“So where do you think this hidden entrance is?”Eddie asked.
“First thing’s first,” I said.“We go to the prize counter.”
“What?”
“Look, it’s hardly looting if we’re already in,” I said.
“You are not going to steal a prize,” Eddie said.
“Just a sticky hand,” I said.
“This is stupid.Please tell me this isn’t why we broke in.”
“Not entirely,” I said.“Just hush and follow me.”
We walked through the front hall, past the shooter gallery.Neon lit screens, and signs flashed dully.Whoever had locked up the place forgot to turn everything off.Maybe they never went off, I thought.Maybe this place would keep power forever, and in some far distant future, ancient explorers would find it, lights still flickering, and wonder what this quarter-eating thing was supposed to be.
Past the driving ranges, with faux gas pedals and steering wheels.Past the golf greens buzzing with electronic audiences.Past the flickering dance pads, eight arrows glittering like rainbows.A halo of bright light showered down onto the exact place I was looking for.
“Success,” I hissed.
“Oh my God,” Eddie said.“You are shitting me.”
“Shut up.Hand me your tire iron.”
“You can just walk behind the glass display,” he said.
“Shut up.I know that.”
I circled around behind the glass shelves of the prize counter and ducked down.There was the pile of sticky hands, all wrapped in their neat little individual plastic wraps.I took one and unwrapped it slowly, savoring the experience.
“Eddie,” I said when I stood back up.
He turned, distracted.A sticky hand smacked him in the face.It left a little wet splotch when it left.
“Damnit Stacey,” he said.“You’d better stop.”
WHAP.The next one got him right on the nose.I giggled.
“Grow the fuck up,” he said.
“You’re the one paranoid about clowns,” I said.“Come on.I actually do need this.”
“Okay, but—stop—“ WHAP.“—hitting—“ WHAP.“—me?—“
“Is there a point to this?’Judge Volkheim asked.
“We’re circling around,” I said.
There wasa back office near the kitchens.Eddie popped the lock on the door with the sharp edge of his tire iron.
“Fuck,” Eddie hissed, backing out of the room.
“What?”I asked.
“There’s a guy in there!”he hissed.“He has a gun, Stace.”
I poked my head around Eddie’s shoulder.Sure enough, there was a security guard asleep at the desk, snoring.The smell of a whiskey sour was heavy in the air.He was out for the count.A set of four flickering monitors in front of him panned and jittered over most every floor in the place.
