“Answer the fucking question.”
Travis touched the handle of his gun through the fabric of his shirt. “All right, I’ll tell you what that asshole Billy did. He kept criticizing me, told me I needed to work on my dice and card switches, like I wasn’t good enough. I got the money, didn’t I?”
“You want to know the truth? Your technique sucks. If Pepper and Misty weren’t distracting the pit bosses, we would have been caught by now, you stupid shit.”
“Is that so?” Travis lifted his shirt, exposing his weapon. “Say it again, I dare you.”
One of the advantages of learning to shoot at MGV was the staff. All ex-military vets from the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, they’d drummed into Morris’s head the importance of getting the draw on your opponent. Anyone could fire a gun and hit a target; the key to battle was getting off the first round. Reaching under the couch, Morris drew a Beretta M9 and took careful aim at their unwanted guest. The M9 had been the standard handgun across the military for twenty years and was absolutely lethal at close range.
Travis froze. His arms went into the air. “Morris. Please.”
With his free hand, Morris picked up the remote off the couch and turned on the TV. The voices of two announcers broadcasting a basketball game filled the room, and he jacked up the volume.
Then Morris shot Travis dead.
Twenty-Seven
Vegas never slept, and neither did its airport. Flights into McCarran arrived at all hours, with suckers pouring off the planes eager to blow their hard-earned cash.
Mags stood in the main terminal listening to the endless loop of promotional ads for the casinos play over the PA. It was worse than Chinese water torture, and if she could have found a live human being in the terminal, she would have bribed him to turn it off.
The big board flashed. Amber’s flight had landed, and Mags nervously chewed her fingernails. Her baby had flown across the country to visit a mother she hardly knew. Maybe it was the start of a beautiful relationship, or maybe they’d end up at each other’s throats. It really didn’t matter. It was about to happen, and she’d never been more excited in her life.
Her trajectory was changing. She was starring in a TV show and getting paid to be an actress. And she didn’t have the cops breathing down her neck. Life was good.
She got a text.
I’m here!
Suddenly, she felt scared. Amber was twenty-one years old! Her daughter had slept with boys and knew how to survive in this cruel world. What the hell did Mags think she was going to tell Amber that her daughter didn’t already know?
Nothing, that’s what.
Mags hadn’t been around for the important stuff. Her parents had raised Amber and molded her into the person she was today. Mags had sent checks and called on the important dates, but what good was that in the scheme of things?
Nothing, that’s what.
The main terminal had a bank of slot machines. Mags sat down in a chair in front of one and buried her head in her hands. This was all wrong. She’d made a terrible mistake.
A hand touched her shoulder. “Mom?”
She slowly rose. The terminal was swarming with travelers wearing puffy jackets lined with down. Her baby stood before her dressed in a black leather jacket and a wool cap, and could have stepped out of the pages of a yuppie clothing catalog.
“You’re taller than me.” Mags gasped. “How did that happen?”
Amber kicked off her shoes and shrank two inches. “That better?”
Mags hugged her. “Much better.”
Amber didn’t have luggage, just a carry-on, so they went outside to the departure area as Mags sent a text to her driver. Thirty seconds later, a black stretch limo pulled up to the curb, and the uniformed driver jumped out and opened the passenger door.
“Welcome to Las Vegas, Ms. Flynn,” the driver said to her daughter.
Amber looked at her mother before getting in. “This is so decadent.”
“It gets better,” Mags said.
They drank California champagne and ate caviar on crackers during the drive. It was Amber’s first time in Sin City, and Mags had the driver take the long route. The town was jumping, and Amber lowered her window, her face bathed in blinding neon and all the false promises that it carried.
“What do you think?” Mags asked.
“All the amenities of modern society in a habitat unfit to grow a tomato,” Amber replied.
“Whose line is that?”
“A really funny comic named Jason Love. Is it always this crazy?”
“This is nothing. Wait until the weekend rolls around.”
At LINQ, Amber got the same royal treatment at the front desk, and she was presented with the keys to a suite on the same floor as Mags. They rode up on an elevator together still holding their champagne flutes and giggling like teenagers.
“Mom, I want you to be straight with me,” her daughter said. “Are you really starring in your own TV show? Or is this just an elaborate put-on?”
“It’s a pilot. And yes, I’m the star. Fingers crossed the network likes it.”
“How could they not?”
Amber’s suite was perfect, the lights turned low, music playing over the surround-sound system, a welcome basket of fruit and delectable chocolates on the night table. Amber got settled in and smothered a yawn. It had been a long day, and Mags kissed her daughter’s cheek.
“Get some sleep. I’ll order up breakfast in the morning. Then you can come to the set and watch us shoot a scene. Sound like fun?”
“Sure, Mom,” her daughter said. “Whatever you want to do is okay with me.”
Mags entered her suite to find a shooting script lying on the floor with a Post-it note from Rand. The studio hired a script doctor to do a polish. Nothing major. See you in the a.m.
She fixed herself a drink and thumbed through the script. The scenes that had yet to be shot were filled with changes and corrections, all of it in red pencil, just like her least favorite high school teachers used to do. Most of the changes were cosmetic, except for the scene where her crew rips off a Strip casino and Mags deposits the loot at the door of a women’s health clinic that can’t pay its bills. The script doctor had suggested having the scene happen during the day, so that Mags could interact with the clinic’s owner. It would be more dramatic that way, the script doctor said.
She tossed the script to the floor. The show was called Night and Day. During the day, she was a gaming agent who busted crooks; at night, she was a thief who ripped off the joints. Having her rip off a casino during the day destroyed the whole premise of the show.
“Asshole,” she said to no one but herself.
Someone was knocking on her door. Through the peephole, she spied Amber holding a bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured her drink down the sink before letting Amber in.
“I couldn’t sleep,” her daughter said.
Amber poured the wine, and they curled up on opposite ends of the couch and clinked glasses in a toast. Her daughter’s eyes were filled with worry. Mags waited her out.
“I don’t know how to say this, Mom, but you look terrible. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Mags said.
“Well, you don’t look fine. You’ve lost weight and you have dark rings under your eyes. Are you sick? Don’t lie to me about this, Mom.”
Mags felt trapped. Amber had majored in criminology, and her line of questioning felt like a police interrogation without the bright lights. “Really, I’m fine. It’s been a long day, and I’m running on fumes. I’m not lying to you.”