A Man to Waste Time On

by Nina Barrett

  “Lovely presentation.” McMasters reached out to touch the bow.

  “Thank you. Magdalena’s the artistic one. We made up fifty of them. Tom said you wanted to try them in some of your suites and on your breakfast buffet. We included some of our best-selling blends and a new one we’re debuting this week called Celestial Harmony.”

  “Thomas is game for new things. I don’t suppose he’d be in Vegas if he weren’t, would you? He’s an ex-Army ranger, you know. We both have that military background in common. Told me a bit about his service in Afghanistan when we met. Rough piece of business there. Managed to get his platoon out of a sticky situation, but at some cost to himself. He likes to do the outdoor thing. Rock climbing, hiking, and the like. He did an Iron Man competition once before things got so busy here at the hotel. Still wants to field a team to represent the Imperial in some kind of charity competition he hopes to set up to benefit the returning troops.”

  Army ranger? Charity sponsor? Maybe Tom had turned over a new leaf as Magdalena had suggested. Or sent one fluttering. Was it possible?

  She was aware of Gentleman Jim’s eyes watching her curiously as she frowned.

  ****

  He tucked his mail under his free arm, balanced the tux on its hanger, got the key into the lock, and nudged the door open. He tossed the mail on the kitchenette counter and hung the tux in the closet, taking a moment to smooth down its folds under the plastic. It wasn’t the latest style, but its classic appearance had appealed to him. Hopefully, it would to Cinnamon too.

  “You gotta use what you got, man.” He smiled to himself in encouragement.

  It looked like the building’s cleaning crew had been in. Not that there was ever much to do. The three-room unit was enough. He’d stayed at the Imperial for the last two years, moving from one room to another as renovations progressed. After last year’s grand opening, he’d found the apartment, a place away from work where he could decompress. His needs were simple. A shower and a bed were plenty. A room at the Imperial was still designated as his, functioning now as a place to keep a change of clothes and stow some personal items more than anything else.

  The kitchenette served as a place to stock refreshments and snacks. He opened the refrigerator and found the local root beer that had become his favorite since moving to Nevada. Using the magnetic church key on the door, he popped the top. He assumed the stove and oven worked although he’d never tested them. He knew the microwave could heat coffee, but that had been before he’d managed to track down Cinnamon Smith.

  Small world didn’t half describe how the last month had rocked his world. He took a seat on the couch, propped his legs up on the laminate coffee table, and ignored the blinking button on his answering machine. The furniture the apartment had come with had been fine. The television carried all the sports channels necessary for meaningful existence. He’d gotten by in army quarters most of his adult life. Hell, the room at the auto dealership back in Iowa had been better than some of the foster homes he’d been in, let alone life with Mom.

  He found his smart phone with his free hand and checked it. Meeting with the hotel’s auditors at their office in Henderson. That was over. He was clear until a get-together with the food service staff. Sometime he’d have to find time to brief Gentleman Jim about the auditors’ findings. He took another swallow. It hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped. Maybe finding Cinnamon again had lent a rosier hue to everything in his world than was really warranted.

  Oh, Jim would be philosophical. He could hear the old man’s voice now. “Look, my lad, we’ve just passed our first anniversary. Can’t expect to coin money right away. I mean look at Rome, right? Wasn’t built in a day. Let’s keep our chins up, you know, and soldier on.”

  But, he’d expected better. Letting Jim McMasters down was almost worse than hearing the disappointing news itself. How could everything seem to be going so well and they still come up short for the quarter?

  Think positive.

  After all, what were the odds of finding Cinnamon Smith again right under his nose? Even in Vegas where the longest of bets found takers? Leaving the Imperial last year on some long forgotten errand, he’d been crossing Fremont Street when ahead in the crowd a small figure caught his eye and he’d stopped frozen in mid-stride.

