Page 1 of Your Every Wish

“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.

“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 filming Night of the Iguana ? It’s just so flipping romantic.”

“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 a G color. 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.”