Only two things were capable of ruining her escape. The first was if Ike and T-Bird managed to recognize her. Perhaps she had a distinct mole on her face, or a tattoo on her neck. Those things couldn’t be erased and had done in more than one cheater.
The second would be her reaction to seeing Ike and T-Bird when she came out. They were scary looking even in their new clothes. If she stopped in her tracks, brought her hand to her mouth, or displayed any of the telltale signs that guilty people showed, she’d be history. He’d done what he could; now, it was up to the gods.
He stopped by a bank of slot machines and watched the scene unfold. He put Lady Picasso’s odds of making it out of the casino unscathed at fifty-fifty. There weren’t many games in this town where you could get even money, and he liked her chances.
Lady Picasso left the restroom a much different person than the one who’d gone in. Her blond hair was now brunette and done up in a bun, the glasses were history, her shoes had turned into a pair of embroidered slip-ons, and her blouse had changed color. The only thing the same were her pants, a pair of stylish black capris. The punishers hardly gave her a glance.
Her escape was textbook. Not too fast, not too slow, don’t run if you’re not being chased, eyes straight ahead, a dead cell phone pressed to her ear as she sailed through the casino. Once outside, she’d either hit the street running or grab a cab, never to be seen again.
You rock, girl, he thought.
A scream snapped his head. A scuffle was taking place outside the lady’s restroom. Ike and T-Bird had grabbed a middle-aged blond who bore a passing resemblance to Lady Picasso and were holding her down. The blond’s blouse was torn, and she’d lost her shoes.
“Security! Security!” the blond shouted.
“We are security. Shut your yap,” Ike said.
The blond gave Ike a swift kick in the shins. She was spitting mad, and Billy could only guess the size of the lawsuit she’d end up filing against the casino. There was no reason to let this poor woman take a beating that she didn’t deserve, and he hurried over.
“She’s not the one,” he said.
“Say what?” Ike said.
“I’m positive. You’d better let her go.”
Ike made a call on his cell phone. The blond continued to struggle. T-Bird twisted her arm and she doubled over in agony.
“Cunningham doesn’t think it’s her,” Ike said into the phone. To Billy he said, “Crunchie says mind your own fucking business.”
So Crunchie was directing the action now. That was a different story, and Billy raised his arms in mock surrender and backed off.
“Get your dirty hands off me,” the blond yelled as the punishers dragged her away.
He was suddenly alone. He didn’t think anyone was watching him through the eye-in-the-sky, too preoccupied with the mistaken cheater to care about him right now. He decided to try to run Lady Picasso down. He wanted to meet this woman and get to know her. She had the chops and the moxie and hadn’t panicked when the ceiling was caving in. Those were admirable qualities in his line of work. Best of all, she was hot, and to the casinos that made her a dumb broad, which was the best disguise of all.
He followed her trail and headed outside to the valet stand. The cool night air was a jolt to his senses, and he shivered from the sudden drop in temperature. Stretch limos and a cluster of yellow cabs were letting passengers out, the drivers dragging luggage out of the trunks. The valet captain blew his shrill whistle while imploring the drivers to hurry up.
No sign. Had she hit the Strip and run? That was a definite possibility, only there were a lot of tourists walking the Strip tonight, which meant a lot of uniformed cops as well, a pair on every corner. Billy avoided contact with the police whenever possible, even chance meetings on the street, and he didn’t think Lady Picasso was any different in this regard.
Which meant she was still here. He decided to check out the line of people waiting to take cabs out of the casino. He counted seven couples, all dressed for a night on the town, the men looking impatiently at their watches, asking themselves if it would be faster if they walked. He approached a distinguished white-haired man at the front of the line.
“Sorry to bother you, but I’ve lost my girlfriend. She has dark hair tied in a bun and is wearing black capris. Have you seen her?”
The key to lying was to give the lie a ring of truth. The man bought the story and consulted with his wife, who was draped on her husband’s arm. The wife pointed a manicured finger at a concrete pillar behind the valet stand.
“She’s over there,” the wife said. “I thought she looked a little upset.”
“Thanks,” he said.
He cautiously approached the pillar. He could see a haze of cigarette smoke and figured Lady Picasso was on the other side, trying to calm down. He knew it would be awkward at first, but he was going to speak with her regardless. He wanted to do business with this woman.
He took out his cell phone and held it the way people did while texting, and walked around the pillar. And there she was, sucking on a menthol cigarette. The smell did a number on his head, and the euphoric recall of that first encounter came back in a flood of memories that sped up his heart. He lowered the phone and stared, just to be sure.
Mags stared right back at him. The years had been kind, and she was still as pretty as a magazine cover. She knew she’d been made, yet didn’t seem to be terribly upset. It made him dig her that much more.
He’d been in love with her for as long as he could remember. Whenever he had sex, he imagined it was the magnificent Maggie Flynn that he was inside of. It was his fantasy, and so far, it hadn’t gotten old.
Kismet, fate, whatever the hell you wanted to call it, they were together again. He was not going to let her go this time, at least not if he could help it.
“I guess you don’t remember me,” he said.
Mags ground her cigarette into the pavement. “Holy shit. You’re the paperboy.”
He’d been hawking the Providence Journal in front of DelSesto’s Bakery on DePasquale Square when Mags’s sputtering Toyota had kissed the curb. Irish hot and exquisitely dressed, she could have been your best friend’s gorgeous sister, but in fact was a thief. The proof was the stacks of Yves Saint Laurent apparel boxes in the backseat. The easy narrative said she worked the floor at Macy’s and had swiped the clothes when her boss was on break.
“Hey, cutie, want to make some money?” she asked.
“You talking to me?” he said.
“Who else would I be talking to?”
“How much?”
“Fifty bucks for a half hour’s work.”
He threw a plastic sheet over his papers and hopped in. She hooked him no differently than the mythical Greek sirens who lured lovesick sailors to shipwreck on the rocky coast of their island, and they floated down the uneven road as if riding upon a magic carpet.
She explained the deal. The boxes contained knockoff cashmere sweaters made out of fiberglass, cost zilch to manufacture. Folded nice and pretty, each had an impressive gold-foiled guarantee that read “Made in Ireland.” Just don’t light a cigarette near them, or they’ll blow up. His job was to hold the boxes and keep his mouth shut while Mags gave her spiel.
They pulled into a construction site on Federal Hill, and Mags quickly gathered a crowd. It was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. The construction workers shoved money into her hands without a second thought. Most didn’t know what they were buying, just that it was hot, and they had to have one. Every line that came out of her mouth was designed to separate them from their hard-earned dough. Soon all the sweaters were sold.