“You shouldn’t rub it in their faces like that. It ain’t healthy,” Slyde said.
“Screw healthy,” she said.
“You got a death wish or something?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
The elevator landed and they headed across the lobby to the front entrance to grab a cab. Every casino was designed to part suckers from their money, either at the green felt tables or the outrageously priced high-end stores in the lobbies. The Wynn was no exception and featured stores with names like Givenchy, Rolex, and Penske Ferrari. Mags stopped to drool at the Italian sports cars parked behind the glittering display window.
“I want that,” she purred, pointing at a bloodred beauty.
“Get serious,” Slyde said.
“I am serious, big boy. Give me my share.”
“You going to drive home in that?”
“That was the idea.”
“But you’re messed up.”
“That’s never stopped me from driving before. The money.”
Arguing with Mags was a losing proposition. Slyde slapped her winnings onto her outstretched hand and watched her march into the store. Slyde knew how much a brand new Ferrari cost; Mags couldn’t cover it with her share. So he waited.
Five minutes later, his cell phone came alive.
“Get your sorry ass in here,” she said.
Slyde looked through the glass. “Where’d you disappear to?”
“I’m in the basement of the store. I just bought a car.”
The basement was where the trade-ins lived. Slyde went inside and took the stairs down. He found Mags sitting behind the wheel of an ’08 Spider smiling like the devil’s daughter.
“Get in,” she said.
Mags was his current meal ticket, so Slyde obliged her. She raced up a narrow ramp and was soon on the street burning rubber like a hot-rodder.
“You sure you can drive?” he asked.
“Let’s find out,” she said.
Driving like a lunatic through a strange neighborhood on the north end of town, Mags made the unexpected acquaintance of a Toyota Corolla parked in front of a house.
Pulling his face off the dashboard, Slyde checked his nose and found it wasn’t broken. Then he got out to inspect the damage while adjusting the knot in his tie. The Corolla’s rear end had shrunk a foot, while the Ferrari’s hood sported an ugly accordion pleat.
Mags also climbed out. Her face was a mess, and Slyde wasn’t sure if her tears were ones of joy or anger at her own foolish behavior. She had a death wish, that was for sure, but so did most folks who overstayed their welcome in this crazy town.
“We need to get out of here,” he said.
“I agree,” she said.
Slyde guided her down the sidewalk. If the Metro LVPD showed up and took one look at her, they’d know Mags was flying high and throw her pretty ass in jail. Mags had a few more good hustles left in her, and he cleaned her face with a silk hanky as they walked.
“I told you I could drive.” She laughed.
They came to Las Vegas Boulevard where Slyde hailed a cab. Her nose had stopped bleeding and the tears had stopped as well. As they climbed into the cab’s backseat, a thought occurred to him, one so obvious that Slyde wondered why he hadn’t asked himself it before.
“I’ve got a question,” Slyde said.
“Questions are free,” she said.
“Why did you come back to Las Vegas? I mean, the gaming board is looking for you. Why not another town? There are plenty of casinos out there where your face isn’t known.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because it doesn’t make sense.”
“I came back because a hustler I was soft on screwed me over, and I want to return the favor. You may have run into him. His name’s Billy Cunningham.”
“You have a score to settle with that guy?”
“You know him?”
“Everybody knows Cunningham. What did he do to you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“That’s none of your business.”
They rode in silence. Mags sounded more hurt than angry, and Slyde suspected she still harbored feelings for Cunningham. Miss Maggie needed to be focused on the job at hand, and not thinking about ways to be settling an old score. Slyde rarely confided in the people who worked for him, preferring to leave them in the dark about certain things, but now he saw the need to make an exception.
“I’m going to tell you a little secret,” he said. “Some powerful people in town want your friend out of the way, if you know what I mean. I don’t expect Mister Billy Cunningham will be among us for much longer. So stop worrying about him.”
“These people want him dead?”
“They most certainly do.”
Along with the string of concierges on Slyde’s payroll, there was a rogue homicide detective with the Metro LVPD who Slyde paid top dollar for information. Word on the street was that Cunningham had a bull’s-eye painted on his forehead the size of a dinner plate.
Mags sat up straight. “Are you sure this information’s good?”
“It’s good. Cunningham’s going down.”
“When?”
“Soon. Like I said, stop worrying about the guy.”
“Who said I was worrying about him?”
“I did. It’s written all over your face.”
Mags’s expression turned to stone. Slyde thought he understood the situation. Cunningham had wounded her, the pain so searing that it had driven Mags back to the neon jungle in search of revenge, but in reality, all Mags wanted was to get back together with the guy.
“You’re imagining things,” she said.
Four
Nemo’s Locker was a swill-slinging saloon on the north end of the Strip. As Junior Haney and his father Wilmer came in, Junior stopped to read the hand-painted sign that served to remind patrons why they’d chosen this bar over thousands of others in town.
Two patrons sat at the water-stained bar swilling beer: a fat boy wearing a deliveryman’s uniform and a sharp-dressed guy sporting a fancy gold watch. It was two o’clock in the morning, and they were the bar’s only customers.
Junior and his father took a corner table. They could have been identical twins separated by thirty-odd years. Each sported a faded denim jacket, two-day-old stubble, and a limp ponytail — Junior having dyed his silver because he enjoyed passing for his old man. Both men’s eyes were soulless and unrepentant. They’d done their business in bars before and Junior knew the drill. Soon the bar’s jukebox was spitting out blaring surf-punk rock.
Wilmer frowned his displeasure at his son’s choice of music.
“It was either that or country western. I ordered drinks,” Junior said.
Ruben the tattooed bartender served them whiskey shots. When Ruben wasn’t slinging drinks, he did odd jobs for hoodlums, and he was the reason the Haneys had come to Nemo’s.
“Which one’s Cunningham?” Junior asked under his breath.
“Pretty boy,” Ruben replied.
“You sure?”
“Uh-huh. Paid with a credit card. When I saw the name, I called you.”
Junior knocked back his shot. “Ever fix the bathroom wall?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Last time me and my daddy were here, it was covered in writing by some guy who just got fired from his job. My daddy hates seeing that shit. He thinks it’s disrespectful.”
“It’s called a virtual wall. Anyone can write anything they want,” Ruben said.
“You let people deface your john? That’s stupid.”
“I’ll tell the owner.”
“You sure Pretty Boy’s the one?” Junior asked again.