by Wesley Lewis
Jennifer was grateful she didn’t recognize any of the guests waiting ahead of them. She was in no state of mind to chitchat about which retailers were looking to expand during the next quarter or which markets were generating the lowest cap rates.
When she and Tom reached the front of the line, one of two well-built men in dark suits held out his hand and said, “Invitation?”
“I seem to have misplaced it,” she said with a polite smile, “but I’m on the list—Jennifer Williams plus guest.”
The man checked the clipboard in his hand. Jennifer studied the Secret Service–style earpieces he and the other man wore and wondered if they were on the same frequency as Crocker.
After a moment, the man smiled and said, “Yes, here you are, Ms. Williams. Now if I could just see some identification.”
Jennifer took her time as she pulled her wallet from the diaper bag’s side pocket, where it was nestled among a handful of small items she didn’t want to see tumble onto the lobby floor.
“Here you go.” She handed her driver’s license to the guard.
The guard inspected the license and returned it. “Thank you very much, Ms. Williams. Have a nice evening.”
Jennifer smiled and nodded her thanks. She and Tom passed through the double doors and into the crowded reception area. When they were out of earshot of the guards, she stopped to place the ID and wallet back in the diaper bag.
She glanced around the room. “Do you see Crocker anywhere?” She recognized a few familiar faces in the crowd but not the face she was looking for.
“Right behind you,” said Crocker.
Jennifer turned to greet him, but when she saw him, she couldn’t speak. The version of Crocker standing before her was a far cry from the sleep-deprived man in the blue polo shirt and khaki shorts who’d gunned down three assailants at the Placer Gold truck stop. In sharp contrast to Tom’s slightly ill-fitting suit, Crocker’s was impeccably tailored, flattering both his broad shoulders and his lean physique. His hair and tie were both perfectly arranged, and his face looked freshly shaved. If not for the earpiece, he might have passed for the CEO of a brokerage firm or perhaps a wealthy developer.
“What is it?” he asked, apparently noting the surprise on her face.
“That’s a nice suit,” she replied.
“Good, because it’s the only one I have left.” He smiled. “Who knew that forgetting to pick up one’s dry cleaning could come in handy?”
Jennifer returned the smile, impressed that he could make light of the loss of his trailer and so many of his belongings.
“What’s the plan?” asked Tom.
“Follow me,” said Crocker. “I have the perfect place for the two of you to get ready. Your stuff is waiting.”
He turned and made his way toward a nearby door. Tom and Jennifer followed without a word. When they reached the door, Crocker turned and hooked his right arm under Jennifer’s left.
“Tom,” he said, “get on the other side.”
Tom hesitated a moment, then hooked his left arm under Jennifer’s right.
“Good,” said Crocker. “Now, Jennifer, don’t say anything, and try to look drunk.”
Jennifer nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Crocker pushed open the door and led Jennifer and Tom into the small service hallway. Another well-dressed security officer—this one looked a few years younger than Tom—stood beside a door labeled stairs.
“Hey, Crocker,” said the officer. “What’s going on?”
Crocker pointed to Jennifer. “Someone had a few too many.”
“That didn’t take long.”
“It’s always the corporate types, right?”
The young security officer laughed. “What are you going to do with her?”
“Well, I’m afraid if I put her in an elevator, she may puke all over it, so I was thinking I’d walk her down to the wedding chapel and let her lie down in one of the dressing rooms.”
“Sounds like a plan.” The security officer opened the stairwell door and held it for them.
“Thanks.” Crocker led Jennifer and Tom into the stairwell.
Jennifer stumbled, playing up the role of the drunk, and let her two escorts catch her. Tom helped her to her feet and shuffled through the open door, nodding to the security officer as he passed.
The young man smiled and shut the door behind them, leaving them alone in the stairwell. Crocker and Tom simultaneously released Jennifer’s arms.
“This way,” said Crocker.
He led them down one flight of stairs and stopped at a door labeled chapel in the clouds. He reached into his jacket, unclipped an ID card from his inside pocket, and swiped it over the card reader beside the door. The light on the reader changed from red to green, followed by a soft beep. Crocker opened the door, revealing another service hallway. Jennifer and Tom stepped inside.
Crocker followed and shut the door behind him. “Okay, we can talk freely. This floor is supposed to be secured, so nobody is monitoring it.”
“I have a question,” said Jennifer. “Why did I have to be the one who couldn’t hold her liquor? Why couldn’t Tom be the drunk?”
“Because,” replied Crocker, “I have more faith in your acting skills than I do in Tom’s.”
“Good answer,” said Tom.
“Indeed,” said Jennifer skeptically.
Crocker grinned. “Follow me. Tom’s stuff is in here.”
He opened the door across from the stairwell and led them into a large room illuminated by only the lights of the city below. Windows lined the curved exterior wall, extending from the ceiling to a waist-high window ledge. Although the room overlooked nothing of note, the view from almost eight hundred feet above the city was impressive.
