R Is for Ricochet

got out of the car and handed the keys to a valet. The big glass doors opened and closed automatically as she approached and disappeared inside.
    There were two vehicles in line between her car and mine. I leaped out and tossed my keys to an irritated-looking valet who'd been chatting with a pal. "Could you keep the car close? There's a twenty in it for you. I shouldn't be long."
    Without waiting for a reply I trotted toward the front doors and entered the vast lobby, which was sparsely populated at that hour. I did a quick survey. There was no sign of Misty. She could have slipped into a waiting elevator, into the ladies' room to my right, or into the casino dead ahead. Pick one, I thought. As I moved into the casino, smoke settled around me like a delicate mantilla. The silvery pings and grace notes from the slots were like a series of falling coins, the chirping of money
as
it trickled down the drain. Aisles ran in grids between the slot machines, the faces of which glowed bright red, green, yellow, and a saturated blue. I was struck by the patience of the few late-night players – like ants tending aphids on the underside of a leaf.
    As I walked, I was glancing right and left, looking for Misty, whose height and black hair would surely set her apart. Toward the rear there were restaurants. I could see a coffee shop, a sushi bar, a pizza parlor, and an "authentic" Italian bistro offering six kinds of pasta and a variety of sauces, complete with Caesar salad, for $2.99.1 spotted Misty in the lounge, though my gaze slid right past her at first and touched on the man who sat across the table from her. He was red-haired and gaunt, his complexion ruddy and pitted with acne scars. Neither saw me. I eased into the lounge, which was open on two sides. I sat at the bar some distance away, watching as the two conferred. The bartender ambled over and I ordered a glass of Chardonnay. There were not many patrons present at that hour, and I worried I'd be conspicuous sitting alone.
    Out on the casino floor a great whooping and hollering went up, and shortly thereafter a party of five women came in, drunk and triumphant. One flourished a bucket of quarters, having won a five-hundred-dollar jackpot. My line of vision was obscured by their boisterous presence, but they provided me cover. I watched Misty engaged in a lengthy discussion with the man, leaning forward intently as the two examined something on the table in front of them. Finally, satisfied, she passed him a fat white number 10 envelope that I was betting contained a wad of cash. In exchange, he returned the item to a manila mailing pouch and handed it to her. I watched as she shoved it in her oversize purse. I tossed a five-dollar bill next to my empty glass and got up, leaving the bar in anticipation of her departure. I paused near the elevators, sliding a glance in her direction as she passed me and hurried toward the door. I followed in her wake.
    She gave the valet parker her ticket, and while she waited for her car, I angled left, keeping my head turned and my back to her. My car was parked near the entrance. I reclaimed my keys, tipped the valet, and slid under the wheel. Two minutes later, her car rolled into view and the valet hopped out. She handed him a tip and took his place under the wheel. I watched her exit the lot. I eased in behind her, this time with only one car between. Once I was convinced she was on her way home, I took a left and sped along a parallel course. I arrived moments before she did. I killed my lights and slouched in my seat, eyes barely clearing the steering wheel. She turned into her drive as she had before, parked, crossed to her front door, and went in.
    The front light went out. I sat there for a minute, sorely tempted to return to my motel and crawl into bed. Surely she was in for the night, or what little was left of it. I was tired, I was bored, and I was hungry again. I pictured breakfast in a twenty-four-hour coffee shop: orange juice, bacon and scrambled eggs, buttered rye toast covered with strawberry jam. Then sleep. There had never been any guarantee that Reba was in Reno. I'd taken the chance because it made sense, given what I knew of her. The two of them had certainly been in touch – why else would her number show up on Nord Lafferty's telephone bill? But that hardly spoke to the issue of her present whereabouts. I sat up, staring at Misty's half-darkened house and the narrow line of light running along the bottom of