The driver knows better than to turn around and is less concerned with the actual mechanics of the confusion than with finding the quickest way out. The driver scans the casino for possible escape routes. There’s the obvious but dangerous choice of the main stairway, and long rows of slots to either side of him, leading who-knows-where.

The voices are still fumbling over mislaid hands and flying fists, and a whole bunch of missing money, when a hand grips the driver’s elbow. Now he has to turn, and most likely take on whichever stocky henchman has latched onto him, but the figure jumps ahead and pulls him forward, not back.

It’s the hitchhiker. One hand is leading the driver by his sleeve. In the other: a bird’s nest of bills, scattering as he traces a getaway along the back wall.

Of course, the driver never wanted anything to do with him. More than ever, the driver’s resentment towards this imposing lowlife exceeds levels he thought possible; but his main concern is now with escaping and surviving. Besides, it’s not like he can go back and politely explain to the now-enraged mobsters that he was only giving this man a ride and has no stake in this ill-advised heist.

They come to an emergency exit and behind it is a stairwell. A loud grumble, like a furious, begrudged train, gets louder with every footfall. The driver lurches for the handrail leading downstairs, but the hitchhiker still has him by the jacket and pulls him the opposite way, up the stairs. There is no time to argue about tactics, but it is clear enough that the pink-suited man and his goons will automatically assume that the two escaped down the stairway, not up to the floors above.

The stairs assuredly lead to a rooftop, twelve stories up. The driver and his brigand companion can only hope that there is a way out from there.