by Juno Rushdan
Bill walked through the main downstairs gambling room. It was filling up. By nine tonight, it would be packed.
He cast his gaze across the slots. Two-thirds of them were taken, a mix of men and women, most over forty, a relatively shabby bunch that’d stay planted well into the wee hours. The blackjack and craps tables and roulette wheel were in good use.
Bill had got his start in Las Vegas and risen through the ranks from croupier to pit boss to manager. Hustling was in his blood. He’d seized every opportunity to advance, even if it meant getting his hands dirty. Bloody would be more accurate. Notorious mobsters were responsible for making Vegas what it was today. Bugsy, Lansky, Luciano...
Those old-school greats had shaped Sin City. They’d given Bill the vision to one day go back home to New Orleans and open a casino of his own. Plunder an untapped market. Build a legacy for his family. With no children of his own, this would one day go to Tommy. He was as good a son as any who might have been his.
There were other casinos in the state on floating boats and at the horse-racing track with slots, but the Windfall—Big Bill’s masterpiece—was the only land-based private casino with table games in the state. Louisiana law provided for fifteen riverboat licenses but only one land-based one. Plenty of others had applied, but Bill had shed a lot of blood and greased a lot of palms to make sure the Windfall won.
Now he had to fend off greedy interlopers like Vincenzo Romero, who coveted what Bill had built. They thought they could take it by putting a knee to his throat and applying pressure.
All because of Edgar.
Bitterness filled Bill’s mouth. He had turned a down-on-his-luck accountant into the Money Magician, like turning polluted water into wine. Bill had even set him up with his younger sister, Irene, thinking they’d make a nice match.
And what did that dirty dog do?
Stabbed Bill in the back...and killed Irene on the way out the door.
Pain squeezed his heart, rage setting his blood on fire. For a moment, he shut his eyes in quiet misery. Bill had never imagined that Edgar was capable of murder, but he’d never underestimate him again.
Suffering was in store for that two-faced, double-dealing liar.
A comeuppance was due, and Bill was going to make sure Edgar got it. Slowly. Painfully. He’d make a list of Edgar’s body parts to hurt and check it twice once that man was kneeling in front of him, begging for forgiveness.
Enzo strutted past the roulette wheel, wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit, shaking hands and kissing cheeks as if the 51 percent stake in the Windfall that Bill still owned was already his.
They were roughly the same age, had started making their mark about the same time, and both had ambition in spades. Enzo dyed his gray hairs and kept a trimmer physique, but the crucial difference was his deep familial connections in the syndicate supporting him.
A type of protection Bill lacked.
Bill had created this on his own, from nothing. Losing it because of Edgar, a man he’d protected, vouched for, had almost considered family...a man who’d killed Irene, was unconscionable.
Such a betrayal couldn’t go unpunished.
Seething, Bill headed for the poker room.
Twenty tables open 24/7, offering Texas Hold’em, Omaha and seven-card stud for cash or tournament play.
Enzo slithered across Bill’s path, intercepting him before he made it inside. “You’re looking sharp as always.”
“Good to see you making the rounds,” Bill said, swallowing bile as he went through this nightly farce once again.
Given a choice, he’d sooner shove an ice pick in Enzo’s heart than spout false pleasantries, but unfortunately, Bill’s back was up against the wall and he had to endure this.
For now.
“We need to talk,” Enzo said.
“It’ll have to wait. I’m busy.” Bill let his tone slide toward dismissive.
“Now,” Enzo stated coldly, blocking Bill’s path. “My office.”
Any office was the last place they should talk. Didn’t that fool know the radioactive level of scrutiny Bill was under? The FBI had bugs and agents throughout the casino. He’d wager there were federal eyes on them at that very moment. The feds had guys sitting in vans outside his restaurant and house and following him everywhere.
He wouldn’t be surprised if whoever the special agent in charge was had a report detailing how often Bill went to the bathroom along with what kind of toilet paper he used.
“Let’s have a drink later.” Bill patted Enzo on the shoulder. “We’ll talk then.”
“Full operational control and seventy-five percent of the profits,” Enzo said.
Bill chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you in hell before I give you seventy-five percent of my casino.”
“Not the casino. The girls.”
Alarm sent a chill down Bill’s spine. Enzo was making a play for the lucrative sex trafficking ring.
“Not here,” Bill whispered, glancing around to see if he spotted any of the agents in the vicinity. Between the lounges and displays, casinos were full of loiterers, which made spotting surveillance almost impossible. The feds always had at least two agents tracking him. Sometimes more. Whenever Bill caught one watching him, they quickly looked away.
Did they think avoiding eye contact would make them turn invisible?
It only made them look more suspicious.
A pretty lady with deep olive skin and thick, glossy hair from a Pantene commercial left the Texas Hold’em table and walked their way. She wore a revealing tank top, flashing more skin than a fed would, and slacks. He noted her shoes.
Sensible shoes a person could run in was one telltale of those agents on mobile surveillance.
This woman wore killer high heels and had no qualms meeting Bill’s gaze.
