“You think they’ll kill him?”
“Of course they’ll kill him.”
“But they come highly recommended.”
“By who? Pablo Escobar?”
Pash’s eyes turned as big as silver dollars. “Oh, no,” he muttered under his breath. “Something is wrong.”
Gerry stared out the windshield. One of the Mexicans was holding stacks of money in his hands. His partner was pointing at the money and shouting. Gerry didn’t have to understand Spanish to get the argument’s drift. Amin had delivered less than he’d promised. That happened a lot in drug deals.
Only Amin wasn’t apologizing. He needed to fall on his sword and let the Mexicans have their pride restored. Amin was just standing there, talking calmly.
“He’s asking for trouble,” Gerry said.
Amin took something from his pocket. It looked like a casino chip. He offered it to the Mexicans, finally extending the olive branch. The shouting Mexican knocked it out of his hand, then went for his gun.
Amin lifted his shirt and drew his own piece. He was lightning-fast, and shot the Mexican three times in the chest. The Mexican’s gun discharged into the ground. He staggered backward and fell against the skeleton of a car.
The Mexican holding the money was helpless, and looked at Amin as if to say Now what? The guy was cool, Gerry thought. Telling Amin with a shrug that he’d settle for less, no harm done. A real businessman.
Amin lowered his gun. He reached for the battered briefcase the Mexicans had brought. Had his fingers on the handle when the Mexican leaning against the car came to life and started shooting. There were bullet holes in his sweatshirt, but no bloodstains. He’s wearing a vest, Gerry thought.
His partner ran for cover. The Mexican doing the shooting hid behind the pyramid of lacquer cans and kept letting off rounds. He was a crummy shot, but Gerry knew he was eventually going to hit Amin, who was standing in the open. Then the Mexican would come after him and Pash, and get rid of his witnesses.
“The car,” Pash said. “Drive it between them.”
Gerry shook his head. That would only get them shot. He looked out his window at the cans lying nearby. The labels said PAINT REMOVER. He jumped out and started shaking them. Finding one half-filled, he unscrewed the lid, pulled a snot rag out of his pocket, and made a Molotov cocktail.
“I need a light,” he told Pash.
Pash found his cigarette lighter and jumped out of the car. He made a flame appear, and turned the snot rag bright orange.
Gerry came around the car with the burning can in his outstretched hand. Running three steps, he threw the flaming can over his head with all his might. As it soared through the air, Amin, who was crouching on the ground, craned his neck to watch.
The flaming can landed on the pyramid and toppled it. There was a loud pop! as everything that was flammable caught fire at once. An orange wall rose up around the Mexican, and he screamed. Gerry could feel the heat from where he was standing. The Mexican ran out from his hiding place covered in flames.
Pash appeared at his side. “The human torch,” he mumbled.
They watched the Mexican run into a nearby field, his clothes throwing off black smoke. His partner ran in the opposite direction, the stacks of money clutched to his chest. They got in the car, and Gerry floored it. He jammed the brakes a few yards from where Amin stood. He saw Amin pick up a brown casino chip from the ground. He wondered if the Mexican had realized that it was worth five thousand dollars.
Amin dragged the briefcase across the dirt and got in. Smoke began to pour out of the ground, and Gerry stared at flames that seemed to rise an inch every second. Their motion was sensuous, almost taunting.
“Hold on,” he said.
He was doing seventy down the dirt road leading back to Highway 93 when he heard a muffled explosion. Slowing down, he turned in his seat. Everything behind them was on fire: the abandoned gas station, the auto graveyard, even the adjacent field. Had he not known better, he would have sworn that a giant bomb had just been set off.
Amin touched his sleeve. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“You’re a lying son-of-a-bitch,” Gerry said. “You know that?”
27
“You realize that I’m ruined,” Nick said as they rode downstairs in the elevator.
The little Greek said it like he was commenting about the weather. Only his voice was strained, and Valentine realized he was dying inside.
“The Gaming Control Board will take the assets of the thirty employees who ripped you off,” Valentine said. “You can use that to run the casino until you get a loan from a bank.”
Nick laughed harshly. “That’s not going to happen. Chance Newman and Rags Richardson and Shelly Michael control the banks — they run a few billion bucks through them every year. I’m a small fry. I’ve got no juice.”
Juice. It was the magic elixir in Las Vegas, even more powerful than money. Who you knew, and how well you knew them. And Nick was saying he didn’t have any.
“Have you considered selling the place?” Valentine asked as the elevator docked.
“I’ve had offers,” Nick said. “Venture capitalists, banks. Everybody wants to tear the place down, put in a big moron-catcher. Know what I tell them?”
“No.”
“I tell them to get lost.”
As they got out of the elevator, Nick punched Valentine in the arm. It really stung, and Valentine thought he understood. Nick had accepted that his run was over.
“Let’s nail these people ripping me off,” he said.
They found Wily in the surveillance control room, hovering before the wall of video monitors. He was watching the roulette table, and Valentine could tell by the hunch in his shoulders that he was on to something.
“Figure out what Fontaine’s gang is doing?”
Wily nodded, surprising Valentine by not gloating over it.
“So tell us,” Nick said.
“The gang is double past-posting,” Wily replied.
Valentine was impressed. He’d only seen the scam once, down in Puerto Rico, where the game of roulette bordered on high art. The San Juan gang had lightened the house by over a million bucks. He decided not to steal Wily’s thunder.
“How?” he asked.
Wily pointed at the monitors. Because the roulette layout was large, two cameras covered the action. One camera watched the wheel, while the second watched the layout on which the bets were made. It was impossible for anyone in surveillance to watch both cameras at once, a fact known to most roulette gangs.
“The gang has three members,” Wily said. “The dealer, and two women standing at the end of the table.”
He pointed at two women playing roulette. Both were dressed like tourists. One was quiet and reserved, the other a blond woman who liked to bang the table.
“The quiet one’s past-posting. In the last twenty minutes, she’s won five grand. The reason we’re not seeing it is because the dealer and the table-banger are distracting us. Watch.”
They watched the ivory ball roll around the wheel. As it started to slow down, the dealer announced the betting was over. The ball landed, and they saw the table-banger attempt to place a late bet. The dealer stopped her and politely explained that the betting was over. Then he pushed her chips back.
“You see it?” Wily asked.
“See what?” Nick said.
“The dealer is blocking the camera when he pushes the chips back. The quiet one is sneaking a bet onto the layout behind his arm. No one pays attention to her.”
Nick looked at Valentine. “You ever seen this scam before?”