Glitz

by Elmore Leonard

“Not the one in South Carolina.”

  “The other one,” Frances said. “Jackie has the company plane pick him up in Miami.”

  “Is he on file?”

  “My file? You kidding? This guy’s comped to the eyeballs, the whole shot.”

  The player was middle-aged, a small man, gaunt, with dark Indian-Latin features. His hair glistened. His starched shirt with the dark suit showed bright white on the monitor, with a sheen.

  “I think I’d like a picture of him,” Nancy said.

  Frances pushed a button and a close-up of the player appeared on the monitor in front of Roger. She said to Nancy, “You could work here.”

  “I was at Bally’s a few years.”

  “I know you were. You got the eye, there’s no doubt in my mind.” Frances motioned to bring Nancy away from the monitors, hand on her arm. “I not only see things up here, Mrs. Donovan, people tell me things ’cause they trust me and they don’t know how to handle certain situations.”

  “What people?”

  “Well, like the cashiers. Guys I’ve worked with for years, we’re like family. They see certain irregularities taking place and they tell me about it ’cause they want it on record. You understand? I’m talking about top management allowing certain things, not the help. The help I’m watching twenty hours a day.”

  “What’s Jackie up to?” Nancy said.

  “See? You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I have an idea.”

  “I work for you and Tommy, Mrs. Donovan. But I did work for Jackie at one time. I learned everything I know from him, I mean the finer points, and that’s the only reason I’m saying this. I don’t want to see him get hurt, lose his license. It could happen—some of the people he’s hanging around with, the hotshots. I don’t mean the celebs and the legit high rollers, he’s got to take care of them and he loves it.”

  “So does Tommy,” Nancy said. “The two of them, they’re an act . . . Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, Tommy’s in a different position, he’s having a good time. Why not?” Frances smiled faintly. “We kid around. You know, about the old neighborhood, growing up on the West Side there.”

  “Who would’ve ever thought,” Nancy said, “a Mick from Columbus Avenue—”

  “Yeah, like that. He says to me, ‘Don’t go back, Fran, it’s all artsy-craftsy over there now. Hurley Brothers Funeral Home, they changed the name to Death ‘n’ Things. The bars, you can’t walk in you hit your head on the ferns in the hanging baskets. Where would our dads go for a drink?’ They were subway motormen, you know. Both of ’em.”

  “I know,” Nancy said.

  “He calls me Wrong-Way Mullen ’cause I went out to Vegas, worked there fifteen years to end up in Atlantic City. Tommy says, ‘You could a taken a Fugazy tour bus, been here in three hours.’ “

  “He’s quite a guy,” Nancy said.

  “He’s having a good time—what the heck. This place with Tommy it’s like a toy, you don’t mind my saying.”

  “Please,” Nancy said.

  “I’m not taking anything away from him, he’s a brilliant guy, very charming. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “But what?” Nancy said.

  “Well, Jackie—you know what he’s like, all the celebrity photos in his office, the poor kid from the Bronx showing off. That’s what he is, he’s a show-off.”

  “Among other things,” Nancy said.

  “But he’s getting mixed up with some people he shouldn’t go anywhere near, and Tommy doesn’t realize it. Jackie thinks, you know, he’s discreet; but some of the people, you can’t miss ’em.”

  “Like the guy from Colombia,” Nancy said. “What’s his name?”

  “Excuse me.” Terry looked over from the bank of monitors. “Here’s a guy with a beard. On this one.” She pointed to a screen.

  Frances said, “Is that him?”

  Nancy nodded, walking over, seeing Vincent Mora in profile playing a quarter slot machine, carefully inserting the coin, ritualizing it, pulling the handle and watching the drum spin . . . to come up with nothing. She heard Roger say, “I don’t recognize him, do you?” And Terry say, “No, but he’s kind of cute.”

  When Vincent walked away from the machine Nancy said, “Follow him.” She moved to a telephone on the wall, touched buttons, then turned to watch Vincent appear on several monitors.

  “Hi, is this Milly? . . . Mrs. Donovan. See if we have a Vincent Mora staying with us.”

