“That’s what I thought it meant.”
“Where might I hide if I were a determined paparazzo trying to avoid surveillance cameras, yet still needed access to Shannon and Brandon?”
Mark shrugged. “Only four ways to get into that suite. The two guest room doors, one on each of the Villa floors, where we have security posted. The kitchen staff door, which is locked unless it’s being used. And the adjoining door for the mini-suite, which is also locked.” He stared at Antonio. “Your eyebrow is still sticking up.”
Antonio began walking down briskly down the hallway. “Remember what I said to Brandon down at the loading docks?”
Mark jogged to catch-up. “The Sinatra story…the thing about it’s not what door you use but how you walk through it?”
“Precisely,” said Antonio. “Has surveillance found any footage showing Ang going into the suite last night?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you up for a visit to the uniform department?”
“Right behind you, partner.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ang Wang had the kernmantle rope through the Jumar SRT ascenders and tested his weight in the sit-harness. Both SRTs held, the one at chest-level and the one attached to the harness. So far so good. He enjoyed being called a Kamikaze but he didn’t really want to fall outta the sky like one. He took his weight off the harness and pulled the trigger on the Jumar, moved it up the rope and pulled it back to lock it down. It held his weight again. He’d have to use a combination of arm strength and a foot loop to hold his weight while he made like Spiderman and climbed the rope.
He was actually just a tad bit nervous.
Just before he stepped off the roof to let the rope swing him the four feet to the wall, he cried out Kamoh-kaaaa-zeeee and it sounded so feeble he almost wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
With his feet leaving the rooftop and the pull of gravity whisking him forward towards the wall, he immediately looked down even though he knew that was a stupid idea. Rushing past his dangling feet were dim images of utility trucks, big electrical boxes, fenced in mechanical equipment with evil blinking lights, all of it looking very hard and painful. He looked up just in time to give himself about one second to figure out he would have to let go of the rope or his face would smash into the wall.
No way was he letting go. He tried to twist around.
His right shoulder took the hit. He rolled along the wall for a few feet, then rolled back, the whole time panicking that he was gonna get twisted up and something would unlatch and he would hear the rope whistling through the Jumar ascenders as he plummeted to his death.
Eyes squeezed closed he waited until he came to rest and was still.
He reluctantly let go of the rope with one hand and patted his pocket. At least he still had his cell phone. If he had to call 911 and take the heat for this stunt it was better than getting trapped until morning where someone was definitely going to wonder why a Chinese guy was hanging off the side of the building like a duck carcass in an Asian market.
He took a couple deep breaths. Focused his mind on the money. Squeezed the camera that was safely inside his zippered jacket hanging around his neck by a strap.
If he came out of this with a Shanndon pic he would be set for years. He could write a freakin book about his exploits with captions about how he got each pic.
For this shot I had to feed Ambien to a Rottweiler using chunks of beef that I stuffed into my sleeve so he thought he was eating my arm.
Instant bestseller. TV appearances. Satellite radio. Movie rights.
Too bad Jackie Chan was getting old, he’d be perfect.
Visualizing all the naked strippers that would be lounging around his outdoor pool (with waterfall) he opened his eyes, grabbed the chest-level SRT ascender, pulled the trigger, shifted it up about 2 feet, and locked it. Right foot in loop, left hand on upper ascender, right hand unlocking harness ascender, he pushed with his foot and pulled with his hand and moved the harness up the rope. Locked it down. Sat back and rested.
He was still alive and a couple feet closer to Shanndon’s balcony.
Holy shit this was actually gonna work.
Chapter Sixteen
“The only people that come down here on grave shift are the ones that get barfed on by somebody. Usually cocktail waitresses.”
Antonio and Mark were standing at the uniform room counter, watching the attendant eating taco salad out of a Styrofoam container. Her nametag stated that she was Rosey. It soon became apparent that this was merely her name, and had nothing to do with her disposition or her outlook on life in general.
“I do hate to interrupt your lunch,” said Antonio. “But we have just one or two more questions. As Mr. Ford mentioned a moment ago, we’re investigating a matter involving casino security.”
Rosey spoke around a mouthful of ground beef and cheese. “I don’t get to take my break in the cafeteria because there’s nobody else here. I’m supposed to get an hour break.”
“As is your right,” agreed Antonio with conviction. “I fully expect you to take this time that we are using and add it onto the end of your break schedule. But as you said yourself, you are the only attendant on-duty, and we do require some assistance.”
She eyeballed Antonio. Then Mark. Sighed. Licked her fork clean and sat it down in the container. “What kind of security matter?”
“That’s not important,” said Mark, briskly. “We just have questions, like he said.”
Rosey’s eyes narrowed at him. “You got an employee badge? You’re not supposed to be walking around back here without wearing an employee badge.”
“I know that, lady. I’m security.”
“Seems like you should be setting the example then, doesn’t it?”
Mark wrestled his badge from his jacket pocket. “Happy?”
“Had more hair back then,” she commented, smirking at his badge photo.
Mark’s jaw clenched. “Can we get back to our security crisis?”
