by David Chill
At that point, Marcellus led me out of the Sports Book. "Probably best if we talk back home," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "It's crowded here."
I nodded."This where you usually come?"
"Nah. Usually the Bellagio. But someone knew some ladies over here and so, you know. They're my weakness."
"I can imagine," I said thinking even Superman had his kryptonite. "Are those fellas over there related to that problem you've been having?"
"Yeah. The guys you just spoke with work for this agent. He's really got me messed up."
"Okay. I'll see what I can do to help. Piece of advice. Don't sign your name to anything, and avoid getting your picture taken. The wrong agent can be a problem, but in your situation, any agent can be a problem."
He nodded warily. "Yeah. But the guy putting the pressure on me is one of his boys. He's not here today."
"What's his name?"
"It's Eddie," he said. "Eddie Larson."
*
Before leaving the Cosmopolitan, Gail and I stopped for lunch at the Overlook Grill which was aptly named, as it overlooked a gorgeous pool. While last night's temperatures had been a little chilly, it had now grown much warmer. Desert weather could be extreme at times, but on this November afternoon it was balmy and pleasant. A few bikini-clad girls soaked up some sun on black lounge chairs that were actually inside the pool. Gail ordered the scallops, I had a sandwich, and we sat in the blissful sunshine, gazing out at the leisurely surroundings.
"This is the life," I said, between bites of the most expensive tuna sandwich I had had in a long time.
"A fantasy life maybe," she said.
"Nothing wrong with that for a weekend."
"Not a thing honey," she said. "As long as you can tell what's real and what isn't."
"Mmm," I agreed, as I picked up the other half of my sandwich and dug in.
"So is this Eddie Larson actually Miles' son?" she asked.
"That would be correct."
"What do you make of Miles' son being involved here?"
"Hard to say," I managed. "Why would he be involved with a sports agent if he's working on Wall Street?"
"It's certainly curious."
"May be a coincidence. May not."
"And do you have any more detective work to do before we head home?"
"Just one thing left. I need to go back to the Malco warehouse to see the guy that runs that place. Given that's why we're here," I said, paying the bill. "And given that my client is paying our expenses."
"The dinner from last night, too?" Gail asked with a laugh.
"Why not? I think we earned it. We figured a lot of things out here. We know how these guys are stealing the merchandise. We just don't know who's behind it yet."
We walked back over to Caesars. Our hotel was a block away, but in Vegas that meant a 20 minute walk. After picking up our 4Runner, I drove back across Interstate 15 and into to the industrial part of town.
The front gate of the Malco warehouse was open, so we drove right in. I pulled around by the loading dock first, to examine the back fence. The lock was still on it and no damage was visible. I went over to the trash bins though, and noticed all the cardboard boxes were gone.
Getting back into the SUV, I pulled it around to the front and parked by the entrance. I asked Gail to stay in the vehicle. No sense taking any chances. The main door was unlocked so I strolled into the lobby. As we opened another set of doors, a loud buzzer went off and a rush of activity was set in motion. A couple of people walked out of offices and stood in the doorway. A tall, stocky man with a black goatee approached us. He had a big head and a wide face that contained what appeared to be an angry scowl.
"Can I help you?" he asked, using a tone that did not indicate he wanted to help anyone at all.
"Very tight security system you have in place here," I commented wryly.
"What's your business?"
I briefly thought of telling him I was here to install a satellite dish, but decided to avoid another altercation. If possible, that is.
"The name's Burnside," I said and waited to see some recognition in his eyes. It came.
"Oh yeah," he said, his scowl easing up a little. "Glen said you'd be here. I was expecting you earlier."
"I was, ah, detained."
"Right," he said. "Vegas does that to you. I'm Adam Barber, I run this place."
"Heard you had an incident last night," I said.
"An incident?"
"A guard from your security detail was shot to death. Does that qualify as an incident?" I said, briefly forgetting about the risk of an altercation.
Barber looked me over carefully before responding. "Yes. I didn't know you were aware of that. Last night, this morning. Not sure when it happened. What do you know about this?"
"Only that someone from the security patrol wound up dead."
"Yes," he said. "That was horrible. I don't know what he was doing out of his patrol car. There was nothing going on here last night."
"Nothing at all?" I asked.
"Not that I'm aware of. Everything is fine. In fact, I'm really not sure why Peter wanted you to come up here."
"Word in L.A. is that there's some pilferage going on up here."
"Some what?"
"Theft."
He gave me a confused look and shook his head. "I don't know what they've been telling you in L.A. But we're fine, last I checked. No inventory shrinkage whatsoever. No thefts I'm aware of."
I tried to process this. Something clearly wasn't right. "That's interesting. I've heard from multiple sources that inventory's going out the back door."
"From who?"
"Someone within Malco. Works on the install side."
"Really? I'd like the name of the person who's telling you this. I'd like to follow up on it myself."
"I'd like a lot of things," I said, starting to get a little irritated. The last thing I was going to do was give Chase up because some self-important executive wanted me to.
"Now look," he said. "I don't know what you're talking about. We don't have any problems. You can check the books with the CFO, with Isabelle. No one's stealing anything. I installed some additional video cameras this week when the others were messed with. Believe me, if anyone's stealing, I'd know about it."
