We take our seats in the main cabin and Miles serves us coffee and mini rolls to munch on while we land. Then we go back into the bedroom and put on yesterday’s refreshed clothes. Once that’s done, we exit and meet Miles at the bottom of the jet stairs.
Vegas isn’t as hot as Key West was, but it’s still pretty nice when we finally get out in the sun and turn to Miles, eager to hear what our plans are.
He hands me a glossy black mini-folder and says, “Here is your itinerary.”
I open it up to find the charter jet scheduled for our return trip, the details for the car that will take us to our first meeting with Fingers, and a hundred dollars cash.
“For any incidentals you need until you can get to an ATM,” Miles explains.
God, I love this dude. He thinks of everything. When I’m in Miles’ capable hands, everything is right in the world.
“But,” Emma interjects, taking the little folder from my hands, “there are no wedding plans in here. Just the car and the plane.”
“Fingers will have all those details for you when you meet him at the restaurant,” Miles says. “I hope you both have the Vegas wedding of your dreams and I’ll see you after New Year’s.”
“Thank you, Miles,” Emma coos, then kisses him on the cheek.
“Merry Christmas, ma’am.”
I stuff the little folder into my back pocket, take Emma’s hand, and head off across the tarmac with a smile.
It’s not every day you get to marry your soulmate in an impromptu Vegas elopement planned by a dude called Fingers.
I’m pretty sure this will be the most exciting day of my life.Finding the driver after leaving security is easy. He’s a big guy in a black suit and sunglasses holding a digital sign that says ‘Boston Wedding.’
Nice touch, Miles. Nice touch.
Since we don’t have any luggage, we just follow him to the pick-up lane and get in the back of a black Lincoln Navigator. The temperature is perfect, the leather seats are luxuriously butter-soft, and there are two bottles of Fiji water chilling in an ice bucket.
Emma and I look at each other, smiling.
“This is gonna be great,” she says.
“Fuckin’ perfect. I can just tell. Fingers has it all figured out.”
“What do you think he looks like?”
“Fingers? Uh... I imagine he’s missing a few.”
“What?”
“Yeah, like the name? It’s gotta be ironic, right? That’s the only way it works.”
“He sounds like a gangster.” Emma chuckles.
“He so does. But fuckin’ Miles? He’s sorta gangster so that fits.”
“Miles? What are you talking about?”
“You know. His whole seedy Pittsburgh past with that guy called Shoes.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He’s here because of his Mob-nurtured Rain Man abilities.”
“What. The hell. Are you talking about?”
“He never told you about his childhood? Growing up with the Mob?”
Emma guffaws so loud, our driver checks on us in the rearview. “No. This is a joke, right?”
“I don’t think so. Dude told me this whole long story about how he was like an orphan or some shit back in Pittsburgh and got shuffled off to a Mob boss in Chicago and then bought his way out and went to butler school and found your ad on the Modern Butler magazine website and that’s how he got here.”
She’s laughing so hard by the time I stop talking, I can’t help but laugh with her. “What? Was he lying to me?”
“Jesse.” She can’t stop laughing.
“What? It sounded so reasonable.”
“Modern Butler?”
“Everyone needs trade publications. Hell, I used to get a magazine called Douche Yacht High Life when I was younger.”
She’s still laughing.
“They just send it to you when you… never mind.” I huff and look out the window. “So what’s his real story then? If that was all a lie.”
“I don’t know. But it wasn’t that.”
“You don’t know then.” I huff again. “I think he was telling the truth. And look, the wedding planner is called Fingers. It has to be true. Miles showed us that crazy map of how he had to get to the poker tournament tonight, remember?”
“I wasn’t really paying attention, but OK. Fine.” Emma stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “You win. Miles is Mob. Got it.”
“He is,” I insist. “I can smell a lie.” I point at her. “And that story wasn’t a lie. Why would Miles lie to me? He totally laughs at my jokes. Dude gets me.”
She’s still chuckling, but she’s polite enough to do it behind a hand over her mouth. “You’re adorable.”
I adjust the collar of my t-shirt. “Thank you.”
But I’m still kinda miffed at Miles when we land at Big Mike’s. The jukebox is playing Sugar, Sugar and the whole place looks like a Fifties diner.
A hostess on roller skates dressed up in a classic pink uniform rolls her way over to a table and pans her hand at it.