“Oh, it’s a crisis now, is it?”
“It wasn’t, Rosey, but now that we’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes…”
Antonio interrupted. “Do you like strawberry tortes?”
Both Mark and Rosey said, “Huh?”
Antonio smiled. “There is a butler on my staff who makes the most exquisite strawberry tortes that you ever tasted. He was once a pastry chef in Manhattan. A year after he left the restaurant, taking the secret of the tortes with him, the owners filed for bankruptcy.”
Rosey pushed her taco salad around with her fork. “I’ve never had one.”
“Ah,” said Antonio, putting a hand to his chest. “This is a situation that we must rectify immediately. I have one of the aforementioned strawberry tortes in the butler pantry at this very moment. It was reserved for a VIP guest. However, I would like to give it to you, Rosey, in gratitude for your patience and anticipated service.”
“There’s never any dessert left in the cafeteria on this shift. Second shift takes it all.”
“A travesty. I’ll speak to Chef Carl, the Executive Chef for Food and Beverage.”
“I like how you talk. Like a butler in one of them movies.”
“Thank you, Rosey,” said Antonio, demonstrating a formal bow.
She turned her attention to Mark. “You, I’m not so fond of.”
Mark bowed as well. “Another travesty.”
Antonio not-so-gently nudged him aside. “Now then, Rosey. I was wondering if there have been any casino employees who’ve complained that one of their uniforms have been stolen in the past week.”
“Not that I know of, course, coulda been another shift or something. I go home at five in the morning.”
“So let’s say that I myself made such a complaint. What would be the procedure?”
“I wouldn’t believe you. Employees say all kinds of things to get out of paying for a new uniform.”
“Suppose you felt I had an honest face?”
She reached behind the counter and withdrew a blue binder. “Then we’d start the paperwork.” She flipped it open and turned it to face him on the counter. “This is where we log uniforms that get reissued. Most of it’s done in the computer but we still need their signature, so we just got a one page form.”
“Do you empty the binder each week?”
“Every month or so. Depends on how full it gets. See here? This is where the employee fills out the reason why they need a new uniform. That’s usually the spot where they get creative.”
Antonio and Mark scrutinized the pages one by one.
“Here we go,” said Mark.
“This says the uniform was never returned by the dry-cleaning service. Is that a local service used by the casino?”
Rosey nodded. “Regal Cleaners. Employees gotta pay for it themselves. Comes outta their check.”
“Does the dry-cleaning company often lose uniforms?”
“First one I ever noticed,” she said. “But could happen on other shifts.”
“Could you make a copy of this form for me?”
“No problem.”
Mark lifted his hand with the cuff mike. “Mark to dispatch. Get me engineering on the phone.” As Rosey walked into the back of the uniform office he said, “You smell cigarette smoke in here?”
Antonio nodded. “She’s the only one working. No one to break her.”
Mark’s cell phone rang and he answered it. “Hey this is Mark. You still got that dry-cleaning bag from the toilet in that room? Dig it out, I want to know the name of the cleaners. No I’m not kidding. I’ll wait.” He turned to Antonio. “She’s smoking back there. Little Miss Follow the Rules.” He went back to the phone. “Got it thanks.” He snapped his phone closed and said, “Regal.”
“So he’s stolen an Engineering uniform. This young man is quite the adversary. I would bet that we find an Asian engineer getting access to the Sachem Suite last night on your surveillance tapes.”
“Were you ever on the force? Be honest with me.”
Antonio stepped over to the full-length mirror fixed to the wall in the hallway. “Since my mother and I escaped to this country when I was a boy, I have been many things. None of them have demanded as much intuition, insight and rationale as when I became a butler. The challenge of servitude is one that tests the mettle of men, and that challenge has become my life’s work.”
“When you say you’ve been many things…any of those things dangerous things?”
“Life is dangerous, my friend.”
Mark stepped up beside him and choked the knot of his own tie into submission. “You think I’d look good in a tux?”
“Tuxedos have a way of compelling an individual’s finer points to step forward.”
“I got a few of those.”
“Indeed?”
“I can juggle.”
“Ah-ha. Most excellent. Perhaps you could start with a bowtie, and work your way towards the ultimate goal of a tuxedo.”
“I’m not a bowtie kinda guy. I don’t have the right disposition.”
“What type of disposition is required to wear a bowtie?”
“I dunno, one of the polite ones.”
“I noticed you’re not fond of Rosey.”
“She’s miserable about everything and she can’t stand me. Reminds me of my ex-wife.”
“That explains things. Which ex-wife was that?”
“All of ‘em.”
Rosey returned with their copy of the uniform reissue form and swirling in a cloud of cigarette smell.
Mark snatched the form from her. “Stop smoking in the back or I’ll come back here and tell your supervisor. I’ll make sure I wear my badge.”
She blinked at him. “Do I still get the strawberry torte?”
“Sorry,” he said. “We’re in the middle of a crisis.”
Chapter Seventeen
In a casino that boasted 945,000 square feet, it wasn’t feasible to believe that such a structure would have a basement. Split-level ranches with attached garages had basements. Not casinos.
