Murder in Vegas

HOUSE RULES by Libby Fischer Hellmann

If Marge Farley had known what was in store during her vacation to Las Vegas, she might have gone to the Wisconsin Dells instead. At the very least, she might not have taken the side trip into the desert. But she’d been craving something new and different, which was why they’d come to Vegas in the first place. And she’d surprised her husband Larry with a trip to Red Rock Canyon to cheer him up.

But Larry ignored the petrified sand dunes, the waterfalls cascading into the canyons, and the red-tailed hawks soaring high above the Mojave. Polishing off both bottles of water, he stomped back to the car. He swiped beads of sweat off his forehead. Wet bands ringed the back of his shirt. “This isn’t fun. It’s too hot. And dusty. Let’s go back.”

Marge tried to focus on the craggy rock formations in the distance. The desk clerk at the hotel concierge said this was the place to visit. And Dr. Phil said there were times you had to decide what was important in a relationship. Lord knows, she was trying. But Larry’d had what you might call a setback last night. A fifteen thousand-dollar setback.

“It’s not fair.” He moaned when they’d stumbled out of the casino. “Why couldn’t we have Benny Morrison’s luck?”

She’d heard the story a thousand times. How their friend Benny took his wife to Vegas and won fifty grand at the tables before they even unpacked. How he flew up to their room, grabbed their bags, and told Frances they were going home-that very minute-to build a swimming pool in their back yard. Larry still did a slow burn every time the Morrisons invited them over.

But Larry had never had much luck. Marge pulled the visor of her cap down and contemplated a pink cactus flower not faraway. So they’d skip the next vacation. Postpone the bathroom remodeling. Life wasn’t about money, anyway. It was a spiritual journey. Like they said on “Oxygen.” In fact, hadn’t some woman said something about mantras last week? How they made for peace and tranquility? She should share that with Larry. As she tried to remember exactly what the woman had said, something near the flowers glinted in the sun and broke her concentration. “Look at that!”

Larry grudgingly turned around. “What is it now?”

Marge took off her sunglasses. “Something’s over there. By the flowers. It’s glittering.”

“It’s probably a frigging gum wrapper.”

She headed over. “Then we should definitely pick it up. How could someone even think of littering in a place like this?”

“Marge…” Larry followed her over, bumping into her when she came to a sudden stop. “What the-?”

“Look!” Marge pointed. Behind the flowers a piece of metal was sticking out of the sand.

“Lemme see.” Larry squinted and crept closer. “Looks like some kind of box.” He peered at it, then felt around it with his shoe. They heard a metallic thump. Larry’s eyebrows shot up. He bent over the box.

“Wait!” Marge cut in. “Don’t touch it.” She hugged her arms and looked around. “You have no idea what’s in there.”

Larry looked up. “For Christ’s sake, Marge, it’s just a box.” He squatted down beside it.

“Hold on. Stop. Isn’t-isn’t this where they dump all the radiation stuff?”

“Huh?”

“You know, spent fuel rods, the waste from reactors? Like they talk about on TV? They transport it into the desert and dump it in places where nobody lives.”

“Marge, that’s in Wyoming. And you’re talking about huge containers. The size of railroad cars. Not little boxes.”

“Still…” She pleaded. “You never know.”

Larry shot her one of his looks, the kind where the lower part of his jaw pulsed, the way it did when he disagreed with her. An uneasy feeling fluttered her stomach. “You were right, Larry. This isn’t fun. Let’s go back to the car. We’ll get a nice, cold drink at the hotel.”

Instead, he knelt down and started scooping up chunks of dry, hard-packed sand.

“Honey, didn’t you hear what I said?”

But he kept scrabbling through the sand. Then he stopped digging and sat back on his haunches. Jiggling it to pry it loose, he lifted up a gray tackle box about a foot square and five inches deep. Its surface, at least the part not covered with sand, was dingy and battered.

Marge was just about ready to go back to the hotel without him. Let him get poisoned by some weird biological toxin. “Larry, you just leave that thing right there.”

His response was to shake the box from side to side. A swishing noise could be heard.

“Larry.” Marge started to feel anxious. “It doesn’t belong to you.”

