Edge of the Knife

by A. D. Miller

  “Sorry. I don’t remember.”

  “They told you to get me out of the way with Mara.”

  “Her name’s not really Mara,” Emmler said, “and she’s been thrown out of every place on the Strip. She deserves everything she got.”

  “Who told you to get me out of the way?”

  “Sorry. I don’t remember.”

  “Just give me a name. Then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Can’t help you. Sorry.”

  Nyman stood up from the chair. His eyes were squinting in the bright sunlight and his jaw was set hard. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and started to walk back to the house.

  Behind him, Emmler said in a mild, conversational tone: “One thing I can tell you, though. There’s a standard casino protocol for dealing with big winners.”

  Nyman stopped. “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Well, if somebody wins big, you want to keep them in your place as long as possible, so you can win back the money they won from you.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “And the main way you keep someone in your place,” Emmler said, “is by taking care of them. Spoiling them, basically.”

  Nyman turned around. “And who is it who does the spoiling?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Emmler said, glancing at his daughters, who were crouched in the shade of the jungle gym’s slide. “I leave all that to the concierge.”

  Chapter 23

  Leaving Anaconda Road, Nyman stopped at a restaurant called Peking Garden and ate a lunch of fried rice, wontons, and egg drop soup. Then he drove back to the Strip, parked for a second time in Kasbah’s garage, and rode the elevator to the gaming floor.

  Threading his way among crowds of gamblers, he sat down at a five-dollar blackjack table and took a stack of twenty-dollar bills from his wallet.

  The dealer said: “Change on two hundred,” and arranged the bills face-down on the felt. He counted out stacks of chips in white, red, and green, pushed them over to Nyman, and swept the cash into an open slot in the table.

  Nyman played a single hand and lost. Standing, he tipped the dealer, gathered up his chips, and made his way into the lobby, where the desk of the concierge stood in a square of sunlight.

  As Nyman walked his stride became looser and jauntier. The blank expression on his face was replaced by a genial smile and eyes that were uncharacteristically bright and self-assured. When he reached the concierge he put the stack of chips on the desk and said:

  “Just the guy I wanted to see.”

  The trim little man behind the desk gave Nyman a polished smile. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I have a friend in L.A.,” Nyman said. “He came out here a week or two ago and won all kinds of money with you guys.”

  “Really, sir? That’s terrific. We love it when our guests have a lucky streak.”

  “Yeah, well, this guy’s whole life’s a lucky streak. And he tells me you showed him a hell of a time after he won.”

  The concierge beamed. “We always try to take care of our guests.”

  “Well, that’s what I want,” Nyman said, picking up a green chip and putting it on the desk in front of the concierge. “Exactly what you gave my friend. The whole deal.”

  A flicker of unease went through the polished smile. “Well, that might be a little difficult, not knowing who your friend is.”

  Nyman described Michael Freed and Alana Bell in detail.

  The concierge said: “And they were here last week?”

  “Two weeks ago, actually. And thanks. I knew you’d help me out.”

  Nyman gave him two red chips.

  The concierge looked at the chips, then at his phone, then lifted the receiver and started talking to someone in a whisper. Nyman picked up a hotel brochure and glanced through it with evident curiosity, making interested noises as he turned the pages.

  The concierge hung up. “Well, sir, we might be in luck. One of my assistants is on her way down from the pool. She thinks she might’ve been the one who took care of your friends.”

  The assistant turned out to be a tall young woman in a tailored suit. Nyman spoke to her in the same self-assured way, describing Freed and Alana in the same terms. She said that she remembered both of them very well.

  “His name was Michael, wasn’t it?”

  “Michael Freed, yes.”

  “I don’t think I caught the lady’s name. But Mr. Freed had done very well at the tables, so I asked if I could be of service.”

  “Poker, right?” Nyman said. “About five grand?”

  “No, sir—blackjack in the high-limit room. It was twenty thousand, I think.”

  Nyman whistled. “Well, whatever you gave him, that’s what I want. Michael said you guys know how to take care of somebody.”

  The woman glanced at the concierge, then back at Nyman. “Well, that’s the thing. I offered Mr. Freed a suite upstairs, but he said no. All he asked for was the use of a house car and driver.”

  Nyman snapped his fingers. “That’s right: I heard about the driver. Where can I find him?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The same one Michael had. Is he around today?”

  The concierge stepped between the woman and Nyman. “I’m sorry, sir, but you haven’t mentioned whether you’re staying with us here in the hotel.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “No. Naturally, we like to help all of our gaming guests, but—”

  Nyman stopped him with an upraised hand and said that he understood. “Can’t expect you guys to keep track of the drivers. You probably get them from an outside service, anyway.”

  “No, we have them on staff, but my point—”

  “Thanks,” Nyman said, gathering up his chips. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  Turning, he left the lobby and crossed the gaming floor. At the cashier’s window he changed his chips back into cash and said to the squat, balding cashier:

  “I think I left my sunglasses in one of the house cars. They keep them parked down in the garage, I’m guessing?”

  “Yes, sir. Level P5. Would you like me to call down to the attendant?”

