“I don’t like the sound of that.”
She shrugged. “Those two whales from Japan got pretty loud about the time I came on this morning.”
“Happy loud or mad loud?”
“Oh, they finally lost more than a million bucks apiece just like good little whales, but—”
“Lost?” Shane cut in. “Last I heard at least one of them was winning.”
“The winning streak broke about four a.m. We’re up two million now. But they were still whiskey-happy and ready for action.”
“That’s what our hospitality room is for.”
The plush room was heavily soundproofed and out of the way. More than one VIP guest had slept off a long gambling or drinking streak in the hospitality room. For those who refused to leave a game, the game was moved right along with the drunks out of the casino’s mainstream action.
“They wouldn’t leave the table until their croupier offered to go with them for a breakfast of pickled fish, boiled rice, seaweed, and more baccarat,” Susan continued. “And whiskey, of course.”
“Where is everybody now?”
“Last I checked, the chef you assigned to the whales when they arrived was wielding a knife over something raw and putting it on top of sticky rice. The croupier was trying not to gag on pickled fish while dealing the whales yet another losing round of baccarat.”
“Which croupier? Finnigan?”
“How’d you guess?”
“He’s the only croupier we had on last night who has the skill to deal for whales, the charm to ease them out of public view if they get drunk, and the stomach to eat pickled fish at four a.m. just to keep them company. Slide one of my personal thousand-dollar markers into his pay envelope. Sometimes losers forget to tip.”
Susan flipped open the side pocket of her purse and said a few quick words into the built-in recorder. “Anything else?”
“Find out why we weren’t notified by other casinos about the presence of a new techno-team in town.”
“Maybe we were the first they hit.”
“Maybe. We’ll know soon enough.”
Susan spoke a few more hurried words into the recorder.
“What was the follow-up on the trash fire?” he asked.
“Busboy was sneaking a smoke and tossed a butt in the trash bin.”
“Ex-busboy.”
“As of this morning, six a.m.,” she agreed.
Shane made another circuit of the casino, noted that the woman’s hot streak at craps was holding and the crowd had tripled. Nothing attracted people like a big winner. Smiling, he headed toward the kitchen. Kitchens, actually; the Golden Fleece not only had its own perpetual all-you-can-eat buffet but also five world-class restaurants, each with its own kitchen staff and temperamental chefs.
Before the days of the megacasinos, food in Vegas was cheap and plentiful, a loss leader for the casinos. Not any longer. Not on the Strip. Here the restaurants, like the hotels, were expected to show a profit along with delivering four- and five-star cuisine. It was part of the luxury experience that the biggest resort/casinos delivered to a wealthy international audience. Because the average visitor to Vegas only stayed three days and only gambled two hours per day, it was necessary to ensure that a hotel/casino’s guests didn’t have to go anywhere else for anything else—food, entertainment, high-end shopping, opulent spas, everything under one huge roof.
And all corridors led back to the casino.
The Golden Fleece wasn’t unique in its design. Every other megacasino funneled people into the gambling area. The profits from hotel, entertainment, shopping, and food varied with the season or the economy; the gambling odds didn’t. No matter what the window dressing, Vegas, like Monte Carlo, was about gambling.
“What was the follow-up on the guest who claimed that the escalator jerked her off her feet?” Shane asked as they took a staff-only elevator down to the kitchens.
“About what you’d expect. We ran the tapes, saw her ‘fall’ two or three times until she managed to attract attention, and then the fun began.”
“Fun.” His mouth turned down.
He expected the card mechanics and the cons, the petty grifters and the big ones. It was Vegas, after all. But the carnival of ambulance-chasing lawyers and senior citizens taking well-timed pratfalls in hope of hitting a different kind of jackpot really annoyed Shane. No matter how many times it happened, people didn’t seem to figure out that everything in the Golden Fleece but the toilet stalls and the guest rooms were under 24/7 camera surveillance.