He looked around, a strange light in his eyes. The sun was casting long shadows across the desert, suffusing everything with a rosy, warm light. No one else was in sight. “It does now.” Cradling the box under his arm, he started back toward the car. “Let’s go. And for the love of God, don’t say a word to anyone.”

Marge pursed her lips. She knew better than to argue. She’d spent her whole life following the rules. School rules. Secretary rules. Wife in the suburb rules. She pasted “Hints from Heloise” into a scrapbook. She knew ten ways to get out stains, how to keep potatoes from budding, how to keep her husband happy. And anything she didn’t know, she learned on Oprah. Rules were there for a reason. You play by the rules, you find what you’re looking for. So what if she’d been a little restless recently? That didn’t mean she was looking for trouble. She stole a worried look at her husband. She never understood rebels.

As they hurried back to the parking lot, a man in a car at the edge of the lot flicked a half-smoked cigarette out his window. He seemed to be watching them, Marge thought. She shook her head. She must be imagining things.

Mirrored bronze panels reflected a series of chandeliers that drenched the hotel lobby in a giddy display of light. The casinowas off to one side. Larry gave it a wide berth and headed for the elevators, but Marge peeked in as she passed.

A room as big as a football field, the perimeter was rimmed with slot machines for the little old ladies and pigeons. Circular pits for poker, roulette, and blackjack took up the center, with rectangular crap tables around them. It was barely six o’clock, but coins were already clinking, cards were being dealt, roulette wheels clacked. Loud electronic music made it impossible to think. But then, that was the point, wasn’t it? Hundreds of greedy souls flocked to the place every night, each thinking they were the exception to the rule. They would beat the house. Larry had been one of them, Marge thought.

As she crossed to the elevator, she wondered how long it would be before someone noticed the bald, pudgy man with a dingy box under his arm. He did look suspicious. She slipped in front to shield him. She knew this wasn’t a good idea.

“But I had it when I checked in.” A brassy redhead in tigerstriped pants complained loudly at the front desk.

“Ma’am, I’m doing everything I can.” The desk clerk’s tuxedo was wrinkled, and stringy hair grazed his shoulders. He fingered one of several earrings in his ear. Marge wasn’t partial to men with earrings, but she knew she was supposed to be tolerant.

“I talked to housekeeping,” he was saying. “Put up a notice in the employee lounge. I even put a reward out for the bracelet.”

“Sure you did.” The woman glared. “You got some nerve, you know? Our money’s not good enough for you. You gotta steal everything that’s not nailed down.”

The desk clerk broke eye contact with the woman and-impolitely, Marge thought-looked around. His eyes swept past them but then came back and focused, Marge realized with a start, on Larry and his package. She stepped closer to her husband, but it was too late. The lady in tiger pants was still carping, but the desk clerk couldn’t take his eyes off Larry. As the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside, he picked up the phone.

Back in their room, Larry took the box into the bathroom. He wiped it down with a damp towel, then felt around the seam.

Marge stood at the door. “Please, Larry. It’s not too late. Don’t open it. What if it’s anthrax?”

“Marge.” He growled. “If you aren’t gonna help, at least get out of the way.”

Her mouth tightened. “At least let me try to find you some gloves.”

“Huh?”

“Rubber gloves. I saw a drugstore around the corner.”

Larry shook his head. He didn’t care about germs. Something was inside that box. It was a sign. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. What with the lousy economy, he hadn’t made his quota last quarter. Then there was last night. He needed a break. And God was finally sending him one.

“Let me wipe it with a little bottle of bleach,” Marge persisted. “It destroys viruses.”

He caught his wife’s reflection in the mirror. She’d always been a little loony, but now it had become big time. Quoting all those bimbos on TV. Yakking away about the environment. Refusing to let him eat fries or Cap’n Crunch. Too many carcinogens. He didn’t know what she wanted anymore. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been trying. He’d agreed to come here, hadn’t he, even though he liked the Dells just fine. But Marge wanted something new. Exotic. Well, he scowled, she sure got that in spades. He picked up the box and looked underneath.

“I’m going to put some alcohol on it.” Marge pulled out a bottle of alcohol from her travel kit. Saturating a cotton ball, she dabbed it on the box. A sharp, antiseptic smell filled the room.

“For cryin’ out loud, Marge.”

