“You sure? They’re really weird,” Jo-Jo said.
“Positive. Thanks for the heads up.”
“Anytime, Mr. Cunningham.”
Billy ended the call and got on the Internet. Turnberry’s management had installed CCTV cameras in each unit to stop the cleaning people from stealing. He could access the cameras in his unit by going to a website and typing in his username and password.
His unit’s interior appeared on the Droid’s screen. The picture was sharp as a bell.
He waited for the gaming agents to show their faces.
Cory took an empty chair beside him. “There’s a guy hanging around the pit who I think’s a VIP host from Carnivale.”
“I’ll be right over,” Billy said. “So what’s this about you and Gabe’s daughter?”
Cory nearly fell out of his chair. “Who told you?”
“Gabe did. What were you thinking? Or were you high when you asked her out?”
“I swear, Billy, I quit smoking dope. Morris, too.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not getting high. You and Morris took a trip to Colorado. Did you stock up on edibles? I hear they don’t leave any traces on your breath.”
Cory swallowed hard. Busted!
“Did you have to screw her?” Billy asked.
“Who told you I screwed her?”
“Her mother told Gabe and he told me. Is this thing serious?”
“We’re sort of in love.”
“Jesus H. Christ. Get out of my face.”
Cory slipped away and Billy resumed looking at his Droid. His unit at Turnberry got plenty of sunlight and the rooms took on a rusty hue in the late afternoon dusk. The front door opened and the creepers entered the condo accompanied by Jo-Jo. The creepers were mirror images and wore work overalls and carried toolboxes. Vegas attracted plenty of driftwood, and they didn’t look any different than the aliens hanging out at the mall. Jo-Jo led them to the living room and pointed at the cable box. The older creeper extracted a hammer from his toolbox. The cable company had promised to replace the box, yet the creepers didn’t have a new box to make the switch.
The older creeper bonked Jo-Jo on the back of the head and knocked him out cold. The younger one checked to see if Jo-Jo was breathing while the older one searched the unit. Not gaming agents, Billy suddenly realized, but hired killers. Were these the same killers who had taken out the other Billy Cunningham? His gut told him they were.
The older one returned to the living room and stood over Jo-Jo while wielding his hammer. The younger one spoke. The older creeper hesitated but did not lower his hammer. They were arguing about whether to kill Jo-Jo. The older one was obviously for it, the younger one against it. Billy should have called 911 but didn’t. His condo was filled with enough incriminating evidence of his casino scams to put himself and his crew in prison for the rest of their lives. He liked Jo-Jo, but he didn’t like him that much.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t help him. The creepers looked like the type of guys who would run at the first sign of trouble. He called the landline in his unit and kept calling until one of the creepers answered.
“Cunningham? Hey, it’s me, Paulie,” Billy said. “The police have a warrant and are coming over. Get out of there, man.”
Billy ended the call and hit an icon on his Droid that took him back to the CCTV in his unit. The creepers were heading out the door, and he took a screen grab of the video on his cell phone so he had a picture of what they looked like, certain it wasn’t the last time he’d be seeing them.
Jo-Jo had been spared and sat upright on the couch, rubbing the back of his head. He looked dazed and did not appear to have any idea how close he’d come to checking out. A happy ending, Vegas style. The town was not known for those. People died here with a chilling regularity and were almost immediately forgotten, their memories blown away by the desert breeze. There was no warmth in the neon city, and he would go to bed tonight knowing he’d helped keep Jo-Jo from joining the unliving.
He returned to his chair at the high-stakes blackjack table. It occurred to him that if the creepers were bold enough to visit his condo, they might track him down inside the casino and try to kill him. It was a possibility, but not a likely one. Casinos afforded some of the tightest security in the world, especially for whales. He and his crew were safe here.
He spotted the VIP host from Carnivale: a dashing Italian guy wearing a tailored sport coat and a starched white shirt. VIP hosts could make or break a casino’s bottom line, and the good ones knew how to present themselves to their rich customers.
The VIP host from Carnivale approached the table. The whale hunt was about to begin.
“Mr. C.? May I talk to you?”
“Who are you?” Billy asked.
“My name’s Edward DeSantis but everyone calls me Eddie. I work as a VIP host for Carnivale. I hear you’re looking for tickets to Bruno Mars’s show at the MGM tomorrow night.”
“You’ve got tickets to Bruno Mars?”
“I sure do. Third row center, seven tickets along with backstage passes. I can arrange for you and your friends to meet Bruno, if you’d like.”
“You’ve got that kind of juice?”
“Yes, sir. They don’t call me Fast Eddie for nothing.”
Billy rose from his chair and stuck out his hand. “This sounds like the beginning of a beautiful relationship,” he said.
Nine
The Double Down billed itself as a clubhouse for the lunatic fringe. Psychedelic murals covered every inch of wall space while disturbing videos of car crashes and people getting shot ran on TV screens bolted to the ceiling. Junior was at a table with his father when their client came in. Their client was double ugly, with connected eyebrows and curly black hair sprouting out of the wrong places on his head. Junior didn’t know much about the guy except that he worked security for one of the casinos and that he wanted Billy Cunningham dead in the worst way.
“You guys aren’t living up to your reputations,” their client said after he’d sat down. “Everyone in this town says, you want someone whacked, hire the Haneys. So far, I’m not impressed.”
Wilmer Haney stirred in his chair. Clutched in his hand was a half-finished Manhattan made with VO. The stuff was like rat poison and made him extra mean.
“Uck u,” Wilmer said.
His old man hadn’t said a thing in days. A crazy dog had bitten off his tongue a long time ago and reduced him to speaking in unintelligible grunts. Junior was the only one who could understand the barnyard sounds that came out of his father’s mouth.
“Don’t get me wrong, part of the blame falls on my shoulders,” their client said. “I should have given you a photo of Cunningham so you wouldn’t whack the wrong guy. But you know what they say, shit happens.”
“That wasn’t the only mistake you made,” Junior said.
Their client swiveled in his chair to face him. “What did you say?”
“Going to Turnberry Towers was a bad idea. Cunningham wasn’t home and we nearly got nailed by the cops,” Junior said.
“Don’t tell me the cops saw you.”
“We got out of there before they showed up. Look, if you’re going to send us to a guy’s condo to whack him, first make sure he’s home, okay?”
“My mistake. But I still need him whacked. You know what they say — third time’s the charm. I’ll make sure my information’s right this time.”
“There ain’t going to be a third time if you don’t pay up,” Junior said.
“Whoa. I already paid you.”
“Yeah, and we whacked a guy in a bar named Billy Cunningham, just like we agreed. Not our fault it was the wrong Billy Cunningham. If you want the real Billy Cunningham whacked, you’re going to have to pay for it. We don’t work for free.”