It didn’t feel right, and he decided to call the number. A Mexican woman answered in Spanish. Should he pretend to be Ike or T-Bird? He covered the mouthpiece of the phone.
“This is Ike Spears. Did you call me?”
“Mr. Spears? I didn’t recognize your voice,” the woman said, switching to English.
“I’ve got a cold. What’s up?”
“I sent you an e-mail last night. Did you get it?”
“Afraid not. My cell phone’s been acting up.”
“I’ll resend it. Take a look, see what you think. It’s a wonderful property-perfect for you and your partner. I will tell you up front that the price is firm. It’s a hot market these days.”
“I’ll look for your e-mail.”
“Talk to you soon. Feel better!”
He ended the call. So Ike was talking to a Mexican real estate agent about buying a house. Not a bad idea, only he didn’t understand why Ike had gone to the trouble of scribbling out the woman’s name. Was Ike trying to hide something?
He searched the suite for Ike’s cell phone. Not finding it, he decided to chance it and slipped into the punishers’ bedroom, where he discovered Ike’s cell phone lying on the dresser. It was a newer-model Droid. He left the bedroom and silently shut the door.
He locked himself into the bathroom. The Droid needed a password. He guessed it was something easy, and typed Ike’s name in, no spaces. The phone unlocked itself. The screen was covered with apps. He pressed the e-mail app and went to Ike’s inbox. In it were two e-mails from Amanda Fernandez, one sent moments ago. Its subject matter: “Your house-SMDA.”
He read the e-mail. SMDA stood for San Miguel de Allende, a small colonial town tucked away in the heart of central Mexico. The property Fernandez was trying to sell Ike was called Ranchos de los Olivos. Fernandez claimed it was “perfect for two gentlemen” and that it offered “all the amenities.” Included was a link, which he clicked on. Soon he was taking a virtual tour of the ranch of the olives.
It was opulent by anyone’s standards. Twelve acres of lush landscaping with a kidney-shaped swimming pool, four-stall horse barn, and a magnificent eight-thousand-square-foot ranch house with high-ceilinged rooms, polished wood floors, working fireplaces, and plenty of old-world charm. The asking price was $2,550,000, which Fernandez had said was firm.
The price raised a red flag. Ike and T-Bird’s take from the scam was two million. Not enough to pay for this joint. So where was the rest of the money coming from? It certainly wasn’t going to fall out of the sky.
He hadn’t been born yesterday. Ike and T-Bird were planning to double-cross him and take it all.
He returned Ike’s cell phone to the bedroom without waking them. Soon he was descending in an elevator to the main floor, where he got out and boarded a service elevator. He punched in the code that Ike had used the day before and hit the button for the fourteenth floor.
He started to rise and realized he was trembling. The fourteenth floor was his personal house of horrors, a place that he’d never wanted to return to. But it was also an area of the hotel that only a limited number of people had access to, and that made it valuable to him.
The doors parted and he stepped out. The floor was humming with activity-electricians installing light fixtures in the ceilings, carpenters firing nails, dusty men laying Sheetrock. The last unfinished rooms were coming together. Soon they’d be filled with guests, and the ghost of Ricky Boswell would have someone to keep him company.
He spent a moment checking the ceiling light fixtures in the hall. The covers had not been installed and the security cameras used to monitor guest activity were in plain view. The tiny red light that flashed when the cameras were operating was dark, and he guessed these cameras would not be operational until the floor was finished.
He entered an unfinished suite. The layout was identical to the suite where Ricky had died, and he walked down a hallway to the master bedroom. An electrician wearing dirty blue jeans and sneakers wrestled with ductwork for the room’s AC handler inside the closet. The closet’s back wall had been removed and was propped against the bed. The space behind the wall looked perfect for what he needed.
The electrician stepped out of the closet. “Who are you?”
“I’m in charge of decoration,” he said.
“Where’s your badge?”
“I don’t have one. Is that a problem?”
“Everyone working on the floor is supposed to have a badge. Union rules. I’m going to have to report you, pal.”
The guy had a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Rushmore. It was the same with most people that worked for the casinos. The casinos made billions while their employees made jack. The imbalance created resentment that carried over into every phase of the employees’ lives.
“I really wish you wouldn’t do that. I don’t need the union harassing me,” he said.
The electrician said nothing, unmoved.
“Look, I’ve got a surplus of movie stills that aren’t going to be used. I’ll give them to you if you don’t report me.”
“Movie stills, huh. How many?” the electrician asked.
“Two dozen.”
“What do they run?”
“A couple hundred apiece.”
“No kidding. Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“Clint Eastwood, Marilyn Monroe, Jack Nicholson. Want them?”
“You bet I want them.” The electrician wiped his hand on his pants leg and stuck it out. “My name’s Buzzy. Nice doing business with you.”
“Same here. I’ll bring them by tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here. We’re working all weekend.”
He left the bedroom convinced the electrician would not call the union and report him. In the hallway he stopped to read the number on the brass door plaque. Room 1412.
By the elevators was a utility room. He went in and flipped on the overhead light. The room was a catchall and filled with garbage pails overflowing with debris. One man’s garbage was another man’s treasure, and in one pail he found a pair of painter’s coveralls that reeked of turpentine. More digging revealed a painter’s hat and a used surgical mask. He stuck everything on a shelf behind some equipment where the clothes would not be seen.
He came out of the utility room thinking he’d covered all his bases. If Ike and T-Bird thought they were going to rip him off, he’d let them continue to believe that, right until the bitter end. He was going to pay them back for every punch and every slap, so help him God.
Riding down to the main floor, he started to hum. The day was starting out right, and he had a sneaking feeling it was only going to get better.
FORTY-NINE
Gabe liked a good challenge. That was what separated the men from the boys, the rich from the poor. It was why he enjoyed working for Billy; a week didn’t go by when the young hustler didn’t present him with a new way to rob a casino, and challenge Gabe to manufacture the apparatus necessary to make the scam work.
So far, Gabe was batting a thousand. Not once had he let Billy down. But there was always a first time, and the challenge of counterfeiting fake hundred-thousand-dollar gold chips in his garage had proven harder than he’d anticipated.
Once upon a time, Vegas casinos got counterfeited on a regular basis. Clever thieves took advantage of inexperienced cashiers and lax security and passed off handfuls of bogus chips before sprinting to the exits with their loot.
Casinos hated to get robbed, even for a measly dollar. Over time, they’d devised a series of elaborate tests to stop fake chips from appearing in their cashiers’ trays. These tests had proven highly effective, and today, it was rare to hear of a casino being counterfeited.
It was this hurdle that Gabe was attempting to overcome. He had to beat a series of tests that the industry considered foolproof. If he succeeded, endless days of wine and roses. If he failed, a life of banging out license plates in a prison machine shop.