Shane glanced at his watch, wondered what had happened to the time, and mentally juggled his schedule. No matter how he tweaked it, he couldn’t fit in the kitchens this morning. In ten minutes he had an appointment with his curator. It wouldn’t be a pleasant meeting. Or a short one.
It was past time for Risa to come up with a centerpiece for his Druid Gold show. He needed gold artifacts that could compete with the Fabergé exhibit that would open in the Wildest Dream on New Year’s Eve. The fact that, once again, Gail was going to a lot of expense just to get in his face didn’t change the reality of it. He needed a showstopper.
And Risa was damn well going to find it for him.
Chapter 12
Camp Verde
November 1
Morning
Gold lay in gleaming array across the frayed chenille bedspread that Cherelle had jerked over the rumpled sheets. There were twenty-seven extraordinary and eerie pieces of metal art.
“What do you suppose they used this big ol’ thing for?” she muttered, staring at the most impressive piece of gold.
It was a heavy gold sculpture shaped like a bent totem pole. Its base started out as a man’s head repeated three times in a design that spiraled up from the bottom, which had a wooden core. At the point where the faces would have wrapped around each other to repeat the design, they flowed upward into another spiraling shape that suggested three long-necked birds or snakes, which spiraled into three wolves, and then the wolves flowed into a rutting bull three times repeated, always spiraling upward like a dream or a nightmare until the design ended in a bird’s thrice-sculpted head whose staring eyes were human skulls and from whose thick beaks dangled limp human figures.
“Man, whatever they were smoking really fucked with their minds,” Cherelle said, rubbing the goose bumps on her arms. “Hooo-eee.”
But the eerie, bent totem pole was gold. Even though half of it was filled with some kind of wood, the gold itself had to weigh four, maybe five pounds. That, and the gold neckring she had belted the old man with, accounted for maybe a quarter of the weight of the whole treasure. The golden knife with the odd curved shape and the gem-set gold sheath were no lightweights either.
The rest of the gold was pretty much jewelry—armbands or bracelets, a finger ring for a woman with symbols incised inside its broad interior, fabulous pins as big as her hand. Only one of the pieces was set with stones. Others had enamel that gleamed as bright as any gem. Most of them had designs or symbols that made her head ache when she tried to follow them.
She didn’t need that. Her head had been screaming like a pig since the channeling session with Virgil.
She was grateful that other than being creepy, handling the gold now didn’t burn her the way she vaguely remembered being burned when she grabbed the biggest neckring and clobbered the old man. But she wasn’t going to think about that. She didn’t like remembering what had happened a few hours ago, so she concentrated on the treasure.
The six collars or neckrings or whatever could have been choker-type necklaces, but they would have been a bitch to put on and take off. Then there were the figurines of animals or demons or body parts or whatever. Each statuette could have fit in her hand, yet the detail on some of them was enough to give her eyestrain trying to figure out what it meant.
But the pieces of gold that really excited her were the heavy sculpture that reminded her of a totem pole, the piece that looked like a small gold jug with a hinged lid, t
he oddly curved dagger in a golden sheath, and the mask of a man or a god or a devil whose bleak, empty eyes always seemed to be watching her no matter where she stood in the motel room.
Creepy or not, it was quite a haul. As far as she was concerned, the gold artifacts were as good or better than anything in one of Virgil’s books.
That meant money, pure and simple and very sweet.
Thinking about money, looking at the gold, she fiddled with a long blond curl that was part of her painstakingly casual hairdo—three-quarters swept up and the rest dangling, tempting a man to toy with the locks and the skin beneath. The curl she was winding around her finger usually lay in the shadowy cleavage revealed by the deep V neck of her red sweater, which strained over her chest until her sheer black bra showed through beneath the knit. The sweater was tucked into jeans so tight they should have split. The soles of her scuffed white sling-back heels were shadow-thin. She swore if she stepped on a coin she could tell the date it had been minted.
Absently her fingers tested her belly and her butt. Gravity might be winning the battle of the bulge, but she still had a body that turned heads and made men happy to buy her a drink or a bit of blow. In fact, she could use more of the white stuff right now. Her head was killing her. Even some more cheap crack would be okay.
