The Wolves

by Alex Berenson

  John Wells. United States.

  “Do we know when, exactly?”

  “It’s not sorted by date, but it has to be sometime in the last two weeks.”

  This morning was turning more interesting by the minute.

  “Wonder why he used his real name.”

  “Not for us. Probably sending a message to the White House. He knew they’d see it.”

  “So the CIA knows he’s here,” Duberman said. “Are they helping him?”

  “At the least, they aren’t after him.”

  Not a happy prospect. Wells was lethal enough without help.

  “You asked for it,” Gideon said.

  Duberman folded the note into a paper airplane, flicked it at the bulletproof glass that looked out on the city. Let Wells come. His luck couldn’t last forever, especially now that Gideon’s men knew he was here. “Now let’s find him.”

  “I’ve already told our guys. If he’s around, we will. Especially if he goes to Macao.”

  The surveillance cameras at Duberman’s mansion in Tel Aviv had caught Wells clearly. Every security guard at the 88 Gamma Macao casino now carried photos of him, and the casino managers had promised a reward to anyone who spotted him. The casino’s facial-recognition software was looking for Wells, too. 88 Gamma had installed the system years before to spot card counters and chip thieves. It was nearly unbeatable. A month before, it had spotted a grifter whom 88 Gamma had banned the year before, even though the guy had gained twenty-five pounds and grown his hair long.

  “Meantime, I put a second guard at the gate,” Gideon said.

  “Why’s that?” The voice belonged to Orli. She stood in the doorway, a light sheen of sweat on her arms and legs. She’d added a daily hour of Krav Maga, the Israeli self-defense training that combined boxing and judo, to her workouts. The new muscle made her even more beautiful, as far as Duberman was concerned. He fetched the list for her.

  “Take a look.”

  She scanned the list. “Wells? Good. I hope he comes by, so I can meet him.”

  “Chop chop?” Duberman raised his hands, a mock karate stance.

  “No fancy moves for him. Just a bullet in his head.” She turned for the doorway. “I’m taking a shower. When you’re done in here, you should get wet, too.”

  “I have a meeting in an hour.”

  “Fifty-five minutes more than you’ll need.”

  “Shameless,” Gideon said.

  Orli waved at him as she walked out.

  “That she is,” Duberman said. But he understood. Beauty conferred all manner of privileges, including the chance to express desire frankly. Put more bluntly, who didn’t want to hear a supermodel talk dirty? He scurried after her to their private quarters.

  —

  AN HOUR LATER and much relaxed, he greeted Malcolm Garten in a meeting room whose centerpiece was a meticulously designed six-foot-high model of the new Sky Tower. Garten didn’t reach the top of the model. He was a small, carefully groomed man, his blue suit pressed and his hair tightly combed. His jittery eyes betrayed his tension.

  “Malcolm.”

  “Mr. Duberman. Sir.”

  “Sit. You look tired.”

  Garten plopped down like all his muscles had given up at once. “I was up all night watching Cheung. Craziest run I’ve ever seen.”

  “How many drinks did he have?” Duberman knew that Garten was desperate to tell him what Cheung had wanted. Better to slow him down.

  “Seven or eight, all doubles. Whiskey.”

  “Any drugs?”

  “I don’t think so, no. His thing’s booze. After the fourth, I told the bartenders to water the next one down, but it didn’t fool him. He tossed it over his shoulder like a pinch of salt, made us bring a new one. By the end, he was completely gone. Could hardly talk. Cursed at the dealer when he lost, grabbed for his chips when he won.”

  “He could still gamble, though.” Duberman wasn’t asking. They could always gamble. He’d once watched a poker player collapse onto the table during a hand. The guy insisted on finishing before admitting he was having a heart attack.

  “Finally, he went to the bathroom. He was gone long enough that we wondered if we should send someone in. But he came out on his own. Talking about monkeys. It sounded like nonsense to me, and my Mandarin’s pretty good. I double-checked with Chou-Lai, and he agreed. Gibberish. I asked Cheung if he wanted to play anymore. He said no and cursed at me, told me I was trying to steal his money. At that point, I cleared out the room so it was just him and Chou and me. We sat him down, got a couple of cups of coffee in him. It didn’t sober him up, but it perked him up, if you see what I mean.”

