I put up my palms. “Sorry.”
When I came to Vegas, I legally changed my name to Nick Sinclair, mainly so the mob would have a harder time finding me, but Cheryl joked that I’d always be Nick Santoro to her.
“Look, Portia’s my daughter. You gotta let me in.”
“I don’t have to do anything, sir. We take security very seriously here at Goodwell Academy.”
Of course we had to pick one of the top elementary schools in Vegas with security tougher than the county jail.
“And I appreciate that, but if I don’t get in to see my daughter’s concert, there’s gonna be a murder, ‘cause my wife will kill me.”
I pull a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet, and wave it in front of the glass. “Let me in, and this is yours.”
The janitor’s brow furrows, so I pull out two more hundreds and wave all three of the bills in front of the glass door.
He reaches into his pocket, extracts a key chain with at least fifty keys, pushes one into the lock, and the door springs open.
“Thanks.” So much for security. I shove the cash into his palm and wonder if I should mention to Cheryl how easily the janitor could be bought.
I jog down the long corridor leading to the auditorium andpull open the door in time to see everyone standing and applauding what must’ve been an amazing holiday concert.
“Shit!”
After more rousing applause, people file out of the rows and head toward the doors. I have no choice but to backtrack out into the corridor and wait.
I’m out three hundred bucks, I didn’t even get to see Portia, plus Cheryl is gonna bite my fuckin’ head off.
I nod and smile to some of the parents, agreeing with them that it was a wonderful show. My devious brain spins a story of not being able to find her so I stayed in the back, but the minute I see Cheryl’s face, I decide silence is the best defense.
“Where were you?” she stage-whispers.
“I stayed in the back ‘cause I couldn’t find you.” It’s worth a try.
Her face flattens. “I saw you walk in two minutes ago.”
“Nah, I was there the whole time.” Might as well dig the hole deeper.
“Really? I turned in my seat looking for you so many times, I think I got whiplash, so I know you just appeared two minutes ago.” We follow the herd of parents around the auditorium toward the stage entrance where we’ll pick up Portia.
“The traffic was fuckin’ crazy, then the freakin’ janitor wouldn’t let me in.”
“Why not?”
“You have me listed as Nick Santoro.” Might as well go for broke. “In a way, me being late is your fault.”
“What?”
“The janitor wouldn’t let me in ‘cause you had me listed as Nick Santoro.”
“So?”
“My license says Nick Sinclair.”
Cheryl mashes her lips together. Never a good sign. “If you had been here on time, you would’ve gone in with me, and you wouldn’t have had a problem.”
Couldn’t argue with her on that point, but . . . “You oughta change Portia’s school records to read Nick Sinclair.”
“To me, you’ll always be Nick Santoro.”
