Ghosts

by Matt Rogers

  Out on the Strip.

  It loomed half a mile away, unmissable. The eclectic glow of endless casinos and hotels, skewering into the skyline, like something out of a fantasy. That was Las Vegas, after all. Hedonism and flamboyance in the middle of nowhere, skewered into an otherwise unremarkable desert, a faux city of hopes and dreams. There were fortunes to be made and lost on the tables, overpriced drinks to guzzle, outrageous fountain shows to watch. Slater hadn’t visited the Strip once — at least, not since they’d arrived a month ago. Granted, neither had King, but Slater considered himself more of a risk than his counterpart. He’d been drowning his pain in artificial thrills for most of his career. The hundreds of thousands of square feet dedicated solely to indulging yourself would be a ticking time bomb if he decided to lose himself in it.

  Now he had something better, so he didn’t even flirt with it.

  Here on the distant outskirts of the Strip they passed Chinatown Plaza, huge and dazzling and adorned with dragons and statues and a giant gate. They drove on past into the downtown Chinatown maze, and King directed them to the strip mall Josefine had spoken of. It was at the southern limits, just north of a dark industrial zone across the street and a shade over a mile north-west of the airport.

  The mall itself was unremarkable, but that was the point. It was a long low building with a cream exterior, home to a couple of dozen shops, most of them still open. The parking lot was sparsely populated by plain suburban vehicles — locals doing their evening supply haul, a few having dashed out for last-minute groceries before a late dinner. They drifted by the main entrance, both taking a look down a starkly lit corridor behind motion-sensing entrance doors.

  Slater carried on past.

  King said, ‘Remember what I told you.’

  Slater didn’t take the bait.

  He flashed the indicator and silently rounded the corner, diving into the true backwaters of Chinatown. The street behind the mall was dark, the streetlights spaced further apart. The atmosphere dripped with grime.

  King said, ‘What?’

  ‘If we don’t fix this tonight, Josefine goes to prison tomorrow.’

  ‘We’re not fixing it tonight,’ King said. ‘I thought that’d be obvious. She’s going to prison.’

  ‘So it’s pointless, then.’

  ‘You don’t want to deal with whatever the hell’s happening behind Wan’s?’

  ‘Of course,’ Slater said. ‘But if that’s the goal, then I’m a fan of brute force. As are you, if I remember anything we’ve ever done together.’

  ‘See what happens,’ King said. ‘Maybe I’m an optimist.’

  ‘You want to follow it? No matter how deep it goes?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you think that’ll help her in any way if she’s sitting in a cell?’

  ‘Do I look like a psychic?’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘You’re overthinking this,’ King said. ‘Right now we know nothing. Elsa’s still missing, which means she might be out there somewhere. And razing Wan’s to the ground will kill every possible lead.’

  ‘So restraint?’

  ‘Restraint.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  A Rolls Royce rumbled through the intersection ahead. It drifted to the opposite lane, slowed as the driver scoped out the darkened turn-off, and then mounted the sidewalk and disappeared into the recesses of the laneway behind the mall.

  King said, ‘Bingo.’

  Slater turned off the street and followed the luxury ride into the gloom.

  11

  The laneway was narrow, illuminated only by both sets of headlights.

  The beams pierced the night, exposing the dumpsters and rotting cardboard in all their pestilent detail.

  The Rolls navigated with practiced experience. It missed the brick wall on the left by inches and the dumpsters on the right by a similar margin, then turned into a discreet garage with its roller doors up. It parked next to a couple of similarly expensive rides, but Slater couldn’t make out their models due to poor visibility.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  He pulled in to the right, slotting into an empty spot as if he belonged.

  ‘Game face,’ King muttered.

  They got out in unison, and both the headlights and interior lights died as they locked up the Bentley. They rounded the trunk, stepping back out into the laneway just as a guy in his sixties levered himself out of the Rolls. His suit was expensive and impressively tailored to hide how out of shape he was. He had a dark mop of black hair — clearly dyed — but he seemed to have missed his thick eyebrows, which were all grey.

