by Mike Dennis
Mr Black replied, without the slightest shift in his quiet tone, "Mr Barnett, the interests I represent have decided that a baseball team is not what this city needs. Las Vegas cannot support a team. There are no real local people here, no one with roots, and such people are the backbone of any team's fan structure. Everyone who lives here is from somewhere else. Surely you know this."
"Yes, I know it very well." I added a nod to underscore that point.
"There is already entirely too much competition for the entertainment dollar here. Also, there is the potential problem of players and coaches, and maybe even umpires, gambling on the games. You see where that could lead." He gestured a few more times with his right hand, as if to show me where that could lead. "A baseball team, which would require a sizeable investment by the city's hard-working taxpayers, would not pull its own weight, and would ultimately be a losing proposition. Don't you agree?"
"What's the difference if I agree or not? I'm not the one building the stadium. I don't have any money invested in it. And why are you here telling me all this?"
"Because, we know you are in a very, shall we say, singular position."
I liked the way he used the word "singular". His pronunciation of it was exotic, appealing.
He then said, "You are connected to both parties who are trying to get the rights to build this stadium. Up till now, you appear to have their trust. You are in a position to aid one or the other of them in this futile quest of theirs. It is the sincere hope of the interests I represent that you might simply refrain from assisting them at any time. It would be to everyone's advantage if you did so. Including your own."
Again, someone's telling me where my best interests lie, and again, my guard went up. When it did, I'm sure he caught it.
I said, "Forgive me for asking, Mr Black, but just how in the hell do you know so much about my activities."
He allowed himself a flash of a smile, showing the briefest glint of white, white teeth. "Mr Barnett, I represent local gaming interests. And they are quite — let me say — resourceful."
Although he apparently never got tired of using the phrase "local gaming interests", this guy deserved the Oscar for Best Understatement Of The Year. I was going to tell him so, but instead I said, "Something you have to understand. I have absolutely no influence over anything connected to this stadium. I'm just a private detective, investigating the death of Sandra Blake. It happened to lead into that … quicksand, as you called it, but it's quicksand I can easily step out of. I can promise you that none of these real estate people are going to listen to me if I start badmouthing the stadium idea. I think you're way overestimating my role here."
He leaned back in his chair. "We know what your role is, and you are not to assist anyone in putting together the land for the stadium. It would not be good for Las Vegas."
"Well, if that's all you're after, you got it. Like I said, my part in this has nothing to do with getting land for anyone. I'm not in that business. But I guess your 'gaming interests' must already know that, right?"
"The people I represent know a lot more than you may think, Mr Barnett. Now, I have given you their message." He then stood up, his large figure casting a shadow over me. I looked up at him. At that moment, he looked like the biggest guy I'd ever seen. The gaze from his large, black eyes damn near went right through me.
He said, "I hope you heed their message. For your sake." Then he immediately left the room.
I hollered out the door after him, "If they know so much, can they tell me who killed Sandra Blake?"
22
Because it was being played in New York, game one of the World Series was scheduled to start in the late afternoon, Las Vegas time. That would enable me to watch it, then go on down to the Bootlegger to catch Martine's last set or two.
After a makeshift lunch, a feeling continued to nag at me as it had since my last talk with Blake. I picked up my phone and punched in his office number. They said he was out of town for the weekend, and I remembered he'd told me as much, so I dialed his cell number. He answered.
"Mr Blake, there's something I have to ask you. You said Olivera might sell his land to you for a song, just to get his hands on the wine. But that would mean giving up this entire scheme of his, in which he stands to make a sizeable fortune. Why would he want to do that?"
"Simple, Jack. If you really want to, you can always find land for a stadium. But a case of wine like this one only comes along once in a dozen lifetimes. And Olivera knows it."
"But if he sells you the land, then you'll build the stadium yourself."
"I'm not —"
"Save it. I already know that you're pulling Silquist's strings. And that the so-called forty-six million dollar deal with him was a smokescreen, pure and simple."
I heard him exhale. "This better be held private, Jack. No leaks to anyone. And I mean none."
"Don't worry. It's all private."
Another exhale, then he lowered his voice like there were people right there who might overhear him. "It's like I told you yesterday. Olivera thinks he's in control of the whole shooting match. That's his fatal flaw. He believes Mayor Niekamp sees him as the white knight, the only one who can bring the Marlins here because of his minority shares in the team. He thinks he can tie this whole thing up until Niekamp moves for an eminent domain seizure in his favor. But he doesn't know the mayor as well as he thinks he does."
"Really?" I said. "What doesn't he know about her?"
"He doesn't know she'll do business with Silquist in a heartbeat if we've got the land and the financing. Reason being that she's very familiar with Silquist, and she knows of his deep local roots. Nothing would please her more than to be able to say that Las Vegas has become a major league city because of the efforts of this great native son."
"Silquist mentioned that to me yesterday."
"Not only that, she wants to get the ball rolling on this whole thing as soon as possible. She's due up for re-election in a couple of years and it would make her look like a miracle worker if she could bring Major League Baseball to town. She could get re-elected indefinitely."
"And you think you'll get it? The stadium rights, I mean."
