Grab - Crouch Blake (читаемые книги читать .txt) 📗

"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.