  The old man exited the garage, saw King and Slater, and froze.

  Perhaps he mistook them for law enforcement — the suits, their physically imposing nature, and the fact they were surely younger than the usual clientele that arrived.

  Slater put a lurid smile on his face. ‘Relax, my friend.’

  King said, ‘We’re all here for the same thing.’

  ‘Haven’t seen you before,’ the old guy said.

  ‘Is that surprising?’ King said. ‘What — this place never gets new customers?’

  ‘It does,’ the guy said. ‘They seldom look like you two.’

  Slater said, ‘Rich?’

  Now it was the old man’s turn to smirk, as if his custom suit weren’t obvious enough. ‘Young. Thought you might be a couple of fresh workers. You know, for those that go the other way.’

  ‘Is there a market for that here?’ King said, a little ashamedly.

  The bushy eyebrows rose. ‘You dirty dog.’

  ‘I don’t discriminate,’ King said.

  The old guy thought about it, and shrugged. ‘To each their own. But, no, I think you’re out of luck. That’s a niche market. Unless Gates is expanding and hasn’t told me.’

  ‘That’d be like him, wouldn’t it?’ Slater said. ‘He’s got an eye for that sort of thing.’

  ‘How’d you meet him?’

  ‘Mutual friends,’ King said. ‘We’ve been around this town. It was inevitable.’

  ‘Well, enjoy yourselves,’ the old man said.

  He made the first move, figuring the newcomers were inexperienced, and walked right up to a simple screen door skewered into the brick wall near the garage. He opened it, then reached out and rapped his knuckles on the faded wood.

  The door flew open instantly.

  It was Armando Gates.

  Slater didn’t react. He forced his pulse down, and he could feel King doing the same alongside him. They minimised their presence, politely staring at their feet, keeping several paces back from the old man.

  Gates was tall, just as Josefine had described. Probably six-five, and true to form he was skinny, but the tattered sleeveless tee exposed wiry arms corded with muscle and thick calloused fingers. He’d have made an excellent basketball player. His eyes were huge, practically boggling out of his skull, and his mouth was a hard firm line. Plaited dreads snaked their way down the back of his skull.

  He glanced at King and Slater, but only briefly, and then returned his attention to the man standing right in front of him.

  If the old guy said, ‘These are your friends, aren’t they?’ or, ‘Good to see you’re expanding your customer base,’ they were screwed.

  He didn’t.

  He said, ‘Good to see you again.’

  Gates said, ‘Likewise. Get yourself inside. There’s a drink with your name on it.’

  As soon as the old guy took a step up, Gates put a hand on his back and pushed him gently down the neon hallway, guiding him into the underbelly. He was gone a moment later.

  A deliberate gesture to get him the hell out of the picture before he said something incriminating in front of two men Gates had never seen before.

  Which worked perfectly.

  King and Slater took a step forward in unison.

  Gates put a hand out. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  But he soaked in the Gucci
loafers, the Armani suits, the open-necked shirts, the tough-guy demeanours. He figured, Probably nothing to worry about.

  Law enforcement-wise, at least. Less likely to be undercovers, more likely to be rival thugs.

  Which meant demonstrating he was the king of this particular jungle.

  So before either of them could answer, Gates reached behind his back and came out with a compact Glock 19 and pointed it square between King’s eyes.

  12

  King was ice.

  His pulse barely rose.

  Gates was a violent pimp and a reckless thug, but he ran a seemingly profitable operation, and that meant being smart enough not to gun every potential threat down on sight. King knew there was little chance he’d eat a bullet from this particular Glock.

  But a prospecting customer, no matter how tough they looked, would not be ice.

  So outwardly he drained the colour from his face.

  ‘Not so tough now, are you?’ Gates said. ‘Both of you fuck off back to where you came from. This is my territory.’

  ‘We know that,’ Slater said, a little too fast. ‘We’re paying customers.’

