Confidence Girl: The Letty Dobesh Chronicles - Crouch Blake (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полностью .TXT) 📗

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.

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.”