As a matter of fact, Les Deux Magots in Saint-Germain-des-Prés looked a lot like the bistro at the Paris Hotel in Vegas. The tables outside with the same checkered cloth, the menus in dainty cursive, the waiters in black vests and white shirts. It had that same air of manufactured ambience, the same postcard Parisian flair, almost fake. It was the real thing, and still it wasn’t. Mary Ann had been too harsh on Las Vegas, or maybe she just had a talent for ending up in places like these. Maybe she was attracted to artifice.