“Hang on,” said Crocker.
He felt along the wall until he found another card reader and swiped his ID card past it. Recessed lighting in the ceiling glowed to life, bringing the small wedding chapel into full view.
The cream-colored room was wide open except for a few support columns. It was devoid of seating except for the large window ledge, which, although probably intended as a place for guests to set their drinks, looked like an excellent place to sit and admire the view. Jennifer noted the faint aroma of ammonia and guessed that the chairs had been removed so that the room could be cleaned.
“Not bad,” she said. “I’ve always thought of Las Vegas wedding chapels as tacky, but this is cute.”
“This is just one of the chapels,” said Crocker. “There are two more on this floor.”
Tom glanced around the empty room. “This is perfect. Are you sure we won’t be disturbed?”
“Trust me, we have the place all to ourselves. Only security personnel have access to this floor, and unless my idea about bringing drunks down here catches on, there is no reason for any of the Stratosphere guards or PPOs to visit the chapels tonight.”
“That’s good enough for me. Where is my stuff?”
Crocker pointed to a door in the corner of the room. “I stashed it in the dressing room.”
Tom walked to the door and stepped inside.
“Is that where I’m going to change?” asked Jennifer.
“Actually,” said Crocker, “you get your own chapel. That way, Tom can prepare without being disturbed.”
Tom emerged from the dressing room carrying a small black suitcase.
“Tom, do you need any help?” asked Jennifer.
“Nope.” He set the suitcase on the floor. “This is all me.”
“Here,” said Crocker, “you’re going to need this.” He pulled the cheap Walmart cell phone from his jacket pocket and tossed it to Tom. “You’re now officially on point. If, God forbid, Dudka’s people try to change the venue to anywhere othe
r than here, just keep saying no until they pick this place.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“You saved the number of the local FBI field office on your personal phone, right?”
Tom nodded.
“That’s plan B.”
“Not much of a plan B,” said Tom.
“No,” conceded Crocker, “it’s not.”
“So is this it?” asked Jennifer. “Will we see Tom again before the exchange?”
“Probably not,” replied Crocker. “Once he assumes his role as the courier, he can’t be seen with either of us.”
Jennifer hesitated, not sure what she should say. Unable to find the right words, she stepped forward and embraced Tom.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful.”
She held him tight. “You’d better.”
Crocker placed a hand on her shoulder. She released her friend and stepped back.
Crocker extended his right hand to Tom. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to say ‘good luck’ or ‘break a leg’ or what.”
Tom shook Crocker’s hand. “‘Good luck’ will do.”
For a moment everyone was silent. Then Crocker wrapped an arm around Jennifer’s waist and said, “I believe it’s time for me to show you to your dressing room, madam.”
She cast a parting smile at Tom, turned, and walked with Crocker toward the door at the far end of the chapel.
When they were halfway across the room, she stopped and turned back to Tom. “This is going to work, you know.”
Tom nodded. “I know.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Through the row of large windows, the city below cast just enough light for Jennifer to see that this chapel was even larger than the one in which they’d left Tom.
“Impressive,” she said as Crocker shut the door behind them. “But isn’t there a smaller room I can use to change?”
“The dressing room is in the far corner, but I want to show you something first.”
He took her hand and led her toward the wall of windows. They moved slowly, approaching every shadow as if it concealed a hidden obstacle.
“Shouldn’t we turn on the lights?” she asked.
“Not yet.” He stopped at the center window. “This is better with the lights off.”
Stretched out below them, the Strip glimmered in all its over-the-top glory. Lines of headlights and taillights snaked between the mammoth casinos, from Circus Circus’s ancient neon clown to the emerald green of the MGM Grand. Giant digital screens dotted the route, flashing pictures of performers and promising the highest-paying slots.
Eight hundred feet below, Sin City was alive and well, unconcerned with whether Tom Blackwell would ever have a chance to tell Ashley Thomas how he felt about her and unaffected by whatever feelings a tired gunslinger might or might not have for a down-on-her-luck real estate agent.
Jennifer turned away from the window and stared into the haze of the unlit room.
“What’s wrong?” asked Crocker.
The sudden sense of powerlessness didn’t translate easily into words. She thought for a moment and said, “Looking out there makes me feel small. And what we’re up against is so damn big. It’s a little overwhelming.”
Crocker seemed on the verge of saying something but apparently thought better of it. He peered into her eyes as if he could see the wheels turning behind them.
He’s worried I’m going to be a liability, she thought. I should have kept my mouth shut.
He glanced over his shoulder at the unlit chapel, then back at Jennifer. “Wait here a minute.” He turned and disappeared into the shadows.
A moment later, Jennifer heard him fiddling with something on the other side of the room. There was a brief crackle of static followed by a familiar melody. The crooning voice of Frank Sinatra filled the room, imploring some woman—or perhaps all women—to come fly with him.
