Grab (Letty Dobesh #3) (4 page)

Despite it being summertime in the desert, it was cooler outside the crush
of pheromones.

The pool team
ed 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
high 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.

S
eemed 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 th
em. 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. May
be 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 remixe
d 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 mater
ialized—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. L
ooked 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 o
f 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 su
cked the rest of it down.

T
he 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 e
veryone 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."

Jay
looked like Joey Ramone circa the Carter administration. He put his elbows on the bar, leaned toward her, said, "What are you looking for?"

"
Crystal."

He gave her
a corner in North Las Vegas, a first name, and a description of the dealer.

She
never touched her drink.

# # #

Heading down the sidewalk, on the lookout for a cab, the trigger sweats kicked in. Like beads of anticipation rolling down the inside of her legs. That wasted woman Letty pictured as her need now screaming in her ear, wild-eyed, ebullient for the coming fix.

Challenge the thought—

I have. The thought kicked my ass.

Somewhere between the Mirage and Caesar's Palace, the sound of
high voices pulled her attention away from the taxi search.

Up ahead, a group of Mexican kids were singing their heart
s out in Spanish.