Page 2 of Your Every Wish
“It sure is.” If my smile gets any tighter, I fear my face will crack in half. “I’ve got to run. But thanks.”
“You take it easy, hon.”
I start for the elevator but duck into a utility room to avoid Brad Cass, Caesars’s night floor manager, who all the girls call “Grab Ass.” He must be punching in early.
As soon as the coast is clear, I make a beeline for my car, where I sit in the parking lot, trying to reach Madge on her cell phone.
“Mom, call me as soon as you get this message. For the love of God! . . . Just call me.”
I hold my phone in my hand and let my finger hover over my bank app, afraid to open it. Afraid to call up my balance. Sure enough, I’m $24,314.10 short of Brock Sterling’s thirty thousand.
I pull out of the garage and drive to the other side of town, a dodgy area with run-down casinos, shady-looking card rooms, and topless bars. I’d be better off doing business on Las Vegas Boulevard but don’t want to run the risk of bumping into someone I know. Someone who wouldn’t be caught dead in this part of town.
Because here is where the rock-bottoms go for one last chance at redemption.
I toss my laptop in the trunk, clutch my purse tighter to my side, and cross to the other end of the street. Except for a paunchy guy in a wifebeater and an eagle tattoo, presumably the proprietor, Bubba’s Pawnshop is empty. I eye the guns in the case and the guitars on the wall before I land on a mannequin dressed in a gaudy Western suit with embroidered cacti, desert roses, and rhinestones.
Paunchy guy follows my gaze and pounces. “That right there is a genuine Nudie worn by the King himself.”
I doubt it but nod in acknowledgment.
Paunchy guy gives me a once-over. “You interested?”
“Nope. I’m here to sell, not buy.”
“Whatcha got?”
I remove a pair of diamond studs from my ears. They were a gift to myself when I landed my first whale, a Dallas oilman who loved him some Texas Hold’em. Unfortunately, he loved Glenfiddich more. He died last year of cirrhosis of the liver. I unclasp the matching pendant from my neck—another gift to myself—and lay all three items on the glass showcase.
The man, probably Bubba himself, squeezes behind the counter, slides open a drawer, and begins examining my jewelry with a loop. “Nice. A little cloudy, though.”
“It’s eye clean, VVS1,” I say. “I can get the certificate for you if you’d like.” I don’t know where the certificate is but will drum it up if it means getting a better price.
“I’ll give you six thousand.”
“What about for the earrings?”
“For all of it.”
“Six thousand?” I say. “The earrings are two carats each. And the necklace another two. They’re aGcolor. I paid a king’s ransom for the set, and that was a few years ago. It’s worth at least twenty-four thousand now.”
“It’s worth what someone will pay, and I’ll only pay six. If you have a better offer, you should take it.” He nudges his head at the plate glass door. “There’s a jewelry store down the street. Maybe they’ll take ’em.”
He knows full well that the only reason I came to a pawnshop instead of a diamond dealer is because I have every intention of getting my jewelry back. I just need a short-term loan to hold me over long enough to pay back Mr. Sterling by the close of today. In a few days, I’ll have enough money to get my earrings and necklace out of hock. Hell, I’ll have enough to buy Bubba’s Nudie knockoff and the whole damn store.
“You sure you can’t do better?” I push the pendant closer to him so that the diamond’s facets catch the fluorescent light overhead.
He pretends to deliberate, then says, “Seven thousand. Best I can do.”
“What if I throw in a Hermès Birkin bag?” I own a copycat, but a really good one. Even the most discerning eye wouldn’t know the difference. And Bubba here . . .
He brushes his hand across his whiskered chin. “Not a big market for Birkin bags around these parts. But if it’s real and you’ve got a certificate of authenticity, I’ll throw in a deuce.”
“A deuce? You’re kidding me, right? I paid twenty-eight thousand for it. And Birkin bags don’t come with certificates.” I turn to the mannequin. “You got proof that this is a real Nudie?”
He squeezes back around the counter, reaches for the collar of the suit, and turns it inside out, showing off the label.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, and I’ve got a bridge I can sell you.”
