by Wesley Lewis
The third robber hurried from behind the counter and headed for the far end of the store.
The man with the shotgun raised his left hand and flipped Al the bird before turning and chasing after their partner.
Al turned to the man in the blue shirt. “You go too.”
“Why?”
“Because that thing’s too heavy for them to carry themselves.”
The man glanced at the women, then back at Al. Without a word, he turned and followed the two masked men.
Al opened the tailgate of the pickup and sat on it. “You two come around here where I can see you.”
Jennifer and the clerk inched around to the front of the counter.
Al pointed at the ground. “Have a seat.”
Jennifer kicked aside a few shards of glass and lowered herself to the floor, minding her bumps and bruises, careful not to let her dress ride up again. Al watched, not saying a word. Jennifer found his gaze more disconcerting than his gun.
From her spot on the floor, she could hear but not see the three men struggling with the ATM. One of them instructed the other two to grip it from the bottom. That was followed by a loud crash, followed by a lot of cursing, followed by someone—she was pretty sure it was the man in the blue shirt—suggesting they turn it on its side.
How lucky for them he’s here to help.
Another loud crash preceded a yelp of pain from one of Al’s accomplices. This robbery had all the subtlety of a Three Stooges routine.
Al glared at Jennifer. “Does this amuse you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why the stupid grin?”
She hadn’t realized she was grinning. She swallowed the smile and said, “Just imagining I’m someplace else.”
“Oh yeah?” He rose to his feet. “Where?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“Yeah,” he said, walking toward her, “you look like you were planning on being someplace else.” He stopped at her feet. “You’re way too dressed up for a shithole like Pahrump. What happened? Get lost on your way to Sin City?”
Jennifer stared up at the masked man. “I was out for a drive and got a little turned around.”
“A little turned around, huh?”
“That’s right.” She tried to read his eyes, wondering what thoughts were dancing around inside that ski mask.
“Stand up.”
“Why don’t you leave her alone?” asked the clerk.
“Why don’t you shut up before I bash your head in with the butt of my gun?”
“It’s okay.” Jennifer rose to her feet.
Al looked her up and down, then pointed his gun at her chest. “Turn around.”
“Why?” Her gaze darted between his gun and his eyes.
“I forgot to frisk you. You could be carrying a concealed weapon.”
“You didn’t frisk me either,” said the clerk.
Al pointed his gun at her. “This is your last warning.”
The clerk didn’t respond.
Al turned his attention back to Jennifer. “I said turn around.”
“I can assure you I’m not carrying any weapons.” She tried to suppress the note of fear creeping into her voice. “Where would I be hiding them?”
“That’s for me to find out.” With the gun still in his right hand, he grabbed her by the waist and spun her around. “Put your hands on the counter.”
Shaking, she complied.
She felt his body brush past as he knelt behind her and heard him set the gun on the ground. He placed his hands gently around her left calf and slid them slowly upward. They reached the hem of her dress with no indication of slowing.
“Can we get some help here?” asked someone behind them.
Al removed his hands from her thigh. She heard the gun being picked up and felt his body brush by again as he stood. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the other three men straining to hold a small, heavily damaged ATM with a shotgun perched atop it.
“Can we get some help?” repeated the man in the blue shirt. “This thing is really heavy.”
“Jesus Christ!” Al walked to the men and grabbed the shotgun off the machine. “Why don’t you just give this guy a gun?”
Jennifer half sat, half collapsed onto the ground and tried to assure herself that the danger had passed.
“Okay, I can’t hold it any longer,” said one of the masked men. “Set it down.”
With a collective grunt, the three load bearers lowered the machine to the ground.
When they’d righted themselves, Al tossed the shotgun to the one who’d just spoken. “Be more goddamn careful where you leave that.”
Jennifer saw that the other robber had tucked his pistol into the waistband of his pants.
“Are you going to help us load this?” asked the man with the shotgun.
“Get that old bag to help you,” said Al, pointing to the clerk. “I’ve got something to take care of.”
He turned and walked toward Jennifer. She tried to scoot away but once again found herself backed into a shelf.
“Come on.” He grabbed her by the wrist.
She struggled to free her arm, but his grip was too strong. He yanked her to her feet.
“If you need me,” he said to his cohorts, “I’ll be in the stockroom.”
CHAPTER THREE
Terrified, Jennifer strained against Al’s pull as he dragged her away from the counter.
“Make it quick,” said the man with the pistol in his belt. “We can’t afford to wait around after this thing is loaded.”
“I’ll be quick,” said Al.
“How’s it that you always manage to avoid the hard work?” asked the man with the shotgun.
Al paused for a moment, apparently considering the question.
Jennifer felt her last strands of rational thought slipping away. She scanned the room for any sign of hope. Helpless, she locked eyes with the man in the blue shirt, knowing that even if he wanted to help—and she was pretty sure he was more concerned with saving his own skin—there was nothing he could do. He stood with his hands on his hips, watching her fate play out before his eyes.
