“You got exactly thirty seconds to find that box,” her assailant said.
Marge sagged against the wall. She knew it was a waste of time. The box wasn’t here. But she searched anyway, sliding open the shower stall, the closet door, drawers.
Nothing.
Until she found the bag of snack food under the bed. Who did Larry think he was fooling? Maybe it would all work out. She hauled the bag from under the bed and stood up. “Try the mini bar.”
“Open it.” The man pointed to the cabinet.
“I don’t have the key.”
The man shot her a look and kicked the cabinet. It flew open, revealing the box.
Marge opened the refrigerator and pulled it out.
The man grabbed it and slid it under his arm. Then he cocked the gun. “Tough break. Now I have to shoot you. You know too much.”
Marge blew out a breath. He was right. It was over. She resigned herself to her fate and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the bullet to end her life. She couldn’t help thinking how humiliating it was to die in Las Vegas. And how none of this would have happened if Larry had played by the rules.
They both heard the click of the key card. Her attacker shoved her into the bathroom with the box. Jabbing the gun in her ribs-it almost felt familiar by now-he raised a finger to his lips.
Marge pasted her ear against the wall. Larry was talking. To a man. Drawers slid open and closed. The closet door slammed.
“I can’t believe this. It’s gone.” Larry’s voice took on a high-pitched, nasal whine.
“What do you mean, it’s gone?” The man’s voice was deep. And angry.
“I-I was only out for a few minutes,” Larry stammered.
Then, “OK, Pal. Game’s over. Get your hands in the air.”
“What-what are you talking about?”
“I’m Officer Dale Gordon, Las Vegas police. And you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”
“A cop!” Larry yelped. “You’re an undercover cop!”
“That’s right, pal. And you’re in serious trouble.”
Marge gasped. Police. It was a sign. She lunged for the door. As she did, she elbowed her attacker by accident, and something metal dropped into the toilet. The gun. She must have knocked it out of his hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the thug trying to retrieve it from the bowl. He was cursing under his breath.
Banging her fists on the door, she yelled, “Help! Help me please!”
Footsteps raced over. The door was flung open. A scruffy-lookingman who didn’t look much like a policeman to Marge crouched in a shooter’s stance, his gun pointed straight at her.
Her hands shot up in the air. “Don’t shoot!”
She heard a click from his gun. “Who the hell are you?”
Marge was about to tell him when she heard a rattle out in the hall. The door opened, revealing the maid with a gun in her hands. She seemed to size up the situation right away and pointed her gun at the undercover cop. “Drop the gun. Now.” Her English was suddenly unaccented.
The cop complied. The maid pointed at Marge with her head. “Get me the box.”
Marge scurried into the bathroom, picked it up, and handed it over. The maid nodded and folded it under one arm. “Nobody moves for the count of ten.”
She let the door close with a thud.
There was an instant of shocked silence, and then pandemonium broke loose. Everyone yelled at once. The cop whipped out a cell phone. So did Marge’s attacker. Larry accused everyone of ripping him off. The chaos stopped only when they heard more shouts in the hall. The undercover cop ran to the door and flung it open. The two uniformed cops Marge had seen lounging against the cruiser stormed into the room.
“Took you long enough!” the undercover cop snarled. “Did you see her?”
The back-up cops exchanged looks. “Who?”
“The maid, dammit! She took it! Not even a minute ago!”
One of the cops cried out, “The door to the stairwell! It was just closing!” He bolted down the hall to the exit. The other cop followed.
They caught her before she hit the ground floor, but she didn’t have the box, and she refused to say where it was. In fact, she clammed up and didn’t say a word-in English or Spanish. Afterlistening to Marge’s story-several times-the cops searched the room, then took everyone into custody, including the desk clerk. Everyone except Marge.
They’d been trying to crack this narcotics ring for months, the cops said. They knew the drops were made at Red Rock Canyon late at night. They’d even busted one of the mules, but the others got away. Apparently, they’d buried the stash under the sand, figuring they’d come back for it when they could. The cops assured everyone they’d turn the hotel upside down to find the box, but even if they didn’t have it, they had enough to make everyone’s life unpleasant.
Marge promised the cops she’d call if she found the stash and told Larry she’d get bail money wired tomorrow. She watched them shuffle down the hall, all of them in cuffs. She was about to back in her room when she noticed the maid’s housekeeping cart wasn’t there anymore. But it had been-when she and her attacker had come up. For a fancy hotel, they sure didn’t keep track of their equipment very well. Shaking her head, she closed the door.
A moment later, she opened it again. Scanning the hallway, she saw that the door to the hotel room door closest to the stairwell was seeping light around its edges. Marge crept toward it. The door was unlatched. She pushed it open. There was the cart, draped in skirting to hide all the cleaning supplies. Marge bent over, raised the skirt, and smiled.
She picked up the box. A grimy smell clung to it. No matter. She had a bottle of Jean Naté in her bag. New Woman said it was just the thing after a day in the hot sun. She stole back to her room.
She was in the bathroom dousing the box with perfume, the TV chattering, when an author started to talk about her book, Your North Star: Claiming the Life You Were Meant to Live. Marge straightened up. A few hours ago, she wasn’t sure she’d have a life to reclaim. Was this a sign?
Slowly she examined herself in the mirror. Then she turned sideways. Fluffed up her hair. When you really got down to it, there wasn’t anything that a beauty shop, new clothes, and a few aerobics classes couldn’t fix. Her gaze returned to the box. Maybe she’d pay a visit to the maid tomorrow. Make her asmall proposition. After all, the woman had almost outsmarted them all. Marge was sure she’d know what to do.
She nodded to herself in the mirror. Yes, that was a good plan. She’d go see the maid. Maybe even bail her out of jail. Then she’d buy that book, read it from cover to cover, and reclaim her own life. After all, she always played by the rules.
ROLLING THE BONES by Tom Savage
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t know. I think so, but I’m not sure.”
“Well, maybe we should shoot him again.”
“Nah. He’ll be dead soon enough. Trust me on this.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“’Sides, whaddaya mean ‘we,’ Snake? I’m the one shot him.”
“Yeah, Artie, I know. It’s just a figure of speech. Like when the Queen of England says ‘we,’ you know? Like, ‘We are not amused.’ Like that.”
“What the hell you know about the Queen of England? You been hangin’ out with her lately? Huh, Snake? She your new best friend, or somethin’?”
“Uh, no, Artie.”
“Then shut the hell up.”
“Okay.”
“Here, help me roll him over. Yeah. Now take his feet. His feet, Snake! That’s it, that’s the ticket. Now let’s get him in the trunk. Count of three, okay? One-two-”
“Um, Artie?”
“Yeah?”
“Could you maybe not call me that?”
“Call you what?”
“You know. ‘Snake.’ I hate that, I really do.”