  There was something about the back of that head, the straight line of the shoulders, the tangle of dark blonde curls. Had his heart stopped as well? Whatever. He’d waited too long. Before he got in gear again, whoever it was had disappeared into the milling crowd around the Golden Nugget.

  Forget it. He’d been mistaken. It wasn’t her. Not a chance in the world he told himself. But if it had been, if she’d been one of the million tourists Las Vegas drew yearly… Unable to sleep that night, he’d pulled out the phone book and used his staff position at the Imperial to call other hotels and ask if they had a Cinnamon Smith registered.

  They didn’t.

  It hadn’t been her.

  Or if it was, she was under a different name. Maybe her husband’s. He refused to do another pointless Internet search.

  Over the years, Cinnamon Smith’s name hadn’t popped up in an on-line search. Ditto for Sage. Her parents were no longer listed in the Des Moines phone books. The national listings for Fred Smiths ran into five figures and Rosemarys for four. And he wasn’t sure what kind of reception he’d get from Cinna’s older sister.

  At least pretend you’ve got some brains, he’d told himself. And he’d forgotten about it for the most part until a glimpse of two girls across the street running for the monorail station on Paradise Road stopped him again.

  Above the noise of the traffic, he’d caught part of what the taller, dark-haired girl was yelling at her friend. “Hurry, Cinna, we…”

  The monorail had pulled away by the time he crossed the street.

  Two possible sightings? Could she be living or working in Vegas? The private detective agency the hotel used had come up dry. No Cinnamon Smith in the city directory, no listing by the Nevada Gaming Commission as working in any of the city’s licensed hotels, restaurants, bars or casinos, no Nevada driver’s license.

  But the fact remained; he’d seen her once in the Fremont Street area and then again on a monorail heading north. It wasn’t much, but for months, it had kept him scouting the downtown area on his free time. Up one street, down another. At the least, he was getting fresh air and exercise, he’d grimly reassured himself. Until four weeks ago, when she’d walked toward him on the other side of the street. He’d dodged traffic and shouted comments as he jostled his way through irate street vendors to follow her. She’d turned off the sidewalk and slipped through a wrought-iron archway into something labeled the Fremont Street Extension, an open-air mini-mall with shops on three sides. He must have passed the place hundreds of times without noticing.

  On the far side of the plaza beyond the benches and potted palms, she was holding a store door open for a departing customer. He’d stopped dead in his tracks.

  It was Cinna. The same Cinnamon Smith he’d met years before when he’d taken her older sister home from class one day.

  He’d been paired with Rosemary on some forgotten project in a business class. Life had landed him in Des Moines after the state had emancipated him from foster care at the age of eighteen. Odd jobs and overtime at a car dealership had provided enough to finance classes at the local community college.

  Knockout didn’t half describe Rosemary Smith—blonde, blue eyed, with legs that went on forever; she was the sort of girl who wouldn’t have given a guy like him the time of day if he hadn’t been driving one of the flashier loaners from the dealership.

  But she’d let him give her a ride home to the kind of suburban, two-story real families lived in. And there had been her kid sister. He knew somehow Fred and Ginger had been present along with Rosemary’s little brother, Sage. But Cinnamon…

  He closed his eyes, feeling the condensation from the bottle like the sweat on his hands when she’d looked up a
t him from the picnic table where she’d been setting things out in their backyard.

  Cinnamon—huge blue-gray eyes, curling lashes under her arched brows, a stray blonde curl catching the edge of her wide mouth, its lower lip pouting provocatively. Sweet and hot as her name. He’d wanted that mouth under his.

  He blew out a breath, remembering. Thirteen years later, he could still see her standing there like it was yesterday—tanned legs under her cut-offs, white gym shoes, Band Rat T-shirt. God, he was taken.

  Somehow he and Rose had become a couple. He’d tried to talk himself into accepting his good fortune, to breathe normally when Cinna slid out of his car after he and Rose had given her a lift somewhere, strutting off, her little ass swaying in accompaniment to the bounce of her ponytail as his hands gripped the steering wheel. A twenty-one year old man with more of the rough side of life under his belt than most adults, falling for a seventeen year old kid.

