A little niggle of panic started in his stomach. Sean ignored it, finished his coffee, kept scanning the crowd for Bobby’s blond hair, listening for the boom of his voice. Nothing. Tried Bobby’s cell phone. No answer.
Sean waited another thirty minutes, tried Bobby’s room again, got nothing. He went up to the room, used the extra key Bobby had given him when he got to Vegas yesterday. Bed a mess, Bobby’s clothes still in the closet. The slightest scent of perfume was in the air — the redhead smelled like rose petals and spice. But the bathroom was clean, the shower dry, the towels in maid-hung precision.
He’s in the shower. But no one had showered in this room.
“No, no, no,” Sean said to himself. “Not after I was a nice guy.” He ran from the room, his heart thick in his chest, and headed straight down to the lobby.
Sean drove his rental car down the Strip, then to Sahara Avenue, to the leased office Vic had rented when he and Bobby set up the Vegas operation two months ago, before Vic started feeling pressure from the Feds and decided Vegas made him overextended. The sign on the door read priori consulting, which Vic and Bobby had thought clever, because consulting could mean it was any kind of business, and the legal term sounded respectable and fancy.
Sean had a key and he tried the lock.
The door opened. The office was simple, just a desk and a chair and a laptop computer. A motivational poster on the wall said ACHIEVE, with some dink standing atop a mountain summit at dawn, arms raised in triumph. Like that was supposed to impress Sean or Vic, hard evidence of Bobby’s absent work ethic. No Bobby. Sean locked the door behind him, set the deadbolt.
He went straight to the little vault in the back room of the office. Opened it with the combination Vic had given him, not wanting Bobby to know he knew the combo, not wanting to make a big deal about the money.
It was gone. Every last sweet brick of green was gone.
Sean sat in the King Midas bar, peeling the label off his beer in long strips, thinking this is my shin when Vic gets hold of me.
Bobby was gone.
Sean felt like control over his own fate had danced right out of his arms, like he was one of those losers who surrendered all to the spinning roulette ball, wailing for it to drop into red or black or a sacred number, every hope in the world wrapped up on how that damned ball fell. Now his generous act was going to screw over his life big time. Maybe the redhead would show back up here, if she was a working girl or a guest. He thought she might be a working girl; not many women came to Vegas alone. Maybe she knew where Bobby had run to. But she had lied about the shower, he believed, Bobby maybe paid her to lie. Give him a head start on his run.
Sean didn’t know a soul in Vegas who could help him find Bobby, didn’t know any of the street-level dealers Bobby recruited, and he had not known what else to do other than go back to the bar, cancel his flight to Houston and pray he got a lead on Bobby.
He had started to call Vic twice, hung up before finishing the number. Not knowing what he could say, almost laughing because he was afraid, scared in a way he didn’t want to admit, trying to imagine the words coming from his mouth: Bobby wanted to get laid, and it just didn’t seem likely, so I let him out of my sight. We had a bet. Sorry.
He switched to vodka martinis and was deep into his second when she came in and sat at the bar.
At first he blinked, not sure it was the same readhead. But it was, this time in leather pants and a white ruffled blouse, simple but stylish. She looked relaxed and she didn’t look over at him. She ordered a glass of pinot grigio.
Sean counted to one hundred, waiting to see if Bobby trailed in behind her. Please, Jesus. But no Bobby. Sean got up from the bar stool, took his martini glass with him, eased next to her. She glanced at him.
“I’m Bobby’s friend,” he said in a low voice.
“I know. And you’re probably a little more shaken,” she said, glancing at his martini, “than stirred.” Her smile was cool, not shy, not surprised. Expecting to see him, maybe even happy about it.
“Where is he?” Sean asked.
She took a dainty sip of wine. “He’s resting. Comfortably.”
“Where?” Trying to keep his voice calm.
“Some place you won’t find him.”
“I can look pretty freaking hard, honey. Tell me where he is. Right now.”
She ran a fingernail along the stem of her glass and let a few heavy seconds pass before she answered. “You’re not really in a position to make demands.”
“Not in a crowded bar.”
“Not anywhere,” she said. “You need to remember that. I’m not working alone. You’re being watched wherever you go.”
He was silent for several seconds, thinking what the hell is this? “I’ll remember,” he said. There was nothing to be gained by threatening her. Play it cool, he decided, play along, and get her alone and then she’d talk. She was enjoying the driver’s seat, relishing it a bit too much, and that was a mistake.
“So, this is the deal,” the redhead said. “Bobby had a hundred grand in cash on him. You get ten grand, just to tell one little white lie. Tell Vic you took care of Bobby but he had already blown the hundred grand gambling.”
“And Vic just believes me?” Sean said.
“We both know,” she said, “that yes, Vic will believe you. If you want, we’ll get a statement from a couple of blackjack and baccarat dealers that a guy matching Bobby’s description blew through a hundred grand in the past week.”
“What about the rest of the money?”
“Not your concern. But Bobby walks and gets a new life somewhere else.”
“And still has every reason to tell the cops about Vic. And me. No way.”
“Sean,” she said. “Do you think Bobby would do jail well?”
He surprised them both by laughing. She gave him back a smile, and the intelligence was sharp in her face, she was clearly no dumb bunny-Vegas lay. “Actually, no, Bobby wouldn’t do jail well at all. Be dead or someone’s punk in five minutes.”
“So you and I both know he’s not going to run to the police or the FBI and talk about Vic.”
“But he might go into WitSec, cut a deal that keeps him out of jail,” Sean said.
Her smile faded. “That’s a risk you take. You’re not getting close to him,” she said. “I’ve offered you the deal.”
“Usually with Vic,” he said, “I bring back a finger as proof.” This was a lie but he wanted to see her reaction. Vic would think he was a freak if he hauled back a bloodied finger.
“In your carry-on or in your checked luggage?” Not blinking, not afraid at his announcement.
“In a little baggie, actually.”
“Messy at security, and I don’t believe you.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“You can call me Red.”
“I’m impressed with the setup. You in with Bobby from the beginning?”
“I never met him until last night,” she said.
“I think that’s the first lie you’ve told me,” he said.
“Think what you like,” Red said. Her smile went crooked and she took a sip of her white wine. “Tell me. How were you going to spend the bet? The thousand bucks?”
“He told you, huh?”
“Yes.” She watched the bartender approach them and she shook her head. The barkeep went back to the other end of the bar.
“Fishing gear, I guess.”
“Fishing gear.” She said it like she might say urine sample. “I am so flattered that it was my maidenly virtue versus accessorizing your bass boat.”
Despite himself, he felt a blush creep up his collar.
Now Red gave him a sly sideways glance. “You want to make a bet with me, Sean?”
“No. I want to conclude our business and never see you again.”
“Now you’ve hurt my feelings,” she said with a coy pout.
“I’ll bet you heal fast,” Sean said.
“Bobby said you were ex-military.”