I rolled my eyes. “Why, yes, Father, I’m quite familiar with the chemistry.”
He gave me an exasperated look.
I expected Ripley to stir when Dad pulled over to swap seats, but he was out cold. His family drama and the overnight drive must have drained his tank to E.
As I pulled back onto the highway, Dad reclined his seat, put an arm over his eyes, and fell asleep.
But I wasn’t tired at all. Traffic had evened out, and it was only a few more hours to Vegas, so I gripped the wheel at ten and two, activated cruise control, and let my mind go to work, visualizing the Truck Drop over and over on a loop.
A little before midnight, we came around a low hill and the darkness seemed to peel away, revealing the full nocturnal radiance of the Strip. Casino lights blazed like tiny suns, their colors too sharp, too vibrant. I felt a swell of heat behind my eyes: This was home, and I wanted to take in everything about this moment. The thrum of the motor. The hiss of tires on old blacktop. The perfume of desert flowers and gasoline. It was an orchestra of sensations all vibrating at my frequency. It seemed impossible that twenty-four hours ago I’d been ready to give up. We needed to raise five grand, acquire the props, and get to LA—and suddenly I was certain we could pull it off.
I exited I-15 at Sunset Road so I could drive up the Strip. I needed a little dose of home. Since it was so late, I was surprised to see a cluster of tourists standing under the WELCOME TO FABULOUS LAS VEGAS NEVADA sign, but it didn’t dampen the rush of nostalgia. The last time I’d seen this particular landmark, we’d been on our way to visit Mariano and Rico Vega and see Flynn & Kellar. I’d been ten years old.
Things looked mostly the same as I drove north on Las Vegas Boulevard. The Luxor’s bright white beam still shot up from the top of its black pyramid to light the bottom of the clouds. The campy facade of the Excalibur castle looked just as faded and peeling as ever. And, in the distance, Trump Tower jutted up into the sky like a gaudy golden dildo.
But there were differences, too. The Tropicana had been totally revamped, the Statue of Liberty at New York New York was wearing a Golden Knights jersey, and the windows of the Tangiers Hotel & Casino were plastered over with a huge vinyl decal reading:
DANIEL DEVEREAUX: SKY’S THE LIMIT
COMING THIS CHRISTMAS
Devereaux had been performing on the Strip for over a decade—how long had it been since he’d taken time off to revamp his show? Casinos paid their marquee performers tens of millions of dollars and depended on them to draw big crowds; going dark for a month was an expensive proposition. I wondered what he was going to do next.
The dash clock read 12:22 a.m. when I passed Gold & Silver Pawn Shop and entered the Downtown district. Ripley sat up and looked around.
“Morning, sunshine,” I said.
“Where are we?”
“Viva . . . viva . . . Las Vegas!” I snorted at my own terrible Elvis Presley impression, but Ripley seemed unamused.
He ran a hand through his tangle of red hair and gaped out the window. “Holy shit.”
“This is where I grew up. Home sweet home. Sin City.” I rolled down the windows and savored the dry breeze as we turned right and approached the blinding canopy over Fremont Street. This was old Vegas, and I could feel the legacy of a thousand magicians tickling like champagne in my veins. We passed the Tack & Saddle, the site of our fictional two-night engagement. We passed the Golden Nugget. The Four Jacks. The El Cortez. I drove farther east, away from the lights and toward crumbling concrete and graffiti in search of our motel.
Dad sat up, checked the clock, rubbed his eyes. “Goodness. Traffic must have been bad.”
“It was hideous,” I said, laughing. “We were gridlocked for two hours after we drove through Kingman. Didn’t break up till Boulder City. Jackknifed big rig. Huge pileup.” I realized I was babbling but couldn’t stop myself.
Finally, we pulled into the motel that would be our home base for the next day or two. Despite its charming art deco facade, the ironically named Uptowner looked like the kind of place you’d score an eight-ball—so it was perfect