by Mike Dennis
17
I handed my ticket to the valet, and he instructed me to take a seat on a bench in the waiting area. I looked it over. There were a lot of people out there who had "taken seats", so I knew I was in for a long wait. I cursed the Venetian's parking arrangement, then picked out the only empty bench, and obediently sat down. The temperature had dropped a few more degrees and the wind slashed through me as I sat on the cold concrete slab. They had those outdoor heating pole things stationed here and there, and I was fairly close to one. Close enough to feel a wisp of heat, but not close enough to actually get warm.
I pulled out my cell phone and punched up Blake's office number. Fortunately, he was in. More to the point, he took my call.
"Any new developments, Jack?" he asked.
"Why didn't you tell me about all this maneuvering with the downtown land?"
"It doesn't concern you."
"That's what Hector Olivera just tried to tell me."
"Olivera? You talked to him?"
"In person, no less. He's in town. Now, why don't you get serious and start telling me what I need to know."
The line fell silent for a few moments. More people moved into the valet waiting area, forced to stand. They huddled under the heating pole closest to me, sucking up all the available heat while I froze. I pulled my collar up around my neck.
Blake spoke. "Olivera wants to buy me out. He wants to build a stad —"
"I know all that already, all about the stadium and his designs on the team. I also know that Sandra was working with him trying to get you to sell to him. Tell me something I don't know."
"How's this. Sandra was really working with me. Oh, she was on Olivera's side initially, but she eventually came over to me. Without his knowing about it."
"W-working with you? Why?"
My head snapped up as I thought I saw my car come swinging out of the gaping exit from the subterranean area where they valet-park the cars. Of course, it wasn't mine. Way too soon yet.
Blake said, "Olivera had promised her a commission if she was successful in getting me to sell to him. I offered her a bigger cut if she got him to sell to me."
I almost fell off the bench. "She was acting as a double agent?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"But why would Olivera sell to you? He told me not fifteen minutes ago that if he doesn’t get the land and the stadium deal that goes with it, the Marlins won't move to Las Vegas. He'll see to it."
"Ah, don't be too sure about that. He's only a minority partner. And a tiny minority at that. He doesn't swing nearly that much weight. He's just going through a lot of posturing to get the mayor to pressure me to sell to him. The fact remains, after the World Series, the Marlins will be looking for a new home. Period."
"That's it? Simple as that?"
"Simple as that." He quickly added, "Well … there was … there was also the wine."
"The wine?" I sat up a little straighter.
"Yes, that case of wine you recovered for me, remember? It seems Olivera is an intense wine freak, a collector, and he has to have this particular wine. Says it's very rare."
"How rare?"
"I'm not sure, but he was willing to pay me an extra million dollars for my land if I threw in the wine."
I whooshed out a deep exhale. I could see my breath. "That's some serious fucking wine. Is it really worth that much? I thought you said it was just worth a few thousand."
"Like I said, I don't know anything about wine, and when Baron Rothschild gave it to me, he didn't indicate it was any million-dollar bonanza. He only said it was great wine, so I thought it might be worth a few thousand or so. Maybe Olivera is being a little over-anxious, but to be on the safe side, I'm paying you the extra twenty-five hundred to keep it for me."
"And Olivera was offering you another million for it?"
"Yeah, he really wants it. But don't forget, he knows there's a lot more money in it for him down the road if the Florida Marlins move to Las Vegas into his stadium. He's looking at hundreds of millions of dollars here. But this wine, it just doesn't come around every day. So … if he sells me this particular parcel of land to get his hands on the wine, my guess is he'll scout around the city for something equally suitable."
"He told me you have a buyer lined up already."
"Norman Silquist. A local developer who wants to buy the entire parcel once I get Olivera's piece. He intends to build the stadium himself."
"Sounds like Olivera offered you a good deal," I said. "An extra million bucks. Why didn't you take it?"
"Because I figured if he really wanted the damn wine that badly, he'd sell his land to me for a pittance. And of course, I would give him the wine as part of the deal."
