by James Swain
“You packing?” Gerry asked him.
Amin ignored the remark. Grabbing the paper bag, he climbed out of the car. He started walking toward the two Mexicans and waved. The Mexicans waved back.
Pash leaned between the two front seats. “Is something wrong?”
“You bet there is.”
Pash’s face begged for an explanation.
“They’re border rats. Smugglers. Your brother set me up.”
“Set you up how?”
“He asked me to come as backup. In case these guys got any funny ideas.”
“You do not trust these men?”
Gerry shook his head. Back when he’d run a bookmaking operation in Brooklyn, a local hoodlum had brought two Mexicans by and tried to talk him into bankrolling a cocaine run out of Mexico. Gerry had listened because he was interested in how these things worked, then said no thanks.
What he’d learned was that border rats had become popular in the smuggling world since 9/11. Bribing border guards to ignore a truckload of cocaine was a thing of the past. Contraband was having to take different routes, and border rats were cheap alternatives. They carried the drugs on their backs, entering the country with illegal immigrants in southern New Mexico’s boot heel.
Amin’s friends looked menacing. Short and broad-shouldered, with steely glints for eyes and sweatshirts that hung over their belts. Gerry guessed they were packing heat. The Mexicans he’d met in Brooklyn had been.
“How well does Amin know them?” he asked.
“They’ve met once before,” Pash replied.
Gerry spun around in his seat and stared at him. “And Amin is about to give them a bag of money? Is he crazy?”
“You think they’ll kill him?”
“Of course they’ll kill him.”
“But they come highly recommended.”
“By who? Pablo Escobar?”
Pash’s eyes turned as big as silver dollars. “Oh, no,” he muttered under his breath. “Something is wrong.”
Gerry stared out the windshield. One of the Mexicans was holding stacks of money in his hands. His partner was pointing at the money and shouting. Gerry didn’t have to understand Spanish to get the argument’s drift. Amin had delivered less than he’d promised. That happened a lot in drug deals.
Only Amin wasn’t apologizing. He needed to fall on his sword and let the Mexicans have their pride restored. Amin was just standing there, talking calmly.
“He’s asking for trouble,” Gerry said.
Amin took something from his pocket. It looked like a casino chip. He offered it to the Mexicans, finally extending the olive branch. The shouting Mexican knocked it out of his hand, then went for his gun.
Amin lifted his shirt and drew his own piece. He was lightning-fast, and shot the Mexican three times in the chest. The Mexican’s gun discharged into the ground. He staggered backward and fell against the skeleton of a car.
The Mexican holding the money was helpless, and looked at Amin as if to say Now what? The guy was cool, Gerry thought. Telling Amin with a shrug that he’d settle for less, no harm done. A real businessman.
Amin lowered his gun. He reached for the battered briefcase the Mexicans had brought. Had his fingers on the handle when the Mexican leaning against the car came to life and started shooting. There were bullet holes in his sweatshirt, but no bloodstains. He’s wearing a vest, Gerry thought.
His partner ran for cover. The Mexican doing the shooting hid behind the pyramid of lacquer cans and kept letting off rounds. He was a crummy shot, but Gerry knew he was eventually going to hit Amin, who was standing in the open. Then the Mexican would come after him and Pash, and get rid of his witnesses.
“The car,” Pash said. “Drive it between them.”
Gerry shook his head. That would only get them shot. He looked out his window at the cans lying nearby. The labels said PAINT REMOVER. He jumped out and started shaking them. Finding one half-filled, he unscrewed the lid, pulled a snot rag out of his pocket, and made a Molotov cocktail.
“I need a light,” he told Pash.
Pash found his cigarette lighter and jumped out of the car. He made a flame appear, and turned the snot rag bright orange.
Gerry came around the car with the burning can in his outstretched hand. Running three steps, he threw the flaming can over his head with all his might. As it soared through the air, Amin, who was crouching on the ground, craned his neck to watch.