  “Sure.”

  “Then he started talking about wanting a woman. Chou said fine. And Cheung grabbed him and said no, Chou needed to understand, the ones before were all too old. Way too old. And the thing is, his taste runs young, anyway.”

  “I know.”

  “But we didn’t tell you, last time he was here, Chou took him where he goes when he’s got to push the limits. He told me afterward, Cheung picked out the youngest in the whole shop, fifteen or sixteen maybe. She looked like a boy. So if that’s way too old—”

  Garten stared at the floor.

  “I have four girls myself, sir. These guys, they want drugs, they want an orgy, they want dog meat with a side of shark fin, I’ll chalk it up to human nature. Not pedophilia. Maybe Chou doesn’t care, but I do.”

  “You’re sure that’s what he wanted.”

  “Yes, sir. Chou told him unripe fruit could make him sick and he said no, he didn’t care, the smaller, the better. The more tender. I didn’t know what to say. Thank God, he passed out.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “We put him in his suite on forty-two. Guards outside. They’ll text me if he tries to leave.”

  Duberman sat beside Garten, patted his shoulder. “Sounds like it was a tough situation and you handled it great.”

  “Thank you, sir. So now what?”

  Duberman knew what he ought to say. Cheung crossed the line. Sixteen is one thing, that’s the age of consent lots of places. Even fifteen. But this, no. It’s not just illegal. It’s immoral. We’ll make sure he never comes back to 88 Gamma.

  “Here’s what I think. Based on how much he drank, he’ll sleep all day, wake up with the worst headache of his life. He won’t even remember what happened, and if he does, he’ll be ashamed. When he wakes up, show him what he won. I’ll bet he’ll bank the winnings and go home.”

  “Do I tell him he’s banned?”

  “No, nothing like that. As far as I’m concerned he drank too much, made a mistake. We’ll leave it there. We’re not in the business of shaming our customers.”

  “So what happens next time?”

  “I promise, we’ll never help him with anything like that.”

  “Because he’s going to ask again.”

  “Malcolm, I need to know you’re on board.”

  Garten stared at Duberman, fear and anger jostling in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. Duberman understood. He couldn’t afford to quit. Not with four kids at home.

  “Say it for me.”

  “I’m on board.” The words choked out.

  “It goes without saying, you keep this to yourself.”

  “Count on that.” Garten couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Duberman let the insubordination pass. If and when Cheung came back, he would keep Garten away.

  “Good. Go back to Macao. Get some sleep.”

  “Yessir.” Garten stood, walked out with slow careful steps, like he was eighty and not forty. He didn’t look back. When he was gone, Duberman sat alone staring at Hong Kong, thinking about the real source of his fortune, a dead wiseguy named Jimmy the Roller.

  —

  THIS WAS THE EARLY EIGHTIES
. Las Vegas still felt like the frontier. Barely a half-million people lived in all of Clark County, huddled together against the heat and the scorpions. But for the first time, the FBI was putting pressure on the local Mob. Jimmy and his buddies were trying to move into legit businesses. Motels that rented by the hour. Football hotlines promising winners for the low, low price of $4.99 a minute. We are 8–1 this year on Monday night, best record anywhere, call now for this week’s lock . . .

  Okay, maybe semi-legit.

  The origins of Jimmy’s nickname were lost to history. Depending on his mood, Jimmy claimed it came from the five-figure roll of cash he carried, to the late-night visits—rolls—he paid unlucky debtors, or to his forearms, sticks of solid muscle that indeed resembled oversized rolling pins. A trip to a pizzeria downtown had opened Jimmy’s eyes to the nickname’s possibilities. Must have been ’75, that idiot Ford was President, I’m at this joint on Fremont. The owner says “Hey, Roller,” waves the pin at me. Hits me, I gotta carry one of those, it’d be perfect. Not just because it matches my name, unnerstan’? My business, I don’t want to kill you because then how you gonna pay? I smack you with that thing it doesn’t kill you, doesn’t even put you in the hospital, it just hurts like a—

  No one argued the logic.

