by Steve Brewer
“I heard about a job,” Leo said over the phone. “Thought you might be interested.”
Tony didn’t want another score right away. He liked to let months pass between heists, time to make sure no one was onto his crew, time to rest up and make careful plans for the next one. Besides, they’d made enough off the movie theater heist – more than two-hundred grand, thanks to Badgerman – that they could afford an extended break. But he couldn’t mention that to Leo. Better to let the old man talk.
“You ever hear of Fowler, Nevada? This little town between Vegas and Reno, they call it ‘Lost Vegas?’“
“I’ve heard of it,” Tony said. “Never been there.”
“It’s a shithole, but it was one of the first small towns in Nevada to get legalized gambling, years ago, so a lot of money gets funneled through there.”
“All right.”
“I know a guy who runs one of the casinos there, and he’s looking for somebody to rob it.”
“Say what?”
“He’s got this idea. He wants somebody to knock over his casino. He’d get a cut of the score, then scam the insurance company as well. A double-dip.”
“Sounds dicey.”
“The insurance part will be tricky all right,” Leo said. “But that shouldn’t concern you. He’d help set up the score and take his cut. Everything that comes after is his problem.”
“I don’t know, Leo. Those kinds of problems have a way of coming around again. He gets caught scamming the insurance company, first thing he’ll do is rat out the crew.”
“Not this guy. He’s old school. I’ve known him for years. He used to be a button man for the Mob.”
“Now I really don’t like it. I try to stay out of the Italians’ way.”
“This guy’s not Italian. He’s Greek. Nick Papadopoulos. Back when he still snuffed people, they called him ‘Nicky Pop-pop.’“
“I’m liking this less all the time, Leo.”
“No, it’s okay. Really. This guy’s been on the straight for years.”
“He runs a casino.”
“Okay, not straight exactly. But he doesn’t have any kind of a record. Son of a bitch never got caught. Made for a nice clean background check when he went into the casino business.”
“Still a dangerous man.”
“He’s a businessman now, not a hitter.”
“And he needs money because he’s got himself in some sort of jam.”
“Just business, from what he said. He wants to get the hell out of Lost Vegas. Can’t blame him for that. Like I said, it’s a shithole.”
Tony said nothing.
“At least talk to the guy,” Leo said. “He’s in San Fran for a trade show at Moscone this weekend. You could have a sit-down here at my place, hear him out.”
“I’m not really looking for a job right now—”
“Okay, I can find somebody else. But you’re missing out on a big payday. A casino, Tony, imagine the cash involved—”
Leo kept cajoling, but Tony knew a casino job would be risky as hell. Lots of security. Unfamiliar territory. No room for error.
“No skin off my teeth,” Leo was saying. “I’m just asking because Nick was a friend, back in the old days.”
Tony knew that was a lie. Leo Berg didn’t do anybody any favors. This Papadopoulos character must be paying a finder’s fee.
“Why’s he even talking to you?” Tony said. “Why doesn’t he get somebody out of Vegas?”
“His partners do business in Vegas. He doesn’t want them to hear about it. He was coming on this junket anyway, and he figured San Fran’s far enough away that nobody’ll make the connection.”
“The world’s a small place these days, Leo. It’s tough to stay under the radar.”
“You manage all right. That’s why I thought of you, when Nick asked. But if you’re not interested—”
“I could talk to him,” Tony said. “But no promises.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Don’t tell this guy anything about me or my crew. In case it turns out I don’t want to get involved.”
“You know me, Tony. I don’t name names.”
Tony thinking: You just told me Nick Papadopoulos’ name. Why would I believe you’d be any more careful with mine?
“Set it up for tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll meet him at your shop.”
“You won’t be sorry. You’ll like this guy.”
Tony doubted that, but it was worth a listen.
Leo said he’d call later with the meeting time. He wanted to chat some more, but Tony extricated himself. He looked up to find Eve standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him.