“It’s like this,” said Al, clearly impressed with the answer he’d constructed. “There are two types of people in this world—”
Jennifer didn’t get to hear Al’s philosophical explanation of the categorical dichotomy of mankind because at that moment the man in the blue shirt pulled something from beneath the tail of that blue polo. He moved with such speed that Jennifer had no idea what he was holding until she saw the muzzle flashes and heard the first two shots echoing off the walls.
Al released Jennifer’s hand and stumbled sideways before collapsing to the ground.
The other two men, who hadn’t been watching the man in the blue shirt, were slow to register what had just happened. The man with the pistol in his belt was turning toward the smashed doorway, perhaps thinking they were being ambushed from outside, when the next shot tore through his ribs.
As the man with the pistol fell to the ground, the man with the shotgun finally identified the source of the gunfire. He was in the process of raising his weapon when the last two shots caught him square in the chest. He tumbled face-first onto the tile floor.
Jennifer placed her hands over her ears but couldn’t block out the painful ringing.
The man in the blue shirt approached and circled the bodies. When he seemed satisfied, he turned to Jennifer and the clerk.
The clerk sat on the ground, her knees tucked up to her chest. Jennifer leaned against the counter, not trusting her legs to support her.
The man said something Jennifer couldn’t make out. She removed her hands from her ears.
“Are you okay?” he asked again.
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Good.” He surveyed the carnage. “I’ll secure their guns. You . . .” He seemed to lose his train of thought. “You call—” He staggered to the right and braced his free hand against a rack of audiobooks.
“Are you all right?” Jennifer managed to ask.
“Just a little sleep deprived. . . . Maybe I should—” He tumbled forward, pulling the rack down with him and sending CD boxes skidding across the floor.
The clerk screamed in surprise.
The man lay motionless among a few dozen abridged readings of twenty-year-old bestsellers.
Jennifer rushed forward and knelt beside him.
The clerk stood to get a better view. “He having a heart attack?”
Jennifer watched the man’s chest rise and fall. “I think he just fainted.”
“Lucky him.” The clerk took a seat on the tailgate of the crashed pickup and glanced around the store. “How am I going to explain this to my boss?”
Jennifer looked from the damaged truck to the bodies of the three robbers and thought, How am I going to explain it to mine?
CHAPTER FOUR
EARLIER THAT DAY
The casino was surprisingly crowded for a Wednesday night. The crowd was only a fraction of what it would be in three days, when weekend warriors from Southern California and Phoenix would occupy most of the tables and slot machines, but the floor was alive with the voices of dealers and cocktail waitresses and with the constant ringing of electronic games.
Fortunately, Jennifer knew where the rest of her team would be—at the center of the casino floor, where the gaming tables gave way to the open-air cocktail lounge. This delicate merging of vices allowed those who’d sworn off gambling to mingle with those who’d sworn off drinking.
Cutting across the gaming floor, she turned just enough heads to reassure her that the slinky black dress was doing its job. She’d cursed herself for a full week after buying it, but every time she’d considered returning it, she’d pictured herself walking up to Bryan—the wispy fabric clinging to her body in all the right places, the almost dangerously short hem dancing with every sway of her hips—and that image had quelled any lingering doubts.
“Jen!” a woman called from somewhere inside the lounge.
A waving hand beckoned beneath a Riviera-themed banner advertising something called Le Tournoi at La Condamine. Jennifer could just make out the bare shoulder and golden locks of the firm’s newest hire.
Ashley Thomas was a year out of college, blond, and attractive enough to spark rumors that she’d gotten the job on the merits of something other than her résumé. Jennifer was quick to quash such gossip, not just because she’d once inspired similar rumors herself but also because Ashley was competent. While most of the women envied Ashley’s natural beauty, Jennifer envied her natural ability to navigate even the most tedious of deals.
As Jennifer neared the row of small cocktail tables, each occupied by two or three of her colleagues, she scanned the group, hoping to spot a pair of piercing green eyes framed by a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. With considerable disappointment, she realized that her entrance had been lost on the one person who mattered. Her boss and soon-to-be lover was not among the dozen or so New Wave employees.
“Hey, roomie.” Ashley rose from her seat and gave Jennifer a hug. “I think I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
The young woman released her embrace. “For doubting you when you said this conference would make me question my career choice. My feet are blistered, my throat is sore, and I’m going to gouge the eyes out of the next guy I catch staring at my ass while pretending to read a marketing flyer.”
Jennifer laughed. “Just staring? Nobody has propositioned you?”
“Not yet.” Ashley slipped back into her chair. “But the night is still young, and this guy is three sheets to the wind”—she motioned to the young man sharing her table—“so we’ll see what happens.”