  Tried to pretend until that climatic night when things blew up with Rosemary. Hopefully, she had moved on to better things.

  In disbelief, he had followed Cinna into the shop and up to the counter where she was waiting on a customer. Teashop? It could have been a bowling alley for all he’d noticed. He’d been focused on one thing. Cinna had looked up at him as she had more than a dozen years and a thousand miles ago and he’d been just as tongue-tied as ever.

  Oh, it was more than clear her feelings weren’t the same as his. Yet.

  Campaigns may not be won on the first day, but they can sure be lost as they’d taught them at Officers’ Candidate School. Remember—preparation, patience, and follow-through.

  He tipped back his bottle and drained it.

  He’d made up some lame excuse he didn’t remember. Her business partner, the tall brunette he’d seen her with on the Strip, had come over and Cinna had introduced him.

  “Tom Marco from Des Moines.” She hadn’t sounded thrilled.

  “From Vegas now.” He’d extended his hand. “I’m over at the Imperial, the old Outpost Casino, you know.”

  “That Tom Marco, sure!”

  Magdalena had laughed, shaken hands with him, and explained about their shop while Cinna had stood silent. Since then he’d been a regular, not missing one of the six and a half days a week they were open, steeling himself to drink his way through a never-ending array of their offerings.

  It helped to have someone else around. There was no denying Cinna’s friend seemed happier to see him than she did. He had the feeling she was on his side. Magdalena chatted about the shop, asking about the Imperial, his opinion on local suppliers, pulling Cinna into the conversation. Cinna seemed to avoid their mutual past as if it was planted with land mines, but gradually, information had emerged. Fred and Ginger had retired to Florida where Fred was selling maritime insurance now. Sage was in graduate school on the East coast and Rose lived in the Chicago area. If Cinna hadn’t appeared enthusiastic about his reappearance in her life, at least she seemed to have relaxed a bit. She wasn’t hunching her shoulders and retreating a step when he entered the shop now. And there was no ring on her finger, no gentleman callers he had tripped over while drinking tea.

  He put his head back on the couch and stretched out.

  She’d accepted his date for the awards banquet. He’d worked at phrasing it casually. Kept it low-key. Evidently, it had done the trick. Just going out to a dinner, no big deal, not a real date.

  Oh, but it was.

  He folded his hands across his middle and willed himself to relax. Strategic campaigns aren’t won in a day.

  Thirteen years ago, he’d wanted her.

  He still did.

  This was a campaign he meant to win.

  Chapter Three

  Tom checked his watch as he stepped on the elevator. Terrance and Roxane should just be finishing their shift on surveillance and he wanted to touch base on how their day had gone before they clocked out. The meeting with Food and Beverage Services had run long, but afterward, he’d been able to set up his private agenda for the evening. He’d squeezed in time then to see Jim McMasters and bring him up to speed on what the auditors had found. As he’d expected, the older man had been philosophical.

  “Coming close, aren’t we, Thomas?” he’d said with a shrug. “Can see that corner we’ll be turning right up ahead.”

  But it had been a year and with so many of the ideas for renovation and remodeling his, it felt like the responsibility for showing a profit should fall on his shoulders. The elevator stopped on the mezzanine and Dolores Ruiz stepped in and raised a hand in greeting.

  “Hey, boss man, what’s happening? Haven’t seen you since early this morning.”

  “Pretty good. The meeting with Food and Beverage ran over.”

  “Yeah, foodies are always way more interested in that stuff than the rest of us. They could talk about it for hours if you’d let them.”

  “I’m on my way up to see our eye in the sky crew before they leave. How’s your day been? You going to be able to get out of here on time?”

  “Should. I just need to check on housekeeping on nine. Someone reported a problem with a slow shower. The gal from the tea shop was here with the samples you ordered.”

