He called Misty’s cell phone and got patched in to voice mail.
“Call me,” he said.
No job ever went exactly as planned. But this job had a dark cloud hanging over it, and a little voice inside his head told him it might be time to cut bait and run.
A new text message appeared. Misty had sent him a photo taken on her iPhone that showed Travis, Cory, and Morris tied to chairs with duct tape slapped over their mouths. There was also a pistol in the photo, and it was pointed at Travis’s head.
Hurry,
the accompanying message read.
He hurried to the elevators. He asked himself who’d be brave enough to come into a casino in broad daylight and kidnap his crew at gunpoint. Only one name came to mind. The Haneys.
He got into the elevator and swiped his key against the security plate. He told himself not to panic, that he’d been in worse jams and managed to come out on top. If he kept his wits about him, he could save his crew from getting hurt.
As he went up, sweat poured down his face, and he could barely breathe.
The sky palace was as still as a funeral home. He shut the door and heard his shoes squeak on the tile as he entered the living room. The younger Haney was behind the bar fixing himself a drink. He was about five-ten, wiry, and dirty, as if he’d just rolled out from beneath a rock. He wore a maintenance man’s uniform with the Carnivale logo stitched over the pocket and had a laminated badge around his neck. A black handgun lay on the bar.
“You must be Cunningham,” the younger Haney said.
Billy told himself that he needed to play this one beat at a time. He brought his fingers to his lips and saw the younger Haney’s eyebrows arch.
“Watch what you say. Place is bugged,” Billy whispered.
“Your girl said as much. Want a drink?”
“A water would be good. What’s your name?”
“Jack, but everyone calls me Junior. Nice to meet you.”
“Not really,” Billy said.
Communication was defined by small gestures. By offering to fix Billy a drink, Junior was saying he wished to talk business. Had that not been the case, Junior would have knocked Billy to the floor and pistol-whipped him, just to demonstrate who was boss.
A glass of water appeared on the bar. Billy took a long swallow. Junior drank a Jack and Coke with no ice. He had third-world body odor and two rows of bad teeth. Crime paid in varying degrees, dependent upon the criminal’s level of skill and sophistication. Thieves and con men were at the top of the totem pole, hit men at the bottom.
Junior slid his gun off the bar. “Where’s a good place to talk?”
“By the pool. But first, I want to see my people.”
“You can do that when we’re done.”
Billy dropped his voice. “Did you hurt them?”
Junior shook his head.
“Do I have your word on that?”
Junior’s eyes flashed and he nodded. Billy was in no position to be challenging him, except Junior wanted something, and Billy wasn’t going to play ball without setting ground rules.
“Let me hear you say it,” Billy said.
“We didn’t hurt ’em. Now, let’s go outside,” Junior whispered.
A moment later they were standing by the pool with the midday sun burning their necks.
“Where’s my crew now?” Billy asked.
“In that fancy little movie theater. My father’s babysitting them.”
The same father who had nearly taken a hammer to Jo-Jo’s skull and had helped beat poor Nate. They claimed that 1 percent of the population was sociopaths. The number was higher in Las Vegas. A lot higher.
“So what do you want?” Billy said.
“Peace, love, and understanding, and a lot of fucking money.” Junior laughed at his own joke. “We were hired to murder you. We had every intention of doing that until we found the files on your friend Gabe’s computer describing the scams you’ve pulled. You’re a clever little shit, but you already knew that.”
“Glad you think so,” Billy said.
“The scam you’re pulling on this joint is a case in point,” Junior went on. “You’re going to steal ten million buckeroos and by the time the casino figures out what you’ve done, it will be too late for them to do anything. That gets an A-plus in my playbook.”
“You know, you’re a lot smarter than you look,” Billy said.
Junior cracked a smile. “Folks tell me that. They’re surprised that I can string a few words together into a sentence. My old man’s smart, too. He just doesn’t talk.”
The crazy ones usually don’t, Billy thought.
“So here’s the deal. We want to form a partnership with you. In exchange for us not killing you, we want a cut of your haul from this job.”
“How big a cut you want?”
“Twenty percent.”
“Two million bucks.”
“That’s right. Million for me, a million for my father.”
Most lowlifes would have asked for half the cut. Junior was either being sensible and avoiding any unnecessary negotiating. Or he was playing Billy.
“How do I know you won’t kill me when the job’s over so you can collect the payment from whoever hired you?” Billy asked.
“That actually crossed our minds,” Junior said. “You see, our client really hates you and wants you dead immediately, so we’re going to oblige him.”
Billy’s stomach tightened. “You’re going to kill me?”
“Hell no. You’re our meal ticket, pal. What we’re going to do is lie to our client and tell him we killed you. Then he’ll go away. Once that’s out of the way, there’s no reason to kill you.”
“How about my crew? Will you leave them alone as well?”
“Sure. This is a partnership. What’s done is done.”
“Then let’s do it.”
They shook hands, sealing the deal. Junior was giving Billy a cold, hard stare, as if trying to burrow a hole into Billy’s soul and read his thoughts. Billy did his best to keep a poker face. He didn’t believe Junior was telling the truth. The Haneys had killed Nate, killed some guy with the misfortune of having the same name as Billy, and popped a defenseless little girl in the face, and that was just the stuff he knew about. They were sickos, and Billy would have bet good money that they were planning to kill him and his crew once they had their money. They’d even picked out where the execution would take place and where they planned to bury the bodies. It was how killers thought. Leave no witnesses.
So Billy played along to buy some time. But all he really wanted to do was shove a sharp object into Junior’s ragged face and throw the sick bastard over the balcony so he could get acquainted with the pavement thirty-six floors below. Let the police try to figure out which floor Junior had fallen from. Good luck, boys.
“So who hired you to kill me?” Billy asked.
“He says he works security for one of the casinos, but I think he’s lying.”
“Why do you think that?”
“We’ve done jobs for casinos before. The heads of security always wear nice suits and silk neckties. They’re into cuff links and monogrammed shirts. They don’t make big salaries but they’re hoping for a promotion, you know what I mean?”
“They’re aspirational,” Billy said.
“That’s a nice word. Aspirational. Our client’s not like that. His clothes are cheaply made. He doesn’t have dreams. That tells me he’s a cop, maybe a gaming agent.”
Junior had just described Special Agent Grimes down to his ugly socks. Billy feigned surprise. “Your client’s a gaming agent?”
“That was my read on him. He got us these uniforms and badges.”
“Does that bother you? He could turn around and bust you.”
“Not going to happen. We’re on good terms with the gaming board.”