CHAPTER 8
“Thanks for letting me have your jacket,” Naomi told one of the club of five women she’d encountered in the ladies’ room. She’d gone in behind them, feeling uneasy and jittery, as though Moda’s eye in the sky was following her every move inside the casino. Or worse, as if someone stationed somewhere on the floor had her trained in his sights.
Naomi couldn’t get into one of the restroom stalls fast enough. Heart racing, palms moist with anxiety, she’d stripped out of her gray wig and costuming inside the handicap stall and stuffed the whole kit and caboodle into the trash bin before coming out in the jeans and T-shirt she’d worn beneath. No one paid her any mind as she discreetly stepped to a vacant sink to splash soap and water on her face to erase the old-age makeup.
The “Diamond Divas Dice Club” stood in front of the mirrors, refreshing their perfume and primping while they chattered about which casino restaurant buffet to hit for the best early bird dinner. Drying her face with paper towels, Naomi offered her opinion to break the ice, then had smoothly begun a soft-sell negotiation with one of the ladies about buying her jacket as a good luck charm.
Wearing the Opium- and cigarette-scented jacket embroidered with the name “Gladys” on the front, Naomi had kept her head low as she strolled out of the restroom with the women a minute or two later as if she were part of their tight, conveniently concealing, pack.
“I really appreciate it,” she told the squat, dark-haired gambler as the Divas paused with her on the casino’s midway. “I think this is going to bring me some great luck.”
“I hope so, honey.” Gladys grinned as she patted her glittery pink fanny pack. “Best luck I had so far tonight was selling it to you for a cool hundred bucks.”
Naomi smiled. “Enjoy your dinner, ladies.”
Once the group headed off toward the seafood buffet she recommended, she turned the jacket inside out and slipped back into it. Now that she was on the floor again, she didn’t want to attract undue attention with a neon pink billboard on her back.
She glanced at her burner phone to check the time. Shit. She was two minutes off schedule. Michael would be nervous because of that, but they had their signals all worked out hours before they arrived separately at Moda tonight. There would be no communication between them about the job until after they were both back home again. Being seen talking on their phones or passing any kind of hand signals across the floor to each other would not only put the night’s plan at risk, but their lives.
Naomi glanced around warily, still feeling a niggle of unease even though she could find no evidence to back it up. Probably just paranoia because of what happened last night. Besides, there was still time to abort if either one of them felt they should. A quick glance through the crowd showed Michael paused to watch the roulette tables. He was clapping along with the gathered spectators, his pre-arranged signal that everything was a go on his end.
Naomi steeled herself and moved through the packed rows of slot machines, making a beeline for the bar to order a drink as agreed. Martini with three olives if she was ready to roll; Bloody Mary if she felt they should can the plan and clear out ASAP.
With her martini in hand, she walked back over to the slots and began feeding quarters into an empty machine four seats in from the aisle. She hadn’t chosen that particular section by chance. At the head of her row, situated so that its tall illuminated jackpot sign faced the midway crowds and flashed for all eyes to see, stood Moda’s biggest-paying machine.
The one with the one-point-three-million-dollar prize just waiting to be had.
Naomi casually moved from one machine to the next, progressing to the dollar slot sitting directly beside the sleek, towering Monte Carlo Fortune Bonanza, which was currently being monopolized by a bored-looking platinum-blonde piece of arm candy who was waiting for her sugar daddy to wrap up at the blackjack table across the way.
Naomi slid a twenty-dollar bill into her machine and pulled the lever. Like most of the people around her, she squealed with excitement when she hit for any amount of money and rubbed the glass as if she could will the most coveted symbols to appear.
The only difference between her and all the other poor saps around her losing their paychecks was that she actually could finesse the machine to do her bidding.
When she’d lost about half her money, she glanced over and saw Michael slowly making his way over to her.
Go time.
The blonde put another hundred into the Monte Carlo machine and yanked on the handle. Naomi’s anxiety climbed with every second the woman remained in the seat. When she was about to surrender her third big bill, Naomi leaned over to her.
“Wanna tip for upping your odds with the big money machines?” At her neighbor’s intrigued nod, she said, “Don’t pull the lever to spin the wheel. Use the button instead.”
As she confided the nonsensical advice, Naomi reached over and touched the red button. Not to push it, but just to let her fingertip rest lightly on the machine.
It was enough.
The woman sat back and pushed the button. She lost the round. Shrugging, she tried again, then again. “So much for your tip,” she muttered, flouncing off in a huff.
Mission accomplished.
Michael rolled up only a few seconds later.
They didn’t speak to each other, barely even acknowledged the other’s presence at all. Naomi went back to her machine as Michael got situated next to her.
“How’re the martinis at this dump?” he asked nonchalantly, the way any gambler might in order to strike up conversation with an attractive fellow player.
“They’re kind of strong,” she said with a rehearsed giggle. A careless movement of her hand sent her glass toppling onto the carpeted floor. She hopped down to retrieve it, casually taking the opportunity to brush her hand over the side of the Monte Carlo Fortune Bonanza’s sleek metal casing. She shrugged at Michael. “I guess that means I’m cut off now.”
He chuckled, perfectly casual, smiling as she stepped around him with her empty glass. Her pulse was hammering, but she kept her bland expression fixed on her face.
“Take care,” she told him, already edging away from the area.
“Thanks.” He slipped a hundred-dollar bill into the machine and tapped the maximum bet button. “You too.”
She turned her back to him, hands fisted loosely at her sides as she began walking.
And then she prayed like hell that they weren’t making a colossal mistake.