Wildcase - [Rail Black 02]

by Neil Russell

  Every client also wants to think he’s the only one, or at least Nick’s favorite. So when several take a bad beat at the same time, it can mean a lot of sleepless nights holding people’s hands until they pay. Nick keeps awake staring at his bank balance.

  But smart as he is, he sometimes skates on the edge. Like with Raphael Weathers. Raphael, was a seventeen-year-old street kid Nick took in after he caught him breaking into his car. He bought him a steak dinner and told him he could come to work for him or leave—no questions asked. But if he caught him near the Inca again, he was guaranteed a broken arm.

  Raphael became one of Nick’s runners, picking up tickets for shows, meeting people at the airport and sometimes taking a high roller’s lady friend shopping. Nick didn’t pay him much, but the tips were big, and by the time he was old enough to buy a legal drink, Raphael owned a sports car, a closetful of Zenga and was living in a half-million-dollar condo.

  But Raphael couldn’t quite break himself of his old habits—some of which included violence. His weapon of choice was a pushbutton stiletto with a blade he kept sharpened to Gillette tolerances. And he gave the gift of cruelty often and without consequences, so he came to believe he possessed a kind of reckless invincibility. Those who knew him stayed clear, especially when he was using drugs— which eventually, was most of the time. He also enjoyed inflicting pain on women, and in a dangerous town, he had no trouble finding dangerous playmates.

  Nick knew all of this, of course. Knowing things was his business. But Raphael was good at his job, so he ignored the oncoming train.

  The inevitable happened when Raphael got mixed up with a New Jersey Mafiosi’s Moroccan girlfriend, a tall, stunning black woman named Daxxene. Nick warned him to stay away from her, but one night, while the boyfriend was in an all-night craps game, Raphael took Daxxene to see Wayne Newton.

  Somewhere in the middle of Wayne’s second set, they got into an argument, and Daxxene raked her razor-sharp nails across Raphael’s face. Raphael lost his mind, and while Wayne was launching into “Daddy, Don’t You Walk So Fast,” Raphael smashed her in the mouth with bottle of Cristal, then dragged her out of the banquette and began opening her up with his knife. It took four security men to pull him off.

  Nick sent Daxxene to Rio for reconstructive surgery, then gave her fifty grand and a ticket to Paris, where she always wanted live, Raphael kicked around town for a few months, then one day, he just wasn’t there anymore. Everybody knew what happened and wasn’t surprised. Corporations, CPAs and Big Board listings notwithstanding, it’s still a jungle town, and the lions bite.

  I met Nick when I was a regular at Caesars, and he was an assistant host there. I had never considered leaving. It was like a second home. Then it changed hands, and though the trappings were the same, it felt different. And if you gamble seriously, feel is everything.

  I never said a word to anyone, but like the shark he is, Nick smelled it, and next trip I was at the Inca, and so was Nick. I’m told the host at Caesars got shown the door, and Nick got a sizeable finder’s fee from the Inca. Neither surprises me. And frankly, the Inca fits me better than Caesars ever did. More importantly, SAC Huston could show up waving a warrant signed by all nine members of the Supreme Court, and nobody would have ever heard of me.

  Private villas in Vegas have a tendency to come in two flavors: Babylonian whorehouse or Fredo Corleone’s bedroom. There’s a perception that sin revels in jeweled ceilings or thirty shades of black, which is mostly true. A lot of whales who are very conservative in the rest of their lives can’t wait to slip into a peach sport coat to hit the tables. I prefer things nice but subdued. After a long night, I don’t want to come home to a houseful of purple furniture that I don’t know how to sit in.

  When we entered the villa, I listened for the music and was more than pleased with Judita’s selection. It was Brazilian, like my late mother. How Nick found out she was a Carioca wasn’t nearly as impressive as his having tracked down a poster from one of her long-forgotten Broadway appearances. As always, it was hanging above the stone fireplace, and as always, I stopped in front of it and tried to remember better times. Unfortunately, the years were making her a stranger.

  I’d stayed in this place enough times that it seemed like mine. On the coffee table alongside the obligatory Noah’s ark of exotic fruit was a large format, expensively bound book with a picture of the villa on the cover. The title was Estancia Beverly Hills. Birdy sat and flipped it open. It was a pictorial of the home, and on page one in bold lettering it read:

  WELCOME BACK MR. B.

  “I’m blown away,” she said. “They did this just for you?”

  “Don’t be too impressed. If the next guy’s from Schenectady, the printer’s already working.”

  “I’m still wowed. Why does everybody call you Mr. B.?”

  “It goes back to the beginning of Vegas. No names. The shy avoided the spotlight, and the winners, the IRS. Some of that still holds, but now, it’s for security. Doesn’t matter if you’re the most recognizable face in the world, here you’re Mr. D. or Mr. R.”

  “What about the women?”

  “Wives and girlfriends, yes. You’ll be Miss N. But it’s not a N.O.W. town. If a lady shows up who gives them serious action, they adjust. Gender disappears when it comes to money. So does position. Gates could roll in with Buffett on his arm, and if they aren’t players, they’ll sit in the cheap seats and get served last.”