Too bad the cocaine was gone to the last speck. Not that there had been enough of it for two anyway. Tim wouldn’t be happy that she had smoked it, but he would survive. He probably wouldn’t even notice until it was too late to get mad.
She glanced out the window into the parking lot, where gaps in the pavement ran like thin black snakes across the sun-bleached macadam. Tim should be back with breakfast—and Socks—any minute. Then there would be hell to pay, and cocaine in any form wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Socks would want a third of the action, and she was damned if he would get it. This was her score, not his. He hadn’t been there.
He hadn’t killed anyone.
Abruptly she turned away from the window and paced into the bathroom. She didn’t want to think about that endless time when she had been screaming in the center of nothing, screaming and there wasn’t any sound, just the certainty that she was screaming and screaming and screaming. A pipeful of crack and four fingers of vodka had chased the memories. For a while.
She hadn’t meant to kill Virgil. Hell, she couldn’t even remember doing it.
But he sure enough was dead.
“Well, nothing I can do about that now,” Cherelle told her image in the dull mirror. “I have to think of me, and to hell with everyone else. Even Tim.”
She went to the bed and began gathering up a generous half of the gold pieces, generous in both number and weight of the pieces. She was greedy in her division, but she wasn’t stupid. She left twelve articles for Tim, including an eye-catching armlet, a necklace, the three smallest pins, and something that looked like a pecker and balls. Reluctantly she added four of the small figurines, because they were the kind of gold Socks would understand. Portable and a nice weight in the hand.
Tim’s share fit easily into one of the small, battered wooden cartons. She wrapped the rest of the gold in dirty clothes and packed it inside one of her two beat-up wheeled suitcases. If she had thought she could get away with taking all of the gold, she would have, but she was smarter than that. Even if Tim would stand still for her holding everything until it was fenced, Socks wouldn’t. He was a real junkyard dog.
So she would throw him a golden bone.
After she locked the suitcase full of gold in the trunk of her car, she stuck a spare key in her bra. She was forever losing keys, so she stashed spares everywhere. Carrying extras in her bra was easier than breaking into her own apartment or hot-wiring her own car every time she had a brain fart and forgot where she had left something.
She opened the second, smaller suitcase, set it on the floor next to a coffee table that wobbled, and looked around for anything important she might have forgotten. The first thing she saw was the stack of newly printed pamphlets advertising Tim as a spiritual adviser and herself as a “clear, clean” channel. With a smile of contempt she knocked the stack off the table. Pieces of paper flew and slid everywhere, including one that landed in her suitcase.
She dumped shoes and candy bars on top of the brightly colored pamphlet, then tampons, shampoo, underwear, makeup, toothbrush, everything she owned. When she was finished, she bounced on the suitcase lid until she could shut it. Only one of the wheels still worked, but it was better than nothing. With a squeak and a snarl the suitcase limped after her out the door and into the parking lot.
Tim and Socks drove up just as she was shoving the suitcase into the backseat of her car. Socks was driving the Pontiac Firebird that he spent more time underneath than inside of. It was neon purple, had fat tires, and could pass anything on the road but a gas station. Socks himself was less flashy—medium height, bulky, dark hair, dark eyes, and a firm belief that every female in the universe would benefit from a session with his dick.
Tim got out, balancing three coffees and a sack full of doughnuts. “Packed already?”
“My stuff,” she said. “You want yours packed, you do it.”
He gave her a hard kiss. “Knew I should have screwed you when we got back this morning. You get real bitchy when you go without.”
She made a show of shoving him away, but in the process one of her hands just happened to slide down to his crotch. She squeezed him where he liked it, the way he liked it.
“Watch that coffee,” Socks said, slamming the door of the Pontiac. “Paid five bucks for it.”
If he hadn’t said anything, Cherelle would have stopped at a playful squeeze. But Socks was forever trying to come between her and Tim, so she settled against her lover for a thorough rubbing. As always he responded with impressive speed. No doubt about it, the best part of this boy was below his belt.