“I offered to discuss it in my office. You declined. So we’ll do it here,” Enzo said, checking out the woman passing by. “I don’t care who hears us. It doesn’t endanger me. Only you. I don’t have a vested interest. Yet.” Enzo pulled on a smug grin that Bill wanted to slap off his arrogant face. “The bosses are meeting in a week here in New Orleans to discuss your future.”
Time was almost up. Bill needed Edgar and any incriminating information he had on the lot of them pronto. It was his only salvation.
“Look, I’m trying to help you.” Enzo’s smile widened like he wanted to devour the whole world. “Give them a reason to spare you. After all, we’re friends.”
“Like a viper and a mongoose are friends,” Bill spit.
“Which one am I?”
You’ll find out when I rip off your damn reptilian head with my teeth and dance on your cold-blooded corpse. Bill smiled back but said nothing.
Tommy strode over and gave Bill an affirmative nod, which meant one thing.
Devlin had Edgar.
If Bill wasn’t standing in the middle of the casino in front of this dirtbag and didn’t have bad knees, he would’ve jumped for joy and pumped his fists in the air. “I’ll have something that I think the bosses will be much more interested in,” Bill said, “but thanks for the offer.”
He’d give the vultures Edgar’s bruised and broken body to pick at and use whatever evidence that traitor had squirreled away for old-fashioned blackmail. Put them back in their places. Show ’em Big Bill was the boss once again ruling New Orleans.
“It better be good or it’s your funeral.” Enzo turned and left.
Bill took a cleansing breath and led his nephew to one of the four restaurants in the casino. They entered the busy, gleaming kitchen. He acknowledged the head chef and some of the underlings and went into the walk-in refrigerator, where sides of beef hung from the ceiling. Tommy closed the door behind him.
It was freezing in the tin icebox, but it was a safe space to talk freely.
“What did Enzo want?” Tommy asked.
“Seventy-five percent of the sex ring.”
“Wow.” Tommy rocked back on his heels. “They’re really gunning for you.”
Didn’t Bill know it. But it was time for him to hit back. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a plan.”
“No offense, but I gotta worry.” Tommy’s breath fogged the cold air. “If they slit your throat, Uncle Bill, I’m going to bleed out with you.”
The kid’s concern was warranted, and Bill had an obligation to protect his sister’s only son. “You spoke to Devlin?”
Tommy nodded, rubbing his hands together. “D got him. Alive. The boys just passed through Tucson. They’ll reach the city in twenty-one hours, but D is flying back tomorrow. He got delayed in San Diego. When he gets back, he wants to meet face-to-face.”
“You told him we’ll do it at Avido’s?” The casino wasn’t an option and Bill’s days of meeting in back alleys and cars were done. He was reduced to having conversations in meat lockers, for Pete’s sake.
“Yeah. I told him,” Tommy said. “He wants to arrange half the payment before his boys set foot in New Orleans with Edgar. The rest on delivery.”
Bill blew into his cupped hands, starting to shiver. “Fine. Whatever he wants. As long as I get Edgar alive. And what about the evidence? Digital? Hard copies? Anything?”
Tommy shrugged. “D said he’s working on it.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“He said he’d explain in person.”
Bill was too damn cold to blow a fuse.
Nabbing Edgar was a major win. Bill would toss the other bosses a juicy Plinski bone to gnaw on, but he needed that evidence—in black and white, so to speak—to get out of this alive.
* * *
SOMETIMES ASSISTANT SPECIAL AGENT in Charge Ava Garcia strolled through the casino on one of her breaks or after duty, to play a hand of poker or have a meal.
She liked to change her shoes first. A woman walked differently depending on her footwear. Three-inch heels didn’t scream federal agent but purred all-woman.
It helped her blend in, appear nonthreatening.
Garcia spent more time at the Windfall than she did at her apartment in the hopes she’d see something, overhear a nugget she could use to nail Big Bill Walsh to the wall.
Today she’d got that kernel, making all her free hours spent here worthwhile.
The other bosses in the syndicate were coming to New Orleans. That was huge.
Bill would have to meet with them, and he planned to offer them something they wanted more than his head on a pike.
She’d have to get extra agents and change out the vehicles Bill’s people were familiar with. Anticipate how Big Bill would try to give them the slip.
No matter what, the FBI would also be in attendance.
Garcia watched Bill and his nephew leave the restaurant. They were rubbing their arms, looking chilled to the bone.
What were you two talking about in a meat locker?
Garcia left the casino, headed to her car in the parking garage and called her boss, Special Agent in Charge Bryan McCaffrey. “Sir, Garcia here. I’m going to need four more agents and to swap out vehicles as soon as possible.”
* * *
AIDEN FOLLOWED THE directions Charlie gave him as she finished eating her burger.
Twenty minutes later, he turned off the highway and pulled into the cracked parking lot of the Oasis. Red Xs blazed with the promise of scantily clad adult entertainment.
“Why on earth are we at a strip club and how is it going to solve any of our problems?” Aiden usually trusted Charlie without question, but he looked at her like she was crazy.
“If I tell you, you won’t like it.”
“You’re not going in there to strip, are you?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted it, hearing how absurd it sounded. They didn’t need money, but they were here for some unfathomable reason.
