by James Swain
He emerged a few minutes later with a cardboard tray containing four cups of coffee and a bag of doughnuts. The sun was setting, and the fractured light lit up the sky. He offered the food to his partners. As he did, a tiny sparkle of light on the roof of their rental caught his eye. It was there for an instant, then disappeared.
Nunzie grabbed the bag out of Gerry’s hand, and peeked inside.
“Jelly doughnuts. These all for me?”
“Share them,” Gerry said. He handed Vinny the tray of drinks, then started to take off his shoes and socks. The three men stared at him.
“What are you doing?” Vinny asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re taking off your shoes and socks. You going to walk around barefoot?”
“That’s right.”
Gerry climbed onto the hood of their rental, then slid his body onto the roof. In its center he found a small, circular reflector similar to the kind used on bicycles. He peeled it off the roof, then climbed down.
“Look what I found,” he said.
The three men stared at the reflector while eating the doughnuts.
“The reflector can be seen from up in the sky,” Gerry explained. “We were being followed by helicopter. That’s how the construction worker from Voodoo Lounge traced our car.”
Vinny took the reflector from Gerry’s hand, and stared at it.
“Jinky was using a helicopter?”
“Not Jinky,” Gerry said. “The cops. This is how the cops follow people.”
Vinny stopped eating his doughnut, and his face turned pale. Gerry knew exactly what Vinny was thinking, because it was the same thing he was thinking. Jinky Harris had a cop with the Metro Las Vegas Police on his payroll, and was using that person to track their whereabouts with a helicopter, then send hitmen to whack them. They didn’t stand a chance against someone with those kinds of resources.
“So, what do we do?” Vinny asked.
Gerry took the last doughnut from the bag and bit into it. There was only one thing to do, and that was find his father, and ask for his help. He’d been doing that most of his life, and his old man had never let him down.
“Call my father,” Gerry said.
“So, call him.”
A white Impala pulled into the gas station and parked in front of the convenience store. It was an unmarked police car, and a uniformed sheriff got out. He touched the brim of his hat as he passed them, and entered the store.
Gerry took the reflector out of Vinny’s fingers, and walked over to the Impala. He glanced inside the store, and saw that the sheriff was at the counter with his back to him. Gerry placed the reflector onto the Impala’s roof, and pressed down firmly. Then he walked over to his friends.
“That should keep them off our trail for a while,” he said.
Part II
Juice
26
“I think I’m being watched,” Gloria Curtis said. Valentine had insisted on paying their dinner bill, and was struggling to figure the tip. The service had bordered on comical, with none of their courses coming out when they were supposed to. But the waiter still had to pay his rent and put food on the table, and Valentine didn’t see any point in penalizing him just because the guy hadn’t been properly trained. He calculated 20 percent before tax, and added it to the bill.
Then he looked into Gloria’s eyes. They were a hazel green, and very soft. She had a face that got prettier every time he looked at her. They’d been eating dinner for an hour, and not once had the conversation lagged.
“By who?” he asked.
She’d lit up a cigarette after they’d finished their desserts, and it had taken all his resolve not to bum one off her. She drew back in her chair, and took a deep drag.
“Someone inside the hotel.”
“Any idea who it might be?”
She shrugged, and seemed to be wrestling with how to proceed.
“I don’t know if I should be telling you this,” she said.
He studied her face. He’d learned a long time ago that a woman wouldn’t confide in a man until she trusted him. It didn’t matter who that man was—a cop, a lawyer, or even a judge. If she didn’t think he was trustworthy, she wouldn’t talk. He sensed the same thing was taking place with Gloria. She’d spent dinner getting to know him, but still had reservations. He decided to take a stab in the dark.
“I was hired by the Nevada Gaming Control Board to investigate the tournament,” he said quietly. “I don’t work for the hotel, or the tournament, or the casino. I’ve also never been employed by any of them before.”
“No ties, huh?”
“None whatsoever.”
She crushed her cigarette in the ashtray. “So what you’re saying is, if I can’t trust you, there probably isn’t anyone in the hotel I can trust.”
“That would be a fair assumption,” he said. Then he added, “If there’s someone spying on you, I’d be happy to help you get to the bottom of it.”
“You can do that?”
He glanced at his cell phone lying on the table. As a rule, he kept his cell turned off, and in his pocket. But being that his son was in Las Vegas and had hitmen trailing him, he’d decided to make an exception and keep his phone within reach.
“With a single phone call,” he said.
Her face took on a new look. “Really? You have that kind of juice?”
“Yes,” he said.
The waiter came and took the bill. He thanked Valentine, and as he was walking away, opened up the bill holder and stared at the tip. Satisfied, he began to whistle.
“Looks like you made his day,” Gloria said.
No sooner was the waiter gone than a Hispanic bus boy appeared. He cleared off the table, oblivious to the fact that they were still sitting there. Valentine decided it was time to give the maitre d’ a piece of his mind when Gloria stopped him. She wanted to talk, and suggested the bar next door.