  As she waited she saw Vincent stop to watch coins clattering into the tray of a slot machine. He said something to the woman scooping quarters into a paper cup. The woman, very serious, turned and smiled, nodding.

  Nancy smiled a little, watching him. She said, “Thanks, Milly,” and hung up the phone. Roger was saying, “We know this guy?”

  “He looks lost,” Terry said. “Came in out of the rain—wow, never saw anything like this before.”

  It was a long raincoat, below his knees. He stopped at a blackjack table and watched several hands among three players before taking a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. He bought four red chips from the dealer.

  Nancy watched Vincent draw a pair of aces on the deal and split them to bet two red chips on each. Then was hit with a king and queen and paid three-to-two for the naturals, sixty dollars. Roger said, “Look at the guy.”

  “I’d like a picture of him,” Nancy said.

  She watched Vincent bet the $60 and win when the dealer went over. She watched him bet $120 on eighteen and beat the dealer who had to stand on seventeen. She watched him bet $240 and win on nineteen when the dealer drew up to eigh-teen and stayed. She watched him bet $10 and lose, watched him gather his chips and walk away from the table.

  “Let’s follow him,” Nancy said.

  Vincent appeared on several screens, different angles. “He’s gonna cash in,” Frances said. After a moment she said, “Look, who’s at the window ahead of him.”

  It was the player from Colombia, his back to the camera. Jackie Garbo stood next to him, in profile.

  “I wouldn’t mind a picture of this,” Nancy said.

  Roger said, “Guy in the raincoat? I already got him.”

  “The one cashing in.”

  “I got him too.”

  “Maybe we can see what he won.”

  “They’ll give him a nice clean check,” Frances said and looked at Nancy. “What I mentioned, you might say something to Tommy.”

  “I probably will,” Nancy said, watching the monitor.

  The cashier was away from the window. Jackie Garbo chatted with the man from Colombia, using his hands, smiling a lot, while the man from Colombia stood without moving.

  “There was a stockholder, one of the other casinos,” Frances said, “his license came up for renewal the Control Commission turned him down. He didn’t do a thing. His daughter married some guy with a shady background.”

  When the cashier returned he pushed a form through the opening in the window for the man from Colombia to sign. The cashier then separated the copies of the form, attached a check to one of the copies and presented it with a smile. The man from Colombia turned . . .

  Roger looked up from the Polaroid, the scoop attachment covering the monitor in front of him. “The guy in the raincoat’s in the way.”

  Nancy didn’t say anything. She watched Vincent, wondering, Is he?

  11

  * * *

  VINCENT TOLD THE BARTENDER at the Holmhurst he’d won 470 bucks playing blackjack. Just like that, in about three minutes. The bartender told him he’d lose it before he was through. Vincent said, no, he was going to buy some warm clothes as soon as the stores opened. He felt good. It was a snug, knotty-pine bar, more like somebody’s rec room than a saloon, and it was cold and rainy outside. He ordered another scotch and told the guy who came in and sat next to him at the bar he’d won 470 bucks at Spade’s Boardwalk. Just like that, in about three minutes. The guy said, big fucking deal; you want to keep it, get out
of town, fast. The guy was a blackjack dealer at Resorts International, across the street. He had been a floorman at Tropicana, but he’d tapped out a dealer for looking away from the cards and it turned out the dealer had more juice than he did, so listen to this, he got fired for doing his job. Politics, man. Who you know. You don’t party with the right people, kiss your ass good-bye. It was 12:30. Linda should be here any minute. See, you got the dealer looking at the cards and the players. You got the floorman looking at the dealer. You got the pit boss looking at the floorman. You got the shift manager looking at the pit boss. Craps, you got the boxman looking at the stickman. You got the assistant casino manager looking at the shift manager. Wait, you got the slot manager in there. No, fuck the slot manager. You got the casino manager looking at the assistant manager. You got the vice-president of casino operations looking at the casino manager—

  Vincent said, “Excuse me, but I have to meet somebody,” and got out of there.