“Gimme that.” Socks grabbed the teetering cardboard tray of drinks out of Tim’s hands and headed for the open motel door. “You wanna hump her in the parking lot, knock yourself out. I’m having breakfast.”
Cherelle licked Tim’s lips, gave him a slow stroke, and whispered huskily, “Wanna?”
“You ever know me when I didn’t?”
“Nope.” It made up for a lot, including his lack of brains . . . most of the time. With a final measured squeeze, she stepped back. “Soon as we unload Socks, I’m gonna suck you dry.”
“Uh, he’s coming to Vegas with us.”
She wasn’t surprised. She wasn’t happy either. Eyes narrowed, she crossed her arms under her breasts. “You told him.”
Tim shuffled from one foot to the other. Then he shrugged. “Hell, he’s my buddy.”
Sometimes Cherelle wondered just how close a buddy good old Socks was, but she didn’t push it. Men as beautiful as Tim often were switch-hitters. The good news was that he had never been too used up to take her on, so maybe it was just the jailhouse thing with Socks, like fraternity boys or soldiers bonding because they all ate the same shit to get where they were.
“He wasn’t with us last night,” she said.
“We still owe him for the blow.”
She let out a hissing breath and thought fast. Cocaine was the major reason she put up with Socks. He never seemed to have any trouble getting it, and he didn’t charge them an arm and a leg. “He’ll get paid. He always does.”
Socks stuck his head out of the motel room. “Hey, I thought you said you had something good to show me.”
“In your dreams,” Cherelle muttered, but she started toward the room. It would be just like Socks to yell questions about stolen gold across the parking lot. Tim had his faults in the brain department, but Socks could be severely stupid. If he hadn’t been connected, someone would have whacked him long ago.
“You coming?” Socks asked impatiently.
“You asking about our sex life?” Cherelle retorted.
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” Tim said. “She’s just
being cute.”
With a muttered word, Cherelle left Tim behind and stalked into the motel room. She lifted covered coffee cups until she found the only one that was still full. She took a sip and almost spit it all over Socks. No sugar, no cream, and he damn well knew how she liked it. Just because he and Tim drank theirs straight up didn’t mean that she had to.
“So where is it?” Socks said. “Tim wants more blow, and I ain’t doing nothing until I’m paid for the last time.”
“In the box.” She pointed toward the wooden carton that sat on the floor next to the rumpled bed.
Socks nudged it with his foot. “That all? Tim said there were three boxes.”
“They weren’t nearly full, so I put it together. One’s easier to carry than three.”
“Huh.” Socks looked dubiously at the box. “Don’t look like much from here.”
Tim sauntered into the room and stuffed a doughnut into his mouth. He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he knew it would be entertaining. He loved watching Cherelle rip someone a new asshole—as long as that someone wasn’t him. As for the gold, whether she had it or Socks had it, Tim would get his share.
“How full is not full?” Socks asked.
“How full is not full?” she mocked. “Man, we have a fucking philosopher here.”
“Huh?” Socks frowned.
So did Tim.
Times like this, she really missed Risa. The two of them used to fall on the ground laughing about things no one else was smart enough to get.
“Look,” Cherelle said, pointing toward the box. “That’s Tim’s half.”
Socks opened the box and started to dump it on the floor.
“Wait!” she shrieked. What a jerk-off. “You bang that stuff around, it won’t be worth as much, so don’t come whining to me about how Tim’s half isn’t worth what mine is worth.”
Tim headed off an argument by taking the box and unpacking its contents one at a time on the bed. Twelve pieces. A couple of armbands, some little statues, a neckring, some pins with red in their designs, a woman’s ring. It might have been half of the haul, but she hadn’t let him touch the boxes she carried, so he couldn’t be sure. Besides, it really didn’t matter. Whatever she had, sooner or later he had. Even at her bitchiest, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on his joystick.
Running Scared Page 8