  Duberman came to Jimmy with eyes open. He wasn’t desperate in the conventional sense. He wasn’t a degenerate gambler or a husband who needed to pay a pregnant stripper to leave town. He wanted to buy a casino. One-third of a casino, to be precise. A dump in Reno called the Sizzlin’ Saloon. Two hundred and ninety-five rooms, sixteen blackjack tables. Duberman was a young manager at Flamingo Hilton, known for his hard work and his eye for showgirls.

  He should have waited his turn at Hilton, worked his way up. But even by Vegas standards, he was ambitious and impatient. The Saloon was run-down and barely breaking even. But it had a great location, down the block from a new Harrah’s. Duberman knew he could turn it around. At two and a half mil, it was a steal. Not even ten grand a room. He found two more guys at Hilton to take the chance with him, managers in their late forties whose careers had topped out. They had one question for him. Where would he get his share?

  He told them not to worry.

  To fight the Mob, Nevada had created a “black book,” formally called the Gaming Control Board Excluded Person List: wiseguys, cardsharps, and assorted ne’er-do-wells barred from setting their steel-toed shoes in any casino in the state. Smarter than his buddies, Jimmy had stayed off the list. Nothing kept him from exercising his God-given right to throw chips on a table and pray for rain. Twice a month he stopped by the Flamingo for blackjack and craps. Despite his famous bankroll, he gabbed more than gambled. Duberman suspected that Jimmy was prospecting for business, guys who needed quick cash, and not hundreds of dollars but thousands or tens of thousands.

  In his effort to go straight-ish, Jimmy had hooked up with Clark International Depository Trust. The bank’s lofty name belied the fact that its branch network consisted of two dingy storefronts in North Las Vegas. Jimmy found borrowers to sign promissory notes with Clark at ruinous rates. He and his friends put up a third of the cash and made sure the loans didn’t bust. In turn, they received half the profits, plus a chunk of the bank. A fine deal for all involved, long as Jimmy convinced his clients to repay their debts. Thus the rolling pin.

  Jimmy was upfront with borrowers. Won’t look like this money comes from me. You can tell your wife it came from a real bank. Tell her it’s a business loan, a new mortgage, whatever. But it’s from me. You don’t pay it back, I come for you. You see?

  They saw.

  Duberman’s bosses never admitted they knew Jimmy’s game. Yet the Hilton gave Jimmy casino comps—freebies—normally reserved for bigger bettors. Duberman once asked why. Keeping him happy is good business. The Hilton’s managers knew that the money Jimmy lent sloshed back to the tables soon enough. Anyone who wasn’t willing to go a half step over the edge didn’t last in Vegas. Duberman didn’t mind the ambiguity. In truth, the town appealed to him for precisely that reason. He was not exactly amoral, but he liked to set his own limits.

  Duberman flew Jimmy to Reno, explained why he wanted the Sizzlin’ Saloon, saw Jimmy’s eyes get big as saucers. The Roller had never made a loan for more than forty thousand. A deal this size would take him to another level. The risk was big, too. Jimmy and his guys would have to put up a six-figure chunk of cash.

  Jimmy left Duberman in the dark for a week before he agreed. At a price. On top of the usual terms, Duberman had to give Jimmy half his share of the casino’s profits. Forever. Duberman had no other options. He agreed, on one condition, that Jimmy and his partners stay away from Reno and let Duberman run the casino. Jimmy agreed. To Duberman’s surprise, he kept the bargain.

  For the next six years, Duberman worked harder than he could have imagined. Twelve-hour days, six and seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. His partners couldn’t handle the strain, the constant round-trips between Reno and Vegas. They had families. Duberman didn’t. After three years, he bought them out, putting himself even deeper in hock to Jimmy. Now he had full control. He dropped Sizzlin’ from the casino’s name, calling it only the Saloon. He put the waitresses in skirts that barely reached their thighs. He rented billboards across Reno promising to take any bet. He walked the floor every night, handing out trinkets to gamblers large and small. I’m yer Saloonkeeper, and I promise you a good time. Even if it costs me!

