He looked at his watch. It was quarter after three. That was Philadelphia time. It was only a little after midnight here, but it explained why he was hungry again.
With his luck, the restaurants would be closed at this hour. He would be denied another meal.
That's not true. With my luck, the restaurant will not only be open, but the headwaiter will show me to my table with a flourish of trumpets.
****
The headwaiter made him wait for a table, as the restaurant was even more crowded at midnight, Las Vegas time, than it had been when he'd had lunch, or breakfast, or whatever meal that had been. He had a martini, a shrimp cocktail, and another filet mignon, and then went back to the casino.
He went to the same roulette table and gave the croupier one hundred eight-five dollars, specifying nickels, and promptly lost it all.
He moved away from the table and decided he would see if he could figure out how one bet at a craps table, as he had figured out how one bet at roulette.
There was a man at the head of the table rolling dice. He looked like a gambler, Matt decided. He had gold rings on both hands, and a long-collared shirt unbuttoned nearly to his navel, so as to display his hairy chest and a large gold medallion. And he had, one on each side of him, a pair of what Matt decided must be Las Vegas hookers of fame and legend.
Matt moved to what he hoped was an unobtrusive distance from the gambler and tried to figure out what was going on. Ten minutes later, the only thing he was fairly sure of was that the gambler was a fellow Philadelphian. The accent was unmistakable.
"Sir, if you are not going to wager, would you mind stepping aside and making room for someone who would like to play?"
"Sorry," Matt said, and pulled his wad of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and laid one somewhere, anywhere, on the felt of the craps table. The gambler threw the dice. The hooker on his left said " ooooh" and the one on his right kissed him and gave him a little hug.
The croupier picked up Matt's one-hundred-dollar bill…
I lost. Why did I bet a hundred?
…and held a handful of chips over it.
"Quarters all right, sir?"
I won. I'll be goddamned. What did I bet on?
"Quarters are fine, thank you."
He picked up the stack of quarters, there were twelve of them, and walked away from the table.
If you have no idea what you're betting on, you have no business betting.
"Stick around," the gambler said. "I'm on a roll."
The temptation was nearly irresistible. The hooker on the left was smiling at him with invitation in her eyes. He had never been with a hooker.
Was this the time and place?
Get thee behind me, Satan! Back to the roulette table.
****
The Lindens was a forty-five-minute drive from the Flamingo. Matt was sorry that he had let himself be ushered into the back seat of the limousine. He certainly could have seen more of Las Vegas and the desert upfront than he could see from the back seat, through the deeply tinted windows.
But he had been more than a little groggy when he left the Flamingo. He had lost the seven hundred dollars he had walked away from the craps table with, gone to bed, woken up, and-absolute insanity-decided he could take a chance with another five hundred, and then had compounded that insanity by taking a thousand dollars, not five hundred, from the soap dish and going back to the casino with it.
When he'd finally left the table, at quarter past six, Las Vegas time, he had worked the thousand up to thirty-seven hundred. Since that obviously wouldn't fit into the soap dish, and he didn't want to have that much money in his pockets, or put it in the suitcase, he told the man in the cashier's cage to give him a check for his winnings.
By the time they had made out the check, and he'd taken another quick shower, they had called from the desk and told him his limousine was waiting for him.
There was nothing he could see for miles around The Lindens, which turned out to be a rambling, vaguely Spanish-looking collection of connected buildings built on a barren mountainside. There was a private road, a mile and a half long, from a secondary highway.
There was no fence around the place. Probably, he decided, because you would have to be out of your mind to try to walk away from The Lindens. There was nothing but desert.
In front of the main building, in an improbably lush patch of grass, were six trees. Lindens, he decided, as in Unter den Linden.
A hefty, middle-aged man in a blazer with retired cop written all over him saw him get out of the limousine and unlocked a double door as Matt walked up to it.
"Mr. Payne?"
"Right?"
"Dr. Newberry is expecting you, sir. Will you follow me, please?"
He locked the door again before he headed inside the building.
Dr. Newberry was a woman in a white coat who looked very much like the cashier in the Flamingo.
"You look very much like your sister," Dr. Newberry greeted him cordially. Matt did not think he should inform her that that must be a genetic anomaly, because he and Amy shared no genes. He nodded politely.
"It was very good of you to come out to be with Penelope on her trip home."
"Not at all."
"We believe, as I'm sure Dr. Payne has told you, that we've done all we can for Penelope here. We've talked her through her problems, and of course, we believe that her physical addiction is under control."
"Yes, ma'am."
"We've tried to convince her that the best thing she can do is put what happened behind her, that she's not the only young woman who has had difficulty like this in her life, and that she will not be the only one to overcome it."
"Yes, ma'am."
"What I'm trying to get across is that I hope you can behave in a natural manner toward Penelope. While neither you nor she can deny that she has had problems, or has spent this time with us, the less you dwell upon it, the better. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am. I think so."
Dr. Newberry got up and smiled.
"Well, let's go get her. She's been waiting for you."
She led him through a series of wide corridors furnished with simple, heavy furniture and finally to a wide door. She pushed it open.