A hostess dressed in black greeted them at the bar’s entrance. She explained that the bar was full, and she couldn’t let them in without reservations. Valentine slipped a twenty into her hand, and she led them inside and seated them at an empty table.
The bar was typical of Las Vegas drinking holes, and filled with loud, obnoxious men. A bottle blonde with gravity-defying breasts was behind the bar, simultaneously mixing martinis, Manhattans, and Latin-style drinks as the men cheered her on.
“Scotch and soda,” Gloria told the waitress.
“I’ll have a water,” Valentine said.
“Perrier or sparkling?” the waitress asked. She was also in black, from her nail polish to her nose ring.
“Tap, if you have it,” he said.
The waitress frowned, then picked up the drinks menu from the table, studying it to see if his request was printed with the other outrageously expensive drinks.
“I’ll have to ask the bartender,” she said.
“Please,” he said.
Gloria waited until the waitress was out of earshot before slapping the table and breaking out in uncontrollable giggles. Valentine was glad one of them found the situation funny. It made it almost tolerable.
“Who do you think is watching you?” he asked.
Gloria lit another cigarette. “Let me tell you what happened, and then maybe you can tell me. I got a call from Zack in my room this afternoon. He said another dealer in the tournament had passed out, and been sent to the hospital. We decided to go downstairs, and check it out. When I was in the elevator, I realized I’d left my wallet on the bedside table. I went back to my room, and found two hotel employees inside. They were standing by the closet, and jumped when I came in. They claimed they were restocking the minibar, but that was bogus.”
“How can you be sure?”
“They’d closed the door to my room. They’re not supposed to do that when they’re servicing a room. One of them was wearing a tool belt. He was going to open my room safe.” She glanced at the bar, then looked at
him. “I had my notes and copies of my interviews locked in the safe.”
“Did you take them out?”
“Yes. They’re hidden now.”
What Gloria was describing was a serious crime. Hotel employees could not open room safes unless the person occupying the room requested it. Employees who got caught breaking this rule not only got fired, but often went to jail. The waitress appeared with their drinks balanced on a tray.
“Tap water is on the house,” she said.
The waitress left, and they clinked glasses with smiles on their faces.
“Based upon what you just told me, I’d say someone from the hotel is keeping tabs on you,” Valentine said. “They legally can do that a number of ways. They can listen to your voice messages, and they can monitor your room through the door lock. Each time the door is opened, it’s seen. There are also surveillance cameras in the hallways which can follow you around.”
“This is all legal?”
“It is in Las Vegas.”
“You don’t approve of that, do you?”
“Not in the least. But I don’t make the rules.”
Gloria held her drink in one hand, her burning cigarette in the other. It was a pose straight out of a Humphrey Bogart movie, and he didn’t think she was doing it on purpose.
“Who’s behind it? The tournament?”
“That would be my guess,” he said. “You aired the piece with Rufus, and all hell broke loose. Someone at the tournament pressured the hotel to start following you, and maybe break into your room safe. It’s not a pretty picture.”
“You mean for me?”
He nodded. He didn’t want to tell Gloria that Las Vegas was notorious for keeping scandals out of the news. The city spent a hundred million dollars a year marketing itself, and the money bought a lot of favors with the press. Gloria glanced at his cell phone, which he’d placed on the table when they’d sat down.
“Can you really call someone, and make this stop?”
Valentine nodded again. He would call Bill Higgins later, and tell him Gloria was being electronically tailed by the hotel for no good reason. Bill would send his agents to Celebrity’s surveillance control room, and have them read the riot act to Celebrity’s technicians. Hopefully, that would stop the problem.
Gloria smiled at him with her eyes. Her face had become enveloped in a curl of cigarette smoke, and it gave her features a dreamy quality.
Valentine’s cell phone began to move across the table, and they both stared at it. He remembered that he’d put it on vibrate, and he picked it up and stared at its face. It was Gerry, the prodigal son. He answered it.
“What’s up?” Valentine said.
“Frank just shot a guy to death,” his son said.
Valentine brought his hand up to his eyes. Just when everything was moving along in brilliant fashion, his son spoiled the party. Sensing his distress, Gloria shot him a concerned look.
“Where are you?” Valentine asked.
“At a gas station on Sahara, just off the strip,” his son said.
“I’ll be right over.”
“Thanks, Pop. Thanks a lot.”
Valentine killed the connection while shaking his head.
“Is something wrong?” Gloria asked.
“It’s my son.”
“Problem?”
“Yes. A big problem.”
“Well, he certainly called the right person,” she said.
27
Mark Perrier, Celebrity’s forty-two-year-old general manager, sat in his office on the top floor of the casino, staring at the burnt orange desert that was his property’s backyard. The desert stretched as far as his eyes could see, and he often imagined himself taking a long walk across it. Maybe someday, he thought.
His eyes fell on the spreadsheet lying on his desk. It contained yesterday’s take from the casino, and showed the money they’d made for slots, video poker, keno, the Asian games, Caribbean stud poker, blackjack, craps, and roulette. The total was one million, one hundred thousand dollars, or fifty thousand dollars over their nut. The casino had made money yesterday, but just barely.