The flaming can landed on the pyramid and toppled it. There was a loud pop! as everything that was flammable caught fire at once. An orange wall rose up around the Mexican, and he screamed. Gerry could feel the heat from where he was standing. The Mexican ran out from his hiding place covered in flames.
Pash appeared at his side. “The human torch,” he mumbled.
They watched the Mexican run into a nearby field, his clothes throwing off black smoke. His partner ran in the opposite direction, the stacks of money clutched to his chest. They got in the car, and Gerry floored it. He jammed the brakes a few yards from where Amin stood. He saw Amin pick up a brown casino chip from the ground. He wondered if the Mexican had realized that it was worth five thousand dollars.
Amin dragged the briefcase across the dirt and got in. Smoke began to pour out of the ground, and Gerry stared at flames that seemed to rise an inch every second. Their motion was sensuous, almost taunting.
“Hold on,” he said.
He was doing seventy down the dirt road leading back to Highway 93 when he heard a muffled explosion. Slowing down, he turned in his seat. Everything behind them was on fire: the abandoned gas station, the auto graveyard, even the adjacent field. Had he not known better, he would have sworn that a giant bomb had just been set off.
Amin touched his sleeve. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“You’re a lying son-of-a-bitch,” Gerry said. “You know that?”
27
You realize that I’m ruined,” Nick said as they rode downstairs in the elevator.
The little Greek said it like he was commenting about the weather. Only his voice was strained, and Valentine realized he was dying inside.
“The Gaming Control Board will take the assets of the thirty employees who ripped you off,” Valentine said. “You can use that to run the casino until you get a loan from a bank.”
Nick laughed harshly. “That’s not going to happen. Chance Newman and Rags Richardson and Shelly Michael control the banks—they run a few billion bucks through them every year. I’m a small fry. I’ve got no juice.”
Juice. It was the magic elixir in Las Vegas, even more powerful than money. Who you knew, and how well you knew them. And Nick was saying he didn’t have any.
“Have you considered selling the place?” Valentine asked as the elevator docked.
“I’ve had offers,” Nick said. “Venture capitalists, banks. Everybody wants to tear the place down, put in a big moron-catcher. Know what I tell them?”
“No.”
“I tell them to get lost.”
As they got out of the elevator, Nick punched Valentine in the arm. It really stung, and Valentine thought he understood. Nick had accepted that his run was over.
“Let’s nail these people ripping me off,” he said.
They found Wily in the surveillance control room, hovering before the wall of video monitors. He was watching the roulette table, and Valentine could tell by the hunch in his shoulders that he was on to something.
“Figure out what Fontaine’s gang is doing?”
Wily nodded, surprising Valentine by not gloating over it.
“So tell us,” Nick said.
“The gang is double past-posting,” Wily replied.
Valentine was impressed. He’d only seen the scam once, down in Puerto Rico, where the game of roulette bordered on high art. The San Juan gang had lightened the house by over a million bucks. He decided not to steal Wily’s thunder.
“How?” he asked.
Wily pointed at the monitor
s. Because the roulette layout was large, two cameras covered the action. One camera watched the wheel, while the second watched the layout on which the bets were made. It was impossible for anyone in surveillance to watch both cameras at once, a fact known to most roulette gangs.
“The gang has three members,” Wily said. “The dealer, and two women standing at the end of the table.”
He pointed at two women playing roulette. Both were dressed like tourists. One was quiet and reserved, the other a blond woman who liked to bang the table.
“The quiet one’s past-posting. In the last twenty minutes, she’s won five grand. The reason we’re not seeing it is because the dealer and the table-banger are distracting us. Watch.”
They watched the ivory ball roll around the wheel. As it started to slow down, the dealer announced the betting was over. The ball landed, and they saw the table-banger attempt to place a late bet. The dealer stopped her and politely explained that the betting was over. Then he pushed her chips back.
