The Dry Cleaner from Des Moines

In LAS VEGAS, THE WOMAN HAD FOUND THE KIND OF LUCK she liked best.

Her best luck involved invisibility, the kind that allowed people to overlook her sticky fingers and her quiet dine-and-dashes. She was tan and brown and beige and gray, plain and unobtrusive as backdrop. She wasn’t offensive or even unattractive. Just the one person in the bar you’d pass over as you scanned the potential pickings. The one you couldn’t ID in a police lineup.

Her plainness had been a source of some small pain in her youth; often, she would wonder if she’d ever find love, ever cash in her virginity. Eventually, the disappointment of loneliness gave way to a kind of exhilaration, the understanding that she alone possessed a sort of superpower. As long as she was careful and committed only small crimes, and carried a little luck with her, she could do more or less as she liked.

When she ordered drinks, she chose what was on tap and didn’t linger long—she kept her face blank and drank briskly, though not quickly enough to arouse attention. She sidled off the barstool and strolled out calmly, and often the empty glass left behind was the only way anyone knew she’d been there. In stores, she could pocket things and stroll right out—even when they had camera footage, she was so nondescript the police just shook their heads. She looked, they said, like anyone’s mother. How on earth would they find her?

She moved around a lot, never stayed in one neighborhood long. It was always cities and suburbs, because there she never stood out; so many invisible people haunt the shops and strip malls of suburban America. And now she found herself in Las Vegas, unwilling to leave though she’d surely outstayed her welcome by now. Her luck had just been too good.

She was, she thought, the only person in Vegas who wasn’t there to gamble (though she supposed what she was doing was a version of that) or drink or marry. Or, she corrected herself, to do business; Vegas these days had a whole sideline in conventions and meetings, full as it was of large, cheap hotels and plenty of diversion. She was also, she thought, the only person who actually liked the Strip, but not because it was the Strip. She liked it because of what she became inside it. The grandiose, improbable casinos, competing with one another for pomp versus circumstance, flashing marquis desire versus plaster Paris and Rome. It was all so impossibly large and complex and so well-oiled that a person like her could disappear inside, a plain little pinball pinging around inside a neon nerve network.

She spent her days wandering the false streets of Venice, the plaza of Rome, the Eiffel Tower. She sat with a drink sometimes, watched countless strangers win and lose more money than she’d ever have—sometimes skillfully, sometimes not. Luck, she thought, featured into most winning, but there was also a small group of almost invisible people—invisible like her—and you’d never know it to look at them, but they were the real geniuses at winning. At poker. At blackjack. Some even worked the slots. They were never flashy, or loud, or overconfident. None of them looked like James Bond. They wore faded sweatshirts, cargo shorts, reading glasses, cropped hair. They were quiet, and she knew their secrets only because she’d seen them winning, over and over again. She noticed the special little privileges they had: large sums advanced to them, access to special rooms, complimentary drinks, and exaggerated deference from the casino staff. All of it small, unobtrusive, hushed as aristocracy and real, serious money.

If she’d been a different sort of criminal, she’d have tried to become one of them, imitate or impersonate them. But she couldn’t; there was nothing to grasp, no detail substantial or solid. The regulars were like ghosts. They haunted the places reliably, but beyond their scheduled appearances they were silent and secretive, and anything left of their lives before had been buried.

One late afternoon, she was pocketing soap at a fancy bath store in the Venetian, and a shadow fell over her shoulder. She was ready; she arranged her expression in blank, neutral confusion. She turned. It was one of the regulars, a shorter man in a blue polo and khaki shorts. His hair was in a graying brown ponytail. His face was so unremarkable it was almost a blur. Just like her. She had seen him winning big at the craps tables at the MGM Grand. Yes? she said.

If you want to cheat, he said, go high-stakes. It’s Vegas! Why steal bath bombs? His voice was louder than she’d expected it would be.

She raised one eyebrow. Excuse me, I’m not stealing anything, she said. You must be mistaken. He put his hand in her jeans pocket (her front pocket, the nerve) and pulled out a thirty-dollar soap shaped like a scalloped cupcake. She raised her other eyebrow. The store clerk started toward them and she took it to the counter, furious. The bath she took with this strawberry-scented soap might be perfectly pleasant, but it would not be worth thirty dollars. Her hands shook as she counted out bills, saw the gambler was still standing there, watching her. She was usually cool as milk.

I’ve seen you, he said, walking out, following fast on her sensible heels. MGM Grand. Harrods. Caesars. I’ve seen you pretending to play the slots. What are you really doing here? Not just petty theft, I assume.

You’ve never seen me, she said, walking faster. How had he seen her? No one did. Her heart fluttered and people stared. Her face felt flooded with spotlight.

I used to be a dry cleaner, he said. From Des Moines. But I see everything. I notice everything. Always have. Had an eye for stains, the small stuff nobody else sees. That’s how I came to be a gambler instead of a dry cleaner. Followed my heart, came out here. What’s your passion? I’m staying at the Venetian. I like it here—I like the way the ceiling is a sky, how you can think you’re somewhere cool and breezy. I like the gold things, everywhere. I like gold. They call me Midas at the MGM, I’ve won so often. What’s your name? Where are you staying?

Nowhere, she said, frowning. She reminded herself to be a blank. She was staying at the Mirage and that was much too close to him, just across the street—and anyway she’d have to skip town tonight, get on a bus and bail. She was even angrier at the thought. She liked Vegas. She wanted to stay here. Her sensible, invisible shoes clacked loudly on the Venetian walkway tiles, and she glared at the gondoliers, who seemed suddenly poised to offer her a ride.

Who was this man and why had he ruined her superpower?

Let’s get a pizza, he said, and grabbed her arm. Or a cookie. There’s a great Hawaiian cookie place. I want to talk to you. I think you’re fascinating. I’d love to sleep with you. She stopped. I’ll turn you in, he said playfully, then put his hand over hers. This was the second time he’d touched her, and it was a sensation she was utterly unused to. Her insides curled.

The long con, she thought. He’d be such a perfect mark. She could take, and take, and take, and one day disappear. But she wasn’t made for the long con. She was made for minute-crime, for in and out and gone. What would happen if he could see her, even just for a night? Would it break some spell? Render her features more distinct, her outline suddenly pulled into a fixed shape?

On the Greyhound to Reno, the man next to her mumbled to himself for a while and fell asleep. He smelled like whiskey and sour smoke. The teenager behind her hit her with his rucksack, and seemed to wonder who he was apologizing to. The bus driver tried to focus on her and failed, squeezing himself behind the wheel and dreaming about his shift end, his Xbox and a cold Bud Light. She leaned back in her seat and sighed. She called the police on the burner phone, told them where to find a lot of recently stolen goods—the thief in room 1205. The Mirage. Hurry, he’s probably still asleep. How did she know? Didn’t want to say. He might be dangerous, careful now.

She’d be more careful from now on. Her luck was made, not found; this she now knew. She tossed the phone out the window and waited for the bus to grind on out of this McDonald’s parking lot, gravel spitting, wheels rolling toward the next big town to take her out of focus.