He snatched the box out of her hands. She was acting like Donna Reed on steroids. He wanted to pry open the box, but the lock seemed to be warped, bent at an odd angle. Even with the right tools, it would be tough to open. But he didn’t even have a screwdriver. He wondered if he should call a repairman. An “engineer,” they probably called them here. A fancy place like this probably had a slew of them, ready to pocket a huge tip just for changing a frigging light bulb.

He grabbed the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. Inthe mirror he saw Marge paw through her bag again. Frigging thing was big enough to hold an entire Wal-Mart. She pulled out a small, chunky red plastic object. With a white cross on it. A Swiss Army knife! He spun around. How the-

She smiled as if she was reading his mind. “I was reading this survey of female travel writers-you know, in New Woman magazine? It said if you don’t have a travel alarm or a Swiss Army knife, you’re not properly packed.” She handed it over. “Most women like the scissors and the small blade, but I kind of like the bottle opener.”

Larry swallowed his astonishment-every once in a while, his wife still amazed him. Snapping it open, he started levering the blade in and out of the box.

“One woman actually fixed the engine of her rental car with it,” Marge went on. “Another fixed her hair dryer. Of course, you have to check it in your luggage these days. But it’s worth it.”

Larry ignored her. Jimmying the blade, and then the screwdriver, he slowly widened the space between the lid and the base. Finally, a sharp upward tug of the screwdriver sprang the lock, and the box flew open. Larry took a breath, said a prayer, and looked in.

“My god!”

“What is it?” Marge crowded in behind him.

He lifted out a large plastic bag. Inside were at least a dozen smaller baggies, all filled with a white, powdery substance. He gingerly opened one of the bags, stuck in his pinkie, and brought it to his tongue. It tasted bitter and tingly. Maybe a slight numbing sensation.

He gazed up at the ceiling and smiled.

The knock on the door made Marge jump. She and Larry exchanged looks.

“I’ll take care of it.” Larry started toward the door, closing her in the bathroom. “You stay in here. And keep the door shut.”

“But what if-”

“Just do what I say.”

Marge obediently sat on the toilet. Shivering, she draped a towel over her shoulders. They always kept these rooms toocold. Through the door she heard muffled voices. Larry’s and someone else. A woman’s.

“No thank you,” he was saying. But the heavily accented voice-Spanish, Marge thought-drifted closer.

“I turn down beds. And put towels in bathroom.” Marge pictured a Hispanic woman with dark hair and a gold cross at her neck.

“No!” Larry yelped like a wounded dog. “I’m sorry,” he added. “I mean-my-my wife’s in there. She’s not feeling well.”

“I give towels. She feel better.”

Something jingled as she swished across the carpet. Keys. Maids carried those big silver rings, didn’t they? The jingling was followed by a smacking sound. Marge knew that sound. Whenever Larry was upset, he slapped the palms of his hands against his thighs.

Larry’s hands smacked back and forth. The jingling edged closer. Marge’s heart thumped. If she didn’t do something, the maid would burst through the door. Jumping up from the toilet, she locked the bathroom door and slid open the door to the shower. She carefully stowed the box in the bathtub as far away from the shower head as she could, then turned on the water. As a cold spray gushed down, she slid the door shut and plopped back on the toilet.

The jingling stopped.

“See, I told you,” Larry said weakly. “She’s not feeling well.”

Silence. Then, “Ees okay. I help.”

Good Lord, Marge thought. What would it take? She quickly grabbed the towel and bunched it in front of her face, hoping her voice would sound like she was inside the shower stall. “Just leave them outside.”

“You sure, meesus? I get medicine.”

She was about to issue a sharp retort when it occurred to her the woman was just doing her job. Following the rules. Marge was annoyed with herself-she should be more tolerant. “Thank you. I’ll manage. Just leave the towels on the floor.”

Eventually, the jingling retreated, and the door to their room slammed. Marge waited a full minute before coming out of the bathroom. Larry was looking through the peephole, still slapping his thighs. The scent of cheap perfume hung in the air.

“That was close,” he whispered.

“Is she gone?”

He nodded and headed back toward the bathroom. Marge grabbed his arm. “Larry, we can’t do this. It’s wrong. We’ve got to hand it over to the police.”

“Are you crazy?”

“It’s not worth it. If we get caught…”

A nervous laugh cut her off. “It’s a little late to worry about that.”

