Dead Money

by Smith, Dean Wesley

  He pushed away his half-eaten Caesar salad and stood, tossing some cash on the table to cover his tab. Following every move he had planned, he picked up the morning Las Vegas Sun newspaper he had been reading, folded it, and stuck it under his arm. Without being in a hurry, he moved out of the confines of the restaurant.

  Doc and his friend stood for a moment talking near the entrance to the restaurant, then parted.

  From the looks of it, the woman was going back toward the poker area. Doc turned and headed across the lobby toward the entrance to the south parking garage.

  Steven stopped and stood beside a bench, making sure that was exactly where Doc was headed. The idiot actually had his father’s key on him, and had been stupid enough to show it around at a poker table earlier this morning. He wasn’t going to have it for much longer.

  Steven watched as Doc entered the hallway leading toward the garage, then flipped open a cell phone and dialed a number. “He’s on his way.”

  With that, he closed the cell phone, took a napkin and wiped any possible fingerprints off, then stuck the cell phone inside the newspaper under his arm. The phone would never be traced back to him even if something went wrong on the other side.

  He strolled across the huge lobby, taking his time, acting like a tourist impressed with the overdone beauty of the Bellagio’s front entrance.

  Outside, he got in the line for a cab. He would go to the MGM Grand, drop the paper and phone in a garbage can there in an area of the walkway going to the tram that had few cameras, take the train up the Strip to where his car was parked in yet another Casino’s parking lot.

  Even in a city filled with cameras, there was no way anyone would trace him through all he was doing. And soon he would have his third key and Doc Hill would be dead.

  Jeff Taylor’s key had been his first. He had killed Benson James and his wife yesterday in Medford, Oregon, and taken Benson’s key. That had been his second. Carson Hill’s key would be the third.

  And later tonight, he’d get a fourth.

  After that, there would only be five to go.

  This game was really becoming fun.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Las Vegas, Nevada. August 23

  I TRIED NOT TO think about what was facing me at Carson’s house. What I hoped that I could do was go back, see how Fleet was faring, help out a little, then offer to buy Fleet dinner and escape. An hour in there, tops, if I was lucky.

  Mostly, what I wanted to do was just go back to my suite at the Bellagio, rest, and think. There had to be something about what had happened when I found the key, and what Annie had told me about her case with Jeff Taylor that made sense. But I couldn’t figure out what it was, and that was driving me nuts.

  I pulled my rented Lexus up in front of Carson’s house and got out of the air-conditioned comfort into the blast of hot August heat. Fleet and I both had rented the same type car at the airport, and his was sitting in the driveway. Carson had a brand new Cadillac in the garage that I now owned, but I just couldn’t make myself drive it.

  Again, the neighborhood around me looked and felt like a ghost town. There was no desert breeze, or if there was, the houses blocked it. Silence and heat filled everything. What a horrible place to live.

  As I was moving around the front of the car to head inside, a big, burly man stepped from behind a palm tree. He was wearing thin cotton pants, a white tee shirt, and no hat covering his tanned shaved head. He was well-muscled, like he lifted weights, and had a number of tattoos on his arms and neck.

  In his hand was a pistol that looked frighteningly large. The big guy looked very used to handling the big gun.

  He looked mean. Very mean. Not the kind of guy you want pointing a gun at you.

  I stopped, keeping my arms away from my sides.

  Around me the neighborhood continued its deathly silence, with blinds pulled over windows and no cars moving. Who would have thought that a suburban neighborhood in the middle of the afternoon would be the best place for a gun-point mugging?

  “The key,” the man said, his voice showing no nervousness.

  Clearly, he had done things like this before.

  Of all the things I expected a man with a gun to say, that wasn’t it.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, asshole,” the guy said, waving the gun at my face. “Give me the key or I’ll shoot you and just take it.”

  I didn’t have the key. After my conversation with Verne in the bathroom, I had gone to the Bellagio cashier’s cage and gotten a second safe-deposit box. The key and Carson’s card capper were in it. I always had such boxes at casinos, since poker tournament winnings were often paid out in cash. I had a regular one at the Bellagio, but I had decided to get a new box for Carson’s key and card capper. I figured they deserved a resting place all their own. As far as I was concerned, they could just stay right there for the next twenty years.

  I stared at the gun for a moment, then said, “Oh, keys.”

  I reached slowly into my pocket and pulled out my car keys, tossing them onto the pavement in front of me. “But I can tell you, it’s a rental. They can track those things, you know.”

  The man glanced at the rental car keys, then shook the gun at me and smiled, showing me a nasty opening where a tooth had been. The ones that were still there didn’t look that healthy.

  I kept taking slow breaths, trying my best to stay calm, watching his every move. Clearly he was getting angry.

  “Don’t play dumb. Your father’s key. The one you were showing around today at the Bellagio. The one that looks like a bank key with a number on the side.”

  Now I really was stunned. This big guy sure knew a lot about what I had been doing at that game in the Bellagio. There had been a number of men around that table that I didn’t know, and a few others on the rail watching when I found the key. But this guy hadn’t been there.

