“Debbie’s only been here three years. I’ve put in ten.”
“The boys upstairs like her. She’s made some busts, and she’s got great legs.”
Special Agent Debbie Goodman had a horseshoe stuck up her ass. Do Good had made several solid busts, the most recent a Strip casino laundering cash using an intricate series of wire transfers. The Strip casino had paid a huge fine, and Debbie’s stock had risen in the department. This was the first time Grimes had heard she was vying for Trixie’s job, and it galled him.
“When will your replacement be announced?” Grimes asked.
“A few days before I retire,” Trixie said.
“Which is when?”
“I’m blowing out of here in two weeks. I’m still waiting for the paperwork to get processed. Folks in Carson City don’t know the meaning of fast.”
“So I still have time,” Grimes said.
“For what?”
“To bust the Gypsies and get your job.”
“I thought you told me the Gypsies slipped town and left a cold trail.”
“I haven’t given up yet.”
“You’ve got a lead on them?”
“Yes. And I plan to work it until I find them.”
“That’s the spirit, Frank.”
Trixie unscrewed a bottled water and took a long swallow. There was an ugly rumor swirling around that Trixie would soon be in the employ of Pearl Gaming, which owned four casinos in town. There was nothing wrong with Trixie entering the private sector; government employees did it every day. The problem was with Pearl. A month did not go by when one of their casinos wasn’t getting fined for running games that did not pay out the advertised rate of return. Pearl’s management didn’t care, and they simply paid the fines and continued to break the law. Only the threat of the gaming board revoking Pearl’s gambling license would change things, but the gaming board hadn’t yanked a casino’s license in forty years.
Hearing a knock on the door, Trixie barked, and a timid secretary stuck her head in. “There’s a man on the phone who needs to speak to Frank.”
“Take his number, and Frank will call him back,” Trixie said.
“I tried, and he refused to give it to me. He said it’s urgent.”
“Maybe that’s your lead on the Gypsies,” Trixie said.
Grimes’s cheeks burned. Trixie, his boss and friend, was telling him to leave. The shelves behind Trixie’s desk were bare, the mementos boxed away. Trixie already had one foot out the door, his days of dealing with field agents a thing of the past.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Grimes said.
“You do that, Frank. And good luck.”
He was going to need it.
Grimes parked his burly frame into the chair in his cramped cubicle. He had a number of snitches on his payroll, and it wasn’t uncommon for one to call needing money to bail his sorry ass out of jail. Grimes yanked the phone out of its receiver and said, “This is Special Agent Grimes. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“This is Billy Cunningham,” the voice on the other end said.
Grimes gripped the receiver so hard it made his hand throb. If any single cheat had hurt his reputation and stunted his chance for a promotion, it was Cunningham, and it was all he could do not to curse him out. “You just pulled me out of a meeting. This better be good.”
“I need your help,” Cunningham said.
“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. You calling me for help. Ha-ha.”
“There’s something in it for you.”
“I’m hanging up the phone. Have a nice day.”
“There’s a Chinese gangster in town trying to fix the Super Bowl. His name’s Broken Tooth, and I can help you nail his ass.”
“His name’s Broken Tooth? Get real.”
“Guy’s got his own page on Wikipedia. Check him out if you don’t believe me.” Grimes decided to do just that. On his cluttered desk sat an ancient PC. He got on the Internet and with Google’s help was soon reading a page devoted to a notorious Chinese criminal named Wan Kuok-koi, aka Broken Tooth. According to the article, the guy was a public menace and had fixed hundreds of sporting events around the world. As a result of his gangster lifestyle, a meat cleaver had mangled one of his arms.
“You still there?” Cunningham asked.
“I’m here,” Grimes said. “So how does this guy plan to fix the Super Bowl?”
“Broken Tooth approached me to talk to players for the Rebels who spend their off hours at a private villa at Caesars. The plan is for the players to fix certain plays, which will cause several proposition bets to fall his way. Broken Tooth needs the money to finish building a beachfront resort he owns in China so he can live happily ever after.”
“Did you approach the players?”
“I sure did.”
“I should arrest you right now.”
“I didn’t have a choice. Broken Tooth’s goons kidnapped my limo driver and are holding him hostage.”
“You’re saying this Chinese guy blackmailed you.”
“That’s right. Now are you interested, or should I call the FBI?”
Fixing the Super Bowl. The words floated through Grimes’s brain like a banner being pulled by a prop plane. Sporting events were being fixed every single day, and the Vegas sports books took a beating because of it. But because these fixes took place outside of Nevada, the gaming board was powerless to stop them. It occurred to Grimes that this would be a first.
Movement caught his eye. Trixie’s office had a glass wall, and he spied Debbie Do Good standing in front of Trixie’s desk, working her charms. He came out of his chair.
“I’m interested. Where are you?”
“I’m at a joint called Herbs and Rye.”
“Never heard of it. You’d better give me directions.”
“Head west on Sahara and make a U-turn after crossing Valley View. Look for the dark, plain building next to the ARCO gas station and use the red door. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Yes, you will,” Grimes said.
There were so many gin joints in Vegas that Grimes had given up trying to keep track of them. In the good old days, the bars had served whiskey, wine, and beer. Today, the bars had wine cellars, fifty craft beers on tap, and exotic cocktails that took five minutes to prepare.
Grimes came through the front door of Herbs and Rye and stopped to let his eyes adjust. The place had a handful of customers, all tourists. Grimes could tell they were tourists because they were getting drunk in the middle of the day. Cunningham sat at the end of the bar, eating a plate of calamari. He waved to Grimes like an old friend.
Grimes gritted his teeth and headed down the bar. Not that long ago, he’d taken a contract out on Cunningham’s life, a plan that had blown up in his face. And now here he was, about to get in bed with the little bastard. He didn’t care. He wanted that corner office.
He sat on a stool next to Cunningham and ordered a beer. He wasn’t supposed to drink on the job, but if he ordered a nonalcoholic drink in a bar, everyone would know he was a cop.
Cunningham pushed the calamari his way. “Have some. It will make you feel better.”
“Who said I wasn’t feeling well?”
“It’s written all over your face. You look like crap.”
“What’s all this shit it’s mixed with?”
“Banana peppers, prosciutto, and cherry pepper aioli. It’s really tasty.”
Grimes stuck a piece into his mouth and chewed. It was the best calamari he’d ever tasted, but he wasn’t going to tell Cunningham that.
“Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out,” Grimes said.
“Two nights ago, Broken Tooth paid me a visit down on Fremont Street. He’s got this plan to fix the Super Bowl by bribing the defensive line of the Rebels. Problem was, I wasn’t interested.”