  His hard work and salesmanship paid off. The Saloon filled up on Saturdays. Then Fridays. Then every day. The money started flowing, a little more each month. Six years after that first handshake deal, Duberman paid off Jimmy’s original loans. A few months later, he took his next big step, opening two more Saloons in Las Vegas. Those were hits, too. Everything was working.

  Everything except Jimmy. As far as the Roller was concerned, Duberman’s promise of a fifty percent stake applied to the new casinos, not just the original.

  Like we’re married? Duberman said. Till death do us part?

  Jimmy didn’t smile. Exactly.

  Duberman didn’t think he’d made that deal. But Jimmy had the rolling pin. He put an auditor in the Saloon’s offices to make sure Duberman didn’t short him, and another auditor to watch the first. Every month, Duberman cut Jimmy a check. One hundred ten thousand. One hundred eighteen thousand. One hundred twenty-one thousand. Jimmy insisted that Duberman drop off the checks in person. He claimed he wanted to talk about business—Who knows gambling better than me?—but Duberman knew better. The Roller liked looking him in the eye once a month. Both to intimidate and for sheer pleasure.

  Duberman started to wish he would make less money, so the Roller would get less, too. Worse, in the early nineties, other states started to legalize casinos. Duberman wanted to expand further, but he couldn’t let licensing boards look at his finances. The Nevada gaming commission viewed him as a solid citizen and didn’t poke too hard. But anyone who bothered to check his bank records would reach the obvious conclusion, that he had a secret partner. No casino regulator could ignore that red flag. Not only would he miss any chance at new markets, Nevada would close him down, too.

  Duberman realized he needed to lose Jimmy, at any price. The Roller was now close to fifty. He spent his days hanging by the pool at his mansion in Henderson. A layer of fat encased his muscles. Still, he was used to violence, and to say this news would disappoint him was a hurricane-sized understatement. The thought of confronting him dried Duberman’s mouth. Yet Duberman knew that some part of him wanted to stand up to Jimmy, the same reason kids peeked under the bed to make the monster vanish.

  They met for dinner at Kokomo’s, a surf-and-turf place at the Mirage, Steve Wynn’s new palace on the Strip. The Mirage had cost $630 million, at the time the most expensive casino ever. Wynn had paid for it with junk bonds, Wall Street’s version of Jimmy. The place had three thousand rooms and a tropical theme, a
giant aquarium behind the registration desk, white tigers in the back. It had opened a couple months before, and it was packed in a way that made Duberman’s teeth ache. The Mirage was the future. Women as well as men came to play, tourists along with hard-core gamblers, people who had never seen Vegas before. Duberman would never get to build anything like it with the Roller dragging him down.

  At dinner, Jimmy wore a metallic gray suit that needed to be let out. Its shiny fabric rode his bulk like a topographic map. He was in a good mood. On the way to their table, Duberman had handed him the biggest monthly check yet, one hundred sixty-three thousand dollars.

  Duberman waited for Jimmy to suck down his shrimp cocktail before he broke the bad news. “That’s the second-to-last check I’m ever gonna give you, Roller.”

  Jimmy chortled, big laughs that strained his suit. The tourists at the other tables peeked at the spectacle.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Something wrong? This your way of telling me you got cancer, a month to live? I’m sorry.” Jimmy sounded genuinely upset. “I’ll light a candle.”

  Duberman shook his head.

  “You don’t want to pay no more? Not how it works.”

  “I want to buy you out. Gimme a number, what you think’s fair.”

  “Think I won’t hurt you in here?” Jimmy cracked his knuckles, a snap like dry wood. His hands were the size of dinner plates. “I won’t put a steak knife in you?” He picked up his knife, wagged it at Duberman, put it down again. “Maybe not. Spoil dinner for these nice folks from Iowa. But outside. Tomorrow. The next day. You know it’s coming. You don’t sleep. A few weeks, nothing, you relax, nobody stays scared forever, then”—Jimmy put a finger pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.

  “Jimmy. Listen.” Duberman had rehearsed his speech a dozen times. Fair’s fair, neither of us ever thought I’d grow this way, that’s not the deal we made, look at how much you made already, I’m not trying to cheat you . . . But Duberman saw now that appealing to Jimmy’s sense of decency was as pointless as telling Steve Wynn’s tigers to stop eating meat.