“It’s never too late to do the right thing. We all do things we wish we hadn’t.”

“This isn’t one of them. Anyway, what cop in his right mind’ll believe we found this in the desert?”

“But we did.”

“Sure. And while you’re at it, don’t forget to tell ’em it was your Swiss Army knife that got it open.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re in this up to your neck, too. You’re an accomplice, Marge.”

Marge stiffened. All she’d done was pack her toiletry bag according to New Woman’s rules: a little detergent, cotton balls, and, of course, the knife. Did that make her a criminal? Larry had to be wrong. Maybe this was some kind of test. Of their values. Their relationship. She lifted her chin. “I’m going to the police.”

His eyes narrowed. “You can’t.”

“We have to follow the rules.” She started for the door, but Larry caught her by the arm.

“Marge, don’t. Please. The box-it’s a sign. I know it.”

“A sign?” She searched his face hopefully. Hadn’t she just been thinking the same thing?

“We can make a killing if we’re careful. Do you know how much that stash is worth?”

Her spirits sank. “I don’t care.”

“Maybe millions!”

Money. She looked away. They weren’t even on the same planet. Dr. Phil said there was a point you had to rescue a relationship or it died. They’d discussed it at her women’s workshop: Marge, a newly pronounced lesbian, and two others sobitter over their divorces they couldn’t possibly launch, much less rescue, a relationship.

“Our luck is about to change. All we have to do is find someone to sell it to.”

“But that would make us…” she whispered. “… dealers.”

“N… no. Not really,” he said. “It wasn’t ours to begin with.”

“Exactly. That’s why we can’t do this, Larry. We’ve got to play by the rules.”

Before he could stop her, she wriggled out of his grasp and bolted through the door.

Marge crossed the lobby, aware that the desk clerk with the stringy hair was watching her. She picked up her pace.

Outside, darkness was falling, but it was a false, noisy darkness. Gaudy neon displays sputtered. Fountains gurgled. Horns blared. Electronic dings spilled out from the casinos. As she pushed through the crowds on the Strip, she grew uneasy. She didn’t like this city where night was day and dark was light. An air of abandon, a go-for-broke chaos, permeated everything, all of it sizzling in the desert heat. Marge fanned herself with the flaps of her sweater.

Finally, she caught sight of a black and white cruiser on the next block. Two cops lounged against its side. She was hurrying to flag them down when she felt a presence beside her. She quickened her pace, but the figure loomed closer. When she tried to break into a run, he clamped a hand on her arm. She started to scream, but her attacker grabbed her around the waist and buried his mouth on hers in a hard kiss. With the other hand, he jabbed something hard and cold in her side. She knew without seeing that it was a gun.

Alone in the room, Larry paced and slapped his thighs. The stash would more than make up for his losses. All he had to do was unload it. But he was a salesman from the Midwest. Where could he find a drug dealer in Vegas?

He pulled out the shirt Marge bought him before they came. You can’t wear a golf shirt and chinos in Vegas, she’d said. Even if everyone else does. He slipped it over his head and checked himself in the mirror. Some slinky yellow material. He looked like a frigging Italian.

Italian. Everyone knew the casinos were fronts for the Mafia. The Mafia ran drugs. If he went down to the casino, maybe he could find someone-a card dealer maybe-who knew somebody. But what would he say? “Hey, you want to score-it’s upstairs in my room?”

He pulled on the new pair of pants that matched the shirt. A tan weave. At least they weren’t white. Damn. He sounded like Marge with all her frigging rules. He opened the box, took out one of the baggies, and stuffed it into his pocket. She hadn’t always been this way. She’d been quite a number when he spotted her in the secretarial pool years ago. When had she changed? They were in their forties. The kids were living their own lives. You’d think she would have loosened up.

He closed the box and looked for a place to stash it. The safe? No. That was the first place someone would look. Under the bed? No. That was for amateurs. He looked around, his gaze settling on the mini bar. Twisting the key, he opened the tiny refrigerator, took out the nuts, candy, sodas, and tiny bottles of booze, and slid the box in. It fit perfectly. He threw the food into a laundry bag and shoved it under the bed.

He opened the door to the room. He half-expected to see the maid standing there, her arms full of towels, but the hall was empty. He rode the elevator down and crossed the lobby, nodding to the desk clerk as he passed. His luck was about to change. He knew it.

