by Neil Russell
“Bad idea. Never review the tape after the call has gone your way.”
“They didn’t get the memo. And lo and behold, there were oddball dead people and robberies in places and at times McVeigh was in the vicinity. And since there was nothing to indicate he was a one-on-one killer—even when he was about to be arrested with mass murder on his hands—that could only mean one thing: help, serious help. Want my two cents’ worth? The G couldn’t get a needle in the guy fast enough.”
“And Department 11 is born. Track unrelated, out-of-place murders—wildcases—looking for patterns. If unrelated suddenly becomes extrinsic, you might find a McVeigh before he becomes McVeigh.”
“Precisely.”‘
“Anybody happen to say how they missed 9/11?”
The silence was deafening. “Same question I had. You’re getting the same answer.”
I could only imagine. Actually, I probably couldn’t. “What about Joe and Mr. Barcalounger.”
“Barca’s lower body wounds turned out to be from some rodent that only lives in the Society Islands. Nobody’d ever heard of one within three thousand miles of the U.S. Other than that, dead end. Joe, somebody ran a Geiger counter over him, and he glowed in the dark. Plutonium.”
“Lot of plumbing in nuclear devices. Delicate, but the same principles.”
“Turned out his hobby was building miniature steam engines. Best guess is there’s a ship riding around out there with a boom in its belly. I wish I didn’t know.”
I wished I didn’t either. “You earned your keep, Freddie.”
“Always do. Just don’t charge enough for it.”
I hung up and watched trucks come and go from the freeway. I had a feeling I could add a family of four in San Francisco and two dead Chinese accountants and a wife in Los Angeles to the picture. It would have been productive to swap lists with SAC Huston, but that probably wasn’t in the cards.
* * * *
As we rolled into the Vegas city limits, the early-evening traffic swallowed us. I got off the 15 at Windmill Lane and turned northbound on the Strip. Technically, it’s simply Las Vegas Boulevard until you hit Russell Road, then it unofficially becomes the Strip. But like Sixth Avenue in New York, there’s official, then there’s reality.
The Iguazu Country Club is south of the Luxor and one of the city’s best-kept secrets. Fifty feet in, you could be in a South American rain forest, complete with howler monkey sound effects and real macaws and toucans. The club’s hallmark is that there are falling-water features everywhere. I don’t know what golfers with weak bladders do, but I can guess. And with a membership fee in six figures, they probably feel entitled.
We navigated past the guard booth with a dog-eared pass I fished out of my wallet that was only a week from expiring. “Please check in with reception,” the uniformed von Stroheim look-alike said as he gave my Ram the same unexuberant once-over he’d given my pass. He closed with a chilly, “Have a nice day,” and there we left it.
A wedding reception was in full bloom and a flock of well-dressed guests were standing out front next to one of the tamer waterfalls, knocking back drinks, catching a smoke and watching the sun slowly set. Birdy looked at me questioningly.
“Bring your dancing shoes?” I asked.
The valet took the Ram, and as we parted the sea of revelers, I couldn’t help but overhear a loud, slurred female voice. “Tell you what, asshole, I don’t care what our tax situation is, you try to take me out of my house in Bel Air and move me to this desert hellhole, you better like sleepin’ in that big, fuckin’ Mercedes of yours, ‘cause that’s all my lawyers are gonna leave you with.” I didn’t hear an answer, so even if the guy was financially right, he needed higher-grade ammo. Maybe asthma.
Inside the row of glass and brass doors, a security knuckle-dragger met us with a well-dressed lady attractive enough to be Miss USA. She was wearing a nice smile. He wasn’t. “Is Hassie around?” I asked.
“May I give him your name?” she asked.
“Tell him it’s the only guy in Beverly Hills who doesn’t lie about his handicap.”
She never blinked. “Right away, sir,” and disappeared down a hallway, leaving us under the watchful eye of Lurch.
“Is that true?” asked Birdy.
“Yep, but only because I don’t play.”
I probably used to know Hassie’s real name, but I don’t remember it. Hassie was all anybody called him at the Army and Navy Academy where we went to high school. I ended up crawling on my belly in Delta Force, and he went to MIT. I’ll leave it to the imagination who had better rations. Somewhere along the line, however, he got tired of wearing a pocket protector and became a golf bum—if you can call owning a piece of the nicest course in town bumming. When he comes to LA, he stays at my place, which ruins Mallory for a month because the guy not only plays scratch golf, he cooks like a Michelin chef.
I saw Miss USA returning alongside a familiar curly blonde guy in khaki slacks and a red and green Tommy Bahama Tabasco shirt. No handshake here. He grabbed me and hugged me like a long-lost rich uncle. “Just don’t call me honey,” I said, “or the lady might look for a cab.”
He disengaged, then grabbed me again. “If she’s smart, she’ll do it anyway. You snore.” He finally released me and grabbed Birdy. She didn’t offer any resistance, and he took that as an invitation to nuzzle her hair. “You smell wonderful. Got a sister?”