However, there is space in every structural diagram that is somewhat ignored by architects and interior designers. Blank squares of nothingness used to represent the footprint of a particular building, and are generally considered the playground of the trades. Pipes, ducts, cables, drainage systems, air-handlers, footings, boilers, electrical boxes, transformers, their multitudinous fixtures and fittings, and in some cases, remote offices well-concealed behind dark and dusty walls. Such was the hidden population of the back-of-the-house surveillance unit.
“These freaks know everything about everybody,” said Mark. “By the way, the Director of Catering is having an affair with one of the cocktail waitresses. Can’t remember her name. The one with the tattoo of a falcon on her left shoulder.”
“That’s Sophie, and I believe it is a phoenix.”
“These are the guys that caught the coat check attendant getting naked and prancing around in the guests’ fur coats last winter.”
“She preferred fox to mink, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Reminds me. One of the cage cashiers picks her nose and rubs it onto the chair in her boss’s office before she clocks out. Keep forgetting to say something.”
“It may be prudent to mention it sooner rather than later.”
“I hate that they’re all the way down here. Stairs are killing my knees.”
“They are the gatekeepers of gossip. Gossip of the most damning variety.”
“What variety is that?”
“The truth.”
“No wonder they’re stuck down here.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
They navigated blank corridors, humming machinery, pipes dripping with condensation and electronic panels blinking a staggering array of multi-colored lights.
“I have to say I don’t believe I’ve ever visited this part of the casino,” admitted Antonio. “I usually view surveillance tapes in the boardroom on the Executive Floor.”
The stopped in front of a green door with an electronic swipe lock.
“You’re about to realize that I’ve been doing you a favor all these years,” said Mark.
“Come now,” said Antonio. “They can’t be that bad.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’ve always pictured them to be a sharp-eyed group of seasoned professionals.”
Mark swiped his security access key in the lock. “That’s casino surveillance,” he said. “These yahoos just spy on employees all day.”
The doorway led them to a cinderblock hall. One of the overhead lights flickered towards certain death.
“Like being inside a haunted house,” said Mark. “Are you scared?”
“I assume that’s rhetorical.”
“You go first.”
After a haphazard series of turns they arrived at another door. Instead of a swipe key there was a speaker box and a camera mounted to the wall.
Mark pressed the intercom button.
The voice that crackled forth sounded like a teenager answering the phone for his parents. “Yo.”
Mark glared at the box. “I want to review some tape.”
The voice replied: “Duh. Who’s the guy with you?”
Antonio leaned down. “Antonio Cruz, Head Butler.”
Silence.
Mark tried the door. “Damn it.” He stabbed the button with his finger. “Hello!”
From the speaker: “I can’t see him. Get out of the way.”
“I’m going to kick this door down and I hope it hits you.”
Antonio stepped forward. “They’re only exercising diligence, Mark.”
Not from the speaker, but from the other side of the door, a voice cried out, “That’s him!” It was quickly followed by, “Shh! Shh!”
As Antonio and Mark exchanged expressions an angry buzzing sound emitted from the door. Mark snatched the handle and yanked it open. The surveillance room looked like a dark studio apartment inside of which a UFO had r
ecently landed. Fifty 8x8 LCD screens were bolted into a framework that filled most of two walls. Each screen glowed with its own patina of fuzzy images. Otherwise the room was cast in varying degrees of shadow and residual monitor lighting. There was the form of a man sitting at a laptop terminal in the right corner. In the center of the room stood a shapely figure with a wide breadth of hair and holding a shining soda can.
Mark slid his hand along the wall and found the light switch. The room snapped into full-color brightness.
“ACK!” The surveillance tech sitting in the corner wrapped his arms around his head.
“It burns!” The woman in the center of the room ducked and shielded her eyes, spilling her Diet Coke.
“Hey,” said Mark. “You stand up. You stop spilling everywhere.”
The girl tipped her soda upright and peeked out from behind her arm. She was dark-skinned with an impressive afro. “We don’t ever turn that on.”
The man in the corner looked like he was participating in a bomb drill. From his position half-wedged beneath the counter, he said, “I didn’t even know there was a freaking light in this room…come on, man.”
Antonio flicked the switch and the room sank back into shadowy glow. “That should make you more comfortable.”
Mark clicked on a penlight. He moved it around the room. “Please tell me you have a supervisor in here somewhere.”
“Right,” said the girl. “Like our supervisor is ever around.”
“Where the hell is he?” Mark asked.
“Right there,” said the young man at the counter, pointing to a monitor. “Flirting with a cocktail waitress. Not that he stands a chance. She’s seeing the bartender in the player’s lounge. He’s an ultimate fighter.”
“Last week they did it standing up in the lounge pantry,” said the girl. She turned to Antonio.
“Want to see it?” The young man began punching in commands to his keyboard.
The girl began striding towards him. “If you turn that on again I’m putting your head through the monitor. I swear to god.”
“Wait. Ouch!”
She had a handful of his hair. “Don’t turn it on, Chewie.”
CASINO SHUFFLE Page 11