The moment she was accosted Marge wondered why she ever thought a trip to Vegas would be fun. She should have gone to the Dells. Larry and she could have stopped at the water park, like they always did, then shopped for cheese. They might even have taken a boat ride.

Now the man snarled in her ear. “You’ve got something that belongs to me.”

Funny how your mind works, she thought. Here she was on the Vegas Strip, a gun poking her ribs, and she was thinking about the Dells.

The man jabbed the gun in her side. “You hear me?”

“The box?”

“I want it back.” His voice was raspy, as if he’d smoked too many cigarettes.

“You can have it.”

He positioned himself behind her so she couldn’t see his face, but she thought the pressure on her ribs might have eased. “Smart move, lady. So where do I find it?”

“In our room.”

“Good.” The voice croaked in her ear. “You just keep nice and quiet, see, and no one’ll get hurt.”

As he hustled her down the strip, the greasy smell of fries and burgers from a fast food joint made her stomach grumble. She realized she hadn’t eaten since lunch.

“And tell your husband to stop takin’ things that don’t belong to him.”

She nodded, swallowing her hunger. This could still work out. If she could somehow flag down the policemen at the cruiser, she’d say the box belonged to this goon. Which, according to him, it did. So let him take the rap. She and Larry would be in the clear. Then they could start over. Together. She nodded again. Dr. Phil would approve.

Larry tried to look nonchalant as he strolled down the Strip, but his armpits were damp and sticky, and sweat crawled on his neck. He checked out each passer-by, but most of their faces said they had more important things to do than notice a man in a yellow shirt.

He bought a beer at a dimly lit place off the strip. Two customers were hunched over the bar: a black man with a “THEY DO IT BETTER IN VEGAS” T-shirt and a woman with frizzy gray hair. Larry considered approaching the guy and tried to remember some rap. Home guys? Homies? He changed his mind when the man glared at him in the mirror.

Back on the Strip, the crowd was thick and boisterous. Larryelbowed his way into a resort with cobblestone streets and quaint cafes. Supposed to be a mock-up of Paris, he remembered. Wandering past a “French” bakery whose warm scented bread set his mouth watering, he spotted a scruffy-looking man on a bench. The guy’s knee jerked up and down, but he didn’t make eye contact with anyone. He shook out a cigarette from a crumpled pack. Touching a match to it, he sucked down a drag. Took his time waving out the match.

Larry walked over. The man threw him a surly glance and scuttled farther down the bench. His movement waved the scent of patchouli oil through the air. Larry remembered patchouli oil. A three-day fling in college with a hippie who never said much more than “far out” and “dig it.” She’d had a perpetual buzz, and she reeked of the stuff.

He took a swig of his beer. Maybe this guy was the one. Then again, if he was wrong, it could all go south. He remembered how much he’d lost at the casino. He thought about the box and how much it was worth. He wiped a hand across his mouth and sat down.

“I have some stuff I need to move.” He muttered. “Think you could help?”

The guy didn’t move. Or even look over. Larry wondered whether he’d made a mistake. Two cops were leaning against their cruiser half a block away. Too close for comfort. He resisted the urge to slap his thighs. He stole a look at the guy. No response. Rows of slats pressed against his shoulder blades. He was about to bolt, melt into the crowd, when the guy gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Larry’s pulse started to race. It was working! “You-you want in?”

“What’s the deal?” the man said.

Larry threw his arm over the back of the bench. The guy’s lips were pencil thin, and his upper lip didn’t move when he spoke. In fact, Larry wasn’t sure he’d spoken at all until he repeated it.

“What’s the deal?”

Larry told him.

“Where is it?”

“In my hotel room.”

“Hotel? What the hell is it doing in a-”

Larry cut him off, surprised at how brazen he felt. “It’s a long story. And I don’t have all day. Yes or no?”

Silence. Both of them stared at a trashcan, one of those fancy, shiny ones that reflected lights from the hotel marquee. The man on the bench ran a hand over his head. Twice. “You’re on.”

The elevator doors opened, and Marge and her assailant made their way down the hall, the barrel of the gun still prodding her ribs. As they skirted a housekeeping cart outside her door, Marge remembered the maid with the towels. Was she in the room now? If she was, maybe there was some signal Marge could send her, something that would tell the woman to get help. Thinking furiously, Marge swiped her card key and pushed through the door.