  “That was quick. I was just in there the other day.”

  “I took her to meet Gentleman Jim. He still enjoys a pretty face. Later, I had housekeeping put the gift packages in the suites reserved for the tournament. I’ll put the rest out on the breakfast buffet tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to be taking her, Cinnamon, I mean, to the awards banquet.” He waited as the elevator stopped and the doors opened to admit more people.

  “I’ve known her for a while. She comes from my hometown.” At least one of them. A variety of foster homes made for a long list. “How about you? Are you up for Saturday?”

  “Got my dress and dancing shoes. Brielle is going to be my date.”

  “Leon not interested?” he asked.

  Dolores shook her head.

  “You couldn’t get that man in black tie and tux with a high caliber weapon. Especially not when there’s a playoff game that night.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, we’re getting a lot action down in the sports book.”

  The British Open, their sports betting room, was one of the Imperial’s most consistently profitable areas.

  “Girls home yet?”

  “No, their semester isn’t over ’til the end of this month.” Dolores rolled her eyes. “There’s something to be said for having your kids close together, but putting them through college isn’t one of them.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Anyway, Brielle’s earned her ticket to the banquet. She’s done a bang-up job with day shift supervision since she started.”

  “Since a lot always seems to be needed.”

  Dolores made a face and shrugged as the elevator stopped on her floor and she stepped off.

  Terrance and Roxane both had their chairs pushed back and were briefing the night shift as he entered the darkened room. Surveillance cameras under smoky glass domes swept every public area of the hotel property sending the feed to the monitors in the office and saving the action on disc for possible later review. Terrance turned his way and waved him over. Both security officers were veterans at spotting trouble before it got out of control.

  “Hi. What’s going on?”

  “Just bringing Jacki and Malina up to speed. Let me rewind something.” The tech played with his computer monitor and the footage from the casino floor froze then jerked backward.

  “Okay, here we are about eleven-fifteen this morning. Marcia Burton, the blackjack dealer, buzzed us so we honed in on the table. She said later she was worried about a possible card counter, but the gentleman was gone by the time Brielle picked up our page and got over to watch.”

  “Brielle?”

  It wouldn’t have been her job.

  “Yeah, well, she came over with the pit boss. She stood and ob
served play for a while anyway and picked up on something else. This gal…” Terrance tapped the screen with his finger where an older woman in a pants suit was sitting at the end of the table, “was low stacking when she pushed in bets.”

  The term referred to replacing a higher value chip with a lower value one at the bottom of the stack.

  “Marcia didn’t catch it?”

  “No, it gets more interesting. Watch the blonde at the end.”

  He leaned forward to study an animated young woman at the other end of the table talking to the dealer. Somewhere in her twenties, she was laughing and giggling.

  “She was asking Marcia questions?”

  “Right, acting like she wasn’t familiar with the game. Could be trying to distract Marcia’s attention from what the older gal was up to, working as a tag team.”

  He nodded. Dealers always tried to help novices as much as they could. It encouraged them to stay and play.

  “Brielle notified floor security. Here come Luis and Scott T.”

  He watched the two uniformed guards flank the older woman and spread her chips out on the green felt as she looked up to gape at them. In a manner of seconds, they had taken her arms and were quietly leading her away.

  “What’s the story?”

  “The usual. She’s new in town, was confused by the different chips, made an honest mistake, has never been in trouble. You’ve heard it all before. Same sad story. They took her to the Security office and called the LVPD. If she doesn’t know any attempt to cheat a casino is a felony in Nevada, she’s about to learn.”

  “And Blondie?”

  “Gone with the wind.” At five-foot nothing and similar girth, no one had argued with Roxane Cox when she formerly had worked security at the Outpost and they didn’t in her new position at the Imperial either.

  “Neither of them is listed in the black book.” Roxane referred to the list of known cheats banned from all casino property in the city. “We’ll get a picture printed up of Miss Tank Top and keep an eye out for her.”