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  She'd nailed it. Bloody knee and everything. She clutched it and made a whimpering sound.

  "Oh my God. Oh my God, I am so sorry."

  She glanced up at Richter. He was staring down at her. Where she'd expected rage, she found concern.

  "You all right?" he asked.

  "I hurt my knee."

  "Yeah, that looks nasty."

  His phone. He was holding it now.

  She reached up to him with both hands.

  Put it down. Put it down.

  He hesitated for a split second and then dropped his phone on the chair cushion.

  "Let's get you up out of this glass."

  "They're gonna fire me," Letty said as he pulled her onto her feet.

  "Nobody's getting fired."

  Blood ran down her leg and she could feel a shard of glass embedded in her skin. She staggered back and collapsed onto the end of Richter's chair. His phone lay right beside her, specked with beads of champagne cocktail.

  "Does it feel like you cracked anything?" Richter asked.

  All three men knelt in front of her, studying her knee.

  "I don't think so," she said as she slipped the dummy iPhone out of her bikini bottoms.

  "I'm just worried if my boss sees this, she'll fire me. I'm already on probation."

  Dropped it beside Richter's phone.

  Tugged the earbuds out of his phone's jack—

  "She's a total bitch."

  — plugged them into the dummy.

  Richter said, "Bill, would you get her a towel please?"

  She palmed his phone, slid it back into her briefs.

  As the large, hairy man hustled into the cabana, Letty stood up.

  "What's your name?" Richter asked.

  "Selena."

  "You're not going to get into any trouble over this, okay? I'm not going to let that happen, Selena."

  "I just feel bad I ruined your day."

  "You didn't ruin anybody's day. Simple accident."

  Bill returned with a towel.

  Letty wiped the blood off her leg and wrapped it around her waist.

  "I better go get washed up," she said. "I'll send someone to clean this mess. Again...I'm real sorry."

  "Forget it."

  And then she was walking away from the cabana, the piece of glass tingling in her knee—a sharp, bright sting—but she didn't care. Richter's phone jostled against her ass and this moment was the closest thing to being high that she'd felt in months.

  11

  Letty saw him standing under an overhang of trees in the lobby of the Wynn. He barely looked old enough to be in college. Black Chuck Taylors, baggy jean shorts, a gray Billabong hoodie.

  She pulled Richter's phone out of her bikini and walked up to him.

  He smelled like pot, his eyes red with a stoner sheen.

  "Mark?"

  "Letty?"

  She handed him Richter's phone, said, "I'm in 812. How long?"

  "One hour."

  "I need you to bust a move. This thing is only halfway done."

  Riding up in the elevator, she called Isaiah.

  "I got it," she said. "You heading over?"

  "On my way."

  "Let me know how it goes. I'll be back down as soon as Mark drops off the phone."

  "It went well?"

  "Yeah. But I'm concerned their waiter will interfere, freak everyone out when he hears what happened."

  "I'll damage control."

  "See you soon."

  This room was smaller but nicer than the one at the Palazzo. She turned on the news and went into the bathroom. Dug out the piece of glass and cleaned up her knee.

  She sat on the end of the bed and stared at the plasma screen but her mind was elsewhere.

  Thirty minutes in, she got a text from Isaiah: trouble

  She texted back: ?

  real waiter showed

  run interference

  tryin

  Fifty-five minutes after the handoff, there was a knock on her door.

  Through the peephole—Mark standing in the hallway, beaming and proud.

  She let him in.

  "It worked?" she asked.

  "Like a mofo."

  # # #

  Letty moved toward the cabanas. Isaiah stood with Richter's crew and a twenty-something man in white shorts and an open shirt. The real waiter.

  Her phone vibrated.

  Isaiah: do not approach

  She turned away just as Richter emerged from the cabana. Ducked behind a potted cypress and watched him storm past with his goons in tow.

  She fell in after Isaiah, trailing him by five feet, typing out a text as she walked.

  behind you

  Up ahead, she could see Richter holding the dummy iPhone. He had ripped off the bumper case and was fumbling with it.

  Hairy Beast said, "You can't just take the battery out of an iPhone. You have to go to an Apple Store."

  The other guy said, "Or just You Tube it. I'm sure it can be done."

  Isaiah pulled out his phone.

  He didn't look back. Just started texting.

  he's freaking

  this is getting ready to explode

  She tapped out: where's he going?

  his room

  A congestion of sunbathers had slowed the procession. Letty blasted ahead, past Isaiah, elbowing her way through the masses.

  She hit the hotel entrance fifteen seconds before Richter and his group.

  Rushed ahead into the expansive chiming casino.

  He'd have to pass through on his way to the tower elevators.

  She glanced back, saw Richter and his men entering.

  Pushed on, faster, down a red-carpeted corridor between miles of slot machines. The way the overhead lighting struck the marble made it look like gold.

  This was it.

  Make the switch now or forget it.

  From Richter's perspective, his phone was malfunctioning. He was waiting on a call or a text worth millions. If he hadn't already, he'd call his contact, give him a new way to reach him. And that would be that.