To her surprise, the lights in the room were on, and a reedy voice called out from the bathroom. “So what are you waiting for? Check the cabinets.”

Seconds later, the maid stomped out of the bathroom. When she caught sight of the man with the gun, she threw her hands in the air.

“Santa Madre de Dios!”

A noise came from the bathroom. “Estella… what the-”

Fear knifed through Marge. “Who’s there?” She shouted anxiously. “Get out of my bathroom!”

Silence.

Marge glanced at her attacker, seeing him for the first time. He had thick dark hair, matted and bushy, jeans, denim shirt, and skin so bad it made bubble wrap look smooth. Why didn’t he do something? But he just stood there, confusion stamped on his face. She’d have to save herself. But how? She frowned and arched her back, hoping to slip through his hold, but his grip was too strong. Then the bathroom door slowly opened, and the desk clerk with stringy hair and too many earrings emerged.

“You!” Marge planted her hands on her hips, her fear turning to anger. “Why are you here? Where is my husband?”

The maid unleashed a stream of rapid-fire Spanish, followed by a flood of tears.

The concierge fingered an earring, not at all perturbed. “The guest in the room below complained of a leak in their bathroomceiling,” he said over the maid’s wails. “We were just checking it out.” Flashing a look at the man with the gun, he added, “See? Nothing to worry about. So now, if you’ll-”

The man with the gun suddenly seemed to snap out of a trance and pointed the gun at the desk clerk. “Stay where you are,” he barked. “Not another step.”

The desk clerk shot him a strange look. Almost as if they knew each other, Marge thought. She crossed her arms. “Where’s my husband?”

“No one was here when we came in.”

Marge fixed him with an icy stare. He looked defiant, but he could be telling the truth. At least about Larry. But then, where was her husband? And where was the box?

Her assailant waved the gun at the maid. “Stop bawling, woman. And get out of here.” He turned to the desk clerk. “You too. And you ain’t seen nothing. Or no one. If you know what’s good for you. Got it?”

“Wait!” Marge yelled. “You can’t do-”

Her attacker waved the gun at her. “You… up against the wall.”

“But what about-”

“Shut up.” He turned back to the desk clerk. “You got a problem with your hearing?”

Marge saw the look they exchanged. “Do you know each other?”

The two men didn’t answer. She frowned. The sobbing maid was her last hope. She turned to her, trying to telegraph an SOS, but the desk clerk grabbed the maid’s arm and shoved her out into the hall. As the door slammed, Marge heard him ream her out in Spanish.

“You got exactly thirty seconds to find that box,” her assailant said.

Marge sagged against the wall. She knew it was a waste of time. The box wasn’t here. But she searched anyway, sliding open the shower stall, the closet door, drawers.

Nothing.

Until she found the bag of snack food under the bed. Who did Larry think he was fooling? Maybe it would all work out. She hauled the bag from under the bed and stood up. “Try the mini bar.”

“Open it.” The man pointed to the cabinet.

“I don’t have the key.”

The man shot her a look and kicked the cabinet. It flew open, revealing the box.

Marge opened the refrigerator and pulled it out.

The man grabbed it and slid it under his arm. Then he cocked the gun. “Tough break. Now I have to shoot you. You know too much.”

Marge blew out a breath. He was right. It was over. She resigned herself to her fate and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the bullet to end her life. She couldn’t help thinking how humiliating it was to die in Las Vegas. And how none of this would have happened if Larry had played by the rules.

They both heard the click of the key card. Her attacker shoved her into the bathroom with the box. Jabbing the gun in her ribs-it almost felt familiar by now-he raised a finger to his lips.

Marge pasted her ear against the wall. Larry was talking. To a man. Drawers slid open and closed. The closet door slammed.

“I can’t believe this. It’s gone.” Larry’s voice took on a high-pitched, nasal whine.

“What do you mean, it’s gone?” The man’s voice was deep. And angry.

“I-I was only out for a few minutes,” Larry stammered.

Then, “OK, Pal. Game’s over. Get your hands in the air.”

“What-what are you talking about?”

