“Holy fuck,” Rory says, examining one of the bottles Alex brought. “Where did this come from?”
“Diane picked that out,” Alex says.
“She shouldn’t have, but thank you.”
“You’re a funny guy,” Diane whispers to Alex. “Come help me with dessert.”
At the marble kitchen island, he helps her plate the summer berries that she roasted briefly in the oven, their juices thick and dark as blood. Alex whips a bowl of heavy cream while Diane zests a lime into the slowly rising surface. At the table, Peter holds forth on retail advertising.
“Listen, we sell women’s jewelry to men the same way we sell cat food to people,” he says. “The person picking up the tab is not the end consumer.”
Diane steps lightly on Alex’s toes and rolls her eyes. A little thrill runs up his spine at her touch and the realization that the two of them can be part of this world and also apart from it. There can exist between them unspoken understandings, inside jokes. Secrets, even. The idea gives him hope. She hands him two plates but holds on when he grasps them by the rims and pulls him in for a kiss—chin up, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.
Rory pours a rich vintage Champagne with dessert. And then it’s over. People push their chairs back from the table, where everything is headed toward entropy—food cooling, ice melting, sparkling water going flat. Alex is half-listening to war stories from Peter’s groundhog infestation when, at the head of the table, Lindsay lights up.
“Diane, have you not seen it either? Peter, you must have seen it.”
“Seen what?” Peter asks.
“The video of those guys who rob a jewelry store on motorcycles.”
“Of course I’ve seen it,” Peter says. “It’s everywhere.”
“Seriously,” Lindsay says. “It has, like, a million views.”
Diane turns to Alex. “Have you seen this?”
Alex hears himself say, “Yes.”
He’s frozen. He thinks: I walked into a setup like I walk into my home. He sees it all in hindsight—the chance encounter, the accelerated intimacy, the invitation to a stranger’s home. He waits for the front and back door to come down in unison, for gun barrels to shatter the windowpanes behind him. Alex rests his hands flat on the tabletop to show that he’s unarmed and willing to go quietly. This is not the way he pictured it, but he hasn’t spent a lot of time envisioning the end. Lindsay is still going on about the video, and as the adrenaline ebbs, Alex sees that this is not a setup. It’s dinner guests watching viral videos after dessert. This, he reminds himself, is something people do.
“We’re watching it right now,” Lindsay says. “Rory, where’s your laptop?”
Her guests crowd around her with the exception of Alex, who stands back and slips his hands into his pockets. A pre-roll ad for Caesars Palace plays. The number of views is closer to two million now.
The sight of the Esplanade takes Alex straight back to Las Vegas. He feels the gun sling on his collarbone, smells the perfumed air, hears the sound of his own breath inside the helmet. He doesn’t want to watch this, but can’t bring himself to look away. On-screen, Craig adjusts his mirrors to monitor the corridor behind him while Roy Fletcher, their other driver, revs his engine to keep the crowd at bay. Alex’s interest in the details evaporates when he sees the horror in Diane’s face. He studies her profile while Lindsay narrates.
“I mean, this kid just walks right up to them and starts filming. Why?”
Because he’s on the spectrum, Alex thinks. Because he loves motorcycles and motorcycles are the only thing he saw. Jeremy made all the papers and reminded Alex of himself at that age: skinny, awkward, likely friendless, slave to his compulsions. On-screen, Alex strides out of the store and turns to face his unwanted videographer. The breath that Jeremy sucks down is audible over the engines, jagged with fear.
“Oh my God,” Diane says. “You’re sure this is real?”
“Of course it’s real,” Lindsay says. “It’s been on every news show. Okay, this part gives me chills.”
Alex purses his lips as his gloved hand swipes at the camera. The image becomes a jumble as Jeremy is manhandled by his mother and, finally, it’s over.
“How have they not caught these guys?” Peter asks.
“No idea,” Lindsay says. “Rory would know. He’s obsessed. He wants to do a story.”
“I wish,” Rory says. “The cops don’t have a clue, from what I hear. Those dudes could be anywhere by now.”
Alex excuses himself. Alone in the upstairs bathroom, he opens an end-to-end encrypted app and dials the man who helped him undress after the Wynn job. Three thousand miles away, a phone rings on the kitchen counter of a villa in Tulum, the beach town in Mexico’s Mayan Riviera. Ben Kistler answers in a robe.
“It’s me,” Alex says.
“I gathered.”
“That video is everywhere.”
“It’s good content. Exciting, authentic. People love that stuff. You sound concerned.”
“You’re not?”
“Has someone invented retroactive X-ray vision? You know what I see when I watch that video? Anonymous, rigorous execution. A well-oiled machine. I see no cause for concern. What makes you ask?”
“I’m at a dinner party,” Alex says. “The host made everybody watch it with dessert.”
“You need more interesting friends.”
“I keep having this dream where I’m on the bike again. It doesn’t end well.”
“It ended just fine in reality.”
“That kid was something else.”
“Your Aussie rickshaw driver? Did I tell you he was plan C?”
“You know you didn’t tell me that.”
“Plan A passed. Plan B passed in the sense that he’s no longer with us. That happened with three days to go.”
“And you didn’t think that was worth passing along?”
“You were locked in by the time this happened. I needed you to stay that way.”
Alex laughs and shakes his head.
“So plan C really impressed you?” Ben asks. “His name is Craig, actually.”
“He’s shot, he’s losing the front end. I thought it was over. ‘Hang on, mate.’ That’s what he said right before he drifted the back wheel and jumped the median.”
“‘Hang on, mate.’ I like that. I didn’t like Craig when I met him.”
“Why?”
“He’s cocky,” Ben says. “And young, even for twenty-two.”
“Okay.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t lose his number?”
“I wouldn’t. I’d ride with him again.”
“Noted. I’ll let you get back to your YouTube club. Christian and I are going to a real party in a few minutes. He’s yelling at me to get dressed.”
“Have fun,” Alex says.
“We will. Stay off the internet.”
The table is empty when Alex comes downstairs. He joins the smoking circle on the deck but declines the joint that Peter offers him. Marijuana sends him into a tailspin of self-doubt and paranoia, and he’s had his fill of both tonight.