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some sleep and borrow some of my ex-boyfriend’s clothes. He was about your size.”
    I thought about it. Was this real consideration or something else? “I don’t know,” I said. “But thanks a lot for the offer.”
    Her lips cinched tight. I wasn’t sure if it was because I wasn’t cooperating with a sneaky plan of hers, or if I had insulted her somehow.
    “I’m not going to try to take them, you know,” she said hotly.
    “What? The money?”
    “The sunglasses.”
    I eyed her for a second. Right then, it occurred to me that sunglasses that let you open vaults were quite valuable. Priceless, maybe.
    “People are going to be looking for you,” Holly said. “Do you understand that? You can’t use Tony’s plastic. You shouldn’t even be in his clothes, or showing off those sunglasses.”
    I nodded. “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Let’s go to your place.”
    Holly twisted her lips and made a face at me. I pretended not to notice.
    “You can tell me the story you promised while we walk,” I said.
    Neither of us had a car, and it was a long walk. Holly began to talk. Somehow it turned into more than the story of the accident. She told me everything. At least, I thought she did.
    When she was done, everything was a lot clearer.

Holly Jensen had started off her career in the city as a dealer. Her job mostly consisted of flipping out cards when smoking, vodka-drinking men said “hit me” at the blackjack table. She learned to charm them with her pretty smile and thus garner tips. The job had gone well for a year or so, until she’d been fired for palming a few extra chips that had not been intended as tips. Those cameras and mirrors and the assholes that sat behind them didn’t miss a trick, as she put it.
    Fortunately, there were others on the casino strip who wanted her. She’d moved on down to the Lucky Seven, a big horseshoe-shaped building that flowed with twinkling green lights each night. The twin towers of the horseshoe were filled with hotel patrons while the base of the U-shaped building was a giant casino. Behind the casino was what they called a “show palace.” The palace had once hosted comedy acts and singers from both coasts and had been filledwith high rollers who kept gold on their wrists and in their mouths. After the turn of the century, the show palace had decomposed into something that resembled a giant titty bar.
    The bosses at the show palace wore too-tight suits and experienced leers. They gave her a job on the chorus line. She had a face they constantly referred to as “sweet” and legs that made them stare. She’d blushed hard when she had gone topless for the first time, feeling ridiculous in an outfit constructed of rhinestones, sequins, and feathers, all built upon a soft bedrock of black nylon. But she’d done it, and she’d kicked and strutted her way onto the stage.
    Holly didn’t mind the dancing, after the initial shock of baring her breasts in public. She’d always kept in shape and found the job easier than dealing cards for hours on end. At least it went by faster.
    But trouble quickly came again. This time, it was a murder that interrupted her life. There had been a growing number of strange killings in town. When they weren’t talking about boyfriends, bragging about big tips or snaking each other with gossip, the showgirls talked about little else. One rumor that made her a little sicker than the others was the story of a tourist from Boston. According to the coroner, he’d fallen from twenty stories up and pulverized every bone in his body—but somehow he’d landed in his own hotel room. They’d found him splattered on the bathroom floor. She’d discounted the story as too incredible to believe.
    Then came the night Holly found Lavita, a showgirl who claimed to be from Jamaica, but who was rumored to really be from Houston. Holly found Lavita dressed in her sequins and feathers, facedown under the makeup table. Holly described her as resembling