Confidence Girl

by Blake Crouch

  Jay looked like Joey Ramone circa the Carter administration. He put his elbows on the bar, leaned toward her, said, “What are you looking for?”

  “Crystal.”

  He gave her a corner in North Las Vegas, a first name, and a description of the dealer.

  She never touched her drink.

  # # #

  Heading down the sidewalk, on the lookout for a cab, the trigger sweats kicked in. Like beads of anticipation rolling down the inside of her legs. That wasted woman Letty pictured as her need now screaming in her ear, wild-eyed, ebullient for the coming fix.

  Challenge the thought—

  I have. The thought kicked my ass.

  Somewhere between the Mirage and Caesar’s Palace, the sound of high voices pulled her attention away from the taxi search.

  Up ahead, a group of Mexican kids were singing their hearts out in Spanish.

  Letty didn’t know the words, but she recognized the tune.

  Sublime Gracia.

  Amazing Grace.

  It stopped her in her tracks. Something about the contrast—these little voices surrounded by all this decadence.

  Before she knew it, she was lost in the spectacle.

  They finished the song and moved on.

  Behind them stood a small church—utterly out of place on the Strip.

  There were lights on inside, and she could hear a man’s voice pushing over the din of boulevard traffic.

  She climbed the stone steps toward the double doors.

  Shrine of the Most Holy Redeemer.

  Some mysterious gravity drawing her out of the commotion of late-night Vegas.

  She slunk in, took a seat in the back pew.

  The sanctuary was brightly-lit. It smelled of coffee.

  There was a simple crucifix behind the altar. A statue of the Madonna. A statue of Christ holding a child.

  At the podium, the harmonica man spoke to the group of twenty or thirty people.

  “I’m here to tell you that sobriety ain’t easy. But it is simple. If someone told a cancer patient all you had to do was follow these simple steps. Go to meetings. Help others. That you’d get well. You’d do whatever you needed to do to save your lily-white behinds.

  “I lost my wife Irene last winter. My boy, Lazlo, he dyin’ of Hepatitis in prison. These are not easy things.”

  The man cut loose a big, beaming smile.

  “But I suit up and show up. See, I have true freedom. Freedom of self. Freedom of self-will. It starts with asking for help. Then you realize you aren’t terminally unique. You’re one of us. And you never have to be alone again.”

  Maybe she’d been primed by Sublime Gracia, by the sheer serendipity of finding this church on the Strip of all places, in a moment of weakness, but Letty felt something like a tiny crack opening in the hardened core of her being. Before she could second guess or talk herself out of it, she woke her iPhone and deleted the details of her tweak hookup.

  The harmonica player said, “Anybody else got something to say? Something to share? You ain’t gotta be eloquent. Ain’t gotta talk for long. You just gotta be real.”

  Letty got up.

  Her heart beating out of her chest.

  She walked down the aisle toward harmonica man.

  Then he was sitting and she was standing.

  It had happened so fast.

  What are you doing?

  She put her hands on the podium.

  The fluorescent lights humming above her.

  The muted noise of traffic bleeding through the walls.

  She looked out at all the faces.

  Young.

  Old.

  Rich.

  Poor.

  Black.

  White.

  Cholo.

  Card dealers just off shift.

  Cocktail waitresses.

  Doormen.

  Drivers.

  Tourists.

  Addiction.

  The great equalizer.

  “I’m Letisha,” she said.

  The room responded, “Hello, Letisha.”

  “I’ve never been to one of these before. Only seen it on TV and in the movies. I’m sorry if I do it wrong. I’m an addict,” she said. “Alcoholic. Junkie. I was on my way to score when I passed this church. Something pulled me in. I don’t know what. I’ve hurt a lot of people in my life.” She felt a storm of grief gathering, but she fought her way through it. “My ex-husband. Myself. My... ... ...my son.

  “I never wanted to come to a meeting like this. I don’t know what I thought. If it was pride. Or fear. But I’m looking out at all of you, and I feel like for the first time I understand. I’m not bigger than crystal and booze. They own my soul forever. But I think maybe we all are. Maybe I see that now. I hope I do. I think I can gain strength from you. I hope one day that you can gain strength from me. That’s all I have to say.”

  # # #

  Outside on the stone steps, she sat down and wept like she hadn’t in years. Not since a court had terminated her parental rights.

  After a long time, she struggled onto her feet.

  She wasn’t even thinking about finding a cab to take her to North Las Vegas.