  “That’s all right. I’m going down there anyway.”

  Nyman slipped the wallet back into his pocket and made his way to the elevator, walking normally now and without a smile.

  * * *

  On level P5 he found a row of identical town cars and a glassed-in office. A reedy young man sat at a table just inside the door, frowning over the pages of a book with the words Multistate Bar Exam on the spine.

  “If you want a car,” he said as Nyman came in, “you have to talk to the front desk.”

  Nyman said that he was looking for a driver, not a car. “Someone who drove one of your guests two weeks ago.”

  Looking up, the attendant asked him if he was a policeman.

  “An investigator,” Nyman said. “Working with the L.A. coroner’s office.”

  “On a murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really? The victim was staying here? Or the murderer was?”

  “The victim was here for a while, at least. I’m trying to find out what she did while she was in town.”

  The attendant put the book aside. “Well, if it was two weeks ago, it was probably Arturo who drove her. He had most of the shifts.”

  “Know where I can find him?”

  “He’ll be back in twenty minutes or so, if you want to wait. He just left on an airport run.”

  He nodded to a molded-plastic chair. Nyman sat down and, over the next half-hour, answered his questions about the case. The attendant had just finished law school at U.N.L.V. and was trying to get a job in the district attorney’s office.

  “In the Criminal Division, hopefully. Prosecuting homicides. You probably see a lot of homicides, working for the coroner.”

  Nyman said that he was an independent investigator, not an employee of the county.

  “Like for a detective
agency, you mean?”

  “Right.”

  “I heard there’s not much money in that.”

  “You heard correctly.”

  Outside, tires squealed as a car pulled into an empty spot. The driver was a short, thick-bellied man with a nose that lay flat and slanting above his mouth. He came into the office and tossed his keys on the desk.

  The attendant said: “This guy wants to talk to you, Artie. He’s an investigator checking up on a guest.”

  Scribbling on a timesheet taped to the wall, Arturo looked at Nyman. “Yeah? What guest?”

  Nyman showed him the photo of Michael Freed from the Pacifica website.

  “Oh yeah. A few weeks ago, right? He was with the girl?”

  “You remember them?”

  “It wasn’t the kind of night I’m going to forget.”

  “You mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Arturo waved a hand. “Now’s no good. I’m going up to the book to watch the fight.”

  Nyman said he hadn’t realized a fight was coming on. “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? We can talk between rounds.”

  “You really got the money for drinks?”

  Nyman showed him the cash in his wallet.

  “All right. Deal.”

  Chapter 24

  Kasbah’s sportsbook was hazy with smoke. On the T.V.s that lined the walls were horse races, baseball games, a golf tournament, and the prefight show on H.B.O. Nyman followed Arturo up to the bar.

  Sliding onto a stool, Arturo said that he knew a local boxer who was fighting in the undercard. “Welterweight named Peña. Trains at the gym I used to go to when I was a kid.”

  “You’re from Vegas?”

  “Born and raised.”

  “Must be an interesting place to grow up.”

  Arturo, holding up a finger to get the bartender’s attention, said to Nyman: “Real interesting, yeah, but what about those drinks you were buying?”

  Nyman asked the bartender for two beers and handed over his credit card.

  The T.V. was showing footage from the previous day’s weigh-in. On either side of the boxers stood two women—both taller than the boxers themselves—dressed in swimsuits printed with sponsors’ logos.

  Watching the footage, Arturo said: “So did he kill her or what?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The guy I drove two weeks ago. I figure an investigator’s not going to come all the way out from L.A. unless somebody got killed.”

  Nyman told him what had happened to Alana. Arturo listened with a blank expression that became more animated when the bartender brought over the Bud Lights. Arturo lifted his bottle to Nyman, drank, and said without emotion:

  “That’s too bad. I could tell there were sparks between her and the guy, though.”

  “Romantic sparks?”

  “Plenty of those, yeah, but violence, too. When I picked them up the guy had just won twenty grand at the tables. Wanted me to take them back to the little hotel they were staying at.”

  “Tryst?”

  He nodded. “Hands me a hundred dollars and asks if I’d mind driving them around for the night. I tell him no problem. You get a big winner in your car, you can make more in one night than you’ll get the rest of the month.”

  “Which night was this, exactly?”

  Arturo drank again and consulted his memory. “Must’ve been a Saturday, because I was working the same shift I worked today. Got the call from the concierge around four or four-thirty. I pick them up at the main entrance and take them to Tryst. Guy asks me if I’ll wait at the hotel until they can change and get ready for dinner.”

  “Did they say what they were doing in Vegas?”

  “Besides winning lots of money? No. Not a word. After thirty minutes or so they came back out and said they want me to drive them to the Wynn to celebrate. One of the French restaurants there.”

  On the T.V., the first of the undercard fights was about to start. Peña, in gold trunks, stood in his corner, his cheeks shiny with petroleum jelly.

  Arturo said: “Anyway, they were inside the Wynn for an hour or two. When they got back in they smelled like champagne and the girl told me to take them someplace for another drink, so I drove them up to the Black Hat. Manager there gives me something for everybody I bring in.”

