“Exactly. The casinos couldn’t turn his deal down without looking bad. That’s when the casino bosses decided to put a contract out on him.”
“And the cops knew about this.”
Gabe stole a glance at the pair sitting at the bar. Satisfied they weren’t eavesdropping, he removed a square of paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and passed it across the table.
“You tell me,” Gabe said.
It was a newspaper article written a few days after Branche’s decomposed body was discovered by a hiker beneath a pile of rocks in the desert. The article stated that a father-son duo named Haney had been detained by the police as suspects, and later released. The article also stated that because of Branche’s connections to the casinos, the gaming board had interviewed the Haneys. At the bottom of the article was a photo of Branche taken in better times. Tan and Hollywood handsome, he sported a pencil-thin mustache and a thick mane of silver hair. In his hand was a cigarette, which he held a few inches from his lips.
“So the cops and the gaming board kept a lid on it,” Billy said.
“That’s right. Gives a whole new meaning to the name Sin City, don’t you think?”
Billy paid their tab. He did not speak again until they were outside. The Fremont District was a missed opportunity, a broiling-hot concrete and asphalt ravine filled with clip-art neon signs, jaundiced banners, and clusters of gangly palms, the sidewalks littered with human debris.
“You did a good job. I’m proud of you,” Billy said.
“Thanks, Billy. That means a lot to me.”
“I need to run. When this is over, I owe you a steak dinner.”
Gabe took out his car keys. “You’re not pissed at me for what happened last night?”
Last night seemed like another lifetime ago, and Billy shook his head.
“I was in a bad way. I won’t do it again, and that’s a promise,” Gabe said.
“Do what?” Billy said.
Gabe broke into a smile. Billy had always assumed that once Gabe had enough money, he’d open up another swanky jewelry store inside a Strip casino and go back to being legit. But the tone of Gabe’s voice told Billy that wasn’t the deal at all. Gabe liked the thieving life and was in it for the long run.
“I’m out of here. Now, go home and get some sleep,” Billy said.
“Did you ever meet Cal Branche?” Gabe asked.
“Once. He came to a restaurant where I was washing dishes, tried to get me to join the union. He seemed like a decent guy.”
“Cal was a great guy. He was also a customer of mine. He used to come into my jewelry store and buy stuff. He went to UNLV on a scholarship and played hoops for two seasons until he blew out his knee.”
“Is that why he walked with a limp?”
“Yeah. After he got murdered, his wife came in and asked me if I could produce receipts of Cal’s stuff so she could file a claim with her insurance company. She told me her husband’s killers had picked his body clean before they’d dumped him. Watch, gold chain, his rings, they took everything except his driver’s license so the police could identify him. His wife was so upset, she started crying right in the store.”
“They took his wedding ring?”
Gabe nodded. He was roiling inside, the memory ripping him apart. Two drunks staggered out of the Beauty Bar and hurtled past as if running a three-legged race.
“What kind of person does something like that?” Gabe asked.
“The Haneys aren’t people,” Billy said.
“What do you mean?”
“People are expected to play by certain rules, even bad people. Ones that don’t are no better than animals. Now, go home and get some sleep. You need it.”
Billy started down the sidewalk. He heard the sound of Gabe’s size twelves crunch the concrete and turned around.
“I’m sorry, Billy, but I’ve got to know.”
“You’ve got to know what?”
“Are you going to fuck these guys? Please tell me yes. Then I’ll be able to sleep.”
Billy was good at many things. Fucking people was one of them. The key was to never let them see it coming. Gabe knew that better than anyone but still felt the burning need to ask.
“I’m working on it,” Billy said.
Thirty-Nine
Jimmy Slyde sat on the couch in Mags’s condo. Fading sunlight streamed through the blinds as the day came to a close. On the flat-screen TV, Judge Judy read the riot act to a couple of born losers. Across from him, Mags sat in a chair holding a tumbler of vodka. Slyde had filled the glass to the brim in the hopes that it would bring her down and she’d be able to sleep. So far, that hadn’t happened, and it had seemed to rev Mags up to another RPM level, her mouth going nonstop.
“That fucking guy wants to turn me into a movie star, can you believe that? I should have told him how I starred in a musical in high school, Once Upon a Mattress. I played the wicked queen Aggravain. Everyone said I was great.”
“What guy?” Slyde asked.
“Rand Waters, the guy we swindled earlier. He’s a big-shot TV producer — I’ve seen his name in the credits of lots of shows. He gave me his card, told me to call him.”
“You going to do it?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. What do you think?”
What Slyde thought was that he needed to get Mags out of Vegas before the police hauled her pretty ass off to jail for breaking Dolan’s neck. The problem was, where was he going to stash her? Sending her to LA to hook up with this Waters character didn’t sound like such a bad idea.
“I think you’d be great,” Slyde said. “All you have to do is memorize some dopey lines and act natural in front of the camera. That can’t be too hard.”
“What if I suck?”
“If you sucked, this Waters guy wouldn’t have given you his card.”
“I’ve got talent, huh?”
“Loads of talent. That’s why you’re so good with the grift.”
Mags raised the tumbler to her lips and drank. She didn’t seem to notice that half the drink went down her face as she stared into space. “It’s like lying, huh? Just one big pretend.”
“That’s right. One day, I’m going to be telling people that I knew you back when. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah.” She smiled dreamily. “Should I change my name to something more theatrical?”
“What’s wrong with the name you got?”
“I never liked Maggie. Makes me sound like a fucking bird.”
“What you got in mind?”
“I always liked the name Loretta. It’s different.”
Slyde’s cell phone was vibrating, and he took it from his pocket. Caller ID said Jumping John Houghton, the concierge at New York New York, was trying to track him down. Everyone called him Jumping John because he couldn’t stand still.
“If it isn’t my old buddy, Jumping John. How you been?” Slyde answered.
“How soon can you get over to Champagne’s Café? We need to talk,” Jumping John said.
“You got a job for me, or is this a social gathering?”
“This is about your lady friend. The shit’s about to hit the fan.”
Slyde glanced at Mags. She was zoned out and hadn’t heard a word. He stuck the phone against his chest, said, “Hey Loretta, I need to take this,” and left for the kitchen.
“Everybody’s scared out of their minds over this Dolan thing,” Jumping John said.
“Who’s everybody?” Slyde leaned against the fridge.
“The other concierges in town you do business with.”
“It didn’t happen in their casinos.”
“Doesn’t matter. We still do business with you. Get your ass over here.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“I’ll talk to you any fucking way I want to. This situation needs to get fixed.”