by James Swain
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said.
Frank’s hands clutched the wheel as if clinging to a life jacket.
“We have a deal,” she said. “If you’re changing the deal, I want to know.”
Frank took out his cell phone and punched in a command.
“The changes are about this,” Frank said.
She squinted at the screen. Eight people gathered inside a covered parking garage. Billy, two big black dudes, a fat guy holding a gym bag, two kids with curly mops of hair, a big man with his back to the camera, and two babes pretty enough for porno.
“That was taken inside Galaxy’s employee parking garage earlier,” Frank explained. “We think Cunningham’s planning to rip off Galaxy today, and that’s his crew.”
“You’re going to catch him in the act.”
“Damn straight. He’ll do serious time.”
“What do you mean serious time?”
“Twenty-five to life, no parole.”
“You think you can nail all of them?” she asked, swallowing hard.
“That’s the plan. We’ve doubled the number of agents for the bust.”
It wasn’t adding up. The gaming board was raiding Galaxy to bust a drug dealer and shut down a money-laundering operation. Billy was just icing on the cake, or so she’d been led to believe.
“Why all this attention on Billy?” she asked. “This other guy’s a drug dealer. He’s more important, isn’t he?”
“Rock’s goose is already cooked. The gaming board just wanted to arrest him inside the casino because it was good publicity. Busting Cunningham is a different story. That little motherfucker humiliated us. We’ve got a score to settle with him.”
“So this is personal.”
“You got it, baby.”
“You still haven’t told me how my deal’s changed.”
“You’re going to help us catch the whole crew.”
“But that wasn’t our agreement.”
“It is now.”
Harrah’s was across the street from Galaxy. Frank pulled in and gave the valet his keys. Then he came around to Mags’s side of the vehicle and told her to get out.
“I’m warning you, don’t try anything stupid,” he said.
They walked down the Strip to an elevated walkway, took the escalator up, and crossed over. The walkway was crowded and Frank pushed his way through. Another escalator took them down to the opposite side of the street, and they headed toward the convoy of NV trucks.
Mags decided it was time to end her relationship with the gaming board. She started to make a run for it, but Frank forced her up the stairs of the camper-sized vehicle. He opened the back door and brusquely shoved her inside.
The door shut behind her. Three gaming agents sat before a matrix of video monitors. Gaming agents were voyeurs; they eavesdropped on phone conversations, opened other people’s mail, and stuck their noses where they didn’t belong. A gruff female agent with steel-gray hair appeared in charge.
“You must be the snitch,” the female agent said. “What’s your name?”
“Maggie.”
“Okay, Maggie, I want you to sit over there in the corner. Don’t open your mouth unless I speak to you. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Whatever chance she’d had to warn Billy had been lost. She sank down in the chair under the female agent’s wilting gaze.
“And don’t get any bright ideas,” the female agent added.
FIFTY-FIVE
At two o’clock, Billy entered Doucette’s office. A makeshift home theater had been erected in the room’s center. Four seventy-inch flat-screen TVs on rolling flat-panel stands, each set turned on, showing a live surveillance feed from the casino floor. The cameras were in four-color and HD, and the images literally popped off the screens.
On the first screen was a feed from the wedding chapel. Next to it, a feed from the bustling hotel lobby. The third feed was the entrance to Galaxy’s casino, the fourth from the casino floor. Now dressed in pretty clothes, Rock sat on the couch, accompanied by his female bodyguards. Doucette and his bride stood behind the couch, sipping bottles of mineral water. His old pal Crunchie was not on the premises, and he guessed the old grifter had been relieved of his duties.
“Like it?” Rock asked.
“I’m impressed,” Billy said.
Rock picked up a walkie-talkie and spoke into it. “Show your faces.” On the second screen, hotel security came out of the woodwork and filled the lobby. They were big men wearing ill-fitting suits and ultra-mean faces, just spoiling for a fight.
“Go back to your stations,” Rock said to them.
The security goons faded away.
“I’d say you’re ready for the Gypsies,” Billy said.
“We’re more than ready, my little friend.” Rock exchanged the walkie-talkie for a remote. “I’m going to show you the meaning of Big Brother.”
Rock tapped the remote. On the first screen appeared a Hispanic couple at the chapel altar. The bride had a small tattoo on her forearm. Another tap, and the tattoo grew in size to show a brown-skinned Virgin Mary standing on a crescent-shaped moon held up by an angel.
“I want one of those,” the bodyguard to Rock’s left said.
“I’ll get you one when we get back,” Rock promised.
“You can operate the camera’s PTZ from your remote?” Billy asked.
“That’s right. Ain’t nothing down there I can’t see,” Rock said.
Pan-tilt-zoom cameras had ruined more than one cheater’s career. PTZs could read the date off a dime and, when enabled with auto tracking, would follow a cheater around the casino while recording his every movement. It was going to make his crew’s job this afternoon a lot harder, but not impossible. Nothing was impossible when eight million bucks were at stake.