Penny was sitting on a chair. Her shoulder-length blond hair was parted in the middle. She was wearing a skirt and two sweaters. A single strand of pearls hung around her neck. There was a suitcase beside the chair.
It was a fairly large room with a wall of narrow, ceiling-high windows providing a view of the desert and mountains. Matt saw the windows were not wide enough for anyone to climb out.
"Your friend is here, dear," Dr. Newberry said.
Penny got to her feet.
"Hello, Matt," she said, and walked to him.
Christ, she expects me to kiss her.
He put his hands on her arms and kissed her cheek. He could smell her perfume. Or maybe it was soap. A female smell, anyway.
"How goes it, Penny?"
"I'm sorry you had to come out here," she said.
"Ah, hell, don't be silly."
"Shall I have someone come for your bag?"
"I can handle the bag," Matt said.
"Well, then, Penelope, you're all ready to go. I'll say good-bye to you now, dear."
"Thank you, Dr. Newberry, for everything."
"It's been my pleasure," Dr. Newberry said, smiled at Matt, and walked out of the room.
Penny looked at Matt.
"God, I hate that woman!" she said.
He could think of no reply to make.
"Have you got any money?" she asked.
"Why?"
"Some people have been nice to me. I'd like to give them something."
What did they do, smuggle you junk?
"I don't think you're supposed to tip nurses and people like that."
"For god's sake, Matt, let me have some money. You know you'll get it back."
"When you get home, you can write them a che
ck," Matt said.
"What are you thinking, that I'm going to take the money and run?"
As a matter of fact, perhaps subconsciously, that is just what I was thinking.
"I don't know what to think, Penny. But I'm not going to give you any money."
"Fuck you, Matt!"
He wondered if she had used language like that before she had met Tony the Zee DeZego, or whether she had learned it from him.
She picked up her bag and marched out of her room. He followed her. The rent-a-cop in the blue blazer, who, Matt thought, probably had a title like director of Internal Security Services, was at the front door. He unlocked it.
"Good-bye, Miss Detweiler," he said. "Good luck."
Penny didn't reply.
Matt got in the back seat of the limousine with her.
"Well, so how was the food?"
"Fuck you, Matt," Penny said again.
FOUR
It is accepted almost as an article of faith by police officers assigned to McCarran International Air Field, Las Vegas-which does not mean that it is true-that the decision to have a large number of plainclothes officers, as opposed to uniformed officers, patrolling the passenger terminal was based on the experience of a very senior Las Vegas police officer in the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana.
The legend has it that the senior officer (three names are bandied about) was relaxing at a Bourbon Street bar after a hard day's work at the National Convention of the International Association of Chiefs of Police when an unshaven sleaze-ball in greasy jeans and leather vest approached him and very politely said, "Excuse me, sir, I believe this is yours."
He thereupon handed the senior police officer his wallet. (In some versions of the story, the sleaze-ball handed him his wallet, his ID folder, his wristwatch, and his diamond-studded Masonic ring.) It came out that the sleaze-ball was a plainclothes cop who had been watching the dip (pickpocket) ply his trade. (In some versions of the story, the dip was a stunning blond transvestite with whom the senior police officer had just been dancing.)
In any event, the senior police officer returned to Las Vegas with the notion, which he had the authority to turn into policy, that the way to protect the tourists moving through McCarran was the way the cops in New Orleans protected the tourists moving down Bourbon Street, with plainclothes people.
They could, the senior police said, protect the public without giving the public the idea that Las Vegas was so crime-ridden a place that you needed police officers stationed every fifty yards along the way from the airway to the limo and taxi stands to keep the local critters from separating them from their worldly goods before the casino operators got a shot at them.
And so it came to pass that Officer Frank J. Oakes, an exparatrooper who had been on the job for almost six years, was standing on the sidewalk outside the American Airlines terminal in plainclothes when the white Cadillac limo pulled up. Oakes was wearing sports clothes and carrying a plastic bag bearing the logotype of the Marina Motel amp; Casino. The bag held his walkie-talkie.
The white Cadillac limo attracted his attention. Even before he took a look at the license plate to make sure, he was sure that it was areal limo, as he thought of it, as opposed to one of the livery limos, or one operated by one of the casinos to make the high rollers feel good. For one thing, it wasn't beat up. For another, it did not have a TV antenna on the trunk. Most important, it wasn't a stretch limo, large enough to transport all of a rock-and-roll band and their lady friends. It looked to him like a real, rich people's private limo, an analysis that seemed to be confirmed when the chauffeur got out wearing a neat suit and white shirt and chauffeur's cap and quickly walked around the front to open the curbside door.
The first person to get out was a female Caucasian, early twenties, five feet three, 115 pounds. She wore her shoulder-length blond hair parted in the middle, a light blue linen skirt, a pullover sweater, and a jacket-type sweater unbuttoned. There was a single strand of pearls around her neck. She did not have a spectacular breastworks, but Officer Oakes found her hips and tail attractive.
A male Caucasian, early twenties, maybe 165, right at six feet, followed her out of the limo. He was wearing a tweed coat, a tieless white shirt, gray flannel slacks, and loafers. Oakes thought that the two of them sort of fit the limo, that something about them smelled of money and position.