“You see it?” Wily asked.
“See what?” Nick said.
“The dealer is blocking the camera when he pushes the chips back. The quiet one is sneaking a bet onto the layout behind his arm. No one pays attention to her.”
Nick looked at Valentine. “You ever seen this scam before?”
It was the stupidest damn thing, but Valentine found himself feeling proud of Wily. He’d smartened up, something chumps rarely did. So Valentine lied and said, “Heard about it, but never seen it.”
“No kidding.” Nick looked at Wily. “If the past-posting is hidden from the camera, how we going to nail them?”
“Was hidden,” Wily informed him.
“Let me guess,” Nick said. “You sent someone down to the floor with a video cam, and captured the whole thing.”
Wily smiled. “Yes, sir. I was thinking of letting the woman leave and having her followed. Who knows. Maybe she’ll lead us to Fontaine.”
Nick beamed at him. “Good thinking. Tony, the kid’s sharp, isn’t he?”
A few years ago, Valentine had likened Wily to a dog trying to walk on its hind legs. No more. “Real sharp,” he said.
Nick slung his arm around Wily’s shoulder. Then he led Wily across the room to a secluded corner and broke the bad news to him. Wily had worked for Nick for seventeen years, which was a lifetime by Las Vegas standards, and Valentine watched Wily’s face change as Nick explained that the Acropolis was doomed. Wily kept trying to interject, but Nick wouldn’t let him. It was over.
By the time Nick was finished, the head of security was weeping.
At a quarter of four, the thirty people responsible for destroying Nick’s empire began to file into the basement meeting room of the Acropolis.
Valentine watched them on the video monitors. The new hires were laughing and joking, unaware they were about to be busted. Nick appeared by his side, chewing a handful of Tums and gulping down water.
“Fucking rats,” Nick said. “I wish this was thirty years ago.”
“Why’s that?”
“In the old days, casinos shot cheaters in the head and buried them in the desert.”
Valentine glanced at him. “You ever do that?”
“Who cares?”
“I like to know who I’m working for.”
“No. I just had their legs broken.”
“That was civil of you.”
“Didn’t have a choice. There were no surveillance cameras back then. Sometimes you could snap a picture from the catwalk, but it was hard. Usually, it was your word against theirs in court. Juries didn’t buy it, and the cheaters walked.”
“So you broke their legs to keep them away.”
“Just one leg.”
“Why only one?”
“I didn’t want them becoming cripples. A guy with a cane can get around, find a job, lead a normal life. I’ve got principles, you know?”
Valentine’s eyes returned to the monitor. Wily was in the basement, standing directly in the camera’s eye. When all the new hires were present, he would stick a pen behind his ear. That was the signal for Nick to come down without Wily calling him and arousing suspicion.
“How much security is down there?” Valentine asked.
“Twenty of my best guys.”
“Remember those martial arts creeps Fontaine sprang on you last time?”
Nick called downstairs and doubled security outside the meeting room. Hanging up, he said, “If they start to tango, you want a piece of one?”
Valentine looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Me?”
“Yeah. Weren’t you a judo champion? The TV movie said you were.”
“About a hundred years ago.”
“Come on, you’re not afraid of these young punks, are you?”
Nick was putting on a brave face, and Valentine tried to think of something to say. He almost told Nick the truth, which was that if you lived long enough, all good things in your life came to an end. On the monitor, he saw Wily stick a pen behind his ear. Nick saw it as well, and hurried from the room.
Five minutes later, Nick and forty security guards rushed into the basement meeting room and announced that the new hires were being held on suspicion of cheating the house.
Valentine was the last through the door. He saw several females start to weep. Other employees lay on the floor and covered their heads with their arms, a sure sign they’d been busted before. A small group of male employees decided to put up a fight and cleared away the folding chairs in the room’s center.