Jennifer watched Crocker reemerge from the shadows and waited for an explanation.
“I apologize if this isn’t your style,” he said as he removed his earpiece, “but the chapel’s selection of wedding music is somewhat limited.” He unhooked something from his sleeve.
“Aren’t you afraid someone will hear?”
“Not particularly.” He pulled a pair of wires free of his jacket. “There’s nobody below us and a party going on above us.” He removed a large walkie-talkie from beneath his jacket, wrapped the wires around it, and set it on the window ledge. “I think we’re pretty safe.” He removed both his holstered sidearm and his holster of ammunition and set them beside the two-way radio.
Finally free of encumbrances, he extended his left hand to Jennifer and asked, “May I have this dance?”
She hesitated, half expecting him to laugh and withdraw the hand. When he did neither, she asked, “Are you serious?”
“I’d hoped that taking a moment to enjoy the view might help us relax. But since that obviously didn’t work, let’s give this a try.”
“Dancing?”
“Why not?”
Skeptical, she set the diaper bag on the floor and accepted his outstretched hand. He pulled her close, wrapped his free arm around her waist, and led off with his left foot.
It took her a few steps to catch on to the rhythm, but once she did, she followed with ease. Crocker was a competent dancer, and by the time Ol’ Blue Eyes started into his big finish, Jennifer was actually starting to relax. As the brass band reached the peak of its final crescendo, Crocker spun her, catching her—in perfect step—just as the music came to an end.
The end of the song left the large room almost eerily silent. Jennifer released his hand and took a step back, realizing for the first time that she was the tiniest bit winded.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a dancer,” she said as they walked back to their things.
“I can fake my way through a couple of steps.”
“Did you take lessons?”
“Once upon a time.”
“Probably trying to impress a woman, right?”
His voice grew distant. “You could say that.”
Jennifer wondered what she’d said. Then she remembered Vegas’s comment about Crocker’s having been engaged. “Trying to impress your fiancée?”
“Yes.” He stopped in front of the diaper bag and turned to face her. “Who told you?”
Jennifer hesitated, afraid she might get Vegas into trouble. Finally, she said, “I had a long talk with your secret admirer at the Prickly Pear.”
“Megan. I should have guessed.”
“I was talking about Vegas! How many admirers do you have there?”
Crocker chuckled. “Her real name is Megan. She’s the only girl at the Pear who actually grew up around here, so the girls call her Vegas.”
Jennifer found something oddly sad about this explanation. “She told you she has a crush on you?”
“No, but she’s not particularly subtle about it.”
“And you’re not interested?”
“She’s half my age.”
Jennifer shrugged. “A lot of guys would consider that a point in her favor.”
Crocker smiled and shook his head. “She’s a sweet girl, and I’m hopeful that someday she’ll wake up and realize she can do better than the Prickly Pear Ranch, but I’m definitely not interested in that type of relationship with her.”
“But the two of you are close, right? I mean, you told her about your broken engagement.”
Crocker’s smile faded. “The engagement wasn’t broken.” His voice was somber but not angry. “And it’s not exactly a secret—it was national news.”
Oh, Christ, thought Jennifer.
Softly she asked, “What happened?”
; “She was a Nye County sheriff’s deputy.” His voice suggested a story he’d told many times. “This was twelve years ago, when Sheriff Wilkins was still in office and Bill Cargill was just a detective for the department.”
Jennifer didn’t have any idea who Sheriff Wilkins was, but she figured it was enough to know he was Sheriff Cargill’s predecessor.
“Anyway,” continued Crocker, “I met Courtney about a year after Jeff and I opened First Shot. Back then, most of First Shot’s business came from rural law enforcement agencies. Courtney came in on her own, looking for additional training to help her qualify for the county SWAT team. I agreed to work with her, and by the time she made the team, six months later, we were in love.”
“She died in the line of duty?”
Crocker nodded. “We’d been together for eighteen months. The wedding was just six weeks away. The sheriff’s department got a tip than an old ranch house east of town was being used to manufacture and distribute crystal meth. A warrant was issued, and the SWAT team was deployed.”
“What went wrong?”
“Everything.” He turned to face the window. “The ranch house was within two hundred yards of the Clark County line, which wouldn’t have been a problem if the department had followed protocol and notified the Clark County Sheriff’s Office of the raid. But somehow that particular step was overlooked in the planning process.
“And unbeknownst to the Nye County Sheriff’s Office, the Clark County Drug Enforcement Task Force was investigating the same ranch house. Apparently, someone at Las Vegas Metro had looked at a highway map, rather than an official county plat, and concluded that the house was on their side of the county line.”
“Oh no,” whispered Jennifer.
“When Courtney’s SWAT team broke down the door, they found two drug dealers concluding a sale to two undercover officers from the Clark County task force. But of course, Courtney and her team didn’t immediately realize that two of the men were undercover officers—all four looked like drug dealers.