"She post bail?"
"Not yet."
"You sure she was in on it?"
"Sure, I'm sure," Sammy said. "I've got the whole thing on video."
"I saw it," Nick reminded him, sticking the unlit cigar between his teeth, "and I didn't see her doing a frigging thing."
"She was signaling him," Sammy said defensively.
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"Then why didn't you bust Fontaine when you had the chance?"
"Because I wanted to watch the video a few times. I didn't want to accuse either of them before I was sure."
"But now you're sure."
"Now I'm sure."
"One-hundred-percent-positive sure?"
Sammy grunted. There were times when he'd prefer starving on Social Security than listening to Nick's line of crap.
Nick sensed Sammy's displeasure. His unlit cigar took on the appearance of a living thing as it wiggled in his mouth. "What about Gaming Control?" he asked.
"They're not on our side on this one," Sammy said.
"You're shitting me."
"Look," Sammy said, "I can prove Nola was cheating. Every time she checked her hole card, she signaled its identity to Fontaine."
"How?"
"When she was pat, she leaned on the table with her nondeck hand. When she was stiff, she pulled back."
"Will it hold up in court?"
"Wily hired a consultant to back me up. Some retired dick from New Jersey."
"From Jersey? You're shitting me."
"He's supposed to be the best."
Nick chewed away, not liking it. Without Gaming Control on their side, he'd probably lose in court. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to press charges. If word got out he was going soft on hustlers, his joint would be labeled a candy store, and he'd have more cheats at his tables than an outhouse has flies.
"How long she been working for us?" Nick asked.
"Almost ten years," Sammy replied.
"Any trouble before?"
"No, sir. She's been faithful."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Nick yammered like an old Beatles song. "Quit blowing me. Dealers don't turn rotten overnight. She's probably screwed us before."
Sammy's eyes had gotten sore looking through Nola Briggs's evaluation reports. A sheet was filled out by the pit bosses each week that served as the dealers' report card, with marks for attitude, appearance, customer comments, and most important, the dealers' win and loss percentages. Nothing in Nola's records suggested that she'd been anything but a model employee until now.
"I don't think so," Sammy replied.
"You contradicting me?" Nick asked sharply.
"You pay me to tell you the truth," Sammy said. "I'm just earning my money, that's all."
"Glad to hear it." Standing, Nick turned his back on Sammy and looked out the picture window behind his desk. Two weeks ago, he'd had to fire the grounds crew; now the lawns were the color of cinnamon. Once upon a time he'd owned the swankiest club in town, the house of the highest high rollers; then he'd blinked and found himself running a dump that catered to losers and tour groups.
"Why you think she did it?" Nick wondered. "Money?"
"We checked her bank records. She was making ends meet."
"You think it was greed?"
"No," Sammy said. "Spite."
"Toward who? That pinhead Wily?"
"No. Toward you."
Nick stared at Sammy's ghostly reflection in the window. His head of surveillance looked ready for a rest home.
"Come again?"
"Toward you," Sammy repeated. "You fucked her."
Nick did a snappy one-eighty and tossed the unlit cigar, which hit Sammy square in the chest. "Watch your fucking language."
"Yes, sir."
"In what way did I fuck her?"
"You fucked her," Sammy said, "as in sticking your male part into her female part."
"I don't need a fucking anatomy lesson," Nick roared. "Who the hell told you I fucked her?"
"Wily," Sammy said.
"Did he say when this alleged fucking took place?"
"Wily said she showed up on your doorstep about ten years ago. Drove out to Vegas from the East Coast and her car broke down in our parking lot. You happened on her and invited her up to your suite. Next thing you know, wazoom."
"Wazoom?"
"As in you fucked her."
Nick put his hand on his forehead, struggling to find a memory. "Let me guess. This was before I stopped drinking."
"Wily said it happened right before."
"Another ghost in the closet, huh?"
"Afraid so, boss."
Nick shook his head sadly. He had quit the sauce a decade ago and was still paying for it. A drinker of legendary proportions, he'd effectively erased whole portions of his memory, including most of his first two marriages and several torrid affairs, forcing him to rely on Wily and several other longtime employees to remember the wrongs he could not. "You said this girl's worked for me for ten years. How come her face isn't familiar?"
"She works the graveyard shift. She was subbing for another girl when this happened."
"She's worked the graveyard shift for ten years?"
"By choice, according to Wily."
"This is some strange chickie. You sure I screwed her?"
"Wily said it wasn't a big deal," Sammy explained. "It lasted a week. Then something happened and you split up. But Wily said it ended friendly; you gave her a job dealing blackjack and she's been a model employee ever since."
"Until now," Nick said.
"Yeah, until now."
"Let me see the little lady's file."
Nola's file was as thick as Nick's thumb, filled with vacation forms and work evaluation sheets. A recent photo was stapled to the inside page, and he stared at a tasty-looking blonde with high cheekbones and capped teeth. Nothing about her looked familiar, and he found himself wondering if it had been anything more than a one-night stand. An orange GoGo tour bus pulled up in front of his casino and he watched a mob of white-haired geezers pile out and form a conga line, itching to get inside and take a shot at One-Armed Billy. Then it would be off to the Liberace Museum and a box lunch at the Hoover Dam. Across the street at the Mirage, a dozen stretch limos filled the entrance, the high rollers lining up to squander their dough.
"Here's what I want you to do," Nick said. "You track this Fontaine character down and beat him to within two inches of his life. Redo his face, break his legs, whatever you want. Just make sure you hurt him."
"That shouldn't be too hard," Sammy said.
"Good. And make sure everyone in town hears about it."
"Yes, sir."
Nick watched Sammy grow small as he crossed the office.
"Hey," he called after him.
Sammy stopped on a dime. "Yeah?"
"You sure I banged her?"
"Lola in Housekeeping confirmed it," Sammy replied.
Nick winced as his head of surveillance left.
Catching hustlers was the toughest job in Las Vegas, as Sammy liked to tell anyone who cared to listen. They acted just like normal people, came in all shapes and sizes, and could talk their way out of just about any tight situation.
Take the little old lady playing blackjack down below. Using a portable camera with a zoom lens, Sammy had been spying on her from the catwalk for twenty minutes, waiting for her to make her move. She was a sweet old gal, with blue hair and bifocals, somebody's grandmother for sure. She had a nice way about her, too, with a consoling word for her fellow players when they busted, a smile and little burst of applause when they won. Unfortunately, she was a hustler, and it had taken Sammy a while to spot her.
The guy posing as her son was also a hustler, an athletic type in his early thirties with a hundred-dollar haircut and a Ralph Lauren wardrobe. Hanging on Mom's chair, he complemented the old gal perfectly.
His mother had been increasing her bets and now had three hundred dollars on the table. Through his camera Sammy saw the son's shoulders tense, and he zoomed in on his mother's hand. Unlike most casinos, the Acropolis let the players touch their cards. It was old school, but Nick wouldn't have it any other way.