  Letty stopped at the perimeter of a field of table games.

  Craps, Blackjack, Pai Gow, Big 6.

  It reeked of cigarette smoke, the air hazy with it, especially under the constellation of hanging globe lamps that ranged as far as she could see.

  A herd of cocktail waitresses on the prowl.

  Richter was coming.

  She could feel her phone vibrating, Isaiah no doubt wondering what the hell she was doing.

  One chance.

  She'd made a thousand grabs in her lifetime, but nothing like this.

  Nothing approaching stakes on this order of magnitude.

  Thirty feet away now.

  The group moving quickly. Richter out in front, flanked by the original thugs from the cabana, Isaiah bringing up the rear.

  Her phone vibrated again.

  Ize's new text: forget about it

  She reached into her purse and traded her phone for Richter's.

  Heart beginning to thump. Lines of sweat running over the strings of her bikini top.

  Richter wasn't holding his phone. He'd put on a t-shirt and sandals, and she could see the outline of the dummy phone swinging in the left pocket of his trunks.

  The pocket looked deep as hell. Jaws. Like it could swallow her arm up to her elbow.

  Game on.

  She thought about her father.

  The tears flowed.

  She peeled away from the tables.

  Felt the heat from a galaxy of cameras staring down at her. Casino certainly wasn't the ideal setting for this, but oh well.

  She started toward them.

  Pictured it happening.

  Perfect execution.

  Twenty feet away.

  Richter's sunglasses were tilted up across the bald dome of his head and he looked angry.

  Her phone vibrated in her purse.

  She ignored it.

  Ten feet.

&n
bsp; She switched Richter's phone into her right hand, clutched it between her first and second finger, powered it on.

  Stared at the red carpeting, tears running fast down her cheeks now. Beginning to tap into that well of emotion that underlay her soul like an aquifer.

  Looked up as she bumped into Richter.

  He stopped. Studied her through hard, hazel eyes.

  They stood inches apart.

  As she dipped her right hand into his left pocket, she said, "I hope you're happy."

  Fighting to keep her fingers from touching his leg.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You lied to me."

  There. The dummy iPhone.

  All at the same instant, she

  —jabbed a finger into his chest

  —lifted the dummy iPhone with her thumb and pinkie

  —let Richter's iPhone slide gently out of her grasp

  —said, "You told me I wouldn't—"

  Even the best pickpockets in the world rushed the ending. Once your fingers touched the goods, the impulse to grab it and get to safety became overpowering.

  She took it nice and slow.

  Because she had this.

  "—get into any trouble."

  "I—"

  "They fired me."

  The phone was clear of his pocket.

  She jabbed a finger into his chest again, said, "I have a young daughter. Rent to pay."

  Slipped it into her purse.

  "What am I supposed to do? Huh?"

  Now she crossed her arms and glared at him and let the tears stream down her face.

  A thought flashed—what if he doesn't try his phone again?

  Richter said, "I don't have time for this," and started to move on.

  She blocked his way. "You're mad because I spilled champagne on you? Sorry. It was an accident."

  The rage came over him almost without warning.

  "Your little accident ruined my phone."

  "It didn't touch your phone."

  Pull it out. Show me I'm wrong. Do it, you cocksucker. Do it.

  He thrust his hand into his pocket, dug out his iPhone.

  She grabbed it from him, pressed the Sleep/Wake button, held it up so he could see. His eyes went wide when the screen brightened.

  "Looks fine to me."

  "Thirty seconds ago, it wasn't—"

  She shoved it into his chest, said, "Asshole," and pushed her way between the thugs.

  She stared at Isaiah as she moved past.

  Said, "What are you looking at?"

  And winked.

  12

  Ten minutes later, Letty let Isaiah into her room at the Wynn.

  "I take back everything I said about you," he said. "That grab and switch was off the chain. You got ninja skills."

  "Richter's okay now? I was worried he'd get another phone or—"

  "Nah, he's cool. We all cool." Isaiah moved past her. "What up, Mark?" They bumped fists.

  "We're in biz," Mark said. "Come check it."

  Letty followed them over to the bed where Mark had a laptop open. He lifted a white iPhone off the comforter, tossed it to Isaiah.

  "That's a perfect clone of Richter's phone. Has all his voicemails, text history, contacts, data usage, apps. More importantly, every call or text that comes to Richter will first hit us. We'll have the option to intercept, pass along, or kill it. You'll see the incoming texts and calls on that phone. I'll see them on my laptop. If it's okay with you, I'll just set up my base of operations here."

  "Most definitely," Isaiah said. "And I want you to study his contact list. We gotta let a few calls through so he doesn't suspect anything, but nothing from a Vegas area code. No texts we don't understand. Nothing that looks like code."

  "Is Richter's contact from the casino going to call or text?" Letty asked. "Or do we even know?"

  "No idea."

  Mark said, "I'll scan through his text history and see if I can pin down any promising leads."

  Isaiah grabbed one of the walkie-talkies off the dresser and slipped in an earpiece.

  "We stay in constant communication until that magic text or call comes."

  "You got it," Mark said.