The chauffeur took a couple of bags from the limo trunk and handed them to the American Airlines guy. Then he went to the young guy, who handed him the tickets. Then the young guy looked at Officer Oakes, first casually, then gave him a closer look. Then he smiled and winked.
It was ten to one that he wasn't a fag, so the only thing that was left was that he had made Oakes as a cop. Oakes didn't like to be made, and he wondered how this guy had made him.
The chauffeur got the tickets back from the American Airlines guy, handed them to the young guy, and then tipped his hat. The blonde went to the chauffeur and smiled at him and shook his hand. No tip, which confirmed Oakes's belief that it was a private limo.
The chauffeur got behind the wheel and drove off. The blonde and the well-dressed young guy walked into the terminal. The more he thought about it, Oakes was sure that he was right. The guy had made him as a cop on the job.
Another limo, this one a sort of pink-colored livery limo that looked like it was maybe five thousand miles away from the salvage yard, pulled into the space left by the real limo.
A real gonzo got out of it, a white male Caucasian in his late twenties or early thirties, maybe five-ten and 170, swarthy skin with facial scars, probably acne. He was wearing a maroon shirt with long collar points, unbuttoned halfway down to expose his hairy chest and a gold chain with some kind of medal. He had on a pair of yellow pants and white patent-leather loafers with a chain across the instep. He had a gold wristwatch and a diamond ring on one hand, and a couple of gold bracelets around the wrist of the other.
He got out and looked around as if he had just bought the place, made a big deal of checking the time, so everybody would see the gold watch, and then waited for the limo driver to get his bags from the trunk. Cheap luggage. He waited until the guy had carried his bags to the American Airlines counter, then pulled out a thick wad of bills, hundreds outside, and then counted out four twenties.
"Here you go, my man," the gonzo said.
A limo, no matter at what hotel you were staying, was no more than fifty bucks, so the last of the big spenders was laying a large tip on the driver. The gonzo had apparently done well at the tables.
The Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce, Oakes knew, would be happy. There was no better advertisement than some gonzo like this going home and telling the other gonzos what a killing he'd made in Vegas.
Officer Oakes's attention was diverted from the gonzo by the sound of a strident female voice, offering her anything but flattering opinion of the gentleman with her. Drunk probably, Oakes decided.
He stepped into a doorway, unzipped his Marina Hotel amp; Casino plastic bag and took out the radio and called for a uniformed officer to deal with the disturbance at American Airlines Arrival.
By the time the uniforms, two of them, got there, the female Caucasian, five-three, maybe 135,140, brown hair, had warmed to the subject of what a despicable, untrustworthy sonofabitch the gentleman with her was, and Officer Oakes put the blonde with the nice ass, the gonzo, and the good-looking young guy he was sure had made him as a cop from his mind.
****
Matt caught up with Penny as she marched through the airport and took her arm.
"Is that really necessary?"
"I've got to make a phone call," he said.
He guided her to a row of pay telephones, took a dime from his pocket, dropped it in the slot, gave the operator a number, told her it was collect, that his name was Matthew Payne, and that he would speak with anyone.
"Who are you calling?" Penny asked, almost civilly.
"My father."
"Why?"
"Becau
se I was told to call when I was sure the plane was leaving on schedule," Matt Payne replied, and then turned his attention to the telephone.
"Hello, Mrs. Craig. Would you please tell that slave driver you work for that American Airlines Flight 6766 is leaving on schedule?"
There was brief pause and then he went on:
"Everything's fine. Aside from the fact that I lost my car and next year's salary at the craps tables."
There was a reply, and he chuckled and hung up.
"Why did you call your father?" Penny asked.
"Because I thought he would be better able to deal with a collect call than yours," Matt Payne replied, then took her arm again. "There' s what I have been looking for."
He led her to a cocktail lounge and set her down at a tiny table in a relatively uncrowded part of the room.
A waitress almost immediately came to the table.
"Have you got any Tuborg?" Matt Payne asked.
The waitress nodded.
"Penny?" he asked.
"I think a 7UP, please."
"Sprite okay?"
"Yes, thank you," Penny said. Then, turning to Matt: "You were kidding, right, about losing a lot of money gambling?"
"As a matter of fact, I made so much money, I don't believe it."
"Really?"
He took the Flamingo's check for $3,700 from his pocket and showed it to her.
"My God!"
"And that's not all of it," he said.
"What were you playing?"
"Roulette."
"Roulette? What do you know about playing roulette?"
"Absolutely nothing, that's why I won," Matt said.
She smiled. The anger seemed to be gone. He had a policeman's cynical thought.Is she charming me?
"When did you get here?" Penny asked.
"A little after ten yesterday morning."
"Then why didn't you come get me yesterday?"
"Because I was told to get you this morning," he said. "Mine not to reason why, et cetera, et cetera."
"So instead you went gambling."
"Right. I quit half an hour before the limousine came back for me." When he saw the look on her face, he went on solemnly, "Las Vegas never sleeps, you know. They don't even have clocks."
The Assassin boh-5 Page 6