"A second set of cameras," I mused. Wherever did he get that idea.
"That's right. I know what I'm doing."
"So then what happened to those set-top boxes last night?" I asked.
He gazed at me and shook his head in confusion.
"A couple of your guys," I continued, "loaded a bunch of new boxes in the trash bins. They're gone now."
"Which guys?"
"They didn't volunteer their names."
He continued to look at me, the scowl returning to his face. "Mister, I don't know what you're talking about. If you have some proof, I'd love to see it. But short of that, I don't know how to help you."
"You're doing a bang-up job of that."
Adam Barber looked around to see who was nearby. "I really don't like your attitude. And you're not helping me here. I think it's time for you to leave," he said with an air of finality.
I shrugged and walked out the door. Climbing back into the 4Runner, I gave Gail a sheepish smile.
"Everything okay."
"I guess. That didn't go very well," I said, as we pulled out of the lot and headed back to Caesar's. I hoped the hotel would grant us a late checkout, even though we hadn't asked for it ahead of time. "This Adam Barber is either completely incompetent or a heck of an actor. He didn't seem to have a clue as to why the Larsons asked me to come up here."
"Strange."
"Yeah. It's also funny how he mentioned I should check the company's financial reports."
"Hmmm. If something illegal was going on, why would he want to steer you there?"
"That's the conundrum," I said. "Also, this guy Barber had a wide face. That indicates a greater propensity to lie."
; "A wide face?" Gail repeated in disbelief and then laughed. "Just how does that matter?"
"A wide face is indicative of someone with an excessive amount of testosterone. It means they have a greater propensity to lie and cheat."
Gail threw her head back and laughed, the dazzling smile never more evident. Then she looked closely at me. Her clear gray eyes sparkled. "I'd say you also have a boatload of testosterone, señor. But your face isn't wide."
"True," I admitted.
"And you're positive about this little nugget on human nature?"
I smiled at her, in part to keep her big smile going too. "Let's just say a trial attorney once told me that."
We drove for a few minutes through the near deserted streets as we made our way back to the Strip. It was still warm out, the mid-afternoon sun was bright and directly in front of us. I lowered the visor to block some glare. It was an otherwise calm and lovely afternoon, and things were peaceful. Which is when these things usually happen.
It started off as relatively minor, a motorcycle swerving in front of us. In L.A. this was nothing out of the ordinary; motorcycles often darted in and out of traffic, sometimes carelessly. This was a fact of life in a big city with more vehicles than the roads could handle. But it did not make sense that this would happen on an empty street in an industrial part of Las Vegas. It did not make sense that the motorcycle would then begin to slow down. And as I tried to go around the bike, a large pickup truck moved quickly and purposefully next to us, blocking our path. The driver blew his horn as a signal for me to not get in his way.
I slowed the 4Runner to match the speed of the motorcycle, which eventually came to a full stop down the street. The truck was parallel to us, and came to a halt as well. We waited as a man got out of the truck and the biker hopped off his motorcycle and fiddled with the kickstand. At that moment I sorely regretted not taking my .38 along with me. This was intended to be little more than a fact finding trip. It was turning out to be more involved.
"Get out of the car, asshole," a gruff voice snarled. He grabbed the car door handle to try and expedite the process. "I'm teaching you a lesson."
"Wait a sec," I said, and unlocked the driver's side door manually so that Gail's door would remain locked.
The man jerked open the door and that was his mistake. He who strikes first, often strikes last. With his left hand busy on the door handle, I grabbed his right wrist and twisted it backwards. He let out a yelp and bent over in pain. Jumping out of the vehicle, I balled my right hand into a fist and hit him square between the eyes. I then swung my right arm up high before sending it crashing down into that soft area between the neck and collarbone. As he fell to his knees, I released the grip on his wrist and drew back my left arm to deliver a solid punch to the side of his temple. It was that final blow that sent him tumbling to the ground.
With his partner taking a beating, the biker ran around the front of the car and stopped when the truck driver hit the pavement. He was short and slender and ordinarily would not have given me pause. He kept his helmet on though, robbing me of one of my options. Fortunately I had others.
He started out by attempting a karate kick at my upper torso, which I sidestepped neatly. As his leg flailed past me, I grabbed at it and managed to jerk his calf upward enough to cause him to lose his balance. As he stumbled, I plowed my shoulder into his mid-section. I heard a grunt and literally felt the air go out of him. Grabbing his waist, we tumbled to the ground and I landed on top of him. Placing my right hand against his chin strap, I drove my left fist hard into his ribs. I then repeated this three more times until his body twisted and gyrated in pain. The truck driver was struggling to get to his feet, so I moved quickly towards him, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the left fender of the 4Runner. His eyes looked up at me ever so briefly and appeared to do a complete circuit around his sockets, before he fell flat on his face and didn't move again.
