters of beautiful people.
She opened her purse, checked her phone.
A new text from Isaiah: north patio by the waterfall
She paid her cover charge and entered the club.
The place was mobbed and loud beyond any level of pleasure she could conceive of. Straight on, the DJ booth was manned by a cleancut white kid whose real job you would never suspect outside these walls. Behind it, a waterfall crashed into a lake. Paths branched off the dance floor, one leading toward the main bar, the other to what she guessed was a VIP lounge.
The decor and vibe felt seedy, dark, and elegant all at once.
The strobe was disorienting, the heat on the dance floor massive.
As she skirted through, two men caught her eyes and tried to lure her in.
The air redolent of alcohol, cologne, sweat.
She fought her way to the doors leading out onto the north patio.
Despite it being summertime in the desert, it was cooler outside the crush of pheromones.
The pool teamed with schools of bikini-clad women and ripped men.
The stimulation dizzying.
She wanted a drink. A hit of crystal.
It was the most beautiful nightclub she’d ever seen, and to be here carefree and h
igh would have been exhilarating.
To be here on a job, she had to admit, was a close second.
Even outside, there was no place to sit. Every table either filled or reserved.
She spotted Isaiah standing near a table in the far corner, tucked in beside the waterfall. He was laughing and he looked good—designer blue jeans, Red Wing boots, black-T under a green velvet bomber jacket. He stood with four other men, far outnumbered by the entourage of women surrounding them.
It took Letty several minutes to make her way through the crowd to the outskirts of Isaiah’s table.
She stood alone.
So much movement, so much conversation all around her.
Lanterns hung from the trees and she could just hear the white noise of the falling water.
Nine hours ago, she’d been talking to Isaiah at the crater.
Seemed like years ago.
A trainwreck of a thought barreled through her mind.
There are so many women here more beautiful than you. Richter is surrounded by them. Why would he give you the time of day? Why should he? You look out of place here. You had to pay extra just to get inside—
Stop. Maybe challenging the thought works on a job, too?
Quit being insecure.
This isn’t the hardest thing you’ve ever done.
You know how to make people like you.
I need a drink.
No you don’t.
Yes I do.
She let the stimulation overwhelm her.
The smell of champagne like spring in the air.
The starless Vegas sky.
The voluptuous architecture of the Wynn.
The bright blue of the pool and the yellow glow behind the ninety-foot waterfall.
The red heat inside the club.
The infectious groove as the DJ remixed a song she liked—the Cowboy Junkies covering “Ooh Las Vegas.”
Everyone around her was moving. She let her hips begin to sway. Everyone was here to have fun and so was she. So was Richter.
She had this.
Letty moved closer to their table.
There.
Talking to one of the orbiting women who looked just bimbo enough to possibly be an escort.
Richter was shorter than she’d imagined. Barely five-ten. He wasn’t handsome, just put together nicely. Retro glasses. A short-sleeved button down that seemed to shimmer. No belt. Shiny black wingtips. No jacket.
In that case, she’d be mining the front pockets of his slacks. Back pocket would be better. Cargo pants pockets ideal. But front pocket was workable, and his pants didn’t look too tight. In fact, it was more in her comfort zone than a grab from an inner jacket pocket. A pants pocket is a pocket. What you see is what you get, with tightness being the only variable. An inner jacket pocket that you couldn’t see was full of surprises. Like zippers. Snaps. Buttons. All manner of things to snag probing fingers.
She could feel her adrenaline begin to spike as she approached. She drew within range of Richter and the bimbo. The woman stood on legs that looked too insubstantial to support her top half.
Richter was staring at her with a glazed look that Letty hoped was boredom.
She inched closer.
Overheard the bimbo shouting: “Yah, I’ve been out here about a year and a half. It’s pretty fun, you know. Lots to do. Sometimes, I wake up and it’s like, I live in Vegas, right? Like, oh-my-God!”
Letty looked up at Richter.
Eye contact.
He said, “And what’s this? Another fly come to suck off our bottle service?”
He turned away from both women, called out, “Gentlemen, let’s roll.”
Letty shoved down the flush of rage.
Do not let him leave.
But she couldn’t think of a single play to stop this from happening.
Bimbo said, “Asshole,” and stormed off.
Richter and the rest of his crew headed out, with Isaiah bringing up the rear.
He didn’t even look at her.
8
Letty’s feet were killing her. She eased down into one of the chairs at the empty table.
Steaming.
In shock.
She’d choked.
Her first job since last Christmas, and she’d blown it.
A promoter materialized—cute brunette with chopped hair. Amazing dress. Nametag read Jessica.