“Of course not. How is stripping going to help us?”
He threw his hands in the air and shrugged.
“Sit tight,” she said, patting his leg. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Thirty minutes, tops.”
Before he could protest about how this was a bad idea, whatever she was up to, Charlie was out of the truck and sauntering inside the Oasis.
Aiden left the vehicle running. No telling what Charlie was doing in there. Best for him to stay prepared for anything.
There were twelve cars in the lot on a Friday at three o’clock in the afternoon. Might be a payday for some.
A shame to blow it here. Then again, the women inside had to make a living, too.
Aiden stared at the red pulsing Xs. An unspecified anxiety twisted through him. His thoughts raced.
Why couldn’t he go inside with her? It was a gentlemen’s club, after all. Why wouldn’t he like her plan? Did it involve some dude rubbing his hands all over her?
“This is stupid,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll just go in there and see for myself.”
No sooner had he cut the engine and taken out the key than Charlie came out, looking pleased as a cat that’d swallowed a canary.
She jumped in as he started the truck.
“Drive,” she said.
He threw the truck in gear and turned onto the highway. “Talk. Now.”
“Ta-da,” she said, pulling two driver’s licenses and a credit card out of her back pocket and holding them up next to each other. “You are now Rudy Benally and I’m Priscilla Johnson.”
Aiden took one. Arizona State driver’s license. The guy was forty, eight years older than Aiden, Native American, short black hair. Height five-ten, off by only two inches. Weight 180, lighter by twenty. But they didn’t look enough alike to even appear related.
“Sorry I couldn’t do better with yours. There were only two Native American guys inside to choose from.”
Taking a glance at the other, he noticed a resemblance between Charlie and Priscilla. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Twenty-seven. Four years younger than Charlie. But time hadn’t been kind and the woman in the photo looked older. Same height and weight. Priscilla was pretty while Charlie was gorgeous.
The credit card was in Priscilla’s name.
“With your baseball cap,” Charlie said, “this will work.”
He gritted his teeth, not liking it, but he didn’t have a better plan. “Did you pick-pocket all of that? As soon as the credit card is reported stolen, we’re hosed.”
“Ms. Johnson works there. She’s a shrewd, resourceful businesswoman who was open to making a deal. I paid her to loan me her license and credit card. There’s a thousand-dollar limit on the credit, so I gave her fifteen hundred, with the promise that I’d mail both back to her. For an extra two hundred, she was kind enough to help me separate Mr. Benally, a touchy-feely jerk and bad tipper, from his license. If it makes you happy, we can mail that back, too, since we have his address.”
He heaved a big sigh. “Fine. We’ll give it a go. But since we can’t fly with firearms, we need to secure them.”
“How far to Phoenix?”
“Two, maybe three hours,” he said, tracking her thinking. Nick was there visiting Lori. They could park the truck at the airport and let him know where to pick it up. They’d also have more options of flights from the larger hub. “Phoenix it is.”
Aiden took I-8 to I-10. Traffic in and out of a large city was always dicey, but with them only stopping once to use the restroom, they made great time.
At the Sky Harbor International Airport, they parked at the terminal and stowed their vests and firearms under a seat in the truck but hung on to their badges and comms devices.
Charlie also kept the gym bag.
“What else is in there?” Aiden asked.
“The supplies to stitch up yo
ur arm. They won’t let us through security with everything, so I’ll check the bag.”
“Thanks,” he said. “For thinking about it.” That was what they did, took care of each other.
“No problem.” She grabbed what was left of her soda and held it up. “In case we need a diversion when they check our IDs.”
He locked the doors, placing the fob back in the key box, and had Charlie make sure no one was watching while he put it back under the carriage.
They walked directly to ticketing and checked the departure boards. A Delta flight to Baton Rouge. Ninety-minute drive. But it was boarding now. United had one leaving in forty minutes to New Orleans. A nonstop flight.
“Let’s hope they have tickets,” Aiden said.
The line at the ticket counter was short and moved quickly. A weary-looking woman of about sixty greeted them when it was their turn.
“We’re hoping to get two seats on your last flight to New Orleans.” Charlie placed the soda cup with plastic lid on the counter.
The woman clicked away on her keyboard. “I have a handful left. None together, unfortunately. But you’ll have to hurry to make it.”
“Sounds good,” Aiden said, setting down Benally’s license. “One bag to check.”
“Thanks so much.” Charlie handed over the ID and credit card. “He just got a big promotion and I promised we’d go there to celebrate. My treat.”
The woman lined the identification up in front of her and typed in their information, glancing between the cards and the screen, disinterested in their story, but Charlie kept talking.
“You’ve worked so hard. You deserve to have some fun.” She wrapped her arm around his and put her head on his shoulder.
“We deserve some fun,” he said, playing along as if they were a couple.
The woman swiped the credit card and took the bag. She typed some more, and the machine printed boarding cards. After attaching the baggage tag to their one checked item, she collated the tickets with the right licenses. “You two better hurry. Enjoy your trip and congratulations on your promotion,” she said, handing them over.