“Gerry’s in trouble,” Yolanda said.
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yes, this morning.”
“How did it go?”
“All he did was lie to me.” Yolanda’s eyes shifted to her pregnant belly and she smiled. “The baby’s doing the cha-cha. Mark my words, kid’s going to be a dancer.” She lifted her eyes, and met Mabel’s stare. “Gerry never lies to me. It’s why I’ve stayed with him. Gerry’s no angel, but deep down he’s a decent person. You know what I mean?”
“Of course,” Mabel said.
“But he’s not acting so decent anymore,” Yolanda said. “I just got a call from a lady at American Express. She’d seen a lot of activity on Gerry’s credit card and wanted to be sure he was making the charges. I asked her to read me what he’d bought.”
Yolanda put her glass on the table’s edge and leaned forward. “He bought a gun.”
“In Las Vegas?”
“Yes. A Smith and Wesson Model Sixty-five.” Yolanda fished a square of paper from the pocket of her blouse. “I went on the Internet to a gun dealer’s Web site. This is what I found posted about it. ‘The Model Sixty-five is made of stainless steel. It has a serrated front ramp sight, exposed hammer, and holds six rounds of three fifty-seven ammo. It is a hefty, solid piece of American steel, built to handle the violent three fifty-seven round. Shot at night, the unburned powder from the bullet will make a huge yellow flash and a noise you don’t want to hear inside a building without protection. This gun is an attention-getter.’ ”
“Oh, my,” Mabel said.
Yolanda let the paper float to the floor. It did a butterfly spiral and landed atop the bills. She shook her head in the way that people do when they’ve given up hope.
“Gerry is in real trouble,” she said. “I can feel it in my bones.”
Mabel remembered her two pregnancies, when the hormones raging in her body during her last trimester had been on the verge of going out of control. The more Yolanda stresses, she thought, the more it’s going to affect the baby.
“This is terrible, Yolanda. I’m going to tell Tony.”
“I hope...” She let her voice trail off.
“What?”
“It’s not too late.”
Mabel patted her arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry. Tony’s gotten Gerry out of plenty of jams before.”
11
The first thing Valentine did when he reached the Acropolis was call Gerry. He hadn’t told his son he was coming to Las Vegas, and realized it might come as a shock when they eventually did hook up. So he decided to break it to him gently.
“Hey, Gerry, this is Pop,” he said, getting his son’s voice mail. “I was thinking about coming out to Vegas. What do you say we hook up? Call me on my cell.”
He hung up feeling guilty as hell. They hadn’t done much together when Gerry was growing up, and trying to sound chummy felt awkward. He hoped Gerry’s relationship with his own kid was different than theirs had been.
The next thing he did was look for his luggage. He pedaled the bike he’d borrowed that morning over to Sin and inquired at the concierge desk.
“It hasn’t arrived yet,” the concierge said, staring at her computer screen.
“You can still keep the bike,” he said.
She frowned, not getting the joke. He started to leave, then halted at the glass front doors. He was forgetting something. Something really important.
His fee.
Mabel was always chiding him about not collecting his money. Maybe it was because he’d lived most of his life broke and never put much value in it. He went back to the concierge and explained the situation. The woman on duty called upstairs to Chance Newman’s office.
“Go to the cashier’s cage on the south side of the casino,” she said, drawing a map as complicated as a football play on a sheet of paper. “Hugo, Mister Newman’s bodyguard, will meet you there. He’ll have the money, and your equipment.”
Valentine entered Sin’s casino with the map in his outstretched hand. The casino was enormous, its motif a boozy interpretation of ancient Rome. As he walked, he imagined he was giving the boys upstairs in surveillance fits. He’d come in on a bike and was now doing a serpentine stroll. Seeing a smoky dome in the ceiling, he waved.
Hugo awaited him at the cage. He had a wrestler’s body and the face of a mad Bulgarian. He opened a leather bag and let Valentine see the stacks of money and Deadlock equipment lying inside.
“Your fee and your equipment,” Hugo said.
“Count it,” Valentine said.
Hugo’s face turned an Eastern European mean. “I already did that.”
Valentine thought he’d seen Hugo playing volleyball with the nuns, but asked him to count it again anyway. Then added, “If you don’t mind.”
Hugo was wearing a walkie-talkie setup that was practically invisible. Valentine sensed that someone was talking to him, and he watched him hand the bag through the bars to the cashier.
“Do it,” Hugo said.
The cashier counted the money. It was all there. Valentine took the Deadlock from the bag and made sure the guts hadn’t been ripped out. Then he signed a receipt for the money.
“How long you been out of the slammer?”
Hugo’s mouth opened, then snapped shut.
“You didn’t get those muscles hitting the gym a few nights a week.”
“You are a Webster,” Hugo said.
A Webster was casino slang for a floor person who thought he knew everything. Valentine said, “I want you to tell Chance Newman something.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell him I’m no pigeon. You know what that is?”
Hugo smiled. “Everyone’s favorite customer.”
“That’s right. Chance thought that by making me walk the casino, I might stop on my way out, make a few bets, and he’d win his money back. Maybe he put a plant at a table to lure me.”
“A plant?”
“A house girl, a hooker. Know what those are?”
Hugo touched his lapel. Valentine realized he was turning his walkie-talkie off.
“Get out of the casino, or I’ll throw you out,” the bodyguard said.
Valentine was impressed he’d strung all those words together himself. As he hoisted the bag off the counter, it occurred to him that something was wrong with this picture. Hugo hadn’t touched him. Security always grabbed troublemakers. But why hadn’t Hugo touched him? He looked like he could lift a car.
“Know what they say about guys who lift weights?”
Hugo shook his head.
“They say they have little dicks. If they had big dicks, they wouldn’t spend so much time in the gym.”
Hugo still didn’t want to touch him. Valentine walked away shaking his head.
He checked into the Acropolis, put his twenty-five grand into the hotel vault, and rode the elevator still shaking his head. What good was a bodyguard who didn’t like to fight?
Nick had comped him into a penthouse suite. In the Acropolis, that meant three high-ceilinged rooms filled with polished chrome and cushy leather, the bizarre color schemes reminiscent of Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In. That was the thing about Nick. He loved the old stuff.
He went into his suite and saw a chambermaid’s cart sitting in the living room. Chambermaids never locked themselves into rooms, and he looked around the suite.