Page 62 of Paging Dr. Hart
Do I want to be that person? Do I have any choice?
When he places the keycard over the metal plate next to the door, a chime sounds and the elevator whirs to life. Soon it arrives, and we step inside. A subtle jolt of the floor tells me we’re in motion, although the ride is incredibly smooth.
“Is it true this elevator is actually going sideways because of the building’s pyramid shape?” I ask, trying to distract Stewart with small talk as I carefully watch him return the keycard into the same front pocket.
With a restrained laugh, Stewart says, “Not sideways. It’s on an incline…a 39-degree angle, but so subtle you can’t really feel it. If you’re being technical, they aren’t actually elevators. They’re called…called inclinators.”
The inclinator doors ding open, and a long hallway with polished marble floors stretches in front of us. The walls are papered with shiny gold wallpaper. Large mirrors are set into the ceiling. It’s disorienting to see an upside-down version of myself when I look up.
A door labeled “stairs” is located to the right of the elevator, a green exit sign glowing above it. I mark it in my mind.
We step into the hallway, and Stewart says, “Oh, almost forgot.” He drops my arm to reach into his opposite pants pocket and pull out a black fabric mask. He puts it on, covering the skin around his eyes, but leaving his nose and mouth exposed.
I retrieve a similar mask from my purse. My mask is made of white lace that I hand-sewed with Shelly’s help. A thin band of elastic holds it tight over my eyes.
It’s funny how a small scrap of fabric can make such a big difference in a person’s appearance. Stewart looks almost like a dashing pirate with his mask and tailored three-piece suit. He watches me adjust my mask until it fits comfortably. His bashful gaze hangs on me a little too long. Guilt twists my insides, sharp and painful.
A short line of people are waiting to walk through a metal detector manned by a burly man wearing a dark suit. When it’s our turn, I notice a bulge under the man’s jacket that looks suspiciously gun-shaped. I gulp down my fear.
A stunning black woman stands just past the guard, checking sheets of paper clutched in her hands. A thin wire extends up her neck to an earpiece, which she occasionally touches, pushing it closer and frowning as she listens. When we approach, she drops her hand from her ear.
“Stewart,” the woman says warmly. “How lovely to see you, and you’ve brought a date.” The way her honey-colored eyes light up confirms what I already know, that Stewart doesn’t usually attend these events with a woman.
She looks me over approvingly and says, “My, aren’t you lovely?” I flushat the compliment. I’m about to respond, but Stewart jumps in and answers, “Thanks, Irene.” He says it like he’s personally responsible for my beauty. He preens at my side, standing straighter and more confident than I’ve ever seen before.
Irene nods regally. “Your father is already inside.” She gestures to a set of double doors with the same metal plate on the wall beside them.
Stewart scans his keycard once more, and the doors swing open. I walk into the most gorgeous room. It has a massive sunken living room, grounded by the same marble floor as in the hallway outside and surrounded by soaring floor-to-ceiling windows. There are no curtains to impede the view. The twinkling lights of the world-famous Las Vegas Strip spread out before us in breathtaking glory. We’re so high up that I can see the rooftop pools and bars of the smaller hotels.
A string quartet plays quietly in the corner of the room. The buzz of lively conversation fills gaps in the music. Model-perfect waitresses circulate, holding silver platters of champagne and appetizers. When a masked waitress stops before us, Stewart takes two bubbling flutes from her tray and hands one to me. “Cheers,” he says, gently clinking his glass against mine.
“Cheers,” I echo halfheartedly. I hesitate before I bring the drink to my lips. When I drank alcohol before, at the Starlight party, it had been in the dark with a bunch of kids my age. Now, out in the open and surrounded by adults, it feels wrong. I worry I’ll get in trouble, which is ridiculous because of all the laws I’m here to break tonight, underage drinking is the least of them. I tell myself to stop being silly and take a small sip, letting the bubbles fizz in my mouth before swallowing it down.
My gaze wanders, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the elegance in this room. I had thought my mom’s dress is beautiful, but it pales next to the beaded gowns glittering before me. Fancy gold watches and diamond-studded cufflinks on the men’s wrists reflect light back into my eyes.
The scene is even more surreal because everyone is wearing a mask. Some only cover the wearer’s eyes while others cover half of or the entire face. Elaborate feathered and sequined masks make my homemade one look cheap bycomparison. The sheer opulence of the setting leaves me feeling small and unworthy.
Sensing my hesitation, Stewart leans toward me and whispers, “You look beautiful.”
I shoot him a grateful smile, paired with another stab of guilt.
“Come on. I want you to meet someone.” Stewart takes my hand and leads me through the crowd. We make our way past clusters of people talking and drinking. I stare at the floor, scared to step on any of the exquisite dresses with skirts so long they puddle on the marble.
I almost bump into Stewart when he stops before a small group of partygoers clustered around a thin man with dark hair and sharp brown eyes. The man is about my mom’s age. He’s impeccably dressed in an expensive-looking black tuxedo.
Once the crowd clears, Stewart steps forward, still holding my hand. “Dad, this is Tiffany.” Stewart beams proudly at me.
The man reaches out to shake my hand. His grasp is almost painfully firm. “Tiffany, nice to meet you. I’m John Stralla. Glad you could make it to the party.”
Johnny Stralla, the owner of this penthouse, of this whole hotel and casino. Johnny Stralla, who, if rumors are to be believed, is also called Johnny the Shark with ties to the Mafia in New York and Chicago. A man who owns numerous businesses throughout the city, some legal and some not. Drugs, guns, and who knows what else supposedly filter through his shadier establishments. I shift uncomfortably, thinking about how this is the man that Shelly and Rafe plan to rob. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy anyone should mess with.
We’re in over our heads.
“Um, hello. Thank you for having me. Your home is gorgeous.” I keep my grip firm as I return his handshake.
His easy smile doesn’t match the coldness in his eyes. “Of course. Please make yourself at home—” Johnny freezes, his gaze on my dress. It lingers there for seconds that stretch into minutes. His eyes snap up and search my face, looking puzzled. “Beautiful gown,” he says slowly, then trails off. He gives his head a shake, like he’s waking up. Before I can give his odd behaviormuch thought, he abruptly changes the topic, his expression warming as he looks at Stewart. “My son has told me what a brilliant student you are, Tiffany. Have you given any thought to where you’d like to attend college?”
The fact that Stewart has been talking about me to his dad is a shock. I don’t think of myself as important enough to warrant their attention. “Honestly, I’ll go wherever I get the best scholarship.” I glance away, embarrassed to discuss my poverty with someone so rich and powerful.