She smiled at Letty and knelt down so she didn’t have to shout.
“Hi, what’s your name?”
Letty said, “Gidget.”
“Well, Gidget, this is actually a reserved table. I have a group I need to put here.”
Screams from the next table over drew Letty’s attention. Looked like a bachelorette party unfolding. Pure, smashed joy.
Letty slid back into her pumps, struggled onto her feet.
“All yours.”
# # #
Letty headed back toward the dance floor. Just wanting to get out of the noise, out of the movement.
Inside, it was impossibly more crowded than before.
A wall of bodies.
The music ear-rupturing.
The bass heart-stopping.
She moved along the perimeter.
A group of three guys at a table called out to her with Boston accents. They were working their way through a 1.75L bottle of Jack and they reeked of desperation. Any other night, she’d have had a drink and grabbed their wallets.
It took her five minutes to push through the crowd and past the entrance into the front lounge.
The barrage of self-destructive thoughts firing away.
You’ve lost it.
You’re washed-up.
Then she was passing a line of nightclub hopefuls that snaked through the lobby of the Wynn.
Then she was outside, sucking down gulps of exhaust-tinged desert air.
She kicked off her shoes and carried them.
Her head swirling.
She felt her phone vibrate. Opened her purse.
A text from Isaiah: wtf was that?
Good question.
She hit him back: location?
He answered: stand down see u tomorrow
# # #
She went up to her room, but she couldn’t calm down. Couldn’t stand the thought of lying in bed playing her epic fail over and over again.
She needed to score.
Challenge the thought.
I need to get high.
Challenge the thought. Think about your son. Think about—
I need to get high.
# # #
She wound up at the Zebra Lounge, a bar in her hotel with tons of seating upholstered in zebra print. Onstage, dueling pianists played something fast and obnoxious.
She sat at the bar. Hadn’t had a drink since starting rehab in Charleston, and she wanted to fall off the wagon with something big and noisy.
While the bartender made her Long Island Iced Tea, she studied him, trying to get a read on whether he would further her ultimate ambitions for the evening.
He was twenty-three or twenty-four. Smooth-shaven. Cropped hair. Lifted weights for sure. No tats that she could see, although he wore a long-sleeved black button down which didn’t reveal much.
He set her drink in front of her, said, “Seventeen dollars. Start a tab?”
“Sure, put it on my room.” She gave him the number. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Darren.”
“Darren, if I wanted to get my hands on something a little stronger than booze, would you be able to point me in the right direction?”
She could see in his eyes that he got asked this all the time.
“Talk to Jay at Japonais in the Mirage. He’s working tonight.”
“Appreciate that.”
He left her to her drink.
It was strong and very good.
Yes, the night had blown up to this moment, but she was about to turn it around.
Letty leaned over her drink and sucked th
e rest of it down.
The liquor hit her gut in a burst of beautiful heat.
9
Letty crossed the boulevard.
The Strip at midnight sleepless and blinking and radiating a nervous energy that filled her junkie soul with the closest thing to joy she could ever hope to know.
Even at this hour, too much traffic creeping between the median of palm trees.
Almost everyone she passed was lit up.
Hell, she was too.
It felt good to be outside again, walking and buzzed and the Mojave air skirting over her shoulders, between her knees.
Surreal to be in the midst of all this stimulation and to know that twenty miles in any direction would put you in abject emptiness.
Between Treasure Island and the Mirage, a small black man wailed on a harmonica. Playing for tips, but no one was tipping. Letty dropped a twenty into the Panama Jack hat lying upturned on the sidewalk beside him.
He looked up.
“Bless you. Bless you.”
Huge, milky cataracts covered his eyes, but he stared right at her. His smile both penetrating and disarming.
Letty moved on.
“You don’t have to give up!” he called after her. “I hope you know that!”
She quickened her pace.
The giant marquee on the Mirage blazed down like a midnight sun.
The volcano in front of the casino erupted.
A crowd snapped photos with their phones.
Letty cruised through the tropical landscaping into the hotel.
An adult fantasy world.
The atrium filled with vegetation.
A massive aquarium behind the front desk.
It took her five minutes to find the bar, another ten once she was seated before the rail of a man with long, curly hair finally came over.
She said to him, “Are you Jay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’d like a Floating Orchid and some advice.”
“Who sent you?”
“Darren from the Zebra Bar.”
She watched him make something out of vodka, Cointreau, and the juice of a pear and a lemon.
He set it in front of her, and she gave him a fifty dollar bill, said, “Keep it.”