  Across the boulevard, her hotel loomed.

  She started walking.

  10

  Next morning, Letty cabbed out to an IHOP in the xeriscaped burbs, several miles west of the glitz of the Strip.

  The emotion of the previous night still clung.

  She felt different. Better. New.

  Suit up and show up.

  Isaiah was waiting for her.

  Coffee and a newspaper.

  He set the paper aside as she slid into the booth.

  The waitress brought coffee.

  When she was gone, he said, “There’s no way you’re this badass Jav told me about.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? For what? Costing me seven or eight mil? Don’t worry about it. Ain’t nothing. S’all good.”

  “The club was a bad approach,” she said. “You guys were getting mobbed by women. Richter was done with that scene before I ever showed up.”

  “So what? You let his mood effect your performance? You’re amateur, you know that?”

  “I had a bad night. It had been a long time since—”

  “Oh, so you out of practice? That’s the excuse?”

  “You ever have a bad night, Ize?”

  “No, that’s not an option for professionals.”

  “I can still do this.”

  “You out your mind? Think I’m gonna let you take another crack at fucking this up? Last night was it, aiight? Anytime today, Richter gets the call. I could get a text from him right now. Then it’s showtime. We done. Game over.”

  Letty leaned back in the booth. Held her hand to the coffee mug until her skin burned.

  “What’s he doing today?” she asked. “Richter.”

  “Just chillin’. Waiting for that magic call.”

  “And where exactly is he ‘just chillin’?”

  “Pool at the Wynn.”

  The waitress returned. “You folks ready to order?”

  Letty was already scooting out.

  Isaiah said, “Where you going?”

  She smiled. “To buy a bikini.”

  # # #

  The Wynn pool was wall-to-wall, even at 10:30 a.m., the crowd combating hangovers with mimosas, Bloody Marys, champagne cocktails.

  She circled twice before spotting him.

  Tucked away in a row of private cabanas.

  Anonymous beyond the bikinis, board shorts, and occasional banana hammock.

  Richter was oiled and soaking up the sun, a thin gold chain glittering in his chest hair, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Two other men she recognized from the nightclub sunbathed beside him.

  She walked to the bar at the far end and ordered three champagne cocktails. The bartender didn’t want to lend her a tray. A twenty-spot sealed the deal.

  It was a hike back to
Richter’s cabana. Letty could feel the scorching heat of the white pavement coming through the soles of her bejeweled Escada flip flops. The bikini wasn’t really her style—a skirt-bottomed black and white striped two piece. Nor was it an exact match for the pool cocktail waitress swimwear. But it was close.

  She moved away from the main pool, up the walkway leading to the private cabanas. On full alert now. In all likelihood, there was a personal waiter assigned to each cabana.

  She approached a man in white board shorts and an open shirt.

  One of the waiters?

  She smiled but he passed without acknowledgement.

  Richter’s cabana stood at the end.

  Reggae music sweetened the air.

  She veered toward it and slowed her pace, squinting through her Jimmy Choo shades to absorb every detail.

  Three men. Chairs side-by-side in the sun. Too scaldingly bright to see into the cabana, but she couldn’t imagine Richter’s phone would be inside. He was waiting on a critical call. The phone would be close. Within reach.

  She stopped at the foot of the trio of beach chairs and smiled down at Richter and his men. Richter was in the middle. The one on the left was a hairy beast of a man with the fat-over-muscle build of someone who’d earned their conditioning from life experience, not a gym bike. Someone who possessed the brute core strength to physically break you. The man on the right was younger and leaner, but still carried plenty of brawn. It squared with Isaiah’s story—these weren’t techie savants hired to pull a sophisticated vault break. Richter was lining up big scary men to storm a hotel room and take down an army of casino thugs by force.

  They all wore sunglasses, and she couldn’t tell if they had noticed her yet.

  Letty cleared her throat.

  Richter tugged out his earbuds.

  He’s listening to music. Which means his phone is in his pocket, headphones plugged in. Extra challenge points.

  He said, “We didn’t order those.”

  “Gentlemen, these are compliments of the Wynn.”

  Letty took a step forward, letting the front of her left flip flop snag on a lip in the pavement.

  She went down hard.

  The tray dumped onto Richter’s chair.

  Two of the champagne flutes shattered against the concrete.

  The third splashed across Richter’s lap.

  He jumped up and swore.

  Letty struggled to sit up.

  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.