"Well, fella, I guess you were a lucky winner too." Lloyd laughs at Matt. "World's Worst Joke competition—first prize—locked up in that fucking container."
"Yeah, right—whatever."
"You remember how you got here, Matt?" Sophia asks.
"Kind of. I was owed shore leave. I took it in Key West. Then I meet these twins—you know the type—good girls go to heaven, bad girls go to Vegas—man oh man these girls were bad and I mean bad. Next minute we're landing at McCarran and getting into a limo. We ended up pretty wasted. I think I had a really good time, though."
Jedi says, "What happened to the twins?"
"Today's lesson, kid, when the money's gone, so are the girls."
Sophia shakes her head at Matt. "Maybe your type of girl."
"Mine too," Lloyd says. "I've worked my ass off all my life. Had me a good legal practice in Burlington, New Jersey. My office furniture was imported English oak. Then Mrs Smith the third and her two-million-buck settlement happened. I got to keep the fucking dog that shits on my rugs and the Vegas vacation. She prefers Europe. Big odds us all being Smiths, too fucking big."
Finished, Lloyd looks over at Jedi. "So what's your story, kid?"
Jedi clears his throat. "My name's Jedi Smith, I—"
Matt interrupts, "Jedi?"
"My mom, what can I say, she was a fan."
"Could have been worse, kid—Skywalker Smith."
Jedi smiles like he's heard it a thousand times before. "I guess. So I study at MIT. Doing the three Ps—"
"Wait—three Ps?" This time Sophia interrupts.
"Physics, Pizza, and Porn. Hey, no poor student's ever gonna turn down a free vacation. Someone knows we're here, right? I mean, someone'll find us soon?"
Jedi looks around at the team expectantly as if waiting for one of them to say, "Everything's gonna be okay." Nobody does.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but do I get the feeling that we all ain't got nobody looking for us right now?" Cutter asks.
The Americans stand in embarrassed silence.
Cutter continues, "So we got ourselves a bunch of loners and losers here. This ain't got nothing to do with no odds. Someone wanted each one of us here real bad with no one screaming missing persons."
"So, no Mrs Cutter, then?" Matt asks.
"Fifty-six, forty-eight, three one two."
"Your wife's vitals?"
"My prison number, jackass. Just me"—Cutter holds up his right hand and jerks it up and down—"and Miss Palmer now."
"So how much time you do?"
"Five, but no crime."
"None of my business, Cutter, but what you do the time for?"
"Weren't you listening? I said no crime."
Rita looks concerned. "We have a right to know. You could be a rapist or something."
"No need for you to worry then, little lady." Lloyd reaches into the cooler box and picks up a can.
"I think he should tell us why he went to prison." Rita's pissed at Lloyd. "They don't give out jail terms for stealing a loaf of bread anymore."
"Maybe he raped a baguette," Matt suggests.