“Leo Berg,” he said.
“I gathered.”
“He’s got a job prospect. Juicy set-up over in Nevada.”
“I don’t like that guy, Tony. He gives me the creeps.”
“Leo gives everybody the creeps. Guy looks like something out of a horror movie. But sometimes he comes through. I thought I’d check it out.”
“We don’t need another job right now.”
“I told him that.”
“We’re taking a break.”
“I’ll just talk to the guy. See what’s what.”
She frowned at him. “I don’t like it.”
“If it smells wrong, I’ll walk away.”
Chapter 4
The gaming industry’s regional trade show was a bigger deal than Tony expected. Dozens of conventioneers milled around outside Moscone Center, smoking cigarettes and exchanging business cards and discussing ways to milk their expense accounts. In his tweed blazer and black turtleneck, Tony looked like a college professor next to these loud guys with their flashy suits and chunky wristwatches.
He checked name badges as he wandered among the conventioneers. Tony wanted to get a look at this guy Nick Papadopoulos, see what kind of a man would set up the robbery of his own casino.
Tony loitered near the entrance, watching people come and go, finally settling on a young man in a blue suit who waited impatiently for the “WALK” signal at the corner, shifting from foot to foot and checking his watch. Tony moved close enough to read the name badge hanging on a cord around the guy’s neck: “Jordan Schepps.”
When the light changed, Jordan Schepps trotted across Howard, headed north toward Market Street. Tony turned back to the convention center.
Moscone Center always made him think of the Erector Sets he’d had as a kid, its skeleton visible to all. Steel trusses and cement terraces and walls of glass. As he stepped inside, he looked up, as he did every time, at its ribcage of curving concrete rafters.
Curtains and partitions screened the trade show from the lobby, and a couple of uniformed guards manned the entrance. Tony couldn’t imagine who’d want to gate-crash a trade show, but the guards eyeballed every passer-by to make sure each wore a name badge.
Nearby was a registration table staffed by middle-aged women in pantsuits. It was quiet at the table this time of day, and the ladies chatted among themselves and re-arranged their pamphlets and giveaways.
Tony went to the nearest one – her nametag said “Sue” – and gave her his best friendly smile. She smiled back automatically, and said, “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I left my badge in my hotel room, but I need to get a message to one of my co-workers in there. I’d only need a minute.”
“Well,” she said, glancing over at the guards, “we’re really not supposed to let anybody inside without a badge. But I could make you a temporary one.”
“That would be great. I’m staying halfway across town. You’d save me a trip.”
She smiled again, happy to help, and got out a blank white badge. Pen poised above the card, she said, “Your name?”
“Jordan Schepps.” He spelled the last name. “I’m registered. Check your list if you like.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” She winked at him. “You seem trustworthy to me.”
She wrote the name on the ca
rd and slipped the card inside a clear plastic holster attached to a blue lanyard. He hung the cord around his neck.
“Thanks again,” he said. “I’ll bring it right back.”
“Take your time. It’s still crowded in there.”
Tony skated past the security guards, who barely gave him a glance. He had a badge hanging around his neck, and that was good enough for them.
The trade show was a bustling carnival of lights and color and noise. Red-carpeted walkways were lined with booths full of fast-talking pitchmen demonstrating the latest in casino technology – clanging slot machines and whooping video games and chittering roulette tables. All the mechanisms for relieving the deluded of their money.
The video surveillance cameras and electronic listening devices on display distracted Tony, but he mostly stayed busy reading the badges of the other conventioneers. Hundreds of people, mostly men, crowded the hall. What were the odds that he could find one named Nick Papadopoulos?
Better, it turned out, than he had hoped. Within ten minutes, he’d spotted his man standing with a clump of others, watching a video screen with a high-definition image of the trade show. A camera was suspended somewhere up above, looking right down on this aisle, but it must’ve been microscopic because Tony couldn’t see it anywhere.