  ‘Right,’ Gates said.

  ‘We’re serious,’ King said, allowing his voice to waver. ‘We’re not armed. You can search us.’

  Gates said, ‘You think I’m that stupid?’

  Slater said, ‘Watch. I’ll move slow.’

  Gates took his aim away from King, and fixed it on Slater.

  Play along, King thought.

  ‘Jesus,’ Slater muttered, making his voice shake.

  Good, King thought.

  Slater raised both hands high, then started inching them downwards.

  ‘Slow,’ Gates demanded.

  The hands went down slow — they opened the suit jacket, then untucked the shirt, then lifted up each pant leg to reveal an absence of ankle holsters, then Slater pivoted on the spot to afford Gates a look at the small of his back. Completed, he stood with his shoulders slumped and fear on his face at the pistol barrel aimed at his head.

  Gates put the aim back on King. ‘Now you.’

  King mirrored Slater’s actions.

  Gates said, ‘How’d you find out about me?’

  Slater took a gamble and jerked his thumb past Gates, over the man’s shoulder. ‘Old boy back there. I was on his blackjack table at the Bellagio and he wouldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut. I felt bad for you, to be honest. I’d want to run a tighter ship than that. But me and my buddy here have … certain interests … so we couldn’t resist checking the place out.’

  Gates said, ‘Where’d you park?’

  Now Slater jerked his thumb at the garage. ‘Fourth spot.’

  Gates stepped out of the doorway, took a few steps out into the laneway, and eyed the back of the Bentley.

  He tucked the Glock back into the rear of his waistband. ‘Okay. Sorry about that. I’m a careful man.’

  ‘We respect that,’ Slater said.

  Gates turned to King. ‘Is that right?’

  King stared him down. ‘That’s right.’

  Gates said, ‘What can I do for the two of you?’

  ‘We heard you throw a mean party,’ Slater said.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘That’s the word on the street.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t like my name mentioned on the street.’

  ‘Then speak to your friend,’ King said. ‘That’s not our problem.’

  Gates stared at him, but there was a certain appreciation behind the glare. Namely, the fact that the new arrivals were being so brazen after having a loaded gun waved in their faces. Most would tuck their tails, cower and run. King and Slater were probably a welcome departure from the stream of old men who came through the doors.

  Gates said, ‘I might.’

  ‘Will that stop us doing business?’

  ‘Depends how fat your pockets are.’

  ‘They’re fat,’ Slater said.

  Gates turned. ‘Are they, ’mano?’

  ‘We heard you supply the best,’ Slater said. ‘We want the best.’

  ‘Then you heard correctly. How young do you like them?’

  ‘Fourteen, fifteen,’ King said. ‘No younger.’

  ‘Then I’ve got just what you need. Come on in. Let’s get you both a drink.’

  Gates turned to usher them inside, then whipped back around, uncomfortably close to Slater. ‘Tell me, how’d your pockets get so fat?’

  ‘We sell fitness programs online,’ Slater said without hesitation.

  Gates did hesitate. ‘You serious?’

  ‘Forty a pop, five thousand sales a month,’ Slater said. ‘It’s been like that for five years. You do the math.’

  ‘Twelve mil,’ Gates said, razor sharp, lightning quick. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Then you take that twelve mil,’ King said, ‘which is more like six mil after taxes, and you buy pure fentanyl with it, and that pure fentanyl becomes twenty times the amount of enhanced product after the lab work, and then you distribute that all over the East Coast, and your six mil becomes a couple of hundred real quick.’

  Slater stared daggers at King, as if conveying You weren’t supposed to tell him that part with a single look.

  Gates mulled it over, no doubt on the back foot after such mind-boggling sums had been lackadaisically thrown in his face.

  Then he slapped Slater on the shoulder, and his palm ricocheted off.

  ‘Hard as a rock,’ Gates said. ‘I believe it.’