The ceremony ended, and the Hispanic couple left the chapel and entered the lobby. As the groom patted his brow, Rock fingered the remote. Beads of sweat filled the screen.
“Look at that poor bastard,” Rock laughed. “He’s cooked, isn’t he, Marcus?”
“I’ll say,” Doucette replied.
Shaz shot her husband a murderous look.
The Hispanic couple entered the casino and celebrated by shooting craps together. The bride blew on the dice for luck before sending them down the table. Rock hit a button and the dice filled the screen. A seven, a winner.
“You’ve got that down pretty good,” Billy said.
“Yes, I have,” Rock said. “When the Gypsies are getting married this afternoon, you’re going to be down on the floor, following them, and I’m going to be watching you.”
Good, Billy thought. Watch me, but don’t watch my friends.
“What exactly do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Expose the Gypsies’ scam so we can get it on video,” Rock said. “Once you do that, security will haul them into the back and teach them a lesson.”
“You going to rough them up?”
“That’s none of your fucking business,” Rock snapped, “but since you asked, I’ll tell you. We’re going to take the leader of the gang and his wife and crush their fucking skulls in. We’ll tell the police they put up a fight and had to be subdued. I’d kill the whole fucking party, but I don’t want the publicity.” He studied Billy’s face. “You have a problem with that?”
Billy shook his head.
“Come again,” Rock said.
“No, I don’t have a problem with that.”
“I might even ask you to help us. Got a problem with that?”
“Nope.”
“Glad to hear it. Now get outta here. I hate looking at guys prettier than me.”
Rock glanced over his shoulder at Shaz. “Show our friend out.”
Shaz c
ame up beside Billy and locked arms. Instead of escorting him to the door, she marched the young hustler across the office to the paneled wall. With a press of her palm, a hidden door sprung open, followed by a gentle push that said he was to go first.
He entered the ultimate man cave. Full bar, the latest pinball machines, the biggest flat screen he’d ever seen, and a collection of lewd paintings of delicious black chicks. This had to be Rock’s secret hangout. Shaz went to the bar and pulled a bottle off the shelf.
“How do you like your scotch?” she asked.
“Straight up.”
“In case you haven’t realized it, Rock digs you.”
“But he doesn’t trust me.”
“Don’t sweat it. Rock doesn’t trust anybody.”
“I’m not appreciating the difference.”
“Rock likes your style. He didn’t like Crunchie at all. He thought the old hustler was looking down his nose at him because he was black.”
“I didn’t see Crunchie hanging around. Did you lose him?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” She came around the bar with the drinks and handed him one. They clinked glasses.
“Here’s to joining our team.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
The scotch burned going down. Shaz drank hers like it was water and rattled the ice cubes in her empty glass.
“Come here. I want to show you something.”
She led him to a private elevator in the corner of the room and hit the call button. The doors parted, and the breath caught in his throat. Crunchie was inside, tied to a chair, his mouth frozen in agony. Cause of death was two knife wounds. The first a lateral slash across the forehead. An old street-fighting trick, designed to blind an opponent with a sheet of blood. The second a stab to the heart, the knife left in to prevent excessive bleeding. The knife’s handle was carved to resemble a Mexican sugar skull.
One of Rock’s bodyguards had done this. Or maybe both had.
“It’s time you and I got to know each other a little better,” she said.
“In there?” he asked incredulously.
“Yeah, in there.”
They got in, and she hit a button. As they descended, she covered his face in kisses while undoing the front of his shirt. Billy put his arms around her waist and drew her close. She shut her eyes and moaned pleasurably. She was lost in the moment, and his hands went through Crunchie’s pockets and found a wallet. He extracted the slip of paper with the information about his crew that Crunchie had taken off his cell phone. He did all of these things while trying not to look into Crunchie’s face out of fear he might never forget.
The elevator bounced to a stop, and the doors parted.
“You ready?” she asked.
“You serious?”
“I’m always serious when it comes to sex. I can use the key and lock us in. We can fuck standing in the corner, or on top of him. Ménage à trois with a dead man is the ultimate turn-on.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“You bet. Why are you looking at me that way?”
The dead were not meant to be messed with. Had he killed the old grifter himself, it would have been with a bullet to the back of the head. He would not have made him suffer.
He stepped out of the elevator and spent a moment getting his bearings. He was in a private parking garage beneath the hotel, and he started walking toward an exit.
Shaz called his name, begging him to come back.
Even bad people had souls. They were hidden most of the time, but they were still there. His soul had been scorched, and he wondered if it would ever be the same.
He found the stairwell and hurried up it.
FIFTY-SIX
Mags sat in the NV Energy van, waiting for the trap to be sprung. Billy’s crew was going to get busted, and it was all her fault because she’d overslept.