“No, but if you can find me something to drink, I’ll swap this guy out. He forced gyros down my throat, and I got a week’s worth of sodium.”
“Ah, the Mad Greek. What’s a trip across the desert without prepping for a bypass?”
The security guard melted away, looking disappointed he wasn’t going to be asked to shoot anybody. We moseyed past the partiers in the lobby, and Hassie used a key to open a room on the other side of an antique reception desk. I knew from previous visits that this was his office, but it was set up more like a living room. No desk, only comfortable chairs, LeRoy Neimans and a large, gas fireplace, which was always on. He opened a cabinet next to a liquor shelf that turned out to be a full-size refrigerator. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Coke,” Birdy said. “High-octane, none of that diet crap.”
“Woman after my heart. How about if I pep it up?” I saw him reach for the rum.
“Not unless you want to find me here in the morning.”
“Let’s hold that thought. How about you, partner?”
“Same. Excuse me minute.”
While the two of them chatted, I took my drink, walked to the far side of the room and keyed my phone. After a couple of rings, a familiar voice answered. “Catch you at a bad time?” I asked.
Nick Martz’s voice was as smooth as a Marsalis solo. Vegas is a town that doesn’t like names. Guys like Nick don’t need them. “Are you kidding? What can I do for you?”
“I’m at Hassie’s place. Like to stick around a few days. Under the radar.”
“No problem. When will you be ready?”
“I just started a Coke. How about as soon as it’s gone?”
“Have Hassie take you out through the kitchen. There’s a path just beyond the pro shop. Somebody will meet you.”
“My truck’s with the valet. I need what’s inside.”
“Done. Looking forward to seeing you. You want a game tonight?”
“I’m dead on my feet, but maybe after a nap.”
“I’ll make sure we stay open. Got some action you might like. I was going to call you about it. Seems there’s a whale convention in town.”
Contrary to myth, gaming is not a volume business. The most coveted resource in Vegas are high rollers. They’re why skyscraper hotels, million-dollar-a-week entertainers and celebrity chefs flourish alongside the tumbleweed. The roll of nickels and all-you-can-eat buffet crowd gets you what it got Trump in Atlantic City—broke.
But there’s a category above high roller. Whale. Men who can and will bet from a hundred grand to ten times that on
a single hand—usually baccarat, sometimes poker. And this species is even rarer than the oceangoing kind. There are fewer than three hundred in the world, the majority Asian and Middle Eastern.
“Maybe. Which breed?” I asked.
“Pacific. Island and Mainland at the same time. You get this shit on New Year’s, but everybody’s in town then, so it’s diluted. Never seen it happen this time of year. There aren’t enough tables in this burg to keep them apart. And barely enough white paint. My, but they do hate dark walls.”
“Which island?”
“Every goddamn one. Had to send to Phoenix for more blondes. All the joints are out of penthouses and villas. Some execs are even giving up their homes.”
“But nobody from Sandland?”
“Not a hookah in sight.”
“I thought you guys controlled which way the sun comes up.”
“Me too. We warned everybody the others were coming, but nobody seemed to care. Fuckin’ strange, huh?”
Not strange, unimaginable. For all their money, Asian whales don’t like facing each other. High rollers, fine, but whale on whale is usually avoided. Primarily it’s ego. These guys do business with one another, and nobody wants to give up a perceived edge—or bragging rights. They love the sheiks, the Europeans and the Latin Americans, whom they consider their inferiors. North Americans, it depends.
Asians are system players who devise elaborate schemes based on superstition, order and precision. You could watch one for a month and not completely understand how he bets, because a waiter dropping a fork on Tuesday afternoon can change everything. By contrast, most Americans, especially Texans, don’t care if they’re sitting in shit up to their knees, just deal the fucking cards. We’re brash, unpredictable and intimidating, which fucks up the Fu or the Feng or whatever. We’re also heavy on sarcasm, a concept their cultures don’t have, so they miss things, and it unnerves them.
I’m Brazilian-British who became an American. As far as I know I’m my own category, so I’m not automatically on the DO NOT PLAY list.
“Off the subject: you familiar with Donnie Two Knives?”
“Got Dirty Harry on in the background, and every time he gets ready to blow some motherfucker away, here comes Donnie trying to sell me a Sony. Act’s getting tired. Needs some new material. Why?”
“I’ll fill you in when I see you.”
“If he owes you a favor, I could use a new flatscreen for my workout room.”
“Go wrangle your whales.”
When I returned to my companions, Hassie had Birdy on her feet and was standing behind her, showing her how to swing an imaginary club. In some states, he could have been arrested. “Isn’t it about time you got some new moves?” I asked.
He grinned. “Lady’s got some powerful wrists. Like to get her on the range.”
I rolled my eyes, but Birdy flushed. “I play a little but not as well as I’d like to.”
