The Approach

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The Starlite Motor Lodge was a tired mid-century throwback on a dusty stretch of highway five miles outside of Las Vegas. Unlit neon. Pink stucco caked with grime. A rusty handrail bordering its second-story walkway. The kind of place that advertised clean rooms and color TVs, and made you wonder whether either claim was true.

I pulled my rental into the Starlite’s lot as sunset painted the horizon red. The place was pretty empty, so I had my choice of parking spots. A twentysomething in an undershirt and a faded pair of Levi’s sat reading Hunter Thompson in a lawn chair outside his room, a crumpled takeout bag from the taqueria next door at his feet. As I climbed out of the car, he whistled.

“Uh, Mikey-did you just get catcalled?” Even through the cheap Bluetooth earpiece, Lester’s amused tone was hard to miss.

“I’m pretty sure he was whistling at the car, jackass. I told you it was too flashy.” Lester was my tech guy. My right-hand man. A master forger and a genius with computers, he always set up my aliases and handled my travel arrangements. But the fucker had a sense of humor. This trip, my IDs all read Zack Carey-after Kyle MacLachlan’s character in Showgirls-and the rental car he’d booked for me was a ’67 Mustang GT convertible in Acapulco Blue.

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