The men did not acknowledge one another. There were security cameras in the lobby, by the casino. They walked to the elevators, and Richmond touched the button. When the door opened, both men stepped in. Richmond pushed the button for the fifth floor. When they arrived, he turned left. Mandor went right. There was a security camera inside the elevator as well. There were no security cameras in the fifth-floor hallway. When the door shut, Mandor turned and followed Richmond.
“How was the drive?” the bald-headed Richmond asked over his shoulder.
“Sweet,” Mandor replied as he caught up to his partner. He gave him a pat on the shoulder. Mandor liked his old friend, and he respected him. “There was no traffic at this hour.”
“Yeah,” Richmond said. “I made it from Oceanside in four hours flat.”
Richmond lived in a small cabin high in the Coastal Range of Southern California. He built the place himself four years ago. After years of freezing his ass in Chicago — where he was one of five kids raised by a single mother in a one-bedroom walk-up on the South Side — then as a driver in Alaska, Richmond wanted to live in consistently warm sunshine. That had been Mandor’s desire, too, though he had always wanted to be on the water.
Richmond did not know Eric Stone, the gentleman who had contacted them. All Stone said was that they had been recommended by Pete at the oil company. Peter Farmer was the foreman on the last rig where Mandor had worked. Richmond had recorded the conversation, and let Stone know it. Richmond made Stone state that he was not a government agent and this was not a sting.
The men knew what this was not. They did not know what it was. Richmond had called Pete to make sure Stone was legitimate. Pete said he was, though he did not know what the man needed.
They stopped in front of room 515, and Richmond knocked. Mandor pushed his shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair behind his neck. He did not like to wear it in a ponytail. He did not like restraints of any kind. That was how he ended up in the oil business. Back home in Toledo, Ohio, when he was twenty, he had beaten up Noel Lynch’s former boyfriend when he found them together. Rather than face charges and possible jail time, he fled to Mexico and then to Venezuela, where he was hired to work on an offshore rig. He loved the challenge. He actually enjoyed facing the battering winds, the savage cold, the endless hard labor. When that got routine, he traveled to Alaska. When that ceased to challenge him, he and Richmond came up with their new gig. One that had no overhead, was advertised by word of mouth, and was not taxed. They provided muscle for anyone who needed it.
The men had started doing that in Alaska. When environmentalists tried to block the tanker trucks or impede access to the rigs, the two men would cart the organizer away — or his wife, if she had come with him — and persuade them to take their grievances somewhere else. Roughing them up cost less than attorneys and was quicker and more effective. It also circumvented the police, whose arrests merely delayed the protests but did not eliminate them.
The work proved to be lucrative and something more. While Mandor was working in Punta Cardon, he learned that Noel had married the stupid jock he’d taken apart. Probably because she felt sorry for a guy who now had only one functioning eye. Each time Mandor hit someone, he was smacking that swaggering linebacker. Some people would call that sociopathic. To Mandor, it was cathartic. He felt that if everyone enjoyed their work as much as he did, the world would be a better place.
The door opened, and a short, well-dressed man stood inside. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, with straw-colored hair and a baby face.
“Mr. Stone?” Richmond said.
“Yes. You are Mr. Richmond?”
Richmond nodded. Stone looked at Mandor.
“Mr. Mandor?”
“Yeah,” Mandor said. He could not say “Yes sir” to this kid.
“Come in,” Stone said as he stepped aside.
Richmond entered first. “So how do you know Pete?” he asked as he stepped into the small foyer.
Mandor walked in, and Stone shut the door behind him. The room was medium-sized, with a king-size bed, a kitchenette, and a small dining area. The drapes were drawn, and all the lights were on.
“Before I answer, would you mind if I did a Raw scan?” Stone asked.
“What’s that?” Richmond asked.
“A check for radio waves,” Stone said. “I want to make sure you’re not broadcasting to someone on the outside.”
“Fair enough,” Richmond said.
Mandor shrugged.
Stone went to the luggage stand at the foot of the made bed. He removed a device that looked like a small flashlight with an earplug. He put the plug in his ear and slowly shone a cone of pale yellow light down each man in turn. He seemed satisfied with the results.
“Would either of you care for something?” Stone asked. “A beverage?”
“I’m okay,” Richmond said.
“Me, too,” Mandor told him.
“Tell me about Pete,” Richmond went on.
“Peter is an old friend of my employer.” Stone drew a cell phone from the inside left pocket of his tailored black blazer. “You may phone Peter if you wish. He will vouch for us.”
“I already spoke to him,” Richmond said. “He told me you were okay, but he did not tell me who you work for. Or what you want.”
“Or what it pays,” Mandor added. That was the only thing he cared about. If the price was right, he would pretty much do anything for anyone.
Stone sat in one of two wicker chairs beside a small dining area table. He invited the other men to sit. Richmond took the other chair. Mandor perched on the edge of the bed.
“I work for a gentleman who is an intelligence officer and political activist who has a great many supporters in the international business sector,” Stone said. “Peter Farmer is one of those men. When the time comes to tell you more, you will be very proud to be a part of what we are doing.”
“Will we?” Richmond said laconically.
“That’s assuming we decide to become a part of this,” Mandor said. He did not know what Richmond was thinking, but Mandor did not agree to anything blindly. “You want us to trust you, but you’re not trusting us.”
“An employer’s prerogative,” Stone said.
“We’re not employees yet,” Mandor said.
“True,” Stone said. “Let’s see if we can remedy that.”
Stone was smooth, probably a lawyer. Mandor did not like him. The young man smiled confidently as he slipped a slender hand into his shirt pocket. He withdrew a small manila envelope and placed it on the table. The package clanged lightly.
“There are two keys inside,” Stone said. “One of them operates a charcoal gray Dodge van on the bottom floor of the parking structure. The van is in your name, Mr. Richmond. The second key opens a safe-deposit box at the Las Vegas International Trust and Fund Company on Flamingo Avenue. Inside the box is twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. That is half the payment you will receive for what will be three days’ work. Would you like to hear more?”
Richmond and Mandor looked at the envelope and then at each other.
“Why the van?” Richmond asked.
“The windows are dark and bulletproof,” Stone said.
“Go on, Mr. Stone,” Richmond said.
“You have a cabin in the mountains in Fullbrook, Mr. Richmond,” Stone said. “There are no neighbors for acres in all directions.”