Papadopoulos looked bored, maybe a little glum. He was a chunky guy, wide across the shoulders. He wore a black suit with a crisp white shirt, a striped tie and shiny black shoes. His thinning salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back from a creased forehead, and his eyes had dark pouches under them. His five o’clock shadow was two hours early.
He must’ve sensed someone staring because he suddenly turned. Tony walked past him, eyes forward, and kept going until he could round a corner. He waited a few seconds, then returned to the central aisle.
Papadopoulos was walking toward the lobby, his shoulders hunched against the hubbub. Tony followed him.
As soon as he was outside, Papadopoulos lit a cigarette. He didn’t check out the skyline or look around the plaza. Just crossed Howard Street with his head down, frowning, puffing like a train. A man with a lot on his mind.
Chapter 5
Lola Cantrell leaned close to the vanity mirror while she talked on the phone. The lights were bright and merciless, accentuating every wrinkle, crinkle and flaw. The flesh under her eyes seemed soft today, the slightest little droop, and she wondered how much time she had until she’d need another facelift. Christ, the battle with gravity never ended.
“What’s the matter, Nicky?” she said into the phone. “You sound depressed.”
“Aw, I’m just tired. Been on my feet all day. And this trade show, it’s overwhelming. All the people and the sale pitches and the noise.”
Lola sat up straighter and thrust her chest at the mirror. The loose peignoir fell open, exposing her breasts, and she turned slightly to get the best perspective. Nothing droopy about these babies. Damned well better not be. They’d cost a fortune.
“I thought maybe you were missing me,” she said into the phone.
“Believe me, you’re glad you didn’t come. I’m not much fun to be around. I’ve got too much on my mind.”
She turned her head to the side, checking her jawline. Bit of a sag there, but you had to be looking for it. She still appeared a good ten – hell, make that fifteen – years younger than her actual age. Lola might not be able to compete with the supermodels and chorus girls in Vegas, but she still was the best-looking woman in Fowler, Nevada. Hands down.
“Poor Nicky,” she purred. “You worry too much.”
“I got plenty to worry about.”
“I thought you were going to look for ways to fix up the Starlite.”
“Everything comes with a big price tag. It’s the same old story, you need money to make money.”
“Come on, Nicky. Everybody knows you’re loaded.”
Silence. Jesus, was he really broke? He always moped around about business at the Starlite and how much everything cost, but Lola assumed that was his upbringing talking. You grow up around a Greek diner, with your old man calculating the profit margin on every olive, every egg, and you end up like Nick, perpetually worried about money.
“Nicky?”
“Sorry, hon. You caught me at a bad time. I’m in no mood for chitchat.”
“I can tell. Anything I can do?”
“Aw, I’ll be all right. I need a drink, maybe a little nap.”
“But you’re not in any trouble, right? The Starlite, it’s okay?”
A pause.
“I’ve got a meeting tomorrow,” he said. “Might turn the whole thing around.”
Lola exhaled. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath, waiting for his answer.
“That sounds promising,” she said.
“We’ll see.”
Lola waited, but he offered nothing more.
“I miss you, Nicky. Can’t wait until you get home.”
“Same here. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Okay, sugar. Bye.”
She set the phone aside and looked at her face in the mirror. She was frowning, and she knew better than that. Frowns led to wrinkles. She forced herself to smile. Better.
Sometimes, Nick reminded her of her father back in West Virginia, a man who went through life under a dark cloud. Nick looked nothing like the sinewy coal-miner who’d sired her, but there was something familiar in his eyes, some dark thing, a loss of possibility.
Lola wondered briefly whether her old man was still alive. Unlikely, given the way he’d gone through those Marlboros. Nearly a decade since she’d talked to any of her relatives, and she wasn’t about to start now, but she did wonder about them sometimes, whether her six siblings still lived back in those hollers, eking out a gritty existence by digging in the earth.