“I’m Officer Dale Gordon, Las Vegas police. And you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”

“A cop!” Larry yelped. “You’re an undercover cop!”

“That’s right, pal. And you’re in serious trouble.”

Marge gasped. Police. It was a sign. She lunged for the door. As she did, she elbowed her attacker by accident, and something metal dropped into the toilet. The gun. She must have knocked it out of his hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the thug trying to retrieve it from the bowl. He was cursing under his breath.

Banging her fists on the door, she yelled, “Help! Help me please!”

Footsteps raced over. The door was flung open. A scruffy-lookingman who didn’t look much like a policeman to Marge crouched in a shooter’s stance, his gun pointed straight at her.

Her hands shot up in the air. “Don’t shoot!”

She heard a click from his gun. “Who the hell are you?”

Marge was about to tell him when she heard a rattle out in the hall. The door opened, revealing the maid with a gun in her hands. She seemed to size up the situation right away and pointed her gun at the undercover cop. “Drop the gun. Now.” Her English was suddenly unaccented.

The cop complied. The maid pointed at Marge with her head. “Get me the box.”

Marge scurried into the bathroom, picked it up, and handed it over. The maid nodded and folded it under one arm. “Nobody moves for the count of ten.”

She let the door close with a thud.

There was an instant of shocked silence, and then pandemonium broke loose. Everyone yelled at once. The cop whipped out a cell phone. So did Marge’s attacker. Larry accused everyone of ripping him off. The chaos stopped only when they heard more shouts in the hall. The undercover cop ran to the door and flung it open. The two uniformed cops Marge had seen lounging against the cruiser stormed into the room.

“Took you long enough!” the undercover cop snarled. “Did you see her?”

The back-up cops exchanged looks. “Who?”

“The maid, dammit! She took it! Not even a minute ago!”

One of the cops cried out, “The door to the stairwell! It was just closing!” He bolted down the hall to the exit. The other cop followed.

They caught her before she hit the ground floor, but she didn’t have the box, and she refused to say where it was. In fact, she clammed up and didn’t say a word-in English or Spanish. Afterlistening to Marge’s story-several times-the cops searched the room, then took everyone into custody, including the desk clerk. Everyone except Marge.

They’d been trying to crack this narcotics ring for months, the cops said. They knew the drops were made at Red Rock Canyon late at night. They’d even busted one of the mules, but the others got away. Apparently, they’d buried the stash under the sand, figuring they’d come back for it when they could. The cops assured everyone they’d turn the hotel upside down to find the box, but even if they didn’t have it, they had enough to make everyone’s life unpleasant.

Marge promised the cops she’d call if she found the stash and told Larry she’d get bail money wired tomorrow. She watched them shuffle down the hall, all of them in cuffs. She was about to back in her room when she noticed the maid’s housekeeping cart wasn’t there anymore. But it had been-when she and her attacker had come up. For a fancy hotel, they sure didn’t keep track of their equipment very well. Shaking her head, she closed the door.

A moment later, she opened it again. Scanning the hallway, she saw that the door to the hotel room door closest to the stairwell was seeping light around its edges. Marge crept toward it. The door was unlatched. She pushed it open. There was the cart, draped in skirting to hide all the cleaning supplies. Marge bent over, raised the skirt, and smiled.

She picked up the box. A grimy smell clung to it. No matter. She had a bottle of Jean Naté in her bag. New Woman said it was just the thing after a day in the hot sun. She stole back to her room.

She was in the bathroom dousing the box with perfume, the TV chattering, when an author started to talk about her book, Your North Star: Claiming the Life You Were Meant to Live. Marge straightened up. A few hours ago, she wasn’t sure she’d have a life to reclaim. Was this a sign?

Slowly she examined herself in the mirror. Then she turned sideways. Fluffed up her hair. When you really got down to it, there wasn’t anything that a beauty shop, new clothes, and a few aerobics classes couldn’t fix. Her gaze returned to the box. Maybe she’d pay a visit to the maid tomorrow. Make her asmall proposition. After all, the woman had almost outsmarted them all. Marge was sure she’d know what to do.

She nodded to herself in the mirror. Yes, that was a good plan. She’d go see the maid. Maybe even bail her out of jail. Then she’d buy that book, read it from cover to cover, and reclaim her own life. After all, she always played by the rules.