He retreated from the window and tossed the gun onto the couch. He was about to be arrested and thrown in jail. It might take a day before his lawyer would be able to plead his case before a judge and get bail set. Twelve months of planning was about to go down the toilet. Or not.
He called Travis. Travis was still at his chair at the roulette table. Travis made Billy wait and walked away from the table before speaking.
“Where are you? We’re all getting nervous,” Travis said.
“Change of plans. You’re now officially in charge.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Not right away. I’ll explain later. Just follow the script, and we’ll all end up rich.”
“For the love of Christ, Billy, this is insane.”
“Have I ever steered you wrong before?”
“That’s not the point. You’re not here, and you’re the whale. What do I tell DeSantis if he asks me where you went?”
“I told DeSantis I had to bail a friend out of jail. Use that story.”
Travis went quiet, and Billy wondered if he’d lost him.
“I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” the big man said.
“Keep the faith,” Billy said.
His next call was to his attorney, an aging shark named Felix Underman. Underman had represented every wise guy and mobster to run afoul of the law during the past four decades. Underman’s longtime secretary, Holly, answered and patched him through to the boss.
“Hello, Billy, how are we today?” his attorney asked.
“Not so good,” he replied.
“I’m sorry to hear that. What seems to be the problem?”
“I just shot a guy, and the police are going to arrest me.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yeah, that’s why I shot him.”
“I’ll meet you at the jail in an hour. Whatever you do, don’t say a word to the police.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” the young hustler said.
The voices outside had multiplied. The backup unit had arrived. Billy told his lawyer he’d see him at the jail and ended the call. He didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye, and he stepped over Slyde’s lifeless body and hurried down the hallway to the master bedroom.
Mags lay unconscious on the bed in all her glory. She had to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. He wanted to believe the cops would treat her with respect, but that was wishful thinking. He retrieved her underwear and clothes from the floor and began to dress her.
A loud banging carried from the front of the condo.
“This is the police. Open the door,” said a man’s voice.
The smart move would have been to let the police into the condo. Instead, he pulled Mags up into a sitting position and tried to shake her awake. Slyde had done a number on her, and her beautiful face was covered in ugly purple bruises.
“Come on. Wake up.”
The police burst into the house, yelling at the top of their lungs the way cops liked to do. Mags’s eyelids fluttered, and she looked around the bedroom before settling her gaze on Billy.
“You made it,” she said.
“Was there any doubt in your mind?”
She tried to smile and winced in pain. “My face hurts.”
“Be quiet, okay? You need to go to a hospital.”
“Where’s that piece of shit Jimmy?”
“Playing poker with the devil.”
“You killed him?”
Billy acknowledged that he had indeed ended the life of Jimmy Slyde. Mags leaned in and planted a kiss on Billy’s cheek.
“My hero,” she said.
Forty-Eight
The Clark County Detention Center was nobody’s idea of a good time. Located in a seedy section of old downtown, it was here that the city’s miscreants were formally booked and stuck into filthy holding cells to wait for their defense attorneys or friends to bail them out.
Billy had been ground through the system enough times to know the drill. It took an hour for a clerk with a room-temperature IQ to type up the charges against him, another half hour for his fingerprints and mug shot to be taken. Everything inside the jail worked in slow motion, a preview of what his life was to become if he were so unfortunate as to go to prison.
He’d never spent more than a night in jail, but there was always a first time. He’d just shot a man to death, and his bail was going to be high regardless of how good a job Underman did convincing the judge that his shooting Jimmy Slyde was an act of self-defense.
The holding cell was a cramped space with a wooden bench and a toilet. It was standing-room-only, and Billy found a spot in the back and leaned against the cold concrete wall. An inmate with greasy slicked-back hair stuck out his hand.
“Name’s Jinx Williams,” the inmate said.
“What do you want?” Billy replied.
“Who said I wanted anything?”
“I did. What do you want?”
“Nothing. What’s your name?”
“Billy.”
“Got a last name?”
“Up yours.”
“That’s a funny last name.”
“Have a nice day.”
A spot came open on the bench and Billy grabbed it. Everyone in Vegas had a scam, including inmates in the detention center. There the scam was to get the name of a guy who’d been busted and have a friend on the outside call the guy’s family, identify himself as an official at the jail, and solicit bail using a credit card.
Billy stuck his hands in his pants pockets to wait. In his right pocket was a folded square of paper. He’d turned over his valuables to the clerk during processing but had failed to turn over the piece of paper. He removed it, assuming it was a receipt, and discovered that it was the newspaper article about the murder of union leader Cal Branche that Gabe had given him. Having nothing better to do, Billy decided to read the article again.
Although Billy had met Cal Branche only once, the meeting had left an indelible impression. Vegas was a town filled with larger-than-life personalities, and Branche was one of those, with a ready handshake and a manner that bespoke trust. Branche had many admirers, and it was hard to fathom how his murder had gone unsolved for so long.
Gabe had claimed the Haneys were responsible and that the cops and gaming board were involved in the cover-up. It made sense, only there wasn’t any hard proof, and without proof, it was just another conspiracy theory for people to chew on.
The night of his murder, Branche had landed at McCarran and, while claiming his suitcase, had chatted with several airline workers who recognized him. Going outside, Branche boarded a jitney that took him to his black Suburban in long-term parking. During the jitney ride, Branche called his wife to let her know he’d arrived and would be home soon.
Branche never got there. His wife waited several hours before calling the police and filing a report. Three days later, his decomposing body was found buried under a pile of rocks in the desert. A single bullet to the back of the head had taken his life. His corpse was stripped clean, except for his driver’s license, which his killers had purposely left behind.
Billy stopped reading and stared into space. Gabe had said that the police and gaming board had interviewed the Haneys but let them skate. Was it a cover-up, or were the Haneys really innocent? There was no way for him to know for sure. It was a dead end, and he started to fold up the article while staring at Branche’s photograph.
“Sorry, man,” he said under his breath.
In the photo, Branche held a cigarette. Branche was a chain-smoker, and Billy recalled Branche offering him a cigarette the time they’d met. Billy noticed something that he hadn’t seen before. On the third finger of Branche’s right hand was a ring. The ring was perfectly round and contained an old coin. Not gold or silver, but maybe brass, and really old.