  “I want to meet Mr. Martz. Will he come by?”

  “No. That might make me feel like a guest instead of at home. Illusion. Part of the process. Notice there are ashtrays?”

  “Yes.”

  “Smell anything?”

  She sniffed the air. “Just flowers.”

  “As soon as we leave, a team of specialists will come in and eliminate all traces of us. Especially scent. You’re in the most subliminally sophisticated city ever imagined. Nothing is left to chance.”

  “And all this is because you gamble.”

  “I do. Sometimes worse than others. It’s those they count on.”

  She moved into my arms. “How big is this joint?”

  “No clue, but I haven’t seen all the bedrooms.”

  “You won’t see more than one tonight either.”

  I assumed it was my cologne.

  * * * *

  I awakened with Birdy draped around me, her soft breath on my neck. I thought about trying to go back to sleep, but the growling in my stomach won. I might have also heard a poker table calling.

  An hour later, showered and dressed in one of my own tailor’s pin-striped suits taken from a closetful kept on hand, I stepped out of an Inca limo at the casino entrance. As I turned to help Birdy, I was again struck by what Elinor Glyn described as “It”—the combination of intangibles that draws all eyes. Star quality.

  It’s what built Hollywood, and it’s why we still turn our heads when we hear Lauren Bacall’s voice. And why a well-past-middle-aged actor seated on a cheap folding chair draws more attention than the basketball team he’s watching.

  Part of Birdy’s It was what God and her parents had thrown together, and part was that she wore her clothes, makeup and hair with a style and confidence all her own. But I’ve known women who could spend thousands on Fifth Avenue and not come close to what this girl had done in a small-town mall armed with nothing more than radiance and an understanding of herself.

  “Rail? Rail?”

  I checked back into the present. “Sorry, I was just thinking about the steak in my future.”

  “Pity, I was hoping it was me.” She said it without an ounce of rancor or double meaning.

  “You didn’t let me finish. We were naked, and you were cutting up little bites and hiding them in strategic places.”

  “Nice save.”

  The limo driver thought so too. He winked at me and got back in the car. But before he did, he took another look at the wisp of black dress Birdy was wearing and ran his eyes down her long, long l
egs.

  “Welcome, Mr. B.” I turned to see several well-dressed young men coming down the marble stairs toward us. Nick’s greet team. The speaker, who could have been a BriteSmile model, nodded deferentially. “I’m Renaldo, sir. Welcome to the Inca.” He didn’t extend his hand, which was by design. Casino help is trained to never attempt familiarity with a whale. Some might be offended; others, especially Asians, might consider it a bad omen.

  Having watched my father shake hands with everyone from the titled to pressmen dripping with newspaper ink, good manners are never out of place. I extended my hand, and Renaldo took it, beaming. I then introduced him to Birdy, whom he openly admired.

  If you want to see an entrance handled with style, you can skip the Academy Awards, where dignity has long been out of vogue. Las Vegas hosts can get you through a crowd quickly yet let everyone know someone important has arrived. That may seem contradictory, but it’s what presidents do all the time, and it’s a real art to be able to do both simultaneously. By the time we crossed the lobby, the entire place knew we were there. They didn’t know who we were, but they sensed we were important, and that ratchets up the atmosphere. Always good for the tables.

  “My God,” Birdy whispered to me as we were led to a private elevator to the penthouse dining room. “This is almost like sex. All these people looking at us.”

  “Careful, it’s addicting.”

  “Oh, I hope so.”

  Nick joined us in the Machu Picchu Room after dinner. Birdy and I were seated in a circular booth overlooking the city while we nursed espressos and discussed how we’d let ourselves be talked into the now-gone molten chocolate perversion. His arrival was heralded by a retinue of white-coated waiters bearing four single-malt setups and a bottle of The Macallan 55. I’d always thought the gold-winged Lalique container was borderline gauche and firmly out of character for the Scots, but it was a Vegas natural. At fifteen grand a throw, you need a bigger base than an occasional Masters win or presidential inauguration. I nodded in the direction of Edinburgh for their marketing astuteness.

  Alongside Nick was a smartly tailored young lady in her thirties who looked more like a banker than a casino employee. However, in this town, she might have been both. Nick ignored me and bowed graciously to my date. She offered her hand, and he kissed it like a baron.

  “Nobody’s ever done that before,” she said.

  Nick let loose of one of his xenon smiles and nodded in my direction. “I’ll have to take this guy down to our dungeon for a session with the house inquisitor.”

  Birdy laughed. “Oh, please let me watch.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, wherever did you get that hair?”

  “Gift from Mom. About the only thing I didn’t resent.”

  “You ever want a change of scenery, I’ll put you on the high roller concierge desk. Six figures from me, which you’ll triple in tips. And all you have to do is smile and say no.”

  Birdy really laughed this time. “It’s not doing that second part that keeps getting me in trouble.”

  First Hassie, now Nick. And nobody even subtle. “If I can interrupt the job interview, it’s nice to see you, Nick.”