I glimpsed the sky. Thick, grey clouds had moved in, trapping the cold and tossing out the hint of rain. This was not the type of day where you wanted to see rain.
I said, "Colby Farrow told me Olivera is set to borrow forty-three million dollars to buy your land."
"Oh, yes, he's ready, but until I agree to sell to him and until his name goes on the dotted line, it's all talk. Don't forget, that downtown land is made up of a dozen individual parcels, each fairly worthless, none of them costing any real money by itself. But taken together as a site for a great stadium, their value goes into the stratosphere."
My head moved slowly up and down. "I get it," I said.
Blake went on: "Olivera paid under a million dollars for his little strip of land. I'll offer him one point two and throw in the wine. He'll make a few hundred thousand and get his precious wine in the bargain. Then he'll think he can look around town for a competing stadium location."
"And Silquist? What's his part?"
"He's prepared to pay me forty-six million for the whole thing, although Olivera thinks that figure is a lot less. I stand to make that extra three million by getting Olivera's land so cheaply and flipping it to Silquist. And once I ran it down that way to Sandra, she saw her cut would be bigger, so she moved over to my side."
"So it was a choice between one million dollars extra profit from Olivera or buying his land for a lot less and making three million from Silquist."
"Now you've got it, Jack. Not much thinking required on that one, is there?"
I was still running all this around through my mind. Blake was one sharp customer, no doubt about it.
"One more thing," I said, "how did he find out about the wine? I mean, Sandra had it, not you, right?"
"She must've mentioned it to him somewhere along the way, like maybe when he was buying that condo. Or maybe Ryan Farrow told him. In any case, he knew about it, and Ryan and his brother were working hand in glove with him to line up his financing. By the way, where is the wine?"
"It's in a safe place. Not at my apartment. Don't worry about it."
Blake said, "I'm going out of town for the weekend. I'm leaving tonight. I'll call you Monday for an update. Just keep the wine safe. That's my key to the deal."
Now it was my turn to be silent. If Olivera even suspected I had the wine, or knew where it was, I'd be a fucking target. If that happened, I would probably have no need for that retirement package I was wanting to set up.
"Like I said, Mr Blake, it's safe. Don't lose any sleep over it."
That ended our conversation, but I sat there for a long time in the frigid valet pickup area with my phone still open, thinking about all of it. While I was thinking, rain began to fall, blown by the wind in biting, drizzly needles.
≈≈≈
Once I finally got my car — and it was a long, drawn-out wait — I thought about retrieving the wine from Ronnie's apartment. Let's face it, that dump didn't offer much protection outside of the fact that no one involved in this mess knew Ronnie or was aware that I knew him. If Olivera's men found out, however, they could roll right into it and over him with very little effort. But where else could I put it? Martine's? I really didn't know her that well, and my life might well depend on it. What if Ronnie decided to pry open th
e case and, God forbid, drink some of the wine? He promised he wouldn't, but what if he did? What if Olivera found out I had it? Suddenly, my assurances to Blake not to lose any sleep were boomeranging right back at me.
I was the one who was probably going to lie awake for long stretches. And I couldn't forget, two people were dead.
≈≈≈
I arrived home to a freezing apartment, so I shoved the thermostat up to around eighty and headed straight for the Dalmore. I poured a couple of fingers' worth and took a seat on my couch, sipping it to unleash its magic. I jerked my cell phone out of my pants pocket and punched up Martine's number.
"Hi, Jack." She'd seen me on her caller ID. I liked it when she answered the phone with my name. Her voice was rich and warm, as warm as the Scotch that soothed my insides. "How was Ryan's funeral?"
"About what you'd expect. Plenty of somber faces and expensive black clothing. Hector Olivera was there. I had a little talk with him."
"Did you find out anything about who killed Sandra?"
"Not really. The whole thing is still very cloudy. A lot of players in this game and they're all pretty slippery."
