He gazed up at the ceiling and smiled.
The knock on the door made Marge jump. She and Larry exchanged looks.
“I’ll take care of it.” Larry started toward the door, closing her in the bathroom. “You stay in here. And keep the door shut.”
“But what if-”
“Just do what I say.”
Marge obediently sat on the toilet. Shivering, she draped a towel over her shoulders. They always kept these rooms toocold. Through the door she heard muffled voices. Larry’s and someone else. A woman’s.
“No thank you,” he was saying. But the heavily accented voice-Spanish, Marge thought-drifted closer.
“I turn down beds. And put towels in bathroom.” Marge pictured a Hispanic woman with dark hair and a gold cross at her neck.
“No!” Larry yelped like a wounded dog. “I’m sorry,” he added. “I mean-my-my wife’s in there. She’s not feeling well.”
“I give towels. She feel better.”
Something jingled as she swished across the carpet. Keys. Maids carried those big silver rings, didn’t they? The jingling was followed by a smacking sound. Marge knew that sound. Whenever Larry was upset, he slapped the palms of his hands against his thighs.
Larry’s hands smacked back and forth. The jingling edged closer. Marge’s heart thumped. If she didn’t do something, the maid would burst through the door. Jumping up from the toilet, she locked the bathroom door and slid open the door to the shower. She carefully stowed the box in the bathtub as far away from the shower head as she could, then turned on the water. As a cold spray gushed down, she slid the door shut and plopped back on the toilet.
The jingling stopped.
“See, I told you,” Larry said weakly. “She’s not feeling well.”
Silence. Then, “Ees okay. I help.”
Good Lord, Marge thought. What would it take? She quickly grabbed the towel and bunched it in front of her face, hoping her voice would sound like she was inside the shower stall. “Just leave them outside.”
“You sure, meesus? I get medicine.”
She was about to issue a sharp retort when it occurred to her the woman was just doing her job. Following the rules. Marge was annoyed with herself-she should be more tolerant. “Thank you. I’ll manage. Just leave the towels on the floor.”
Eventually, the jingling retreated, and the door to their room slammed. Marge waited a full minute before coming out of the bathroom. Larry was looking through the peephole, still slapping his thighs. The scent of cheap perfume hung in the air.
“That was close,” he whispered.
“Is she gone?”
He nodded and headed back toward the bathroom. Marge grabbed his arm. “Larry, we can’t do this. It’s wrong. We’ve got to hand it over to the police.”
“Are you crazy?”
“It’s not worth it. If we get caught…”
A nervous laugh cut her off. “It’s a little late to worry about that.”
“It’s never too late to do the right thing. We all do things we wish we hadn’t.”
“This isn’t one of them. Anyway, what cop in his right mind’ll believe we found this in the desert?”
“But we did.”
“Sure. And while you’re at it, don’t forget to tell ’em it was your Swiss Army knife that got it open.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re in this up to your neck, too. You’re an accomplice, Marge.”
Marge stiffened. All she’d done was pack her toiletry bag according to New Woman’s rules: a little detergent, cotton balls, and, of course, the knife. Did that make her a criminal? Larry had to be wrong. Maybe this was some kind of test. Of their values. Their relationship. She lifted her chin. “I’m going to the police.”
His eyes narrowed. “You can’t.”
“We have to follow the rules.” She started for the door, but Larry caught her by the arm.
“Marge, don’t. Please. The box-it’s a sign. I know it.”
“A sign?” She searched his face hopefully. Hadn’t she just been thinking the same thing?
“We can make a killing if we’re careful. Do you know how much that stash is worth?”
Her spirits sank. “I don’t care.”
“Maybe millions!”
Money. She looked away. They weren’t even on the same planet. Dr. Phil said there was a point you had to rescue a relationship or it died. They’d discussed it at her women’s workshop: Marge, a newly pronounced lesbian, and two others sobitter over their divorces they couldn’t possibly launch, much less rescue, a relationship.
“Our luck is about to change. All we have to do is find someone to sell it to.”
“But that would make us…” she whispered. “… dealers.”
“N… no. Not really,” he said. “It wasn’t ours to begin with.”
“Exactly. That’s why we can’t do this, Larry. We’ve got to play by the rules.”
Before he could stop her, she wriggled out of his grasp and bolted through the door.
Marge crossed the lobby, aware that the desk clerk with the stringy hair was watching her. She picked up her pace.
Outside, darkness was falling, but it was a false, noisy darkness. Gaudy neon displays sputtered. Fountains gurgled. Horns blared. Electronic dings spilled out from the casinos. As she pushed through the crowds on the Strip, she grew uneasy. She didn’t like this city where night was day and dark was light. An air of abandon, a go-for-broke chaos, permeated everything, all of it sizzling in the desert heat. Marge fanned herself with the flaps of her sweater.
Finally, she caught sight of a black and white cruiser on the next block. Two cops lounged against its side. She was hurrying to flag them down when she felt a presence beside her. She quickened her pace, but the figure loomed closer. When she tried to break into a run, he clamped a hand on her arm. She started to scream, but her attacker grabbed her around the waist and buried his mouth on hers in a hard kiss. With the other hand, he jabbed something hard and cold in her side. She knew without seeing that it was a gun.
Alone in the room, Larry paced and slapped his thighs. The stash would more than make up for his losses. All he had to do was unload it. But he was a salesman from the Midwest. Where could he find a drug dealer in Vegas?
He pulled out the shirt Marge bought him before they came. You can’t wear a golf shirt and chinos in Vegas, she’d said. Even if everyone else does. He slipped it over his head and checked himself in the mirror. Some slinky yellow material. He looked like a frigging Italian.
Italian. Everyone knew the casinos were fronts for the Mafia. The Mafia ran drugs. If he went down to the casino, maybe he could find someone-a card dealer maybe-who knew somebody. But what would he say? “Hey, you want to score-it’s upstairs in my room?”
He pulled on the new pair of pants that matched the shirt. A tan weave. At least they weren’t white. Damn. He sounded like Marge with all her frigging rules. He opened the box, took out one of the baggies, and stuffed it into his pocket. She hadn’t always been this way. She’d been quite a number when he spotted her in the secretarial pool years ago. When had she changed? They were in their forties. The kids were living their own lives. You’d think she would have loosened up.
He closed the box and looked for a place to stash it. The safe? No. That was the first place someone would look. Under the bed? No. That was for amateurs. He looked around, his gaze settling on the mini bar. Twisting the key, he opened the tiny refrigerator, took out the nuts, candy, sodas, and tiny bottles of booze, and slid the box in. It fit perfectly. He threw the food into a laundry bag and shoved it under the bed.
He opened the door to the room. He half-expected to see the maid standing there, her arms full of towels, but the hall was empty. He rode the elevator down and crossed the lobby, nodding to the desk clerk as he passed. His luck was about to change. He knew it.