“Hon, I’ve been there, done that, got the T-shirt,” said Singer, as Lily well knew, thanks to Chilly’s hacking. “And I’d love to help you, but it’s against the rules.”
“Please.” Lily looked at her pitifully. “I only wish to know if he is here, and with someone.” Then she took the woman’s hand, turned it over, and pressed something into her palm.
The woman looked down, seeing a pair of hundred dollar bills and a torn scrap of paper with a cell phone number. “Oh,” she whispered, and the quick mental image of her telephone bill past-due letter popped into her mind.
“Please.” Lily held up her cell phone in her trembling hand. “This is his photo. His name is Werner Siebolt.” She dabbed at both eyes this time. “I do not understand. I have tried to be such a good wife.”
Singer pocketed the cash and the number, looked at the image of Lukacs and patted Lily’s hand. “Tell you what, Mrs. Siebolt,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Lily forced a smile through her tears, despite recognizing the look on the woman’s face. It was the look of a woman who would get revenge on her own cheating, abandoning husband through helping another. “You are a vonderful person,” she whispered.
“Well, us girls gotta stick together.” Dotty Singer smiled, got up, and went back to her desk.
“Bloody right,” Lily murmured. “Good call, Chilly,” she told her team through the advanced, invisible “SR” comm in her ear and left the hotel.
Outside, in the dazzling sunlight, she crossed over Tropicana Boulevard and turned around to face the MGM. She felt vigorous and sharp, back in the game again, and mentally flipped through all of her contingencies. With no way to anticipate Lukacs’s next moves, she had to take rapid action and couldn’t afford to wait for backup from Zeta. Scott, to his credit and Lily’s burgeoning surprise, insisted that they could handle Lukacs. Letting him escape again wasn’t an option.
A white Mercedes RV pulled up, the side door slid open, and Lily climbed in. It was an eight-passenger deal, with two split-bench rows behind the driving compartment and plenty of leg room.
“Drive on, Jeeves,” she said with a highbrow flare.
“Yes, ma’am.” Hot Shot put the van in gear and started east along Tropicana.
She looked down to see two rolls of duct tape on the floor—next to a small pile of handcuffs, leg shackles, and even ball gags. “Where did you find those?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
“This is Vegas, baby,” Chilly replied from the passenger seat. “Just be glad I resisted the temptation of getting the full leather catsuit with zippered hood.”
“Where’s Scott?” she asked.
“We dropped the boss man off at a cash machine.” Chilly grinned. “Dude said we needed more muscle.”
“What’s he bloody well thinking?” Lily wondered.
“No visual on that,” Hot Shot said as he took a left on Koval Lane. “He jumped in an Uber, then shot me an address, and told us to pick him up at thirteen hundred.”
“The man’s a mystery, wrapped in an enigma,” Lily remarked.
“Funny.” Chilly giggled. “That’s what he says about you.”
Hot Shot drove north on Koval for a while, following the nav on his phone. The sidewalks seemed crowded with youngish, geeky-looking, tourists, rather than the usual middle-aged slot-machine addicts. Lily gawked at what looked like the wizards’ kindred souls.
“What’s the deal with these blokes? Is it spring break for science schools?”
“There’s a large hacker conference at the convention center,” Chilly informed her. “Talk about timing.”
“Now, now, Chilly,” Lily admonished, hoping that Dotty would check in sooner rather than later. “You can’t go.”
“Awww,” Chilly exaggeratingly whined.
Hot Shot took a right on South Las Vegas, cruised past Circus Circus, hung a hard left on West Charleston, and pulled to the curb. Across the street was a sloppy jumble of red and blue buildings that looked like a strip mall, with a sign on top that said Johnny Tacco’s and Home of the World Champions.
“What’s this now?” Hot Shot said.
“Hey, eyeball the gloves in the windows, dude,” Chilly snickered. “It’s a boxing gym.”
“That devious man,” Lily said about Scott.
The front door opened, and Scott walked out, sporting a satisfied smile, and was followed by two very large men. One was white with oiled dark hair; the other was black and bald. Both had rippling arms bursting from cutoff sweatshirts above shiny blue workout sweats and high-ankle boxing shoes.
“Boss man’s cray-cray,” Chilly singsonged.
“Like a fox-fox,” Lily added.
“When he said muscle, he wasn’t shittin’,” said Hot Shot.
The trio trotted across the road as Lily popped the side door open and slid to the right as the two hulking pugilists squeezed into the back. Scott climbed in last, settled next to Lily, and closed the door.
“Crew,” he said, “meet Tony and Slam.”
“A pleasure, gentlemen,” said Lily.
Hot Shot and Chilly raised fingers. The boxers grunted greetings as Scott pulled a bank envelope from his trouser pocket, slipped out a packet of hundreds, and turned around.
“As we agreed,” he said as he counted off bills. “Five Franklins apiece up front, and five more if you act as tough as you look.”
“Hey, you just saw us spar,” Tony said with a Brooklyn twang.
“Yeah, y’all can chill,” Slam added. “Do we look like we lose?”
“Nope,” Scott said. He winked at Lily. She gave him an approving nod.
“Hot Shot,” she said. “Cruise back downtown and orbit the MGM. This may take awhile.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hot Shot said as he made U-turn on West Charleston and eased back onto South Las Vegas. Then Lily snapped her eyes down at her cell. It was buzzing.
“Everyone hush!” she ordered, and the van fell silent. “Allo?”
“Mrs. Sielbolt?” Dotty Singer said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “We talked at the hotel.”
“Yes, yes,” Lily said. “Sank you so much for calling.”
“I just saw him leaving,” Dotty said. “Got a heads-up from the maid on his floor.”
“Yes?” Lily said. “Did he...was he with someone?”
“Not a woman. Two men. Don’t know if that makes you feel better or worse.