I felt the heat through the vents in my apartment. It relaxed me. Another taste of the Dalmore relaxed me even further.
I said, "How about if I come see you at the Bootlegger tonight?"
She chuckled. "You know you don't have to ask. You can come … anytime you want."
I took that as a promise of a lot more than just a few songs. I said, "I'll be there. You know, I really do want to see you tonight. And a lot of other nights, too."
"I do, too, Jack. I miss you when you don't come to the club."
I said, "I wish I could get out more often, but you know, this case is taking up all my time, time I'd rather be spending with you."
I heard myself say that and realized that I meant it. Martine was the first woman in a long time who I wished I could spend a lot more time with, who really got through to me on almost every level.
The first one since Lyla. Since I released her from my grip back in 1992, allowing her to drift all alone into the abyss. Like Kate Winslet reluctantly letting loose of Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic. I've never really forgiven myself.
Lyla was my world. She was once the fire in my heart. And now I could feel her fade into the mists of my memory. At last.
18
I woke up the next morning curled up behind Martine. As soon as I realized where I was, a smile immediately burst out onto my face. Her body formed a question mark against mine, her backside warming me against the chilly nip that had invaded the bedroom during the cold night. I ran a hand across her stomach, then up around the swell of her breasts, and she let out a groan. I could grow to like this, I thought. And I was pretty sure she felt the same way.
Sidelong, I caught a quick look at the drawn curtains. The sun was fully up and running, shards of midmorning light slipping in through the cracks. The clock was on the night table on her side of the bed, out of my sight, but looking at the brightness sneaking into the room from the new day, I made it to be around ten-thirty.
To tell you the truth, I could've stayed there, in that position, with her, beneath that thick comforter, all damn day.
She nudged me off of my cloud by saying, "Oh-h-h, look what time it is. I've gotta get up."
I held her tighter. "No, you don't."
"No-o-oo, honey, you don't understand. It's almost ten-thirty. I have a doctor's appointment at quarter of twelve."
"Doctor? Are you okay? Anything wrong?"
"No, no. Just girl stuff. Checkup only. But I have to be there." She slid out of the warm cocoon we had created for ourselves. Suddenly, everything felt empty, as my hand slowly slid across the warm spot she had just vacated. I moved over into it.
I watched her sway naked into the bathroom. Without turning around, she said, "Don't you have anything to do today? You know, stuff to do on Sandra's case?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do," was my halfhearted response. I mean, who gives a shit about doing PI work at a time like this?
As she was brushing her teeth, she came over to the windows and pulled the drapes with one hand. Sunlight flooded the room instantly. And I don't mean just the light. The sun itself was positioned right outside her window, attacking my poor, sleep-weary eyes.
"Up! Up!" she cried through the toothbrush. When she did this, toothpaste started dribbling down her chin and onto her throat. I wanted to lick it off.
But instead, I got up and threw my clothes on. Right before she stepped into the shower, I gave her a peck on the lips, then headed out the door.
Despite the bright sun, it was much colder than it had a right to be, unseasonably so, with the temperature hovering somewhere in the low forties. There was no wind, though, so at least the day would be almost bearable. When the wind kicks up around this town, which is often, it can make for plenty of misery, especially when combined with colder temperatures.
I hurried home and got cleaned up. I had more business with Colby Farrow, but it would have to wait. This morning was his big meeting with Olivera and the pension fund people from California. Instead, I went to the computer and googled "Norman Silquist".
He was the president of an outfit called Nevada Premier Development. Their offices were in an unpretentious two-story building on West Sahara, about a mile or so off the Strip. I logged off, then started to get up from the table, fully intending to make the drive out to see Silquist.
But an idea came to me.
I went back to the table and logged back on, then pulled up the city's interactive map again, steering it to the address on West Sahara. I clicked on that parcel and saw the relevant information along the right-hand side of the screen. According to city records, the building was owned by JBB Properties. After a little further checking, and following a long, tortuous trail of shell companies, my thoughts were confirmed. JBB Properties and Nevada Premier Development were both in fact subsidiaries of Blake Enterprises.