Twenty security guards surrounded them, then charged in. They used billy clubs and their hands, and were not gentle. Nick immediately jumped into the melee and began swinging his arms. He was a lousy fighter, but every tenth punch caught an unsuspecting chin and sent someone to the floor. Seeing Valentine, he yelled, “Are we having fun yet?”
It looked like fun, only Valentine was in no mood for it. His mind had locked on Gerry. He needed to find him before the FBI made the connection between his son and the gym bag. He wanted to help Gerry decide his best course of action. Maybe it was hiring a good lawyer; or perhaps he needed to turn himself in. Either way, he wanted to be there, and help him decide.
He spied a familiar-looking guy crawling across the floor. It was Albert Moss, the rat in finance who’d cooked the books. He stood in front of the exit, blocking Moss’s escape. Moss rose from the floor.
“Get out of my way, “ the crooked accountant said.
“No.”
Moss tried to take his head off with a punch. Valentine ducked the blow, then grabbed Moss’s arm and in one practiced motion flipped him over his shoulder, then slammed his body onto the concrete floor.
Moss lay on his back without moving. Valentine sat on his chest and saw Moss’s eyes pop open. He looked older than his photo, with thin, purplish lips and short curly hair more appropriate for another part of his body.
“I can’t breathe,” Moss gasped.
“I’ll let you up, if you tell me one thing.”
“What . . .”
“We’ve figured out all the scams you’ve got going, except the slot machines. I want to know how you’re ripping them off.”
Moss’s eyes narrowed. “You’re . . . Valentine.”
“No, I’m Bozo the fucking clown.”
“Frank didn’t tell me everything,” Moss whispered.
“You must have some idea.”
“Frank said the slot scam at the Stardust inspired him.”
The Stardust slot scam had happened in 1980 and was the stuff of legend. Fourteen million in quarters had disappeared from the casino, and no one knew how. Valentine guessed Moss knew more than he was letting on.
“You’re lying.”
“I swear, I don’t know.”
“Where’s Fontaine hiding out? ”
“I’ll tell you,” Moss said. “But you’ve got to let me up.”
Moss’s face was turning blue. Valentine pushed himself off his chest. The rest
of the employees were standing against the wall, having their rights explained to them. It wouldn’t be long before they would be cutting deals and ratting each other out.
He watched Moss get up. His head left a pancake-sized bloodstain on the floor, and Valentine winced. He’d never believed in hurting people for the sake of inflicting pain, and wondered if he’d cracked Moss’s skull open.
“You want to know where Fontaine is?” Moss asked.
Valentine lifted his gaze. Moss was standing next to him, and had a small knife gripped in his hand. Drawn from his sock, he guessed.
“Frank’s with your girlfriend,” Moss said, slicing his face open.
28
Gerry watched the sun set from the Red Roost Inn’s parking lot while trying to decide what to do.
The sun had bled through the sky as it dropped behind the mountains. His old man had gotten him in the habit of catching sunsets whenever he could. His father hadn’t used to care about that kind of stuff, but becoming a widower had changed him. He savored things now that he’d never paid attention to before.
Gerry smoked his cigarette down to the filter. His father. So many things he’d done in his life had been to defy him, he could see that now. Back when he was a teenager and had started getting in trouble, his father had always rescued him. He’d been his safety net, shielding him from the consequences of his deeds.
He threw his stub onto the pile on the ground. He knew he had to leave Las Vegas. The fact that he hadn’t broken any laws in the past few days didn’t matter. He’d been in the company of two guys who’d broken plenty of laws, and his association with them was going to kill him. Nevada was different that way. If you took money from the casinos, you were guilty until proven innocent.
Taking out his wallet, he removed his American Express card. He’d lent Amin his card several days ago for some stupid reason, and there was no telling what he’d bought with it. He folded the card until it broke in half. He would call Amex, tell them the card was missing. Then, if any of Amin’s purchases came back to haunt him, he could claim his card was stolen. End of story.