It was the story of her life. She couldn’t blame fate or bad luck for the dumb mistakes she’d made. The choices had all been hers, and she’d screwed up every single time.
Thinking about it wasn’t going to do her any good, and she stared at the video monitors trained on Galaxy’s hotel and casino. The gaming agents were using a facial-recognition software program to locate Billy’s crew as they entered the casino. The agents had scanned the photo of Billy’s crew taken inside the employee parking garage into a computer, and now the computer’s software program was comparing those faces against the tourists going inside.
Poor Billy was a goner. The gaming board had the joint surrounded, determined to get their man. Their reputations, and Frank’s promotion, were riding on it.
At two forty-five, the gruff female agent said, “I’ve got two on monitor number five.”
Mags located monitor number five on the wall. The sex kittens from Billy’s crew were entering the hotel with garment bags slung over their shoulders, while one also carried a Nike gym bag. The female agent relayed the news with a walkie-talkie.
Frank charged into the van. “Show me,” he said.
The tape of the sex kittens was replayed. Frank brought his ugly face up to the screen.
“What about the other members of the crew?” he asked.
“They haven’t arrived yet,” the female agent said.
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. The facial-recognition program would have made them.”
“What do you think’s in the clothing bags?”
“Disguises. They’ll change in a stall in the ladies’ room, or have a room in the hotel. They won’t look the same when they’re robbing the place.”
“Play the tape again, and do a close-up of their faces,” he said.
“What for?”
“Just do it.”
She shot him a simmering look while fingering the toggle on her keyboard. It gave Mags small comfort knowing that she wasn’t the only female that Frank treated like dirt. The tape ran again and was frozen. The sex kittens’ faces expanded and came into sharp focus on the monitor.
“Send that shot to everyone on the team,” he said.
“Anything else?”
“That’s it for now.”
Frank made for the door, then pretended to notice Mags. He knew all the ways to cut her down, and said, “Billy likes them pretty. I hear he gets more ass than a toilet seat.”
“I bet he does,” Mags said under her breath.
Misty and Pepper had been mistaken for call girls enough times to know how to fool hotel security. Dressed in casual clothes and wearing a smattering of makeup, they chattered about a dumb Channing Tatum flick as they strolled past the guards posted inside the front doors.
Soon they were riding an elevator to Billy’s suite. Misty carried the Nike bag with the fake chips, which she tried to avoid peeking into. In a few hours, she was going to be rich, and the thought made her giddy with excitement. She unlocked the door with the spare room key.
It was said that the best things in Vegas were free, only no one could afford them. Billy’s comped high-roller suite was a perfect example, the furniture and decorations to die for.
“I could live here,” Misty said.
“Me, too,” Pepper said.
“Anybody home?”
“I’m on the balcony,” came Billy’s voice through the open slider.
They dropped their things on a couch and stepped outside. Billy stood by the railing, watching the action down below with a pair of binoculars with the sales sticker still on them.
“We didn’t expect to find you here,” Misty said. “What are you doing?”
“I came upstairs to get a better look at those NV Energy trucks parked in front,” he said.
“What’s the matter with them?”
“They’ve been there for a few hours. When was the last time you called the power company on a w
eekend, and they came out?”
“You think it’s the heat?”
He lowered the binoculars. First the flash of light in the covered parking garage, now the trucks parked out front as if preparing to raid the joint. It could have been nothing more than his imagination taking a trip down paranoid lane, but he wasn’t ready to dismiss his feelings just yet. With his hand, he motioned for Pepper to close the slider.
“No, I don’t think it’s the heat, but I’ve been wrong before,” he said. “If you smell an undercover cop when you’re in the casino, dump the chips and run.”
“But what about our big payday?” Misty pouted.
“There will be more of those down the road. You with me on this?”
“I guess,” she said sadly.
An awkward silence followed. He had instilled the fear of doubt into them. It was the worst possible way to start a job. Putting his hands on their shoulders, he drew them close.
“It’s just a precaution. You never can be too careful in this game. Especially with the people you care about.”
“Awww,” they both said.
They shared a group hug, and things were good again.
Back inside, Billy rapped on the punishers’ bedroom door. Ike and T-Bird emerged a few moments later. T-Bird’s dreadlocks were history, his skull a shiny brown dome.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Billy said.
“Shut up,” T-Bird said, clearly disgusted. “Took me two years to grow my dreads. They’re part of me, know what I mean?”
“You can grow them back while you’re enjoying your money.”
“We brought some clothes for you to try on.” Pepper unzipped a garment bag and pulled out a pair of billowing slacks, a black silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, and an alligator belt with a gold-plated barbwire accent. “See how these look.”
T-Bird went into the bedroom with the clothes hanging over his arm and returned wearing them. The belt was a nice touch, the type of outlandish accessory that a drug peddler might wear.