“Paul,” the guy said, reaching out to shake her hand.
She slipped the bills against his hand and, though his eyes showed a hint of acknowledgment, he didn’t give any other sign that she’d placed the bills into his palm. Apparently this wasn’t Paul’s first rodeo. He tucked his hand in his pocket without so much as a glance at the money. Like he knew that she’d tipped him well. Then again, Claire had always had this strange trustworthy quality about her. It was like she could project an aura of honesty and people just bought it. It’s what made her so good at the con. And likewise, she always knew when someone was lying. Like a tingle that spread through her body. Intuition like that was a godsend when you grew up on the streets.
Paul toed the back door, easing it open to allow just enough room for Claire to pass through. He didn’t budge from his spot, just took another drag and expelled the smoke. “See ya around, Janae.”
“You’re one of the good ones, Paul,” she said as she slipped through the door.
He responded with an amused snort.
Once through the stockroom and in the club proper, Claire was reminded of why she didn’t hang out at places like this. It always surprised her how high-class debauchery was so much more accepted. This place had the same sex, drugs, and dirty dealings on display as you’d find in a dive bar in the Valley. But in the morning everyone who’d been here would skip along their merry way like nothing had happened, as though money absolved them of all sin, whereas the stigma of bad behavior followed the less fortunate wherever they went. The wealth and privilege here was a painful reminder that these people were the haves while she was a have-not. She mused, as she took in her surroundings, that by midnight the accumulated net worth of the club patrons could probably pay off the national debt.#p#分页标题#e#
Acting as though she belonged in this crowd was tough when she felt so out of place. Her shoes were the most expensive part of her sad wardrobe. She’d saved up tips for two weeks to afford the thirty-dollar black heels, and to tell the truth, they pinched her feet so badly she was considering going barefoot. Dirty floors be damned.
From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a group of girls taking selfies with their top-of-the-line smartphones. Claire couldn’t even afford a cheap prepaid burner phone. If she had to make a call, she used the phone at the diner. Besides, it’s not like she had anyone in her life who might be interested in talking to her. For several minutes she stood there, staring as the trio made the standard pouty duck-lip faces, then switched to screwed-up gazes with their tongues lolling out of their mouths like deranged poodles. Which, considering the fact they were all wearing fuzzy hats and tails, wasn’t too far off.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Claire turned to the guy who’d sidled up beside her. Rule number two of the hustle: Free is always better. Especially at a high-end club like this, because a glass of white wine probably ran about twenty-five bucks. “Sure. Thanks,” she said, flashing a winsome smile. “I’ll take a bourbon and Coke.”
As he led the way to the bar, Claire sized up her first potential mark of the night. He wasn’t bad looking, a typical Cali guy: blond, blue-eyed, and built. From the looks of his True Religion jeans and Ed Hardy tee, he was comfortable, though not too well off. His watch was okay, Fossil, but not worth more than a couple hundred bucks, which equated to a thirty-dollar pawn. He tucked his cell in his back pocket, looked like an early-generation iPhone, and a little banged up at that. Nope, this guy wasn’t what she was after. She hadn’t risked a hundred bucks of rent money for chump change. Claire was hunting bigger game tonight.
She accepted the proffered drink and pretended to sip. Rule of the hustle number three: A sloppy drunk makes for a sloppy con. Keeping her wits about her while still looking like she was having a good time was essential. Once you got someone to let down their inhibitions, they made a much easier target.
“What’s your name?” Cali Boy shouted over the heart-stopping bass of the electronic dance music. The twenty-foot display screen behind the DJ booth flashed: BassNectar. Dude was certainly living up to his moniker.
“Suzette!” she shouted back. “Thanks again for the drink!”
“No problem.” He gave her a smile and leaned in. “I’m Steve. So … what brings you out tonight?”
“Just livin’ the dream, Steve.” While he yammered on about whatever it was he did for a living—something in sports management—Claire scanned the crowd for her mark. The dance floor undulated with a mass of bodies, arms raised high, glow sticks clenched in their fists, and heads thrown back, grinding their asses against anything within touching distance like cats in heat. Strobe lights flashed with each thump of bass and lasers shot out from the DJ booth, projecting neon pink and yellow shapes on the walls and ceilings. Through the mass of bodies and constant movement Claire narrowed her focus. In addition to her built-in lie detector, she possessed an uncanny concentration that she could narrow down to almost a pinpoint. Each distraction melted away until it felt like everything moved in slow motion, giving her the time she needed to make her assessment. Like the eyes of a hawk searching for a mouse in tall grass, her gaze roamed the crowd until she zeroed in on a man headed to the back of the club where the VIP tables were.