He pulled off his necktie, then took a bottle of Scotch out of his desk and poured a finger into a glass on his desk, then gulped it down. The Scotch made his throat burn; he shut his eyes, and felt himself relax. He didn’t think anyone in his life understood the pressure he was under.
His wife, Tori, was a perfect example. She looked at the opening of Celebrity’s Las Vegas hotel like the opening of any other hotel that her husband had been involved with. Mark had opened five-star hotels from Perth to Paris, and all of them had been wildly successful. Why should this be any different?
His bosses at corporate headquarters in Chicago also didn’t understand. To them, Celebrity’s Las Vegas hotel was one more casino in the chain. They didn’t want to discuss the fact that Celebrity had never run a property in Las Vegas, the company content to stay in smaller, less competitive markets. They had never swum with sharks this large.
Celebrity’s stockholders didn’t understand, either. When construction of Celebrity’s Las Vegas hotel had been announced two years ago, the company’s stock had shot up 20 percent and become the darling of Wall Street. The stockholders were banking on the property to pay huge dividends, and had no idea how tough the market really was.
But Perrier knew better. He’d been a hotel guy his whole life, and had cut his teeth running resorts all over the world. He could spot a good property in a minute. It was all about location, location, location. Everything else was camouflage.
Celebrity’s Las Vegas hotel was a dog. The property was four miles from the strip, which was too damn far. His bosses had tried to buy property on the strip, but had been turned off by the high prices. Instead, they’d bought a hundred-acre tract out in the desert, and called it paradise.
The other problem was the staff. Corporate had promised to transfer the best people from their other casinos to run the Las Vegas hotel. Only no one had wanted to come, forcing Perrier to fill hundreds of positions with retreads and high school dropouts.
Which left Perrier sitting on a nine hundred million dollar white elephant. Long term, the hotel wouldn’t survive. But short term was a different story. The World Poker Showdown was being shown live on national television. It was the best advertising going, and would keep the place filled long enough for him to find another hotel to run.
The phone on his desk rang. His private line.
“Perrier here.”
“Are you watching Valentine?” his caller asked.
“That you, Jasper?”
Karl Jasper growled at him. He was the founder and president of the WPS, and as trustworthy as a snake oil salesman. On television, Jasper projected the image of a devoted family man and all-around good guy. In person, he was a foul-mouthed thug, and would go to any extreme to get what he wanted.
“Are you watching him or not?” Jasper asked.
Perrier played with the keyboard on his desk. A picture appeared on his computer screen, showing Valentine in the rooftop bar with Gloria Curtis.
“Yes. He’s with the newswoman, Gloria Curtis.”
“Are you taping their conversation? I want to know what they talking about. That woman is poison, and so is he.”
Perrier shut his eyes. Jasper had a pattern. He would ask you to break the law, then explain why it had to be done. The reasons were always logical.
“Wiretapping is illegal in Nevada,” Perrier said.
“I thought that was just for telephones,” Jasper said.
“All private conversations.”
“What’s he doing now?”
Perrier opened his eyes. Valentine was talking to the waitress. The resolution of the picture was so clear, Perrier could see a tiny stain on his blue shirt.
“Nothing much,” he said.
“I want you to keep watching him,” Jasper said. “This goddamn situation has to go away. Rufus Steele is stirring the pot, and Valentine is
sniffing around the bushes like a bloodhound. That son-of-a-bitch could spoil a picnic if you gave him the chance. He’s cost more casinos money than any cheater he’s ever busted.”
“Cost them how?” Perrier asked.
“By making them play by the rules,” Jasper said. “What’s he doing now?”
Perrier stared at the screen. The waitress had brought the check, and Valentine and Gloria were fighting over it, only they were doing it in a way that was making them both laugh. They liked each other. He groaned.
“What’s the matter?” Jasper asked.
“You really want to know?” Perrier asked.
“Yes.”
“This tournament is what’s the matter,” Perrier said.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll tell you. First, your tournament director screws up, and lets DeMarco play with his friends. Now everyone thinks he’s a cheater. Then, your dealers forget to get Sheriff’s Cards from the Metro Las Vegas Police Department, and the chief of police is calling me every hour. Oh yeah, and your dealers keep dropping like flies. I feel like I’m sitting on a nuclear bomb, Jasper.”
“Last night’s ratings were through the roof,” Jasper said.
Perrier didn’t think Jasper had heard a word of what he’d just said. Television ratings were all Jasper talked about, and cared about.
“So I heard,” Perrier said.
“Where is Valentine now?”
Perrier stared at the screen. Valentine and Gloria Curtis had settled the bill and were getting up from their table, sharing meaningful looks.
“He’s leaving the bar,” he said.
“I need to get him out of Las Vegas,” Jasper said. “And that goes for Rufus Steele, and that newscaster woman. My ass is on the line, and so is yours, my friend.”
Perrier shook his head. One of his great assets was his ability to watch his mouth. Then he’d had drinks with Jasper, and let it slip that he thought the hotel was a dog. He’d regretted it ever since.