Hassie put his chin on her shoulder as he moved her through her stroke. “You’re a natural. I’ll fit you in for a lesson.”
I took a sip of Coke. “Bring your four iron and a stun gun. A name tag’s not a bad idea either.”
* * * *
21
Estancias and Macallan
The guy in the golf cart took up most of the front seat, so I put Birdy beside him and got in back. I shook hands with Hassie. “Thanks for the drink. You sure the Ram’s not going to be in your way?”
“An hour from now, it’s going to have a cover over it and be tucked in our warehouse in Henderson. I decide to rob a bank, I’ll get it out. Otherwise, it’ll be there when you want it.” He looked at Birdy. “I was serious about that lesson.”
It was dark now, but even though the path wasn’t lit, our driver knew exactly where he was going. “Looks like you’ve done this drill before,” I said.
“Used to caddy at this joint.” His tone made it clear he was there to drive not talk, so I shut up and rode.
The car parked just inside the maintenance gate was a black Range Rover, and from the way the door sounded when he closed it behind us, it was armored. That was confirmed when I noticed the light distortion through the heavy glass. When you think of wealth, limousines usually come to mind, and they are the overwhelming ride of choice. Mostly, because of show. People who have money like others to know it—even the ones who play the “regular guy” card.
However, those more concerned with security than stares prefer big SUVs with very experienced drivers. I go back and forth on it, but most of the time, nobody’s trying to blow my head off or kidnap my child.
I knew where we were going, and I knew the town, but somehow our driver got my internal GPS turned around, so that when we finally eased into the unmarked drive and past the armed security team, it took me a few seconds to regain my bearings. I had to assume he’d come the circuitous route to be sure we weren’t being followed. When you consider that the heavy moneymaking patch of Vegas is only slightly larger than the Mall of America, the way he’d done it took a serious pro.
Birdy’s stock kept rising. Since the look she’d given me when I drove into the Iguazu, not one question. Our driver pulled between a ten-foot row of hedges, which I knew from once having tried to walk through them camouflaged a thick, wrought-iron fence. A two-car garage was off to the right, and as we entered a small circular drive, a Spanish hacienda rose in front of us. While our driver helped us out, a smartly uniformed man and woman came out the front door.
“Mr. B., how wonderful to have you back with us,” the man said in accented English. “Your things have been put away in the master suite.”
I wasn’t surprised. Our taking the long way would have given whomever had collected them from the Ram time to beat us there. The woman beside him stepped forward. Her voice was pleasant, but her smile reserved. “Good evening, Mr. B.,” she said in the same accent. “The kitchen and wine cellar are stocked, and I’ve chosen some nice flowers and music I think you’ll like. Very new and very cool. But just in case, there’s plenty of Frank and Wynton to see you through.”
They had both nodded politely at Birdy but not spoken. That was the town. Until you’re sure where people fit, especially friends of important guests, you wait. I took Birdy by the hand. “I’d like you to meet Miss Nash. She’ll be staying with me. Miss Nash, this is Bronis and Judita Cermak.”
“Dobrý den,” Birdy said, extending her hand. She looked at me, “Some of the best horse bloodlines in the world come from Prague.”
From the reaction of the Cermaks, love was in the air.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. B?” our driver asked.
“We’re good. I assume there’s a car in the garage.”
“Something a little different. Mr. Martz would like your opinion. But don’t hesitate to ask for something else.”
Nick Martz is a host at the Inca Resort and Casino. It’s a position that doesn’t appear on casino organizational charts. They usually have some nebulous marketing title that makes them sound like nobodies. Hardly.
Hosts wield more power than anybody outside the gaming commission. They maintain the personal relationships that enable them to caress high rollers and whales to specific casinos. It’s not just a matter of picking up tabs. Whales, in particular, often make exotic demands or have complicated personal needs that the host has to know and accommodate. That’s why it’s difficult to put two of them at the same table. If their idiosyncrasies conflict—and they can change in the middle of a game—the host and the casino could lose both.
Nick once had a whale in Rome who was convinced his wife was gambling poison, so Nick arranged for her to “find” a boyfriend in the Eternal City. It wasn’t long before she was encouraging her husband to do more traveling—alone. For a whale from Chicago, he got the guy’s tennis-playing daughter a full ride to UNLV. After all, what doting daddy doesn’t like to visit his little girl at college.
Hosts are paid a percentage of the action their clients give the house, but they also
have to collect on their markers—a delicate and sometimes dangerous job. As a result, they earn in the high seven figures. On the plus side, no one questions their expenses or watches them too closely, so they live very, very well.
You can’t major in host at Stanford or drop off an application at human resources. But if you have a nose for money and the correct people skills, somebody will find you. Nick, who didn’t finish eighth grade and now lives on the same street as Steve Wynn, once told me that if he does his job right, a guy who just dropped ten mil will apologize for having to leave town early.