Jennifer choked back another laugh. Around the office, it was an open secret that Tom Blackwell was smitten with Ashley. If he’d had his wits about him, he likely would have lost them at the mere suggestion, joking or not, that she might be open to such a liaison.
Jennifer took the seat next to him. “Tom, you’d better pace yourself. You have to make it through two more days.”
“Four more,” he said, speaking somewhat slower than normal. “I’m staying through the weekend.”
“Good lord. Three days isn’t enough for you?”
“Careful,” said Ashley. “It’s a sore subject. The airline lost one of his bags and ruined his plans for the weekend.”
“Really?” Jennifer turned to Tom, intrigued. “Do tell.”
“Yes,” said Ashley with a smirk, “I’m still waiting to hear about this big money you were going to win.”
“See,” said Tom, “this is why I don’t talk about my personal life at the office. I mentioned one little detail, and you’re already using it to tease me.”
“Who’s teasing?” asked Ashley. “You said you had a chance to win big money, so I’m curious.”
“I said ‘real money,’ not ‘big money,’ and it’s not going to happen now, so just forget it.”
Ashley rolled her eyes.
“Well,” said Jennifer, “I guess there are worse things than spending a weekend sipping Coronas by the pool.”
Tom drained the last of his drink. “I don’t think the Blue Parrot has a pool.”
“The Blue Parrot?”
“It’s on the north end of the Strip, across the street from the Stratosphere. That’s where I’ll be rubbing fanny packs with the rest of the Priceline shoppers.”
Jennifer winced. In her eagerness to move the conversation in a more cheerful direction, she’d inadvertently drawn attention to the fact that Tom was the one person in the group who almost certainly couldn’t afford two extra nights at La Condamine Hotel and Casino.
Tom was one of two team members, along with Bryan’s elderly assistant, Grace, who worked on salary rather than commission. He’d given up a presumably less-than-lucrative career producing Internet videos of young daredevils performing all manner of death-defying and sometimes illegal stunts and taken a position producing marketing presentations for New Wave. He never complained about his job, but Jennifer got the impression that commercial real estate didn’t quite live up to whatever expectations he’d had for his late twenties.
“Tom,” she said, “my advice is to find some sweet young gal to help take your mind off your troubles until the airline finds your bag.”
“Oh, they know exactly where it is—in a locker in the TSA office. They found it three hours after they lost it, but now they’re holding it pending, as they put it, ‘verification.’”
“Verification?”
“Yep.” He shook his glass as if looking for any stray drops of alcohol hiding between the ice cubes. “My tax dollars hard at work fucking me over.” Before Ashley or Jennifer could respond, he slammed his empty glass on the table and rose to his feet, almost knocking over his bar stool in the process. “We need another round. Jennifer, what are you drinking?”
Although she wasn’t sure she wanted to start drinking yet—she planned on needing her energy later—Jennifer reasoned that Tom was a man in need of a mission.
“Martini,” she replied. “Two olives.”
“Okay, one martini, one appletini, and one Seven and Seven coming up.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd between the tables and the bar.
For a moment, neither woman said anything. Finally, Ashley let out a stifled laugh.
“What?” asked Jennifer.
“That poor boy needs to lighten up.”
“If you ask me,” said Jennifer, “that poor boy needs to get laid.”
Ashley’s expression grew serious. “A lot. He needs to get laid a lot.”
Both women erupted in laughter.
When they regained their composure, Jennifer asked, as casually as she could, “Have you seen Bryan?”
“Yeah, you just missed him. Tammy needed help drawing up a letter of intent.”
“Oh, for the love of God. Now she can’t draft her own LOIs? Someone needs to tell her she’s about two decades too old for that helpless-schoolgirl shit.”
Ashley giggled. “If I didn’t know any better, Miss Williams, I’d say you’re jealous.”
CHAPTER FIVE
After two hours and four rounds, Jennifer, Ashley, and Tom were all in much better spirits. Tom had seemingly forgotten about his thwarted plans, Ashley had apparently decided that Tom wasn’t so uptight after all, and Jennifer was only mildly distraught that Bryan hadn’t yet returned.
Had Tom acquiesced to Ashley’s repeated pleas to let her get the next round, the three of them might have gone on like that for another hour. However, he insisted on getting it, only to encounter an unexpected protest from his feet. He stood, took one step forward, stumbled, and nose-dived toward the tropical-themed carpet, knocking an empty tray from the hand of a passing waitress as he fell.
Both Ashley and Jennifer leapt from their chairs and, working to contain a mutual case of the giggles, helped Tom to his feet.
“Tom,” said Jennifer, “I think it’s time we put you to bed.”
“Maybe so,” he muttered, struggling to regain his composure.
“I’ll take him if you want,” said Ashley. “Hang out and visit.”
Jennifer thought of Bryan, probably just then wrapping up Tammy’s letter of intent, possibly already headed back to the bar.
