"Go figure," Jack murmured. "Guess we're off to Vegas, then."
"Should be a quick trip. You've built up enough credit with Gallagher, all the work you've done for him."
"Been awhile."
Her head shot up. "He hasn't been calling you?"
"He calls. I don't answer."
"What? You get a client like Maurice Gallagher on the line, you thank God for a steady income, Jacko. You don't go telling him you're too busy."
"Don't tell him that."
"Good."
"I tell him I'm not interested."
"You what? For fuck's sake, Jack!" She turned to me. "About those psychiatric case studies? Case in point."
"Is this going to cause a problem, Jack?" I asked. "If he's pissed off at you--"
"Not pissed off. Just not happy. We'll work around it."
Evelyn opened her mouth, but Jack cut her off by grabbing my suitcase.
"Better repack," he said.
"Do I need the push-up bra?"
"It's Vegas."
"Damn."
I'd really hoped to avoid my makeover for a few hours, but Jack insisted that we arrive and leave in character. Made sense, but he didn't need jeans so tight they gave him a wedgie with every step.
Jack wore a golf shirt, chinos and loafers. Quite preppy...until you slicked back the dark hair, undid all three buttons on the shirt and added a half-pound of gold--chain, watch, rings, earring, even a tooth. Toss on mirrored sunglasses, and you took the persona from banker to loan shark. A five-minute trip to the bathroom and you'd be back to banker.
My outfit wasn't nearly so versatile. I got a blowzy blond wig, painted-on jeans and cowboy boots. No five-minute change was making that more respectable...or more comfortable.
When we got to the airport, there was a guy soliciting donations outside the terminal doors, tucked behind a pillar, out of sight of security. When I saw the red pot beside him, stuffed with dollar bills, I thought Huh, a bit early for the Salvation Army Christmas drive, isn't it? Then I saw the sign beside the pot: Your Dollar Accepted Here.
I slowed, and steered Jack closer to read the smaller print.
Protect yourself today, it said
. Pay your dollar, and sign the list.
"Fuck," Jack muttered. "What's he gonna do? FedEx the cash?"
"And the list, don't forget, because I'm sure the killer is checking ID first."
"Con artists. Fucking bottom-feeders."
I looked around. "I should notify security."
"No time. People are stupid enough to pay..."
He didn't finish, just shrugging as if to say that you couldn't rescue people from stupidity, and he wasn't about to waste his time trying. So I waited until he was in line to check in, then zipped off to the bathroom, with a side trip past the security office. Sure, you can't save people from stupidity, but at least you can stop others from getting rich off it.