  “Did you hear anything they said in the car?”

  “Not in the car, no. But when we got to the Black Hat I went in after them, to let my friend know I’d brought him some customers. We’re standing there by the door when I hear this angry voice coming from the bar.”

  “Freed’s?”

  “The girl’s. Alana, or whatever her name was. A minute or two later I hear a chair fall over and then she comes storming by me. When I get out to the parking lot she’s already in the backseat, telling me to take her back to Tryst.”

  “What made her angry?”

  Arturo shrugged. “No idea. But the guy didn’t come after her. Not even out to the parking lot. The girl still had plenty of money, so I took her back to the hotel. She goes in for five minutes, comes out with a suitcase, tells me to take her to the airport.”

  On the T.V., the bell had rung and the two fighters were circling each other. Peña closed in, jabbed, ducked under an uppercut, and skipped away. Arturo watched with a frown of concentration, the beer forgotten in his hand.

  Nyman waited for the first round to end, then said: “So you took her to the airport?”

  “Hmm? Oh. Well, I took her most of the way there. Around Tropicana she leans up from the backseat and asks me if I know where Mr. Searle lives.”

  “Searle?”

  He gestured to the walls around them. “Guy who owns this place. Well—not owns, exactly. Guy who runs the company that owns this place.”

  “Savannah Group?”

  Arturo nodded. “The girl wanted to know if I knew where he lives. I told her I heard he has a place in Summerlin, out on Mesquite Road, but I don’t know which one. She gives me more money and tells me to take her there.”

  With a bell the second round started and Peña’s opponent moved forward, landing a two-punch combination that knocked Peña briefly off balance.

  Nyman drank his beer and said after the round had ended: “So she wanted you to take her out to Searle’s place?”

  Arturo looked at him blankly, then nodded. “Yeah—out on Mesquite. We found it on the eleven hundred block, I think. Place so big you can’t even see it from the road, because of the trees and hedges, but Searle’s name is there on the gate.”

  “And she went in to see him?”

  “Tried to, at least. She gets out and walks up to the gate, presses a little button. After a minute she gets back in and says okay, take me to the airport.”

  “They wouldn’t let her in?”

  Arturo laughed. “Why would they let her in? Some girl they’d never heard of?”

  “How do you know they’d never heard of her?”

  “Well, she didn’t get in, did she?”

  Nyman reached again for his beer. “And after that?”

  “After that I took her to the airport. When we got up to the terminal she took some money from her purse and said it was the last of what she’d gotten from that son of a bitch.”

  “Meaning Freed?”

  “Far as I could tell, yeah. She had probably a hundred there in her hand—maybe two. Said it would hardly be enough to get her back to L.A.”

  “So she was just going to walk in and buy a ticket?”

  “That’s what it sounded like. Never saw her again, at any rate.”

  The bell rang for a third time. Closing quickly on the other man, Peña landed a hard right hand, followed it with another, and sent the other man to the canvas.

  Nyman asked the bartender for the check. By the time he finished signing the fight had ended and Arturo was laughing and clapping and signaling the bartender for another drink.

  * * *

  The sun was low when Nyman got out of his car at the Lady L
uck. Crossing to the manager’s office, he asked the clerk for directions to Mesquite Road, filled a cup with coffee, and walked back out into the heat.

  Parked in one of the visitor’s spots was a silver Mercedes. He walked past without looking at it and made his way to room 111, taking the keycard from his pocket.

  A scrape of footsteps came from the pavement behind him. He paused with the keycard in his hand and looked over his shoulder.

  The blow caught him across the bridge of the nose, turning him around and splashing coffee against the door. He steadied himself, raised an arm, and felt something clip him on the right side of the skull, above the ear.

  He was unconscious by the time he hit the ground.

  Chapter 25

  He woke up coughing. Something warm was in his mouth and nostrils, preventing him from breathing. He spat and gasped and touched a hand to his face. The hand came away bloody.

  A voice said: “Look at the mess he’s making.”

  Nyman saw that he was lying in the backseat of a car. The leather upholstery was slippery with blood. Through the windows came the occasional flash of a passing street lamp.

  He tried to sit up. In the passenger’s seat someone turned around to look at him: a boy of sixteen or seventeen with a thin trickle of hair on his upper lip. In his hand was a box-end wrench as long as his forearm and flecked with blood.

  The boy climbed onto his knees and wrapped his left arm around the headrest. With his other hand he lifted the wrench.

  Nyman rolled into the floorboard. When the wrench touched his skull he saw a burst of light, whiter than sunlight, and then darkness.

  * * *

  When he woke next he was lying on hard ceramic tiles. A sound of labored breathing came from his right, interrupted now and then by the sound of licking. A blunt-faced dog was sitting beside him, licking his blood from the tiles.

  Nyman put his palms on the floor and tried to raise his body. His head came up far enough to show him that he was in the entryway of a house. Behind him, locked and chained, was the front door. Straight ahead was a living room filled with the flickering light of a T.V.