In Vegas, money talked, and everything else was just camouflage. DeSantis removed a set of car keys from his pocket and handed them over.
“Take mine,” the VIP host said.
Forty-Seven
It was an unwritten rule that people who lived in Las Vegas did not loan their cars to strangers. There were too many ways to get in trouble in Sin City, and giving a stranger the keys to your car was often an invitation to disaster.
DeSantis’s ride was a bloodred Mustang convertible with a V-8 engine. It was a powerful machine, and as Billy drove down the sidewalk on Sahara Boulevard to avoid traffic, police sirens pierced the air. He pulled down a side street into an alley and let the sirens pass.
He returned to Sahara’s sidewalks while retrieving Gabe’s number on his cell phone. The call went through and Gabe picked up on the first ring.
“I’m having breakfast with my daughter. I’ll call you right back,” Gabe said.
“You still have that gun your wife left behind?” Billy asked.
The line went deadly still. Gabe’s ex-wife had cleaned house before departing, leaving Gabe with a mattress to sleep on, his computer, a coffeemaker, and a handgun.
“You still there?” Billy asked.
“I’m here,” Gabe said.
“Do you have the gun or not?”
“I’ve got it.”
“I need you to bring it to me.” Billy recited Mags’s address. “Make it fast.”
He reached Mags’s development in record time. A black Beamer with whitewall tires was parked in the driveway, and he parked so the Beamer was boxed in and jumped out.
He stuck his ear to the front door of Mags’s place and heard music playing inside. “Wicked Games” by The Weeknd, a song filled with menace where no one involved got off easy. The beep of a car horn snapped his head. Gabe idled at the curb, his window down.
“You okay?” Gabe called to him.
Billy hustled over to the car. Gabe looked both ways before passing a handgun to him.
“It’s got a safety. Turn the safety if you plan to fire it,” Gabe said.
Billy stuck the gun down the front of his pants. He pulled his blazer closed, hoping to conceal the weapon. “Can this gun be traced to you?”
“No. A guard who worked at my jewelry store gave it to me.”
“Good. Now, make yourself scarce.”
“What the hell’s going on, Billy? You got a score to settle?”
“Something like that. I’ll call you later with the bloody details.”
“Good luck.”
Gabe threw his vehicle into drive and burned out.
The spare key to the front door of Mags’s condo was beneath the flowerpot. Billy let himself in and silently closed the door behind him. The powerful punch of marijuana filled the air. On the dining room table, he spied two unfinished plates of food and two iced teas.
He was sweating like a man going to the electric chair and tossed his blazer over a chair. The gun was now visible, and he moved it behind his back, the barrel kissing the crack in his ass. He wondered if he were capable of taking another human life, and realized he was about to find out.
The master bedroom was at the end of a hallway in the back. He gathered his courage before starting his walk. The smell of dope grew stronger with each step.
The bedroom door was ajar, and he opened it with his foot. Mags lay facedown on the bed, naked and unconscious. Her clothes had been torn off her body and were scattered on the floor. Jimmy Slyde towered over her, wearing red boxers and nothing else. Slyde had a six-pack and vein-popping arms. In his right hand was a tube of K-Y UltraGel, which he was in the process of smearing on the fingers of his other hand. Billy thought he just might kill the bastard.
Slyde realized he had company. The tube landed on the sheets. He came around the bed to get a better look at his unexpected visitor. “Cunningham.”
“Did you fuck her?” Billy asked.
“Not yet.”
“But you were planning to.”
“Damn straight. She said she wanted to get naked with me. I can’t turn down an invitation like that.”
Mags was a beauty. She’d told Slyde that in order to buy more time.
“You’re a piece of shit,” Billy said.
“Don’t tell me you’ve still got a thing for Miss Maggie,” Slyde said. “From what she told me, you guys stopped being an item a while ago.”
“I’m in love with her,” Billy said.
“You’re in love with this crazy bitch? I thought you were smarter than that.”
“That’s just how it is. She told me you want to kill her. What the hell did she do to you?”
“She became a liability. You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Is this going to be ugly?”
“Afraid so.”
Slyde’s clothes were piled on a chair. Slyde reached into the pants pocket and removed a knife. He pushed the button, and a six-inch blade sprang out, the metal gleaming in the harsh bedroom light. Right then, Billy knew that it wasn’t going to end until one of them was dead.
He retreated and walked backward down the hallway with Slyde in pursuit. The condo’s layout was unfamiliar, and he kept bumping into walls. He waited until he’d reached the living room to draw the borrowed gun from the small of his back and pull back the safety. Slyde’s reputation was for being a cruel bastard, and if Billy didn’t shoot him, Slyde would kill him — probably slowly, certainly painfully — and would have no second thoughts about it.
Seeing the gun, Slyde broke into a toothy smile.
“You think I’m kidding?” Billy said.
“Your arm’s shaking,” Slyde said.
Billy wasn’t terribly fond of guns. He’d been scamming for most of his life and never felt the need to carry one. His weapon was his wits and his ability to stay a step ahead.
That wasn’t true for most cheats. Most cheats carried heat and didn’t care if they capped a victim during a job or if they killed another thief who crossed them. Billy was different that way and didn’t possess a killer’s cold-blooded instinct. Slyde knew this. He’d sized Billy up and decided he would take his chances pitting his switchblade against Billy’s gun.
“You don’t have the balls to shoot me,” Slyde said.
“You’re not a very good judge of character,” Billy said.
“You’ve never shot a gun in your fucking life.”
“That doesn’t mean I won’t shoot you.”
Slyde’s expression was one of contempt. Billy didn’t scare him at all.
“You’re bluffing,” Slyde said.
“Call my bluff and see what happens,” Billy said.
Eight feet, maybe less, separated them. The adrenaline coursing through Billy’s veins had caused a surreal slowdown of events, and he saw the tip of Slyde’s knife flick back and forth with the fury of a serpent’s tail. His enemy lunged forward. As Billy squeezed the trigger, he had a troubling thought. He didn’t know if the gun was loaded. Only when the gun barked in his hand did Billy know. The bullet slammed into Slyde’s chest and he melted to the floor. The expression on Slyde’s face was one of surprise; he’d underestimated Billy and paid the price.
“Rot in hell,” Billy said.
Slyde took his sweet time dying. The life slowly seeped out of his body, shutting his eyes a few centimeters at a time. And then he took a last gasp and was gone.
Billy shuddered. He’d never felt the need to take a life, and he realized he’d let his feelings for Mags cloud his judgment. Falling in love had screwed up his head, and he tried to pull himself together.
Male voices carried from outside. At the living room window he parted the curtains and looked out. A black and white Metro LVPD cruiser was parked out front. Two cops stood behind it pointing guns at the house. One was on a walkie-talkie radioing for backup.