  He waited in the lobby, pacing, looking at old paintings, about to give up when Linda arrived a little before one. Everytime he saw her she looked different: a little weird this evening, wearing her stage makeup with the raincoat and jeans. Seeing the look in her eyes he said, “What’d I do?” She didn’t answer. She sat down at one end of a leather couch and lighted a cigarette.

  “I won four hundred seventy bucks playing blackjack. You know how long it took?”

  “I got fired,” Linda said. “You know how long that took? I’m the only thing those Jamaican yahoos had going for ’em and I get canned.”

  “Why? What’d you do?”

  “What do you mean, what’d I do?”

  “Who told you?”

  The kingfish—what’s his name, Cedric, the head Tuna. Man, that burns me up. I should’ve quit, you know it? But I didn’t. Jesus, get dropped out of that outfit—it doesn’t do a lot for your pride. Cedric goes, ‘They nothing I can do, mon. It’s the monagement give me the instruction.’ “

  “Donovan?”

  “Probably, the son of a bitch.”

  “But he’s the head guy, chairman of the board.”

  Linda looked up at him. She said, “He brought Iris here, didn’t he? All the way from Puerto Rico?”

  Vincent had remained standing, looking at her dark hair, at her face now, her painted eyes staring at him. He said, “What do you want to drink?”

  “Scotch.”

  “Don’t move.”

  He got two of them, doubles over ice, and brought the drinks out of the happy, crowded little bar to the empty lobby, to the girl in her stage makeup sitting alone. He pulled a leather chair over close, wanting to watch her face.

  She said, “I wasn’t that bad.” Quiet now, subdued.

  “Bad? You were the show. They loved you.”

  “That’s why I’m thinking there’s more to it.” She blew cigarette smoke past him and it smelled good.

  “Maybe the head Tuna didn’t like you cutting in on his act.”

  “No, I believe Cedric. He had nothing to do with it. He was even starting to come on to me.”

  “He was? . . .”

  “That’s why I think it’s something else.” She looked at him, silent for a moment. “It might have to do with you. The two of us.”

  Vincent didn’t move, sitting forward in the deep chair. “Tell me why.”

  “If we were seen together. In the lounge, or maybe even at the funeral home.”

  “We were the only ones there.”

  “Somebody could’ve looked in.”

  “Who are we talking about, Donovan?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “And if he saw us together—what?”

  “You’re Iris’s friend. You come all the way here from Puerto Rico and who’s the first person you talk to? Me.”

  “And that’s why you were fired?”

  “It’s possible. To get rid of me. I can’t hang around here if I’m not working.”

  It was getting better. “All right, say Donovan saw us together. Why would that bother him?”

  “You’re a cop, aren’t you? For all he knows I could be telling you things I shouldn’t.”

  Better and better. Vincent said, “Let me have one of your cigarettes.” She handed him the pack. He lighted one, inhaled deeply—surprised at the sudden cold hit of menthol—and looked at the pack. Kools. He was smoking again, just like that. He said, “Donovan, even if he saw me, doesn’t know I’m a cop. I’ve never met the man.”

  She said, “Then they’re afraid I might tell the other cops. I don’t know—I’ve got this feeling I’m being watched.”

  “You talked to them, the police.”

  “They talked to me.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “You’re damn right I am.”

  “Somebody advise you not to say anything?”

  She shook her head. “I knew better. Once I found out what Iris was doing. She didn’t tell me. It was one of the guys in the band, a Puerto Rican, the only one Iris was the least bit close to.”

  “He tell the cops anything?”

  “Are you kidding? Those guys—they named their band La Tuna after a federal prison where they met, the whole bunch of them doing time for narcotics. The Puerto Rican, he thought I was like Iris’s big sister, so he said things when he was stoned he assumed I knew about. She was telling him everything.”

  “What was she doing?”

  Linda hesitated, on the edge of involving herself. He watched her light a cigarette and was aware of a tender feeling, looking into those painted eyes. She said, “I could be making a big mistake.”

  Vincent said, “She was a party girl, she entertained high rollers . . . What was she doing in that apartment?”

  Linda exhaled a slow stream of cigarette smoke, almost a sigh.

  “They used the apartment for illegal gambling. They set up a crap game for this particular guy who must be very important but doesn’t speak much English. That’s why Iris was there. The guy is from Colombia, Bogotá, which should tell you something. The Puerto Rican was dying to meet him, score some cocaine. Iris couldn’t stand the guy. He made her take her clothes off, because he said a naked girl brought him luck. He’d rub the dice in her pubic hair.”

  For a moment Vincent wondered if the guy had won or lost. But something didn’t make sense. He said, “How do you know that?”

  “Iris told her friend, the Puerto Rican.”

  “But she stayed in the apartment . . .”

  “She was there with the guy two nights in a row. She told her friend about the first night and said she had to go back, but it was okay, the guy gave her five hundred bucks. Even though he lost about a hundred thousand.”

  “The guy spend the night with her?”

  “The first night—I don’t know. She got home about five.”

  “The second night,” Vincent said, “she stayed. She was there all day. Let’s say she was. And somebody came back to see her that night.”

  “Or somebody stayed with her,” Linda said.

  “Who was there? Who brought the Colombian?”

  “Well, he had a suite at Spade’s. They flew him up from Miami in their private jet, comped the room, meals, everything. If you can afford to lose a hundred grand, Vincent, it’s all on the house.”

  “We talking about Donovan now? He set it up?”

  “Or Jackie Garbo. He runs the casino. But Donovan would have to know about it, it’s his hotel.”

  “Was Donovan at the apartment?”

  “I don’t know, it’s possible.”

  “Or Jackie—what’s the guy’s name, Garbo?”

  “Yeah, it’s more likely he was there.”

  “Who else?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Local people?”

  “What do you mean, local people?”

  “Guy by the name of Ricky Catalina?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Vincent eased back in the chair, finished his drin
k. He saw the condominium in Ventnor, the carpeted lobby, Jimmy Dunne’s neat desk and wondered what Ricky looked like—wanting to picture him in that lobby. Then wondered what a loan-shark collector would be doing there, acting as doorman. The lookout. Just a guy in the ranks, one of the soldiers. But he wouldn’t be there unless someone he worked for was upstairs. Vincent began to see a connection that made sense. The wise guys doing business with the Colombian; he was their supplier. They partied together when he came to town, arranged for Donovan or Garbo to bank an illegal game where Iris had to take her clothes off to bring the guy luck. Vincent was thinking he would like to try his luck with the Colombian, he sure would. If it wasn’t too late. They could disappear on you. He had known a few Colombians who posted half-million dollar bonds and took off in the night. It was only money. What this town was all about, money. Nothing else.

  Linda was staring at him. She said, “There was another girl there.” Staring at him with those painted eyes. He watched her raise her glass and hesitate, looking off now.

  Vincent waited.

  “But I can’t think of her name. I know who she is, I saw her in the lounge with Jackie. She was Miss Oklahoma about five or six years ago.”

  “Take your time,” Vincent said.

  Teddy could see his mom’s scalp her curlers were turned so tight, wound up in thin tufts of her gold-colored hair. Coming home he’d thought it was a wig her hair was so bright. She told him, no, she still had her crowning glory, she had to just touch it up now and then. He said to her bird face glistening with beauty cream, covers up to her chin, “ ‘Night, Mom. Don’t let the bedbugs bite you,” closed her door and went out to the living room wondering if you could taste chloral hydrate in warm milk.

  Get some up in Boystown, New York Avenue, those cute guys had anything you wanted, knockout drops, percs, street ludes, all kinds of meth.

  Buddy cocked his green-and-orange head and stepped sideways along his perch saying, “Magic! Magic!” his parrot voice sounding like a movie cartoon witch.

  Teddy said, “ ‘Ey, Buddy, ‘ey, Buddy boy. How’s my old buddy? I bought a handicraft bird looks just like you this PR girl was suppose to deliver, but I guess she never made it. You coulda played with it, Buddy, had yourself a little playmate.”