I step out into the cool dry air of the Las Vegas desert. I smile and nod at the attendant, and in broken English say, “Tank you.”
I’m wearing a thin cashmere overcoat that comes down to my knees, and as I walk toward the entrance, as I enter the hotel and make my way toward the elevators, I transform myself into tonight’s character: a Japanese working girl, limited high school education, speaks very little English. Just the type of girl who knows what guys like to hear and feel and is willing to give it to them for the right price.
At the elevators a man in a suit approaches me. I can tell at once he’s not hotel security. The suit is Armani, much too nice, and the look he gives me is intense.
“You here for the party?” he asks, and I nod, my lips pouted, like I only understand half of what he’s saying. “Okay then, follow me.”
He leads me to one of the farther elevators. He swipes a key card, and the shiny, spotless doors open.
“Go on up, honey,” he says, “have a good time,” and as I walk into the elevator he gives me a quick pat on the ass.
My first impulse is to spin around and pop him one in the face, break his nose, send him to the ground with his eyes watering and blood dripping into his mouth. But I let this impulse slide, remembering that I’m a professional, and I only turn, smile at him, give him a half wave until the elevator doors close completely and then the smile fades and I turn my hand around and drop all my fingers except the middle.
As the elevator ascends I step back and look at myself in the shiny doors. I open the cashmere overcoat to reveal tonight’s requested outfit. Black four-inch heels, white knee-high stockings, a green and blue plaid miniskirt, a white button-up top that’s opened at the chest to reveal my cleavage. Not at all what I was planning on wearing tonight, but if a Japanese schoolgirl is what this bastard wants, a Japanese schoolgirl is what he’s going to get.
Scooter says, “Are you alone?”
I’m wearing a wireless transmitter in my ear, a tiny thing smaller than a pebble.
“In the elevator, yeah. What’s up?”
“Listen to th-th-this Bazooka Joe comic I just opened.”
“Scooter, I don’t have time for this.”
“But I th-think it’s a good omen. It’s my favorite one, comic number twenty. Joe’s grilling and he says to his buddy, ‘Hey, what happened to th-the hot dogs? Who took the hot dogs?’ And in the next panel Joe’s dog is leaning against a tree, a toothpick in his mouth, and says, ‘It just proves it’s a dog-eat-dog world. Get used to it, kid.’” He pauses. “What do you th-th-think?”
Nova’s voice comes over the line, saying, “I think you need to quit bothering Holly so she can concentrate.”
“Yeah, I know, but don’t you two see the life lesson in the comic? It’s brilliant. And the fortune says it all: We know what goes around, comes around—if you send it, you better duck.” He laughs. “Isn’t th-th-that just perfect?”
The elevator begins to slow before I have a chance to respond. I look up at the numbers, see I’ve made it to the thirtieth floor. The elevator stops. I close the cashmere overcoat, take a deep breath. Then the doors open and I start to step forward but pause when I see the gun pointed at my face.
Four
“Easy, baby, everything’s okay. Just need you to come out slow-like, press yourself flat against this wall.”
“Against wall?” I say, using my broken English. At the sight of the gun—a black nine-millimeter Glock—I’ve raised my hands and do my best to look frightened and confused.
“That’s right, baby, against the wall. I need to pat you down, make sure you ain’t carrying something.”
“Carry something?”
My hands still raised, I move slowly toward the wall. I press myself against it. The man isn’t alone; he has two other buddies watching, and they grin as he steps forward, starts to frisk me. I’m surprised at first that he actually does a good job of it, like a professional, but then he has to go and disappoint me by making sure he squeezes my breasts and pinches my ass.
He steps back, says, “Okay, good, you’re clean. Sorry about that, baby, but we just need to make sure.”
“Okay,” I say, stressing it into two syllables.
He laughs through his nose, shakes his head, motions to one of the men behind him. “Phil, take her in.”
Phil steps forward, grabs my arm, pulls me not so gently down the hallway toward Delano’s suite. He has on really strong aftershave that makes my eyes want to water. He asks, “What you got under that coat there, little lady?”
I smile but don’t say anything, knowing that he’s not worth the time. Then we’re standing in front of a door and he knocks twice and the door opens and another man is there with a Glock pointed at us. He motions me in and the man holding my arm pushes me into the room.
The smell of marijuana hits me first. It’s heavy and pungent and as I step into the main area of the suite I see a thick cloud of the stuff floating up by the ceiling.
A man stands up from the couches and raises his arms. He’s wearing a plush maroon robe and smiles at me. “Welcome, welcome,” he says, and I know at once this is Roland Delano, my target. Around his neck the gold coin of his flash drive shines in the light.
There are six other girls lounging on the couches or standing by the windows. Two are white, one is black, the rest are Hispanic. They wear tight dark dresses, so short they barely cover their