  That meant he was hired, and more than likely, I was about to end up very dead right out here in front of Carson’s house.

  My only hope to get out of this was to just keep bluffing.

  “I didn’t know what it went to,” I said, “so I tossed it in the garbage. Check the can by the poker desk.”

  I wouldn’t have believed that bluff either, but it was the best I could think of.

  “Yeah, right.” The guy waved the gun slightly, clearly meaning that he would use it. “Hand over the key.”

  “Why would you want something I threw away?”

  “Money. It’s worth money you asshole. A lot of money. That’s all I care about.”

  I kept bluffing. “If I had known that, I would have kept it. Actually, I might go back and dig it out. Who can I sell it to? You tell me and I’ll give you a share.”

  “Quit screwing around,” the man said, clearly getting angrier. He stepped toward me, the gun threatening. If I were a gambling man, I wouldn’t have laid a bet on my odds of making it through the next minute.

  I had nowhere to go. My only hope was to get closer to the guy, try to take the gun away before he could shoot me. I didn’t give that plan much hope either.

  “Search me if you want,” I said. “I’m not lying to you. I tossed the thing away.”

  I raised my hands above my head and then took a half step toward the guy like an invitation. “Search my car as well. I just came straight from the casino and I honestly don’t have that key. Trust me, I wish I did so I could give it to you. As I said, check the garbage in the poker room.”

  A good bluff always needed to have confidence behind it. Right now I didn’t feel confident, just scared out of my wits, which was good in a way. Getting my fear across to the guy was the only way this bluff was going to work.

  “Come on, search me if you don’t believe me.”

  I stepped slightly closer again. I was now within arm’s reach of the big gun.

  And it looked even bigger the closer I got.

  I put my hands on the top of my head and turned slightly, again getting just a litt
le closer, pretending to give the guy access to the pockets on my right side. “Go ahead.”

  The guy laughed, and I was close enough to know he had garlic for lunch. “I’m supposed to get the key before I shoot you, but I think I’m going to just do it the other way around.”

  The guy glanced down the street, checking to see if anyone was watching.

  I figured that moment was my only chance.

  Like swinging an ax, I drove my right fist down on the guy’s gun wrist, hoping like hell the gun didn’t go off and shoot me anyway.

  The gun clattered first on the sidewalk and then bounced into the street in front of the car.

  The force of my blow spun the man a half step to the left.

  Before he could get his balance, I hit him in the stomach with a full left hook, trying to drive my fist through his stomach and out his backbone.

  I hated fighting, and as a rule just didn’t do it, but when someone threatened to kill me, I tended to make an exception. And as Ace had once told me when I was a lot younger, if you’re going to fight, do anything to win.

  Anything.

  My fist connected with solid muscle and I knew instantly that wasn’t going to be enough to slow this monster down for more than a moment, so while the guy was still slightly bent over from my first two blows, I pretended I was trying to kick his nuts through a goal post about forty yards away.

  My foot found something very soft and the force of my kick lifted the big guy almost off the ground.

  He screamed, high and choking, a sound a man that big should never make.

  Then he went down backwards.

  His head hit the sidewalk hard with a sickening smack.

  That was going to hurt. But I had a hunch a lot less than his nuts.

  I stayed poised over him for a moment, breathing hard, but the guy was clearly out cold, his hands still clutched to his crotch. More than likely he was now burning his skin on the hot pavement.

  Good. Let him burn. It might convince him to take up another profession.

  I searched him quickly, finding nothing, not a wallet, not a piece of paper, nothing. Not a clue as to who had sent him.

  I studied his face for a minute, making sure I would remember him if I ever saw him again.

  From the way the guy’s wrist looked, I more than likely had broken it.

  Too damn bad.

  I stepped back and took a deep breath of the hot August air. What the hell were these keys, and why were they worth killing for?

  I had a hunch I was going to have to find out the answer to that question before I got another good night’s rest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Las Vegas, Nevada. August 23

  KEEPING AN EYE on the big guy sprawled on the sidewalk, I picked up my car keys, then retrieved the gun. I quickly released the magazine from the pistol and made sure there was nothing in the chamber, which there wasn’t. I put the ammunition in one pocket and the gun inside my belt against the small of my back, pulling my shirttail out and over it. I had no idea exactly what kind of gun it was, but it clearly looked like it had been used, and hadn’t been cleaned in who knew how long.

  As I finished, I realized my hands were shaking. Fighting was just not something I did. I would rather face a class IV rapid with the lives of passengers in my hands than fight a guy like this again.

  Safer.

  This was not the kind of adrenaline rush I liked. And I had no doubt that this time I had been lucky. The next time, I might not be.

  I took a deep breath of the hot air and looked around the still-silent neighborhood, giving myself time to calm down and think. There was still no one in sight, nothing moving but the tops of the palm trees in the light afternoon breeze. The heat off the pavement made me feel like I was standing in an oven. I was going to have to get out of the heat, or at least into the shade pretty soon.