I went around in front of the 4Runner and grabbed the bike. Wheeling it out of the way, I dumped it unceremoniously on the sidewalk. It made a loud, smashing sound when it hit the cement, before flipping onto its side. I hopped over the two fallen gentlemen, got into the 4Runner and roared off. We zoomed down the empty streets for a few minutes before turning onto a main thoroughfare. I glanced in my rear view mirror. No one else was following us.
"Sorry about all that," I said finally.
Gail whistled softly. "Not your fault. I don't imagine you planned on any of that happening."
"Looks like someone wanted to send me a message."
"Indeed."
"Hope they got my message in return."
"I'm sure they will," said Gail and a long silence ensued. After a few minutes Gail spoke again. "You know honey, I've been thinking about something."
"What's that?" I asked warily.
Gail maintained another long silence, and I got the feeling she was choosing her words carefully.
"I think," she finally said, and then added yet another long pause.
"Yes?"
"I think that in the future ... it would be a good idea if you take these kinds of business trips by yourself."
Chapter 9
The flight back home was thankfully uneventful. I drove Gail back to her apartment, both of us needing a little time apart after the weekend's events. She kissed me hard on the lips as we parted, and told me to stay safe and be careful. The look on her face was stern, but also managed to be soft. Like most men, I had a little trouble reading whatever signals were being sent.
The next morning I was up early and was planning to head over to Malco, but a text message made me delay my plans slightly. Marcellus Williams wanted to talk. As soon as possible.
We met downtown, away from campus, at a historic old diner at 9th Street and Figueroa Avenue. The Original Pantry had been an L.A. institution for roughly a century, and it was a place I frequented when I was a USC student. It was open 24 hours, there were no locks on the doors, and urban legend had it that the wait staff there were former inmates from a local prison. While the last part turned out to be untrue, it nevertheless added to the mystique. And while this was still a popular place for blue collar workers to get a hearty breakfast, it was not the type of place you'd expect to find a Marcellus Williams dining. Especially after seeing him in the lap of luxury at the Cosmopolitan in Las Vegas. And I suspect that was exactly the reason he chose this spot for us to meet.
I left a little before 7:00am, so it wound up being just a 20 minute drive from Santa Monica. Had I left at 8:00am, it might have taken me an hour to battle through rush hour traffic. I parked across the street and strolled into The Pantry. Marcellus was at a table in the back, a big ham and cheese omelet, home fries and toast already sitting in front of him.
"Good morning," I said, pulling into the seat across the table and shaking hands. "Looks like you're loading up."
Marcellus shrugged. "I work out a lot," he said. "Need the carbs."
A waiter came by in a starched white shirt and asked what I'd like. There were no menus here so I glanced up at the chalkboard.
"How about fried eggs over medium and sourdough toast. Hold the potatoes," I said.
"Coffee?"
"Absolutely."
Marcellus shook his head. "Big mistake, man."
"How's that."
"The potatoes here are unreal."
"I don't work out as much as you do," I said. Even when I was playing football I doubt I worked out as much as players do today. Everything about Marcellus was freakishly big. He was very tall, very thick, and solid as a freight train. His huge biceps jutted out from a gray t-shirt that advertised a nightclub in Miami.
"You're from Florida?" I said.
"Born and raised," he said. "Probably go back there one day. But L.A. is fine for now."
"How come you chose SC? I'm sure all the Florida schools recruited you."
"They did," he said, and continued eating his omelet. "Florida State wanted me real bad. They were after me f
or years. But their coaches wanted me to play linebacker. Said I could add 20 pounds and I'd still be fast."
"You didn't want to switch positions?"
"It's like this, man. I could have been great there. I played both defensive end and wide receiver in high school. But I think receiver is where my future is. And I just love lighting up that scoreboard. The SC coaches said I could play anywhere I wanted."
"And you believed them?"
Marcellus smiled a little. Just a little, mind you. "Some coaches say anything to get you to commit. But I talked to the players. They said Coach Cleary is straight with you. If he tells you something, it's truth. Coming from the guys on the team, that meant something."
"I've known Coach for over 20 years. He's a stand up guy."
"Yeah. That's why I don't want to let him down."
The waiter sat a steaming cup of black coffee down in front of me. For many years The Pantry had given coffee away for free with breakfasts, but like many other things in the world, that tradition had become too expensive to maintain. I waved away the offer of cream and sugar.
"Tell me about what's going on," I said.
"Yeah. It started like this. Some old guys, alumni or something, took me to dinner one night. Told me how they'd like to help me. Think I have the talent to make it big in the NFL."
"No news there."
"Nope. Then one of them asked if I wanted to take a quick trip to Vegas. He said it was okay, I had the right to go wherever I wanted to. And it was on a private jet. A Gulfstream. Try chilling on one of those. Man, they're raw."
"Go on," I said, not liking at all where this was heading.
"I figured, how would anyone know? So I go up there, it's a nice vibe, we meet some ladies, had a good time. The next day we're flying home and this agent, he hands me an envelope with cash in it."
"Uh-oh."
"Yeah. I told him I couldn't take it."
"That's right. It's a serious violation. Same with the trip."
Marcellus shrugged. "They were cool about it. No problem. They flew me up to Vegas a couple more times. Same deal, just a good time. No one knew. But then something happened last week. Night before we left for the Arizona game."