Page 1 of Your Every Wish
Kennedy
“Please hold for Mr. Sterling.”
I stop shuffling the papers in front of me, take my phone off speaker, and press the receiver to my ear. Mr. Sterling is one of my high rollers. And when I say “high” I mean the kind of gambler who doesn’t blink an eye at losing a few hundred Gs at a craps table or blowing a thousand bucks on dinner at Fleur. In other words, a good chunk of my business.
“Kennedy?”
“Hello, Mr. Sterling. How may I help you?” My mind automatically flips into planning mode. The penthouse at Caesars is already booked, I know this because I’m the one who reserved it for one of my other whales. There’s always one of the executive suites. Sterling won’t like it as much, but I didn’t expect him back so soon.
“Well, let’s see,” he says, letting the words hang in the air in that pompous way of his. “You can start by returning my thirty thousand dollars.”
I laugh, trying to remember if that’s how much he lost last weekend. “I have a good feeling that luck is upon you this time. Would you like me to book you something near the pool? I know Mrs. Sterling would enjoy that. And I’d love to gift you tickets for Celine Dion. I think Mrs. Sterling mentioned that she’s a big fan.” Last weekend, he was accompanied by a blonde half his age. But in my line of work that’s not unusual. Besides, I’m paid to look the other way. Not that his marriage is any of my business.
“How about we cut the crap here, Kennedy?”
I’m startled by his hostility. Brock Sterling is arrogant, demanding, even dismissive, but I’ve never heard him raise his voice.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull. But if you think you can jack me up for thirty grand, you’ve got another thing coming. I want my winnings back, Kennedy. Every single cent of them. I expect to have it in my account by the end of day, do you hear me?”
“Mr. Sterling, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” Yet, there’s a sick feeling in my stomach as suspicion starts to creep in.
“Don’t play stupid with me. Our arrangement doesn’t include you helping yourself to my money. I tip you handsomely for that.” By arrangement, he means “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” including his bevy of young blondes and his dipping into his kids’ college funds behind his wife’s back when he’s on a winning streak. Or, for that matter, a losing streak.
“I certainly hope you’re not accusing me of theft,” I say, knowing that’s exactly what he’s accusing me of. But I’m trying to buy time, so I can think. So I can fix this before it bites me on the ass.
“Call it whatever the hell you want. Just put the money back where it belongs.”
“I’m sure it was just an accounting error. Someone in the back office probably put your winnings in the wrong account,” I say, even though it’s highly unlikely. Money wires at Caesars are foolproof. “Let me look into it.”
Goddamn you, Madge! Damn you.
There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone, then, “Yeah, you do that. I’m giving you until the end of day to make this good.”
Click.
I sit there, trying to breathe while I gather my thoughts. Then I grab my purse and keys off the console table and rush out of my apartment. Ten minutes later, I’m on the Strip, battling midday gridlock and cursing under my breath.
My back is sticking to my leather seat, even though it’s September. I’d crank up the air conditioner in my car but it’s on the fritz. Seven hundred dollars for a new compressor, highway robbery if you ask me.
I slide into my parking space at Caesars and take the service elevator up to the accounting office, bypassing the casino, the crowds, the clouds of cigarette smoke, and the constant jangling of slot machines. As I make my way through the brightly lit bowels of the hotel, I try desperately to rein in my temper, muttering greetings to a few recognizable faces as I brush by them.
I burst into accounting and scan the bank of bookkeepers for Madge. She’s not in her usual cubicle.
“Hey, hon. You need something?”
“Hi, Dorothy.” I do my best to mask my fury. “Do you know where my mom is?”
Dorothy does a double take. “Mexico. She left this morning with Max.” She waggles her brows, then waits for me to acknowledge my mother’s trip, which I’m just hearing about for the first time now.
“Right,” I say and attempt a weak smile. “I forgot. Mexico.”
Dorothy rises from her cubicle and holds her arms out for me. “Bring it in, hon. I know you’re under a lot of stress because of your dad. The girls and I just want you to know how sorry we are for your loss. And if there’s anything we can do, just say the word.”
It takes me a few minutes to register what she’s even talking about, because to say I hardly knew my father is an understatement. To say that I’m mourning his death would be a flat-out lie. But knowing Madge, she wove some cockamamie story that dear old Dad and I were as thick as thieves. A real father-daughter love story.
“Thank you, Dorothy. It means a lot. Did Mom say when she’s getting back? I mean she gave me her itinerary, but with everything going on . . . well, I’m a bit scattered.”
“Of course you are.” She gives my back a maternal rub. “Two weeks. Can you believe Max getting them a suite at the same hotel where Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton stayed when they were filmingNight of the Iguana? It’s just so flipping romantic.”
