54
An angry voice rings out, rising above the sound of the music. At first, I ignore it, too full of guilt over Stewart. But the argument gains in volume until it’s impossible to disregard. Dancing couples next to me halt their movement and turn to find the source. Rafe and I do the same. My champagne glass sits on a side table where I had placed it. I pick it up and drink. There’s an urge in me to keep on drinking until I wash away the memory of Stewart’s expression as he watched me dance with Rafe.
Rafe turns to see what the commotion is all about, and I follow his gaze. Johnny the Shark is quarreling with an older, gray-haired man across the room. The man’s face is crimson with anger. Johnny has his hand up, palm facing the man like he’s trying to calm him down.
With horror, I stare as the man draws a small pistol from inside his jacket. He aims it at Johnny’s chest and shoots him point blank. The bullet must go through Johnny’s body because a second later the enormous window behind him shatters with a deafening crash. The sound is so loud that I flinch, spilling champagne across the bodice of my mom’s white dress. Shards of glass rain down both inside and outside the room.
For a minute, everything goes eerily still. The DJ, the clinking of glasses, the roar of conversation—it all ceases. Then chaos breaks loose. Someone in the crowd screams, high and shrieking. People start running, and I lose track of the gunman. Most of the guests sprint toward the exit, but some move toward Johnny, who, with a shocked expression, slumps to the ground. Stewart passes me without a word, heading to his father.
I stand frozen, staring at the empty window frame with jagged pieces of glass lining its edges. When someone touches my arm, I wheel around with my hand raised to strike. It’s Shelly, who recoils at the sight of my upraised fist. Rafe grabs my hand before I can lash out and gently returns it to my side.
“Tiffany,” says Shelly, speaking slowly like she’s talking to a small child. “It’s me. We need to get out of here.” She holds up a worn black duffle bag, bulging unevenly from the contents within it.
I must be in shock from just having witnessed a man get shot, because I stare at the bag dumbly, unclear for a second why it’s important. Then it dawns on me. It worked. Shelly got into the safe. We got the money.
I can help my mom.
“Go!” Rafe urges us, and we do, rushing toward the exit. I spare a last look at Johnny. I can’t see him. There are too many onlookers. In the shifting crowd, I get a glimpse of Stewart, clutching an earpiece and shouting into it.
Rafe slams open the door leading into the hallway with the mirrored ceiling and marble floor. Pushing through the frightened throng of guests into the hall, we rush to the door for the stairs. Praying that it won’t set off an alarm, I push the door open. No bells ring. No sirens wail.
The three of us dash down the stairs, going round and round in an ever-descending spiral. I concentrate on not falling. The high heels I’m wearing make me slower than my companions.
Guests from the masquerade ball stream into the stairwell behind us. Their panicked voices follow us as they escape the chaos of the overcrowded hallway. Their footsteps ring on the concrete steps. The quicker people flow around me and pass, heading downstairs. I’m hoping that with all these people we’ll be lost in the shuffle. Just another set of guests running from the shooting, rather than criminals fleeing from a robbery.
We descend for what seems like forever, then at a sign that reads 40th we exit onto a floor filled with hotel rooms. There’s a long central hallway and doors lining the walls on each side. The room numbers scroll by in my periphery as we run: 4220, 4218, 4216.
I keep expecting to hear the sound of pursuit behind us, but so far there’s only silence. Maybe everyone is too distracted by the shooting to worry about us. I hope that’s the case.
At the end of the hallway is a bank of six elevators for the general hotel guests. A group of young women wait by the elevator doors. They’re all dressed in similar tight short skirts with matching tube tops. In their center is a woman with a revealing white dress. A sash around her chest reads, “bride to be.” The women lean against each other, slurring their words and talking with overly loud voices.
Shelly, Rafe, and I press in close to the group, trying to blend in with them. The elevator chimes, and we all crowd in together. This is one of the riskiest parts of our plan. If someone discovers the empty safe, the police could already be on the ground floor, waiting for us to step off the elevator and right into custody.
The descent stops, and noiselessly the elevator doors slide open to reveal the lobby. There’s no security waiting for us. It’s a clear path to the main doors of the hotel. Walking fast but trying not to run, we head for the exit.
We almost make it, are close enough to feel the incoming rush of fresh air, when I hear it. The ringing of the phone on the security desk. We’ll have to pass right by it. In slow motion, I watch the guard pick up the phone and talk into the receiver. He looks up and scans the crowd until his eyes fall on us. They light in recognition.
“Run!” shouts Rafe, and he takes off, sprinting to the door. Shelly is right behind him. Stumbling in my stupid high heels, I run after. The security guard comes around his desk, almost reaching me, when I push through to the outside. The blare of taxicabs angrily honking sounds like the sweet music of freedom.
Rafe and Shelly have pulled ahead, half a block in front of me. I pause to kick off my shoes into the bushes. The guard has also made it through the main entrance and is outside on the sidewalk. I ignore his shout of “Stop!” and run faster than I’ve ever done in my entire life.
Startled tourists stare at me with wide eyes when I rush past. The soles of my bare feet sting as they slap the pavement. After a few blocks, Rafe turns off a side street in front of me. Three blocks later, Shelly disappears into a Chinese restaurant.
Sirens break out behind me, their warbling cry getting closer as I hurtle down the Strip. I take a sharp right and dash into the first casino I see. A police car with flashing lights passes as I watch, half-hidden in the shadows, peeking through the window. It is headed toward the Luxor. When I pull back from the window, it acts as a mirror, reflecting my wide horrified eyes and the mask that still obscures half my face. I had forgotten it was on. With revulsion, I rip it off and stuff it into my pocket. I don’t ever want to see it again. It’s the embodiment of my shame, my subterfuge.
In the hotel gift shop, I buy a baggy hoodie sweatshirt with the words Las Vegas spelled out in gaudy rhinestones and matching sweatpants. My mom’s white dress is stained from the spilled champagne. Ruined. Regretfully, I throw the dress away, shoving it down deep in the women’s bathroom trash can and piling crumpled paper towels on top.
In my new clothing, I step back out onto the brightly lit Strip. People around me laugh and talk. They smile and embrace. In my distressed state, their faces appear distorted, like in a carnival fun house. Everything is upside down, and that’s when I realize I’ve been lying to myself. I thought I could do these things, bad things, and when they were done I’d go back to my normal life. Now I see so clearly that after tonight nothing will ever be the same.