"I know we'll get it. On account of the wine. Olivera has to have it. It's an itch he'll never be able to scratch unless he gets it. As long as I continue to stonewall him on the downtown land, he'll put his plan B into operation, namely, sniffing around for other locations — in fact, it's been whispered in my ear that he's already doing this."
I said, "Why would he look for other locations if he thinks he can get your land through eminent domain?"
"Because if he goes the eminent domain route, he knows there's a strong likelihood I won't just roll over, that I might be able to tie him up in court for years. He can't afford to take that chance. His hour has arrived. He feels he can't let it pass."
I had to chuckle to myself over Blake's complete mastery of this situation. "So, naturally, he doesn't know you know this, right?"
"He thinks I don't suspect a thing, and unless I miss my guess, he's already decided to sell me his land just to get his hands on that wine once he finds another suitable location for the stadium."
"So the wine is the key to the whole thing."
He said, "Exactly. This deal is potentially worth hundreds of millions of dollars to him. But he has to have that wine. Even if it means selling me his little piece of land."
"And then? Once you get hold of it?"
"Then, we'll fast-track the stadium financing, which is already lined up, and nail down the city's participation, which Niekamp will gladly do in order to ensure bringing a major league team to Las Vegas. Once our whole stadium package is in place, the Marlins ownership will go for it. It'll be too attractive to reject. They'll throw Olivera overboard."
"You sure about that?" I asked.
He nodded. "I have a … let's say a source … in Miami who confirms this. Olivera won't have time to put together a more favorable deal in another
part of town. We get the land. We get the stadium. The curtain falls. Game over. The good guys win."
I had to hand it to him. He really had it covered. "You know, if you ever get tired of real estate, you should try poker. You're a natural."
I heard him chuckle. "I'll consider it. By the way, will you be watching the World Series tonight?"
"Without question."
"Who do you like?"
I said, "The Yankees all the way. The Marlins just don't have what it takes to beat them."
"I'm not so sure. The Marlins may surprise you like they surprised the Cubs. Now, I have to run, Jack. Call me when you get any news."
23
The Marlins stunned the baseball world, including myself, by defeating the Yankees that night in the opening game of the World Series. In fucking New York, no less. The final was 3-2, and they looked good doing it. This would not be as easy for the Yankees as I had predicted. Worse yet, the other night at Binion's sports book, I had put eleven hundred on them to win the Series.
I stepped out of my apartment into a biting wind. As I zipped up my jacket, a fist came out of nowhere, landing solidly on my cheekbone. Another plowed hard into my stomach, putting me down. I couldn't see who it was, but I could feel there was a pair of them, as they lifted me up and brought me back inside the still-open door of my apartment.
Once inside, they shoved me to the floor. One of them came over, picked me up, then slammed my forehead against my wooden coffee table. I saw blood squirt out past my eyes, as he got me up on my feet. Finally, I could see them.
There were two of them, both large, wearing leather coats of black and gray. While one propped me up, the other landed another punishing shot to my stomach. As I struggled for breath, the one who hit me came very close to my bleeding face. I smelled cigarette smoke on him as he said, "Keep your nose out of this fucking stadium deal."
The other one let go of me. I dropped to the floor and they left without another word.
I lay there, trying to blot out the pain, but I got nowhere. I tried cursing, cursing them and Blake and everything about this case. It didn't do much for the pain, but somehow it helped my attitude, which at the moment needed all the help it could get. The blood continued streaming down my face onto the carpeting, so I labored hard in order to get up on my feet, then staggered into the bathroom.
The sight in the mirror was not pretty. A gash ran from my hairline about two inches downward toward my right eye. I quickly applied a cold, wet towel to it, holding it there for some minutes. A large, ugly red bruise dominated the left side of my face where the first blow landed. A darkening lump was already forming around it. My gut hurt bad.
I wet the towel again, placing it back over the gash. After awhile, it appeared the bleeding had stopped. At least, I wouldn't need stitches. I placed a large gauze bandage over the cut, then got an icepack to keep over the bruise on my cheek to hold the swelling down. I limped back to the couch and lay down on it. An hour or two or three later — shit, I don't know how long it was — my first aid seemed to be working. After changing the bandage, I poured a Scotch, drank it right away, then collapsed into bed.
≈≈≈
I stayed home all day Sunday to recuperate. I ordered out for Chinese, then called Martine to give her the bad news. She rushed right over, bringing me Chinese takeout and plenty of TLC, which was exactly what I needed. We didn't go anywhere, of course, and she was very patient with me while I watched the second game of the World Series. The Yankees took it handily, 6-1. She left around eleven, after which I turned out the lights.
≈≈≈
I slept fitfully, then finally awoke at around nine in the morning, still shot full of pain. I changed the dressing on my wound again, noticing that healing had begun. Also, the swelling on my face was reduced. I very gingerly took a shower, then left the house after a fast cup of coffee. I headed straight for the Bank Of America building and the offices of Blake Enterprises.