  He turned and led them into the neon-drenched interior. They walked down a glowing purple hallway, the hue far too strong to be tasteful.

  As they moved, Gates said, ‘This is going to be an issue for your new friend if you’re telling me the truth.’

  ‘He’s not our friend,’ King said, acting disgruntled. ‘He’s an old blabbermouth. And he’ll deny it. He’ll make up some bullshit — trust me on that.’

  Gates said, ‘Of course he will. We’re all about self-preservation, aren’t we?’

  King said nothing.

  Slater said nothing.

  ‘I’ll get him to admit it,’ Gates said. ‘Trust me on that.’

  King tried to feel bad, but couldn’t. The old creep had chosen his path. He’d have to accept the consequences.

  An undercurrent of throbbing bass began to resonate through the building. A dance track, blaring through speakers, muffled by competent insulation, but the vibration of the bass still ebbed through the walls and floors.

  Gates reached the end of the hallway first and pushed open a door.

  He stood aside, holding the door open with his back, and ushered them through.

  King and Slater stepped into the club.

  13

  It was more pathetic than Slater imagined.

  And his expectations hadn’t exactly been sky-high.

  Maybe it was because of the inevitable comparisons to the multi-billion dollar casinos on the Strip, but this place was a hole. Everything was DIY, from the booths to the bar to the stripper poles spaced evenly across the dance floor. The dance floor comprised the centrepiece of the room, covering most of the space, with the ring of slightly raised booths around the outskirts acting as viewing platforms.

  The lights were low to mask the patrons’ flaws — what little illumination there was came from LED light bars along the ceiling, spewing ugly neon. Purples and blues and greens and yellows, moving on predetermined patterns, turning the atmosphere sickly.

  The patrons themselves were few and far between — Slater figured he and King had arrived too early for peak hour. There were ten guys scattered across the booths, some in pairs, most on their own. They trended older, but there were a couple of outliers — a pair of thirty-something men in suits. They’d each come separately. One was attractive enough, with thick black hair and a jawline, but the other had most definitely lost the genetic lottery.

  Overall the customers were a sad bunch, and Slater could taste the misery in the air. They were all doing th
eir best to suppress their pitiful presence with booze and cigars and drugs, but that’s like putting a band-aid on a severed arm. There’d be no fixing their flaws — hence their presence in a dump like this — so they were trying to stifle the shame however they could.

  Slater counted six girls on shift, leaving four of the guests twiddling their thumbs. Which was deliberate. Scarcity was a tried and tested business model, and it was on full display here. The girls — all of them dolled up and dressed in revealing schoolgirl outfits to accentuate the disgusting fantasy — drifted from booth to booth, never lingering on one subject for too long.

  Following Gates’ instructions.

  If there was an overabundance of flesh on display, there’d be no urgency to pull out the big bucks.

  If you think there’s a chance you might go home empty-handed, you’ll splash out just to get something … anything at all.

  Otherwise it’s a waste of time.

  Slater turned to Gates. ‘How does this work, exactly?’

  Gates eyed him, seeing dollar signs, smelling desire. ‘Someone’s in a hurry.’

  ‘I don’t mess around,’ Slater said.

  ‘In life?’

  ‘And business.’

  Gates looked him up and down, eyeing the suit, the loafers, the aura of wealth. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘So?’

  Gates turned to King and put a big spidery hand on his shoulder, gripping it tight. Stared right at him with those big dead eyes. ‘Relax, ’mano. Find yourself a booth. Get comfortable. What do you want to drink?’

  ‘Just your standard Hennessy,’ King said. ‘If you’ve got it.’

  ‘I’ll do you one better,’ Gates said. ‘I’ve got Hennessy Paradis Cognac. Want some?’

  Over a thousand a bottle, Slater noted.

  King nodded. Gates’ taste was impeccable. King had a bottle at home.

  ‘On the house,’ Gates said.

  King waved a hand dismissively. ‘No way.’

  Gates leered. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just spend generously elsewhere.’