“Don’t touch me,” Amin said loudly.
The destroyer dropped his hand. “Let’s see some ID.”
“You don’t have any right to ask for my ID,” Amin said.
“Let’s step outside.”
Amin followed the destroyer through the glass doors. The destroyer stopped, and whipped out his wallet from his back pocket. He was going to read from a card and inform Amin that he was trespassing. Then he would tell Amin never to step foot on MGM property again. Amin would agree and walk away. He’d done it many times, and saw tonight as nothing special.
Only the destroyer had a funny look in his eye as he read from the card. He cocked his head, as if trying to get a better look at Amin through the disguise.
“Don’t I know you?”
Amin turned and began walking toward the garage. He knew his rights. He hadn’t broken a single law. The MGM couldn’t back-room him, like they could with a suspected cheater. They can’t touch me, he told himself as he fled.
He heard the destroyer keeping pace behind him. This was unusual. He saw a couple walk past and cast him a suspicious look.
“I’m talking to you, brother,” the destroyer said.
Amin knew that certain casinos routinely beat up counters. Bart had said it was what had driven him out of the business.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the destroyer said.
He sounded like a cop. A lot of the casinos hired ex-cops to be destroyers. Still walking, Amin removed his hand from his pocket and let his car keys dangle from his fingertips. “Just my keys,” he said.
He stopped at the garage’s stairwell. He couldn’t remember on which level his rental was parked, and didn’t want to go to the wrong floor.
The destroyer was right behind him. He came up, and pointed an accusing finger in Amin’s face.
“I know you.”
The third floor, Amin thought. He’d parked in the middle aisle on the third floor. He started up the stairs.
The destroyer grabbed him by the shoulder, and shoved him into the wall. Then he tore away Amin’s beard and baseball cap. For a long moment, he stared.
“You.”
Amin’s keys were also a weapon. A little treasure he’d picked up during his travels. He squeezed the ring, and a stainless-steel three-inch blade popped out. In one swift downward motion, he sliced the destroyer’s throat.
The destroyer staggered backward in the stairwell. The blood flowing down his neck shone brightly against his black skin. Amin’s aim was good; he’d cut an artery. He raced up the stairs to the third floor and quickly found his car.
Climbing in behind the wheel, he felt his heart beating wildly and took several deep breaths. This was the closest he’d ever come to being caught. Hearing the engine turn over, he screeched backward out of the spot.
The car hit something solid. He threw the vehicle into park and jumped out. The destroyer lay face down on the asphalt behind the car, his legs quivering.
Amin’s eyes found the long ribbon of blood running back to the stairwell. For a long moment, he wrestled with what that meant. What type of man chases someone when he is dying?
Amin thought he knew. Bending over the destroyer, he pulled his wallet from his pocket. No ID. That was odd. He searched his other pockets. In the destroyer’s inner jacket pocket, he found a second wallet, designed to hold business cards. The ID was in there. Amin stared at it, felt himself shudder.
The destroyer was an FBI agent.
Amin backed over him a second time, then drove away.
15
Valentine had killed his evening cruising the Strip in his rental, looking for Gerry.
It was like searching for a needle in a haystack, but sometimes that approach worked. As a kid, he’d read an O. Henry story about a boy who sees his father’s murder, grows up to become a cop, and asks for the beat outside the New York Public Library, his reasoning being that the killer would someday walk past. The killer eventually did, and justice was served.
It was nine thirty when he walked into the Acropolis. Grabbing a house phone, he called upstairs to the surveillance control room and asked for Wily. Friday nights were when casinos made hay, and most security heads worked double shifts.
Wily came on a minute later. “What’s up?”
“I want to get my room changed, just in case that guy I tangoed with earlier gets any more stupid ideas,” Valentine said.
“No problemo.”
“I also want to disappear from the hotel computer.”
“You think someone in the hotel told that guy what room you were in?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Valentine said.
He heard Wily’s fingers tap a computer keyboard. “Done. I put you in the penthouse, Suite Four. Nick said you agreed to look at the tape of Lucy Price. Mind if I send it up?”
“Go ahead,” Valentine said.
He got a key from the front desk and went upstairs. His new suite faced west and afforded a perfect view of the Strip. He called room service, ordered a cheeseburger and fries. His food arrived at the same time as the tape of Lucy Price.
He ate his dinner while sitting on the balcony. He’d left his cell phone on, and now the battery was running down. Every time it beeped, he thought it was his son calling. He stared down at the thousands of people milling on the sidewalks. Gerry was down there; he could feel it in his bones.
He finished his dinner, then went into the suite and popped the tape into the VCR. Going into the kitchen, he grabbed a Diet Coke from the mini fridge and drained half the bottle. He’d read somewhere that artificial sweetener was bad for you, and he imagined that after he died, a doctor was going to cut him open and discover that every artery in his body was clogged with the stuff.
Then he sat a foot away from the giant-screen TV and stared at Lucy Price.
The pang of recognition he’d felt on the balcony that morning returned. Like being stabbed with a beautiful memory. The tape was black and white, and showed Lucy and two men sitting at a table playing blackjack. Lucy was winning, and the look on her face was pure joy.
He took another swig of soda. Caffeine had a way of making him think clearly, and he watched the cards fly around the table. Lucy acted like she’d never played before, consulting a laminated Basic Strategy card each time she needed to make a decision. Valentine found himself smiling. She really was a beginner.
Basic Strategy for blackjack had been developed by a mathematician named Ed Thorp. It was the optimal way to play every hand, based upon the dealer’s “up” card. Lucy would stare intently at the dealer’s “up” card, then consult her Basic Strategy card.
It was comical to watch. Every time Lucy had to make a decision, the game came to a screeching halt. Casinos let players use Basic Strategy cards because the house still held a minimum 1.5 percent edge. It was enough to beat the daylights out of anyone.
Except Lucy.
After ten minutes, her pile of chips had grown by several thousand dollars. Only Lucy wasn’t on a hot streak. She was just winning a few more hands than normal. Since she was betting five hundred dollars a hand, her winnings were adding up. Just a few hands was making a big difference.
What the hell, he thought.
Fifty minutes later, Lucy was up five grand.
Wily had said that Lucy had won a total of twenty-five grand, which meant she’d beaten them for five hours straight. Valentine found himself shaking his head. Somehow Lucy had changed the game’s odds to be in her favor, and she was cleaning them out.
He killed the power on the VCR. Then he went onto the balcony and stared down on the neon city. The Strip had kicked into high gear, and he tried to guess how many people were down there. Five thousand? Ten? It was like trying to guess the number of ants in an anthill. Inside, he heard someone knocking on his door.