“The guy has a wife and kids back home. Tell Pepper that when you talk to her.”
“Jesus Christ, that will kill her.”
Water was dripping down his face from the melting ice pack. He’d never been good at being a prick, and he relented. “All right, then try this. Tell Pepper I have tickets to see Bruno Mars at the MGM tonight, and since Gabe won’t be coming with us, she can invite Tommy Wang to join us. You can spring the news to her there.”
“You want me to tell her?”
“Someone’s got to, and it isn’t going to be me.”
Misty called Pepper on her cell phone. Billy was close enough to hear Pepper’s voice when she answered. Pepper sounded half-asleep, which could mean only one thing: she had slept with the mark. Misty placed her cell phone against her chest.
“Pepper wants to know what time she needs to hook up with us.”
“Show starts at eight. Tell her to meet us there fifteen minutes before.”
“Got it.”
Misty relayed the information and ended the call. She looked relieved, and Billy was happy to have that behind them. He needed to head downstairs and lose more money in the casino, and he rose from his chair and went to the slider. He’d already had enough surprises to last a lifetime of jobs. As he started to pull back the slider, Misty came up beside him.
“You didn’t make that up about Wang having a family, did you?”
Sometimes Misty surprised him. Misty thought she understood men because of all the porn she’d done, but in reality, she didn’t know the first thing about them.
“What do you think?” Billy said.
“Oh shit,” she said.
Billy put on fresh clothes and appraised himself in the bathroom vanity. His face looked a little rough for wear but would pass muster. Plenty of guys who came to Vegas stayed up all night drinking and gambling and looking like death warmed over the next day, and he didn’t think his rough appearance would draw many stares. Heading downstairs in the elevator, he got a call from Gabe. He’d found himself missing Gabe and hoped the jeweler had recovered from last night’s meltdown.
“How’s it going?” Billy answered.
“I hear the Haneys paid you a visit,” Gabe said.
“Who told you that?”
“Travis called with the bad news. Are they really blackmailing us?”
Billy didn’t think the Carnivale’s elevators were bugged, but that didn’t mean their conversation wasn’t being listened to. Anyone with a few hundred bucks could buy equipment at a spy store that would let them eavesdrop on private cell phone conversations.
“Let’s talk about this later, okay?”
“I’ve got the goods on them. My friend with the police came through. Where do you want to meet?”
There it was again — Gabe telling Billy what to do. Billy said nothing, wanting Gabe to read the silence and understand that he was treading on thin ice with his employer.
“That is, if you’re free,” the jeweler said.
“I’m not free, but for you, I’ll make the time,” Billy said.
“You won’t be disappointed.”
“I need to clean my clothes. I’ll meet you in thirty minutes.”
“Your clothes? What are you talking about?”
“Figure it out.”
In a city with more surveillance cameras than people, The Laundry Room was a unique watering hole, and did not have any electronic surveillance. The bar was hidden behind a secret door in East Fremont, and a visitor needed to text a secret number to gain entry. Once inside, a strict set of rules applied: no standing at the bar, no loud voices, and photographs and selfies were prohibited.
Billy took a table. Up at the bar, two hustlers he was friends with were discussing a job. Billy could tell as much by the way their shoulders were hunched over and the conspiratorial tone of their voices. Gabe slid into a seat and stuck his hand into the bowl of gourmet popcorn on the table. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and he was wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“This is delicious. You want some?” Gabe asked.
“No thanks. Too spicy for me,” Billy said.
“Your face is puffy. Did the Haneys really beat you up?”
“That’s ancient history.”
“You’re not really going to partner up with them, are you?”
Billy dropped his voice. “I’m going to screw the Haneys once the job is over.”
A waiter in a starched shirt and bow tie took their orders. Gabe ordered a dirty martini, Billy the house special called the Ransom Note. When the waiter was gone, Gabe started talking. “My friend Bennie with the police department didn’t want to talk about the Haneys. He said they were bad news and warned me to stay away from them. When I insisted, he hung up on me.”
“This isn’t starting out very well.”
“It gets better. I called Bennie back and reminded him that I paid him off the books all those years he guarded my jewelry store. I told him that if he didn’t help me, I’d report him to the IRS for unreported income and they’d put a lien on his house.”
“How did that go over?”
“Like a fart in church. He cursed me out, then caved.”
“Nice going.”
“Thanks. So here’s the skinny. Bennie told me that the police have linked the Haneys to several dozen unsolved murders. The father’s a mute and crazy as a loon, and he likes to beat his victims to death or stab them with an ice pick. The father leaves evidence at every crime scene, yet he and his son have never been brought up on charges.”
“Teflon-coated.”
“Exactly. I asked Bennie why, and that’s when it got hairy.”
“How do you mean?”
“Bennie said that what the Haneys did could ruin the city, and that if I went around shooting my mouth off, I’d end up getting eighty-sixed.”
Their drinks arrived. Gabe took a gulp of his martini and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. In Vegas getting eighty-sixed meant you’d get taken eight miles out into the desert and get buried six feet down. For a cop to have shared this little piece of information meant that the Haneys weren’t just Teflon-coated, they were bulletproof.
“So what did these jokers do, whack Jimmy Hoffa?” Billy asked.
“No. They murdered Cal Branche.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Bennie swore it was true.”
There were plenty of unsolved murders in Vegas, and most were forgotten as quickly as a losing Keno number. But the killing of Cal Branche on a cold February night a decade ago hadn’t been forgotten. The papers still ran stories on the anniversary of the crime, and Branche’s family continued to offer a substantial reward for the killer’s arrest.
Billy had met Branche once. He’d just landed in town and was washing dishes while looking for a crew to run with. Upon leaving work one night, he’d encountered Branche in the parking lot. Branche was soft-spoken and friendly, and had suggested Billy join the local culinary workers’ union, of which Branche was president.
The next day, Billy had asked his coworkers about Branche and heard good things. Nevada was a right-to-work state, yet Branch had persuaded nearly all of the culinary workers to join the union. This power had let Branche negotiate steady increases in wages and benefits with the casinos. As a result, culinary workers could buy houses and send their kids to college.
Everyone had liked Cal Branche.
“Who paid for the hit?” Billy asked.
“Bennie said a group of casino owners was behind it,” Gabe said. “Branche wanted the casinos to offer health-care insurance for the culinary union members. The casinos claimed it was too expensive, so Branche said he’d negotiate a deal with a local hospital chain to provide medical care to culinary employees that the casinos would split the cost of.”
“It sounds like Branche outmaneuvered them.”