They landed atop the roof of Carnivale’s hotel and were whisked by private elevator to La Madia where a table in the special guest dining room awaited them. DeSantis had pulled out all the stops, and they were treated to a wine tasting by a dashing sommelier before starting their meal. The menu had every Italian delicacy and was missing only the prices.
Billy’s idea of Italian food was pasta with plenty of red sauce. The food in La Madia was over the top, and he savored every bite of his lobster-stuffed ravioli while keeping an eye on his crew. They had settled down and were enjoying the star treatment just like any guest might do. A foot kicked him beneath the table.
“Did you talk to him?” Gabe asked under his breath.
“You mean Cory,” Billy whispered back.
“Yeah, Cory.”
“We talked. He got the message, loud and clear.”
“But will he listen?”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll talk to him again. How’s the roasted pig?”
“Is that what I’m eating? I thought it was eggplant. My daughter’s in love with him.”
“You talked to her?”
“She texted me the bad news. Fucking kids don’t know how to talk these days.”
“You sound pissed.”
“That’s because I am.”
Flaming desserts and more alcohol followed. Billy sipped a brandy while keeping an eye on Gabe. Gabe was a bear when it came to protecting his kids, and the last thing Billy wanted was for Gabe to punch Cory’s lights out in a public place.
“Is everything to your satisfaction?” DeSantis asked as the meal was winding down.
“The ravioli was too salty. I couldn’t finish it,” Billy said.
DeSantis’s face crashed. “My apologies, Mr. C. I would have been happy to take it back to the kitchen and have the chef prepare you another meal.”
“Your chef’s supposed to get it right the first time. Is he new?”
“As a matter of fact, he is.”
“It shows in his cooking.”
The table went quiet. The ravioli had actually been delicious, but Billy was not about to tell DeSantis that. Billy had done his homework and discovered there were two types of whales: pricks and really big pricks. It came with having too much money, and for Billy to act any differently would have tipped off management that Billy wasn’t who he said he was.
DeSantis knew better than to throw fuel on the fire and said nothing. If Billy and his crew went back to the Rio, DeSantis would have a lot of explaining to do to his boss, and he might lose his job.
Billy threw his napkin onto his plate and stood up. “I believe in second chances, Eddie. When are you going to show us the furniture of love?”
“The what, Mr. C.?”
“Your high-roller suites. I’ve stayed in them all — villas, bungalows, palazzos — and every other highfalutin architectural wet dream you casino guys can come up with. Let’s see what Carnivale has to offer. And you’d better pull out all the stops if you expect us to stay.”
DeSantis swallowed the lump in his throat. “Right this way,” he said.
In Vegas, nothing succeeded like excess.
The top of the line for any Vegas hotel was its penthouse suites. Every major joint on the Strip had one, with the penthouse suite at the Hilton where Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise hung out in the movie Rain Man probably the most coveted suite in town.
Carnivale had pulled out the stops in creating their penthouse suites. They were so over-the-top opulent that they even had a special name — sky palaces. DeSantis keyed the door and ushered them through a foyer into a spacious living room with a working fireplace.
“You guys hang here,” Billy told his crew. “Okay, Eddie. Wow me.”
“Stay close behind me. It’s easy to get lost,” DeSantis said.
Eddie wasn’t exaggerating. Part carnival barker, part museum tour guide, he escorted Billy through a labyrinth of lavish rooms that included a living room, a dining room, a media room, a billiards room, six bedrooms, an outdoor deck with lap pool, and a putting green. The amenities weren’t anything to sneeze at, either, and included a steam room, a sauna, a Jacuzzi tub, plus towel warmers, floor heaters, and solid-gold swan-curved faucets.
“You need a bike to get around,” Billy said.
“We’ve had guests use roller skates,” DeSantis said.
Last stop was the master bedroom. It boasted a sitting room and wet bar and was large enough to drive a car through. Having grown up in a house as narrow as an alleyway, Billy felt his anger boil up and realized how much he was looking forward to scamming the owners of Carnivale, whoever the hell they were.
“So what do you think?” DeSantis asked.
“You’ve redeemed yourself. Let’s talk money. The Rio is giving me a hundred grand in free play along with a ten percent discount on my losses based upon my playing BJ a minimum four hours a day at five grand a hand. Cover that, and I’m your man.”
“We can cover that, Mr. C.”
“Then I’m in. How soon can we move in?”
“Right now, if you’d like. I can arrange for your belongings to be transferred from the Rio to here. In the meantime, your friends can make themselves at home while we go down to the cage. I’ll need to introduce you to the cage manager and establish your credit line.”
“Which is how much?”
“Does five million sound about right?”
“You strike a hard bargain, Eddie.”
“Nothing’s free in Las Vegas, Mr. C.”
“Five million it is. Let’s go tell the troops.”
Back in the living room, they found Cory and Morris using the iPad concierge to adjust the lights, lower a movie screen from the ceiling, choose a film from the hotel’s private library, flick on the fireplace, play music, and order chocolate banana splits from room service.
“Having fun?” Billy asked.
“This place is better than Disneyland,” Cory said. “Are we staying?”
“We are. Gather the troops; we’re heading outside for a drink.”
The sun was doing a slow fade as Billy went onto the deck, the sunlight replaced by five million watts of burning neon. The real day was starting, the casinos popping alive with the frantic urgency of a baby chick cracking its shell. Billy pressed himself against the balcony railing. Vegas never got old. It pulsed with a life all its own, fed by money and sex and more scores than a cheat could make in a lifetime, and the day he got tired of the place would be the day they laid him to rest in the ground.
His crew followed him outside. DeSantis came last, balancing a tray he’d taken off the bar containing a bottle of Chivas and seven glasses. He did the pouring and passed out the drinks.
“Welcome to Carnivale,” their host said.
They clinked glasses in a toast. Billy didn’t think it could have gone any better. Not only were they about to take down Carnivale’s casino for a major score, they would be wined and dined and treated like royalty by their victim while they did it.
Pepper lowered her glass. “There’s a strange man standing over there.”
All eyes turned to the opposite end of the deck. An Asian man with a movie actor’s good looks clasped the railing with both hands, eyes tightly shut, lips moving as if reciting the lines to a play, the words in what sounded like Chinese. He wore black slacks and a black shirt and was shoeless. He appeared to be sleepwalking and looked as if he might toss himself over.
Out of concern, Pepper stepped toward him. “Hey — are you okay?”
The Asian broke free of his trance and pushed himself away from the railing.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demanded in accented English.
“We’re staying here. Or at least I thought we were,” Pepper said.
“My sky palace, not yours,” the Asian said.