  And I was going to need water.

  I stared at the tattooed guy, wondering exactly what to do next. If the guy didn’t move soon, I’d have to call an ambulance and get the police involved, but I really didn’t want to do that just yet. I just hoped like hell I hadn’t killed him. From what I could tell, he was still breathing, but I had no intention of going back over to him and trying to check.

  As I was standing, half waiting, half trying to figure out what to do next, the guy moaned, long and deep, and his good hand held his crotch.

  Then he quickly came to his senses.

  He pushed himself to his feet, holding his wrist while holding his crotch. He couldn’t stand all the way up and I could see the pain was bringing tears to his eyes.

  He then looked at me like I was the devil. Broken wrist, burns on his legs and arms and back, a damaged groin, and more than likely a concussion. I had done a job on him, but it was far less than what he had intended to do to me.

  “You want to tell me what this was all about?” I said, pulling out his gun and stepping toward him.

  Panic replaced the anger in his eyes and he turned and staggered down the sidewalk, bent over, holding his wrist against his chest.

  I had no doubt that he’d end up in a hospital with the wrist, crotch damage, and burns to his back. Even if I had wanted to chase him, I didn’t need to. I could find him quick enough where he was going.

  But I figured there was no reason to go after him. I would bet anything that he had no idea who was really behind this. More than likely, he was just the hired help, and after he had killed me and gotten the key, he would have been killed himself. He still might be, but at that moment, I didn’t really care that much.

  Criminals killing criminals. Just another way of Mother Nature thinning the herd.

  I took a deep breath of the hot air and let my hands shake. Whoever had killed Carson was now after me, that much was certain. All for a key.

  I headed for the house, the gun heavy in my hand. I owned a few rifles and a nice little pistol of my own. I would give this one to Annie when I had the chance. More than likely, it was attached to a few crimes beside my attempted murder. She might be able to do something with it.

  I pushed the door open and was surprised to feel relief being in Carson’s house instead of the horror and anger of yesterday. With the place straightened back out, it felt comfortable.

  And more importantly, cool. My light shirt and pants stuck to me almost at once as the cool air allowed all the sweat I had been producing to stay on me.

  “Fleet?” I shouted as I closed the door.

  “Be right out,” he shouted from down the hall.

  I went into the kitchen, surprised that it had already been cleaned up. There was also no pile of money on the dining room table. Fleet had said he planned on getting it into a deposit box in a nearby bank. He must have already done that.

  I opened the fridge to find bottles of cold water. I was making myself at home in my father’s house. The world had really shifted on its axis.

  I took two bottles of water back into the living room as Fleet came out of the back room. He was wearing dark slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, and tie. He had his tie loosened slightly, and his jacket was off, but that was all.

  I laid the gun on the wood coffee table with a clattering sound, placing the magazine beside it. Then I dropped into one of the big chairs, surprised at how comfortable it was. Damn it all, I didn’t want Carson’s home to be comfortable. I wanted it to be as cold and aloof as he had been to me.

  But after what had just happened, this felt like heaven.

  Fleet stared at the gun like it was a snake, then took a step back. For a moment, I thought he might actually turn and run for the bedrooms.

  “You want to tell me what that’s all about?” he asked, a shaking finger pointing at the gun.

  “Sit down,” I said. “It’s been a long day.”

  He sat on the chair farthest from the gun, on the edge, like he might spring to his feet at any moment and object to some important point in a trial. He glanced at me, then the gun every few seconds.

&nbs
p; So I had another thing that I didn’t know about my best friend, even after all the years we had been close and worked together. He was afraid of guns. Snakes and guns. No wonder he had gone into law and business.

  While downing the first bottle of water and working on the second, I told him what had happened at the poker game before lunch, about finding Carson’s key, about what Verne had said.

  That information made Fleet forget the gun for a few moments.

  Then I told him about meeting Annie, about Jeff Taylor’s grave robbery, and his key. At that, I almost had to laugh since he was now sitting there with his mouth open.

  “No wonder you got a gun,” he said.

  “I got that from some big guy with tattoos who tried to kill me outside the house here a few minutes ago. He was trying to get Carson’s key, and I just didn’t want to give it to him. Someone must have seen me with the key and sent him after it.”

  Fleet’s mouth opened, closed, opened again, but no words came out. One of the best attorneys in the country and he couldn’t think of something to say. That almost made getting almost killed worth it.

  I laughed and he still couldn’t think of anything to say, so I let him off the hook and told him what had happened outside, what I had done to the guy, the man’s injuries, and everything he had said.

  “We need the police on this,” Fleet said after I had finished. With a glance at the gun, he gathered himself into the old “in charge” Fleet. Then he stood and turned for the phone.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “And why not?” he asked. “Someone is trying to kill you. Someone killed your father. Don’t you think it’s about time we get some police help?”

  “Yeah, but then we’d have to tell them about the key, and maybe even give it to them, and tell them what happened to Carson and what we know about that investigation. I really don’t want to do any of that just yet. I want to leave that key sitting right where it’s at.”