The receptionist, of course, wanted to have me thrown out, with my beat-up appearance mucking up their immaculate premises, but I urged her to tell Blake I wanted to see him. She didn't want to, but I continued to insist. It looked like she was hoping that No-Sleeve Steve would come wandering through at that moment to bodily eject me, but she was out of luck. For a minute there, she was torn between giving in and calling the cops; however, she finally notified Blake's secretary that I needed in.
I eventually made my way into his office, and he was properly startled when he saw my face. He beckoned me to sit down. Before he could say anything, I took the wheel.
"Listen, Mr Blake, I can't go around taking these beatings for you. We're going to have to come to some other arrangement here, or else I'm off the case."
"No, Jack, no. You can't quit now. Please tell me what happened."
"Two guys jumped me outside my apartment last night, warning me to stay away from your stadium land deal."
"What? Who were they? Olivera's thugs?"
"I don't know who they were. This, by the way, is right on the heels of a little meeting I had yesterday with a 'Mr Black'. Do you know him?"
"Mr Black? No, never heard of him."
"Well, Mr Black is very big, very black, and it seems he is employed by 'local gaming interests', as he put it, who are apparently hellbent on making sure no baseball team ever comes to Las Vegas. He made veiled threats to me, even though I told him I have nothing to do with any of it, outside of investigating Sandra's murder. It may have been his boys who did the number on me last night. I don't know. They didn't come with a return address."
Blake was in his shirtsleeves. His suit jacket was draped perfectly over the shoulders of a clothes horse off to the left of his large, mahogany desk. Being a tenth-floor corner office, it presented a stunning panorama of downtown and the mountains in the distance. His bluish-green eyes gave off a look of great concern. He came around to my side of the desk to sit in the chair next to me.
"I don't know who did this, and I can't imagine why they would do it to you. You have no part in this land deal. I'm truly sorry, Jack."
"Not half as sorry as I am." I patted my healing head with my handkerchief. The pain was still there.
He leaned forward, putting a comforting hand on my knee. "If it'll make you feel any better, you're not the only victim here. My house was broken into over the weekend while I was out of town. The security company says the alarm was disabled on Saturday night, and they just about destroyed everything. It was Olivera's people, I know, looking for the wine. I know that's what they were looking for."
"Your house …?"
"That's right. I heard that Olivera was close to getting his stadium financing arranged — dependent on his getting my land, of course — and I also heard the mayor worked out a deal in principle with him. Now that he's got everything in order, and he's certain I'll sell him the land, he thinks he can just use his muscle to steal the wine. He thinks he doesn't have to worry about buying it."
"That's your problem," I said, still patting at my head.
"Yes, it is. But I'm asking you, please don't quit the case now. You've made real headway toward finding Sandra's killer, and I don't want to lose our momentum now. I don't want it all to be for nothing."
I looked right at him looking right at me. He was being sincere, I could tell. Plus, he had a point about losing momentum. When you quit a case like I was about to do, everything is down the drain. The progress you made, the money, everything. I was about to tell him I would reconsider when he said, "I'll give you an extra five thousand right now to stay on. What do you say, Jack?"
Jesus! Another five grand.
"I say, 'You talked me into it'." He wrote out the check.
24
I decided to go back out to Sandra Blake's house for another look around. The last time I was there, I didn't really give the place too good a going-over, but now, thanks to Blake's extra five dimes, I felt newly-inspired as my old car sputtered through the yawning gates of Beachview.
>
The house looked the same from the outside as it did on my last visit. Even the grass and other vegetation was recently trimmed, proving that even capital murder does not deter the precision landscaping of a high-end gated community. The big drapes over the tall front windows were still drawn, and there were once again no people to be seen, on the streets, in cars, anywhere.
I had Ryan Farrow's key with me, hoping no one had ordered the locks changed. I slipped it into the slot in the front door. I smiled as I felt the knob turn.
Inside, though, I wasn't so lucky. Everything was in complete disarray. The foyer was strewn with items thrown from adjacent rooms. Seat cushions, figurines, anything that would fly through the doorway was lying in the hall. The living room, that room of such impeccable taste, was a mess. Furniture overturned, couches slashed, nothing was left alone. The kitchen got the same treatment, with every cabinet opened, its contents — plates, glassware, everything — tossed to the floor. Somebody was certainly hot to find something. I was pretty sure who, and I was pretty sure what.
Upstairs was not spared, either. Sandra's bedroom was torn apart. The mattress was cut to shreds, its wooly contents spread all over the room. Drawers were flung to the floor, clothes everywhere. Not even the bathrooms escaped the fury of the intruders. Everywhere in the house that could hide a case of wine was ripped open.
I went back downstairs. The office was wrecked. The file cabinet drawers lay empty on the floor, papers covering virtually every square inch of floor space. I looked at her bookcase. It was empty. Every one of the books lay on the floor. I glanced at them for a moment. There were mostly real estate and travel books, along with a handful of bestselling novels in hardcover, but one book at my feet caught my attention. It was called Wine And War: The French, The Nazis, and The Battle For France's Greatest Treasures. I picked it up and opened it. It was just as the title had promised: a lot of wine info with plenty of World War II-era photos to go with it. I was about to return it to the floor when I thought I saw handwriting on one of the first pages. I opened it to that page to see an inscription: