“Having fun, Mr. C.?” DeSantis shouted into Billy’s ear.
“Not bad. So what’s the deal here?” Billy asked.
DeSantis played dumb while the roadie ignored him.
“I have it on good authority that Wang can’t sing worth a damn,” Billy said. “I want to know how you’re making him sound so good. There’s got to be a trick.”
DeSantis touched his Bluetooth. One of his bosses was talking to him. “Excuse me, Mr. C., but another client just arrived, and I need to go take care of his party. Troy, why don’t you explain how your magic box works. I’m sure Mr. C. will be intrigued.”
With that, DeSantis hurried away. Troy was punching numbers on the screen of an iPad. Billy spotted a thin gold watch on Troy’s wrist and other expensive jewelry. Most roadies didn’t make squat, and Billy decided Troy wasn’t your run-of-the-mill stagehand. Billy pointed at the innocuous black box sitting on the edge of the stage.
“Is that your magic box?” Billy asked.
“Guilty as charged,” Troy said.
“What does it do?”
“It makes the old new again.”
“What are you, the Riddler? Come on, tell me.”
Troy answered without taking his eyes off the stage. “Most of the acts that play this town are oldies. Elton John, Cher, Diana Ross, Olivia Newton-John. Problem is, audiences don’t want to hear what these singers sound like today; they want to hear what they used to sound like. So I invented the magic box.”
“You’re altering their voices.”
“That’s a simple way to put it. It’s called a pitch-shifter. Take your friend up on the stage. The pitch-shifter raises or lowers your friend’s less-than-stellar voice to perfect pitch while the band plays. The pitch-shifter also compares your friend’s rendition to the original version and smooths out any clams.”
“What’s a clam?”
“A bad note.”
“Is this your invention?”
“Pitch-shifters have been around. Mine just happens to work better than anyone else’s.”
“So you rent your services and laugh all the way to the bank.”
“You’re a sharp guy, Mr. C.”
Up onstage, Tommy Wang belted out his final number, Grand Funk’s “We’re an American Band.” Wang was about to wear out his welcome, and a polite round of applause followed him off the stage. Troy shut the cover on his iPad and slipped the tablet under his arm.
“Audiences leave my shows happy,” Troy said. “It might be a computer trick, but who the hell cares? At the end of the day, I make people feel good, and that’s all that matters.”
Billy understood exactly what Troy was saying. If you made suckers feel warm and fuzzy, they’d empty out their wallet for you.
“Nice meeting you, Mr. C.,” Troy said.
“Same here,” Billy said.
Billy sifted his way through the crowd back to his group. Two ugly-looking dudes, one small and built like Mighty Mouse, the other tall and muscular, blocked his path.
“Remember us?” Mighty Mouse said.
Billy never forgot a face, especially when it was someone who wished him harm. Their names were Snap and Guido, and they were enforcers employed by a Vegas bookie named Tony G who did his business while playing golf at the Mandalay Bay. Not that long ago, Billy had fleeced Tony G during a round, and when the enforcers had put up a fuss, Billy sent a putter into Snap’s face that shattered his nose, and then used the same putter to damage Guido’s testicles.
“Our boss wants to talk to you,” Snap said.
“Tell him some other time,” Billy said.
Guido dropped his hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Try right now, Pretty Boy.”
“My business with your boss is over. We had an agreement.”
“Is that so? Well, I guess he forgot,” Guido said.
The criminal underworld of Las Vegas was no different than anywhere else. When a pair of thieves struck an agreement, it was as good as a contract signed in blood. For Tony G to be reneging on the promise he’d made to Billy was unthinkable.
“You’re making a mistake,” Billy said.
“We’ll let Tony G be the judge of that. Get moving,” Guido said.
Snap went first. Billy followed, while Guido brought up the rear.
Forty-Three
Bookies were as important to Las Vegas’s economy as hookers, and just as illegal. When a gambler placed a bet with a bookie, he did so knowing that if he won the bet, he would not have to pay a penny in taxes to Uncle Sam. That reason alone made bookies a bargain.
Tony G specialized in sports betting, both college and pro, which was huge in Vegas. Billy had heard that Tony G handled $100 million a year in bets, most of it on football, with more than 20 percent of that taking place during the Super Bowl.
Tony G was sucking on a Corona as Billy and the enforcers entered the luxury box on the upper level of the club. The luxury boxes had a panoramic view of the general admission area, and Billy guessed the bookie had been spying on Billy and his crew since they’d come in.
“Have a seat,” the bookie said.
Guido shoved a stool under Billy’s ass. Billy sat down and said nothing. Tony G guzzled his beer and made his guest wait. The bookie was shaped like a bowling ball and had a mat of white fur growing out of the V in his polo shirt.
“That’s a cute disguise you’re wearing,” Tony G said. “I wouldn’t have recognized you except for the cowlick in your hair. Dead giveaway.”
“You and I had an agreement,” Billy said.
“Guido, make our guest show some respect.”
Guido slapped Billy in the head. Billy’s head snapped and he saw stars.
“You scammed me out of three hundred grand with a rigged horse race,” Tony G said. “Brought in a Brazilian ringer at a track in California and suckered me into accepting a huge bet on it to win. Normally, I’d say, live and learn, but not with the likes of you. I want my money back, every last cent. And if you don’t give it to me, I’ll call security and tell them there’s a known cheat in their nightclub. You understand what I’m saying?”
The bar in the luxury box was covered in dead soldiers. Tony G had been pounding the beers and when he saw Billy come into the Joint, he’d gone on tilt and decided to pay Billy back. Billy had to believe that if Tony G wasn’t drunk, he wouldn’t be acting this way. It was out of character and bad form, and bookies prided themselves on looking good in this town.
“You’re going back on our agreement,” Billy said, making it a statement.
“That’s right,” Tony G said.
“Why don’t you drink some coffee and think this over.”
“What are you saying, you little rat-shit fuck — that I’m drunk?”
“Drunk as a skunk is more like it. We had an agreement and you shook my hand on it. What’s done is done. No hard feelings.”
“Fuck you,” Tony G said.
“No, fuck you.”
“Put the hurt on this little asshole. Make sure you mess up his face.”
The enforcers sprang to life. Billy leaped off his stool, grabbed it by the legs, and swung the stool around his head so the enforcers stayed back. Tony G was enjoying himself, and he sucked down his beer and tossed the empty bottle into a wastebasket, where it shattered.
“Stand down,” Tony G said.
The enforcers returned to their neutral positions. Billy wasn’t fooled and kept the stool on his shoulder. He retreated to the door and opened it with one hand.
“We’ll see you outside in the parking lot, won’t we, boys?” Tony G said.
When it rained, it poured. Billy hadn’t truly understood what that expression meant until now. Leaving Tony G’s luxury box, he headed straight for the restrooms located on the side of the theater. There would be people there, so he’d be safe from the enforcers for a little while.