Not Lola. She might’ve been born Edsel Mae Burdett, a child of hillbillies named for a lemon of a car, but she hadn’t let humble beginnings rule her life. She’d caught a bus out of West Virginia and never looked back. Moved from place to place, man to man, always searching for a better life. Over the years, she’d changed her name and her face and her body, emerging from her past like one of those insects that leaves an empty husk behind when it’s transformed into something beautiful.
She thought she’d finally scored big by latching onto Nick Papadopoulos, a casino owner, a man of substance, but lately she wasn’t so sure. He kept hinting at money problems, and she’d had enough of those for one lifetime. She wanted wealth, she wanted ease, she wanted a chunk of the Starlite to call her own. Nick sometimes talked of selling out, of leaving Fowler, and that would not do. What was to stop him from leaving her, too?
Lola checked the mirror again. She’d better come up with a contingency plan. And she’d better do it soon, before gravity won the war.
Chapter 6
The next morning, Nick Papadopoulos walked past Berg’s Pawn twice, checking out the neighborhood. Fog hung heavily over the Tenderloin, and the gritty sidewalk was damp. Too early for much weekend traffic. Nobody sitting in cars, watching the shop. A few bums loitered on the sidewalk, but nothing to set off Nick’s internal alarms.
Every time he took a step, the holster strapped to his calf rubbed against his anklebone. When he was a button man, Nick always carried a backup gun in an ankle holster, but he’d fallen out of the habit since he moved to Fowler. He wondered how quickly he could pull the compact pistol if things went wrong at Berg’s Pawn.
The narrow shop looked dark and abandoned. The typewriters and pocket watches and cameras piled behind the smudged window were furry with gray dust. Nick understood the shop was a cover for Leo’s more lucrative business, but damn, you’d think the old bastard could pay someone to whoosh around a feather-duster once in a while.
A bell jangled over Nick’s head as he stepped into the shop, which smelled of mold and dust and something else, something dry and stale. Maybe Leo himself. The old man stood behind the protective grille at the counter,
peeking between the steel bars like a scrawny jailbird. His bald head was covered with so many moles and freckles and age spots, it resembled a speckled egg. Thick eyeglasses perched crooked on his beak of a nose. His elbows rested on the counter, the hooked pincers opening and closing, seemingly on their own.
“Leo.”
“Hiya, Nick. You’re looking well. You’ve put on weight.”
“Doctor says it’s bad for me.”
“Pah, what do doctors know? They told me I’d be dead ten years ago, and I’m still standing here.”
“You’re the picture of health, Leo.”
The old man cackled. He reached under the counter, and a buzzer sounded. A metalwork door at one end of the counter popped open an inch.
“Come on back,” Leo said. “The other guy’s already here.”
Nick went through the door, holding his breath against the stale odor. The heavy door was on a spring and it clanged shut behind him. Nick had never done real time, but he’d spent the random night in jail. That cold steel clang still gave him a chill.
Leo scuttled ahead, following a narrow passageway through mountains of dusty merchandise. DVD players and TVs and stereos were stacked every which way amid open boxes of jumbled jewelry and rusty tools. Guitars and ukuleles and trombones dangled from the high ceiling, hanging by their necks like ducks displayed in a Chinese restaurant.
“Jeez, Leo, how you ever find anything here?”
The old man looked back at him through his smeared glasses.
“I’ve got a system.” He tapped a hook against the side of his head. “It’s all up here.”
They went through a narrow doorway, made even narrower by boxes stacked on either side, and into a cluttered storeroom illuminated by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling on a hairy cord.
A lanky man waited for them at a round wooden table. He looked like some kind of rock-n-roller with his black biker jacket and mop of dark curly hair. He had shadowy eyes and a nose that had been broken at least once. Nick guessed he was in his early thirties, but he already had creases at the corner of his eyes, like maybe he spent a lot of time outdoors. His hands rested on the table. His fingers were long and perfectly still.