Page 57 of Your Every Wish
“I bet there’s still some valuable stuff in there—paintings, sculptures, clothing.”
She stops her spoonful of oatmeal midway to her mouth. “Are you serious right now? You want to sell his clothes? Eww. ”
“I never said anything about selling.” But we both know I was thinking it.
* * *
The next morning, we set off for San Diego. I’ve offered to drive because even with the price of gas, it’s cheaper than a last-minute flight. According to my GPS, it’ll take eight hours and eight minutes if we don’t hit traffic.
That’s a big if.
Already, we’re caught up in a snarl and we’re only as far as Sacramento. That’s what we get for leaving during rush hour.
“Are you curious what it’ll be like?” Emma takes a slug from her coffee thermos. She insisted we both fill up before we left home to keep us alert on the road, so we can make it in one day. “I always kind of pictured him living this fast and extravagant lifestyle. A little shady and at the same time a little glamorous.”
“I’d say a lot shady, given how he wound up.”
“So, you never ran into him in Vegas? I would think given what you do, your worlds would inevitably cross.”
“You would think.” I used to hope it would happen. That he would walk into Caesars and there I’d be, dressed to the nines, doing business with some of the biggest gamblers in the world. He’d walk up to me and say, “I’m your father,” and I would look him in the eye and walk away. “But he was famously reclusive, you know? He placed all his bets through anonymous partners, people who didn’t even know one another. None of the people I truck with had ever met him in the flesh. But they all knew him by name and spoke of him like he was some kind of god. Disgusting, if you ask me.”
“I read a story once that he won four million in Atlantic City at a roulette wheel. Before he went, he researched the hell out of the place and learned that one of the casinos used an older model roulette wheel that was prone to favoring certain numbers. That’s the wheel he played.”
“He’s legendary for his research,” I say. “It’s what made him the most successful gambler of all time.”
I veer into the next lane as my GPS barks at me to exit onto Interstate 5. As soon as we get out of the Sacramento suburbs, it’s smooth sailing. Nothing but open space, green farms, and fruit and nut orchards. Emma informs me that we’re in the San Joaquin Valley, one of the most productive agricultural regions in the country. It makes me miss the bright lights of Vegas.
We stop for lunch at a roadside diner in Bakersfield, where a good-looking cowboy holds open the door. His hat reminds me of Bent McCourtney’s, and I lose my appetite but still manage to wolf down a burger, fries, and a milkshake.
“How’s that salad?” Compared to me, Emma is a health-food nut.
“I should’ve got what you had.” She pushes her plate away. “I’m going to treat myself to pumpkin pie for dessert.”
“Knock yourself out.”
She winds up sharing it with me and takes the wheel for the second leg of the trip.
“Just let me know if you get tired of driving and I’ll take over again,” I tell her.
It’s astonishing how well we get along. I’ve always been selective of my friends, probably because I grew up an only child who spent a lot of time alone or with grown-ups. The few friends I have either work at Caesars, like Lorelie, or are hosts at other casinos. It’s weird waters we swim in and we prefer to hang out with our own school.
But Emma is different. Perhaps it’s because we share some of the same DNA that we click. I can’t say I one hundred percent trust her—I don’t have it in me to ever trust anyone all the way—but she sure has gone out of her way for me. Like a sister, I suppose.
By the time we roll into San Diego County, it’s dark. Still, the sight of the Pacific Ocean illuminated by the moon and the freeway lights takes my breath away.
“Wow.”
Emma grins. “You’re not in Vegas anymore, Toto. Only a few miles to the motel. You want to eat or go straight there?”
We wind up picking up Mexican food and taking it back to our room at a little motor lodge in a town called Carlsbad. All the hotels in La Jolla are too expensive and I don’t think the FBI would appreciate us bunking at Willy’s tonight.
While not Caesars or even a Courtyard Inn, the Seaside Motel (which isn’t seaside, by the way) is clean, well lit, and just fine for one night. We eat, watch an oldFriendsepisode, and turn in early, exhausted from our long drive.
The next morning, we grab a bite at a nearby café and hit the road again. Thirty minutes later, we’re driving up a winding lane with sheer drops to the ocean below. It’s both gorgeous and death defying.
“Willy must have one hell of a view.” I’m glad Emma is driving. This road is not for the faint of heart and she’s used to the curvy and hilly streets of San Francisco.
“Check the address again.”
