Shimmy Bang Sparkle(61)

So I had to work with all of that. There was, I was very well aware, no fighting the force that was Nick Norton. That meant it was best to stick to the canvas that we had already. To add something that fit with what he already appeared to be. But it had to be something unusual enough to distract from what was already there as well. I ran my eyes up his arms and over his muscular chest. I zeroed in on his thick, tanned neck. And that was when it hit me.

He’d given me the answer already, and he didn’t even know it. It was the only thing he’d mentioned about the guy who had arrested him. “Remember you told me about that guy you met during that thing in Santa Fe?”

Nick squinted for a second, then nodded and lifted his eyebrow. “Before I went . . . on vacation?”

“Yeah. Remember what you said?” I asked.

His eyes widened, and he placed his palm between his collarbone and his ear on the right side. “It was a bald eagle. Ugliest fucking thing I ever saw.”

“Think it was real?”

Nick shook his head. “Looked it. But now I doubt it.”

I nibbled on my finger and looked him in the eye. If we had been planning this in February, it would’ve taken a special trip or even an online order. But fortunately, it was the season of roasted chiles, frost in the morning . . . and Halloween costumes.

“Come with me,” I said, and maneuvered the cart toward the seasonal merchandise.



The temporary tattoos were sandwiched between the princess costumes and the masks. I scanned the rows and options. There was the usual array of butterflies, dolphins, lotuses, and tribal ropes. I was no stranger to temporary tattoos. I’d been sticking them on Roxie for fun—and for jobs—for years.

“They never look real, Stella,” Nick said. “If they did, I wouldn’t be inked up like a Bic pen.”

“I know,” I said as I considered a pair of boxing gloves, but quickly moved on. “I’ve got something in my makeup bag, though. It’s what costume designers use for this stuff. Works great. We just have to find the right one.”

And there, at the bottom, I saw it. It was naughty, edgy, and very him. Or maybe very us.

A sexy pinup girl.

She had long dark hair and wore an old-fashioned polka-dot bikini. She had a little line of cleavage, and she stood on her tiptoes in bare feet. “What about this?”

Nick studied it for a second, but I could tell he wasn’t totally sold. It was a little bit wholesome for him, I did have to admit. He looked at the rack again, and that was when he began to smile. He crouched down and grabbed the one that had been behind my choice.

“How about this?” Nick said.

It was another pinup girl, but this one had her hand on her hip, her shoulder raised, and underneath her bent leg was a small box of TNT. She was in a leopard-skin bikini, with shoulder-length blonde hair, motorcycle boots . . . and bright-red lips. Just like me in my bad-girl disguise. “Minus the TNT, it’s a perfect match,” I said as I dropped it in the cart.

“Nah, gorgeous,” he said as we headed for the checkout. “You’ve got dynamite under you. I promise.”

“I do?” I asked, leaning into him and giggling.

“Oh yeah,” he growled. “A ton at least.”





30

NICK

As we drove, we went over the plan. We were on I-40, going west, still marked on every sign as Route 66. We ran the plans backward and forward and tried to predict every eventuality that we could. Every contingency and every last-minute aww fuck curveball that might come our way. I played devil’s advocate, which kind of pissed her off. But it was necessary, and I fucking loved getting the chance to fire her up. “All right, hot stuff. Security cameras. Hit me.”

“There aren’t any in the hallways,” she said, all sassy and confident.

“Bullshit,” I said. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head and pouted. “People just think there are cameras in the hallways. But people watch too much Ocean’s Eleven.” She roughed up the wig to give her hair a little more body. Va-va-fucking-voom.

But hang on, hang on. “You mean to tell me that there are no cameras in the hallways of the Ritz Goddamned Carlton?” I leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel. “No fucking way.”

Again she shook her head. “We checked when we were there. None. And fun fact: even on the Vegas Strip, only four out of the twenty-seven hotels use them, and those only to surveil the elevators.”

From there, we talked prints and logistics and escape routes. Some of it we couldn’t be sure about until we got there—timing, placement, how best to fuck up the guard’s hair and ensure he’d head straight for the shower.

In Gallup, we pulled off the highway to stop for gas and grab something to eat, waiting at stoplights that swung on wires in the ceaseless wind. We ate sopapillas with honey butter and drank watermelon juice from Styrofoam cups into which Stella etched our fake initials in arrow-struck hearts with her fingernail. We passed Defiance and Manuelito and crossed over into Arizona at Lupton. Somehow, passing the NOW LEAVING NEW MEXICO sign made shit get very real. We were doing this thing. And that seemed as good a moment as any to bring up the elephant in the room.

Money.

She was shotgun, holding Priscilla, scratching her tummy and playing with her paws. I kept one hand on the wheel. With the other, I gave Stella’s leg a squeeze. “Listen, just so you know, I’m not in this for the cash.”