James made his way over to the high rollers’ lounge, where men in suits and tuxedos were gathered around several tables. The gorgeous women on their arms could’ve been ripped out of the pages of any glamorous magazine. He looked for the blackjack table in the corner with the black dealer, a woman who used to be in his shows. He had found that her beauty and charm kept the high rollers, most of whom were old white men, drinking and gambling.
“Hey, Suzan,” he said as he sat down.
“Mr. James. Hope you’re having a pleasant evening.”
“Good enough.”
“Would you like to play a hand?”
“No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”
He watched her deal to the other two gentlemen at the table. They made moderately large bets, three or four thousand a hand, but their minds were on the women, whom James had planted in the high roller rooms of other casinos. The women would get to know the men, get them drinking, and then suggest they go to the Havana because they preferred the atmosphere there. The women slept with the winners, then attempted to steal back the winnings before morning. As soon as the men ran out of money or stopped gambling, the women excused themselves to the restroom and never returned to the table.
Cal Robertson sat down, and James glanced over at him. James had known many powerful men who had aged and watched their power fade. They wanted to feel relevant, as if they still mattered, and often, they were stubborn just because they wanted the attention.
“How long have we known each other, Cal? Thirty years?”
“Yeah,” he said, laying out a credit card that the dealer swiped. “Twenty thousand in chips, please.”
“This deal, Cal, it has to go through.”
“You’re betting on something that’s not going to happen, Bill. Cuba will never allow gambling again. They have bad memories. The mob ran everything down there when all of that was going on. People were starving in the streets, and the casino owners were moving millions of dollars out of the country every day. Even as bad as they got it now, they’re not going back to that.”
“I disagree. I go down there a lot, Cal. People are sick of the government telling them what career they’re going to have and who they can or can’t talk to. They realize communism was a mistake. Even the damned Commies know that, but they can’t just come out and say, ‘Hey, by the way, sorry for the mass murders. Turns out communism doesn’t work.’ They’d be crucified afterwards. They’re going to do it in degrees. But the casinos are coming, and we need to stake our claim now.”
Cal bet five thousand on a hand and pushed with the dealer. He swore under his breath and bet another five on the next hand. “Do you know how many grandchildren I have? Twenty-four, with two more on the way. I’ve got a legacy. I want to leave them something. If this merger goes through, and we can’t acquire it ’cause the Reds won’t allow it, we’ll lose our shirts. Do you hear me on that, Bill? We will lose this casino. The banks will tear it apart piece by piece and sell it like a junk car. Why take the risk?”
“Risk is how you get rich. You wanna be remembered as owning a two-bit casino that’s going to be taken over by pussy Harvard MBAs after we’re gone? That’s not where we come from, Cal. We’re bigger than that. What if Cuba does pay off? We won’t be multi-millionaires, Cal. We’ll be billionaires. You can give each of you grandkids ten million dollars and not even miss it. We can influence things. I don’t care about the money, either. I got no delusions. I know I’m on the way out of this life. I got, what, ten good years left, if I’m lucky? I can’t spend the money in that time, but I can change things. I can influence the way things work. I can set up think tanks and foundations. I can really change things.”
Cal bet his last ten thousand on a single hand and hit twenty-one. “You ever heard that saying, Bill? I think it was Churchill who said it. ‘If you’re not a liberal by twenty, you got no heart, but if you’re not conservative by thirty, you’ve got no brains.’ I’m fine with things the way they are. I’m not looking to shake things up. I’m sorry, Bill. My answer’s no.”
James looked down at the floor, at a scrap of trash, a paper from a marker. He picked it up and placed it in the garbage can underneath the table on the dealer’s side. “Then we got nothing else to discuss.”
James returned to his suite, where he walked out on the balcony and looked over the city. His city. No, that wasn’t true anymore. It had belonged to him and those like him, maybe three or four decades ago. But Las Vegas was excitement and immorality, and it was the purview of the young to stake a claim on those things.
He let the breeze blow over his face for a while then took out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“This is Bill,” he told the person on the other end. He hesitated a moment. “The old man won’t play ball. Get him out of the game.”
He hung up quickly, as if that would absolve him, then set the phone down on a glass table near him.
Lord forgive me.
22
Alma Parr’s Mustang screeched to a stop outside the home with the police tape around the front door. The normally quiet neighborhood was filled with families, couples, and single men and women from the middle class, looking to get away from the glitz of the strip and the casinos. Of all the filthy places in this town where this could have happened, it had to happen here.
He got out of the car, made his way past three cruisers, and ducked underneath the police tape to get into the house. He glanced back once to see if anybody was watching. He saw only a handful of people out on their patios. The house was filled with uniforms. Some were actually working, but most were chatting, laughing, and talking about unrelated things. They made him sick.
He walked into a crowd of six or so officers and barked, “Get to work or get the fuck outta this house.”
They dispersed, and he found the stairs leading to the basement. The atmosphere was much calmer downstairs, where forensics techs were already dusting for latent prints. One of the techs, whom Parr knew as a fiber expert, was on his hands and knees, brushing through the carpet with a little comb. When he found something of interest, he pulled out a little plastic baggie, placed his specimen inside, and went back to brushing.
There was also someone else Parr didn’t recognize; he had no uniform or badge.
“Can I help you?” Parr asked him.
“Oh, hi. I’m Preston Holbrook from the Sun.”
“Well, Preston Holbrook from the Sun, you’re in my fucking crime scene.” He looked around. “Who let a fucking reporter into my crime scene?” he shouted.
The room went quiet. No one dared to speak or look around. Everyone pretended to be busy. Parr turned back to Holbrook.
“I know you fuckers got people inside my department. They give you the hot tips, and you get ’em some cash or hookers or basketball tickets. You corrupt good men, trying to get by with the promise of money and pussy. Am I right?” he said with a smile.
The reporter, seemingly uncertain if Parr was joking or serious, just smiled awkwardly. “Um, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Parr placed his hand on the back of Holbrook’s neck, the smile still on his face. He squeezed tightly and pulled him near. “You’re gonna tell me who your source was.”
“You’re kidding, right? There’s no way I’m saying anything. And get your fucking hands off me, or you’ll be getting a call from my lawyer.”
Smiling, Parr nodded and slammed his elbow into Holbrook’s face. The reporter flew off his feet and onto his back. “You guys see him assault me?” Parr said. “I think he’s drunk. Better take him to the tank and let him sleep it off. Don’t let him out until I come see him tomorrow.”
A couple of the uniforms glanced at each other, helped Holbrook to his feet, and led him up the stairs.
“He’s over here, Captain.”
Parr turned towards the voice and spotted Javier and Jay. They were standing off to the side in a bedroom. The room was empty except for a large chest, a bed, and a dresser. Parr walked in and stood in front of the chest.