≈≈≈
The drive out to Silquist's office took almost a half an hour, due to rubberneckers slowing down for a bullshit fender-bender at the Sahara entrance to I-15. Once I finally got there, I saw it was a smallish operation, occupying no more than three or four rooms on part of the first floor of the two-story building. As I entered, The receptionist was just returning to her desk.
She was on the back side of fifty, but still slim and very pretty. The kind of pretty that told you she was a knockout thirty years ago. Her hair, its original color long since vanished, was now dark blonde and stylishly done, streaked and falling down around her face to just above her shoulders. Clean blue eyes were deeply set under penciled-in brows, while her hands showed no signs of years at the typewriter. Her lacquered nails weren't too long for typing, and appeared to have been recently manicured. A very attractive deep green dress fit her the way it should have.
She asked me if she could help me. I told her I wanted to see Mr Silquist on a very important matter.
"And what would that be?"
I gave her my name. Then: "Tell him it's about the land deal for the new stadium."
"One moment, please."
She left her desk, apparently to give him the news personally. I guessed this was too important to entrust to the intercom.
A few moments later, she came back out, saying, "You may go in now, Mr Barnett." She pointed me toward the back.
I strolled the few steps back to Silquist's office. It was unremarkable. An ordinary desk, two chairs facing it, a couple of low-grade still-life prints on the wall, as well as what appeared to be a grainy Old-West photo, and that was about it. The window behind him offered a view of the front parking lot and beyond that, the traffic on West Sahara.
"Mr Barnett," he said, standing to greet me with a handshake. "I'm Norman Silquist."
He was somewhere in his forties, but he could pass for older. Thinning brown hair and tired brown eyes tipped me off. He had the paunch around the middle common to men in business,
once their work makes them sedentary, once they quit throwing a football around on weekends with their buddies. I guessed Silquist had been sedentary for about twenty years.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr Silquist. Thanks for seeing me on the spur of the moment like this." I sat in one of the chairs. It was uncomfortable.
"Well, it's not a problem. Now, Maureen says you are somehow connected to certain parcels of land on the west side of downtown? I must confess, I don't know who you are. Would you be kind enough to explain?"
"Of course." I pulled out my ID and ran it in front of him just long enough to see the photo and the big print, but not long enough to absorb any of the details. "I'm a private investigator looking into the murder of Sandra Blake. I believe that —"
He guffawed a little. "Now, you don't think I had anything to do with that, do you?"
"Not really, but if the truth be known, Mr Silquist, I can't rule anybody out just yet. However, that's not why I'm here." That clearly put him at ease, as he relaxed back into his swivel chair, which looked like the most expensive item in the entire office. I went on. "I believe that her death was linked to this deal you're doing for the downtown stadium land. I already know quite a bit about it. I know about Hector Olivera's interest in building the stadium and his connection to the Florida Marlins, plus I know about John Brendan Blake's attempts to wrest Olivera's land from him. But I need you to tell me what you can. Keep in mind, everything you tell me is confidential. The law says I have to keep it that way." I was hoping he wasn't that familiar with the law.
He rubbed his chin, then shook his head one time, moving into full freeze-up mode. "I'm afraid there's nothing more I can add."
"Please think about it some more. It's very important. The slightest bit of information could lead to the killer."
"As I said, Mr Barnett, there's nothing more I can add."
I moved forward in my seat. "How about adding that your company is owned lock, stock, and barrel by Blake Enterprises. How about adding that you're a shill for Blake, trying to confuse Olivera and maybe even stage a fake bidding war for the land by making it look like you're an interested third party, totally unconnected to anyone else. That way, Olivera might be persuaded more easily to give up and sell his little piece of land to Blake. How about adding that it's Blake who really wants to build the stadium, not you." My arm swept his undersized office. "Of course, looking at these surroundings, it's easy to imagine a great stadium being planned and developed from here."