  "If a call comes in, we talk it through. Any uncertainty, it doesn't go to Richter."

  "Agreed. And what if a Vegas phone number shows up? Or worse, a private number?"

  "Then we roll the dice and I answer. I got Richter's voice down cold just in case."

  Isaiah pocketed the white iPhone and grinned at Letty.

  "You done good, girl."

  "Glad it worked out."

  "You heading back to the Palazzo?"

  "That's the plan."

  "I'll walk you out."

  In the hallway, Isaiah stopped her.

  "My suggestion—go back to your room, get some sleep. This shit may go down in the wee hours."

  "Rest of your crew's in town?"

  "Everybody's on standby. Soon as we know the room number, we're ready to get it on. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  "You want out now, that's cool. I'll peel off two-fifty for your work and you can go on your merry way. No more risk."

  Tempting.

  But the truth was, she didn't want the job to end.

  "I told you I'd see it through, Ize."

  "That's my girl."

  "What about Mark. Is he—"

  "Work for hire. He's also our driver. He knows enough to do his job, but no more. You, me, Jerrod, and Stu. That's the only way this money splits."

  She started walking toward the elevators.

  He called out after her, "Get on your game face, girl!"

  # # #

  Letty moved through the lobby of the Palazzo, under a glass dome and past a two-story fountain.

  The high from stealing Richter's phone was fading.

  Fear rushing in to take its place.

  She hadn't really thought beyond the initial grab. Hadn't begun to come to terms with the concept of Isaiah and his buddies taking down a heavily-armed casino security team. Much less her place in that equation.

  Up ahead, a man sat on a bench, his face buried in his hands.

  It was the hair she recognized—perfectly trimmed brown on the cusp of turning silver. A part she'd recognize anywhere.

  She stopped and said, "Christian?"

  Her therapist looked up, cologned with booze, eyes red and swollen with tears. He wore a wrinkled sports jacket and khaki slacks that looked like they'd been slept in.

  "Letty?" he said.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  He wiped his eyes, said, "Not having one of my better days on this planet."

  "Let me help you up to your room."

  "You ever notice you can't open a window in a hotel room? Why is that? How did they know I wanted to jump?"

  "Are serious with that? You don't want to jump, Christian. Come on." She grabbed his arm. "Let's get you upstairs. They're gonna throw you out if you stay down here in this condition."

  She pulled him onto his feet.

  They stumbled toward the elevators.

  "You don't have to do this," Christian said. "Nobody is nice like this anymore."

  They rode up to the thirty-first floor, just the two of them in the car.

  He laughed bitterly. "My first thought was black," he said. "All the way driving out here, it was always going to be black."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "But I changed my mind at the last minute. Went with red. And then, of course, it hit on black."

  "I don't under—"

  "I lost a little money this morning."

  "On roulette?"

  "Red or black. Red or black. Red or black."

  "How much did you lose?"

  "Everything."

  "You bet your life savings?"

  "Before I came here, I sold my house. Cashed out my portfolio. Emptied my bank accounts. Two hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars."

  "Why?" />
  They reached his floor.

  The doors parted.

  In the hallway, he said, "Because I'd already lost everything else."

  She grabbed his arm. "Christian, look at me. What are you talking about? What's wrong?"

  "My wife. My daughter."

  "They left you?"

  "They were killed."

  "When?"

  "Three months ago."

  "Three months ago? You mean while I was seeing you, you were dealing with this shit? You never even—"

  "Not your problem, Letty. Not on my couch. Not here."

  "Was it a car wreck?"

  "Yeah."

  They went on.

  "I don't even care about the money," he said, then veered into a wall. He leaned against it. "It was a sign I was looking for."

  "What kind of sign?"

  "You ever feel like it's all stacked against you, Letty? Like you never had a chance against the house? I just thought that maybe if I bet on black and it hit on black it would mean that things would change. That a corner had been turned. That I didn't have to do what I now have to do."

  He grabbed her hands and turned them over.

  Exposed her wrists.

  Traced a finger down her scars.

  Suicide hickeys.

  "Must've taken great courage."

  "No, not courage. Cowardice. What are you saying?"

  "What was your low point, Letty? I can't remember if we ever spoke of it in our sessions."

  "Let's get you to your room."

  Christian sunk down onto the floor.

  "Tell me. Please."

  "When the court took my son from me. Terminated my parental rights. Night of the ruling..." She held up her wrists. "Three bottles of Merlot and a straight razor."

  "My life is over," he said.

  "But it's still yours."

  "I don't want it."

  She eased down beside him.

  "It's like you're in this tunnel," she said. "It's dark, there's no light at the end, and you think it goes on forever." Christian looked up at her, tears reforming. "But if you keep putting one foot in front of the other—"

  "Even when it's total agony?"

  "Especially then. Then one day, you see a speck of light in the distance. And it slowly gets larger. And for the first time, you feel the sensation of moving toward something. Away from all the hurt and the pain and the crushing weight of the past."

  "What's it like when you finally emerge?"

  "Tell you when I get there."

  "You're still in your tunnel?"

  "Yeah."

  "What keeps you going?"