  “Oh, are you still here,” he said, grinning. “I’d like you to meet Yvonne Whitney. Mind if we join you for a drink?” He reached into his inside pocket and came out with an eight-inch gold cigar case. “I brought smokes.”

  I stood and shook hands with Yvonne. Her grip was firm and warm, her smile genuine, not professional. “By all means.”

  Birdy passed on The Macallan, so while the waiters poured two fingers for the rest of us, Nick and I fired up a pair of my favorite Arturo Fuente 858 Maduros. If I didn’t gamble, I’d still come to Vegas. When the do-gooders in the rest of the country took away our right to have a smoke after a fine meal, they zapped a little bit of America’s soul. As my way of saying fuck you, I inhaled.

  Nick looked at Yvonne. “The floor is yours, milady.”

  Yvonne thanked him and turned to Birdy. “My employer was wondering if you might be willing to come out to his ranch and give him some counsel.”

  Birdy was as puzzled as I was. “Tonight?”

  “He’s most anxious to get a second opinion on a horse he just bought.”

  “My opinion? On a horse purchase? I’m not sure I’m the person you ...”

  Yvonne cut her off. “We checked, and the reviews were glowing. You’re really well-thought-of, Miss Nash. Anyway, we believe we have a promising two-year-old, but we’re concerned we haven’t gotten the best advice about getting him ready for next year’s Derby.”

  I had to hand it to Nick. This was beyond anything I could have conceived he’d do. Or even could do. But that’s why he’s the best.

  I watched Birdy go into professional mode and saw the intelligence behind her eyes. “Nevada’s not usually considered a hub of Thoroughbreds,” she said gently.

  Yvonne was right with her. “You’re absolutely correct. Much too hot. MrSaturdayDance is just passing through on his way to Santa Anita. That’s still your base of operations, isn’t it?”

  I thought Birdy was going to faint. “Your employer bought MrSaturdayDance?”

  Yvonne nodded. “He’s also part-owner of the Inca, so when Nick told him you were in town, he asked me to drop by and speak with you. The decision is yours, of course, but he remembers what you did with Song’s Harpoon.”

  Birdy looked at me like she’d just awakened Christmas morning and found Santa had left his entire bag. But there was apprehension in her eyes as well. “Rail, please tell me this isn’t some kind of joke, because if it is, I need to go to the ladies’ room and cry.”

  I put my hand on hers. “I’m as surprised as you are, and Nick never jokes this way.”

  Yvonne handed Birdy a business card. She took it and read aloud, “Yvonne Sykes Whitney, President of Vilcambaba Stables. Oh my God. Now, I think I have to go to the ladies’ room and cry anyway.” She started to say something to Nick but faltered.

  Yvonne stepped in. “Then the only thing left to decide is a fee for your services.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Birdy said. “Just for the opportunity.”

  “Nonsense,” said Yvonne. “You’re a professional, and you should be paid. My employer wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Birdy looked at me for help, but this was her turf. Finally, she brightened and looked at Nick. “Do you think I could come back here someday and stay in Estancia Beverly Hills?”

  Nick smiled. “Tell you what, you’ve got a birthday coming up in a couple of months. Why don’t you get a few girlfriends together and come over for the weekend. I’ll have something organized that’ll give them a time to remember. Providing, of course, it’s okay with Rail.”

  “I think it’s a fine idea,” I said.

  Birdy looked at Nick and stammered. “I’m not going to ask how you know so much about me, but thank you very, very much.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  Then she added, “Do you think I could get a glass of The Macallan now?”

  * * * *

  22

  Lake Geneva and the Story of O

  The Inca’s private gambling rooms aren’t actually inside the Inca. It’s an old Vegas deception. Movies like visuals, so big games are portrayed in penthouses with hot and cold running pretty girls and panoramic views of the skyline. The reality is that in a city with no clocks, the last thing the house wants a whale to see is the rising or setting sun, a mood-altering thunderstorm—or, more importantly, a gang of armed thieves coming through the door.

  I took my second golf cart ride of the evening, only this four-wheeler had never carried a bag of clubs and was as elegantly appointed as my Rolls. Nick drove us along an underground concrete passageway to a villa on the other side of the complex from mine.

  Here, the structures were also walled off by hedges, only much thicker and higher, and just inside the greenery, an array of ceramic geometric screens muffled any ambien
t sound and kept light at a consistent level. The screens were also used to project images replicating a 360-degree view of any city in the world or scene in nature. This provided the gamblers inside with a sense of space as well as something more interesting than walls to gaze at between hands. Tonight, someone, perhaps homesick for his bank, had requested Geneva, Switzerland, and the lake looked real enough for a swim. Absent a massive power failure or the Apocalypse, years could pass without one’s knowing conditions only a few feet from where he sat.

  The first floor of the villa was laid out like a vaulted Incan amphitheatre to give players the feeling of a large stage. Men risking millions like to think they’re in the Super Bowl, not the Elks Club. By fiat, the open upstairs balconies were locked off and always empty. The Super Bowl it might be, but no one appreciates eyes over their shoulders. The various players’ entourages were relegated to a circular pit of deep, burgundy leather sofas, set well away from the action.