“You can think about it, if you want to,” he said.
“It’s just… I’ve never worked with a crew before.”
“It’s different than running solo. You’ve got people covering your back all the time, so there’s less chance of getting busted. The money’s also stronger. You’ll never have to worry about making your rent or car payment again. You’ll clear three hundred grand the first year, more as we grow. We can talk about the rest of the details later, if you’re interested.”
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Damn straight.”
“I’m flattered. Yeah, I’m interested. I’ve never made that kind of money in my life.”
He paid for the drinks. “Give me your number, and I’ll touch base in a couple of days.”
“Do you have something to write with?”
“I’ll memorize it.”
She recited her cell number and he committed it to memory. She’d been working solo when they’d first met, and he was surprised she was still going it alone. It was a tough world to survive in by yourself.
“I need to go,” he said. “It’s been a blast seeing you again.”
“You, too. I’m looking forward to this. It’ll be fun running together.”
They stood up at the same time. Mags came around the table and gave him a kiss that made his toes tingle, then left the bar faster than someone trying to catch a train. He started to leave as well and spied a piece of paper lying on the floor beneath her chair. It hadn’t been there when they’d sat down, and he guessed it had dropped out of her purse.
He picked the scrap of paper up and was introduced to a gorgeous teenage brunette. The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. The pretty girl in the photo had to be Mags’s daughter.
He slipped the photo into the billfold of his wallet. That day in Providence was forever etched in his memory, their conversation at the McD’s in her sputtering Toyota as clear as a recording. Puffing on a cigarette, she’d claimed that she was leaving Providence for the greener pastures of New York. Had she been wishing out loud, and was she stuck in Providence with a daughter to raise? It made sense, and if the photo was any indication, it had worked out okay. He didn’t want her to get home and find the photo missing, and he hurried outside.
She wasn’t in the waiting line for cabs. That left the street, and he took the handy moving sidewalk to the Strip. Leaving the property was a bad idea, but he didn’t care. Every guy had a dream girl that he fantasized about, and Maggie Flynn was his.
The Strip was the usual freak show of tourists and stumbling drunks. He walked up and down the block, bumping shoulders and taking sharp elbows, until he spotted her on the corner of Sahara, jabbering on a cell phone. Out came the photo while he worked on a clever line to say.
A black Jeep Cherokee with tinted windows lurched up to the curb, and she hopped in. He stuck his hand out with the photo just as the Cherokee pulled away. The passenger door wasn’t closed, giving him a glimpse of the driver. It was definitely a man.
The Cherokee disappeared in a sea of headlights. Mags had a partner, and that put a different spin on things. He needed to find out what the guy’s deal was and if he was cool and could be trusted. It would be a good way to start the conversation the next time they got together.
He took the moving sidewalk back to the hotel. A valet approached, holding a cordless phone. He raised the phone while gazing up at the surveillance camera over the valet stand.
“You left the property. I should have you beaten up for doing that,” Shaz said.
“Friends don’t hurt friends,” he said.
“With you, I’d make an exception. We nailed the wrong bitch coming out of the restroom.”
“I told Crunchie it wasn’t her, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Crunchie’s a fucking moron. Marcus wants to talk to you. Get your ass inside, and go to the craps pit. Ike and T-Bird are waiting for you.”
“Got it.”
He tossed the phone to the valet and headed inside. He’d been on the job a few hours, and his employers were already at each other’s throats. If he played his cards right, they just might end up killing each other.
TWENTY-FIVE
Ike and T-Bird were by the craps pit, their faces filled with bad intentions. Billy said, “I didn’t know I needed a hall pass to leave,” expecting they’d buy the line. Only Ike cuffed him in the head, making Billy see a bunch of stars that weren’t on Hollywood Boulevard.
They pulled him into the employee lounge and slapped him around. A handful of dealers on break got up and left. When Billy had taken enough punishment, they took him down a hallway to a room, threw open the door, and shoved him inside.
Doucette, his crazy bride, and Crunchie stood in front of a two-way mirror, their faces showing collective despair. In the next room was the seething blond who’d been mistakenly pulled off the floor. Hell hath no fury like a woman with a torn blouse.
Doucette cast Billy a scornful gaze. He wore a pin-striped suit, a silver necktie, and had slicked his hair back, and looked every bit the casino boss.
“You seem to have a problem following instructions,” Doucette said.
“I went outside for a breather. I didn’t realize I was breaking the rules.” The line wasn’t getting him anywhere, and he decided to steer the conversation in another direction. “You grabbed the wrong woman, didn’t you? I told Crunchie to back off.”
“Like hell you did. Shit bird’s lying,” the old grifter said.
“Ask Ike,” Billy said.
“Did he?” Doucette asked.
“Billy said she wasn’t the one,” Ike said under his breath.
“Then why did you grab her?” Doucette said.
“Because old smelly told us to,” Ike said.
“What did you call me?” the old grifter exploded.
“Old smelly. It’s because you stink. Take a shower,” Ike said.
“Both of you, shut up. We’ll deal with this later,” Doucette said.
Doucette resumed looking through the two-way mirror at his new problem. Dyed-blond hair and a nice face, she sported an ugly purple bruise on her forehead along with the ruined blouse. Standing beside her chair was a smarmy casino host with blow-dried hair and sparkling white teeth. A hidden microphone in the ceiling picked up his spiel. He was offering her a free stay, free meals in the casino’s four-star restaurants, free show tickets, and $10,000 of free credit to gamble with, provided she signed a form releasing the casino from liability for the beating she’d endured. When the host tried to shove a pen into her hands, she defiantly crossed her arms in front of her chest. Nothing doing.
“Any idea who she is?” Billy asked.
“Stay out of this,” Crunchie warned him.
“Hey, old man, I’m just trying to help.”
“You never helped anyone in your life,” the old grifter said.
Doucette slapped his hand into the old grifter’s chest. “Shut your yap. I want to hear what pretty boy has to say. Spit it out, kid. What’s on your mind?”
“You’re trying to make peace with her, and you don’t know who she is?” he asked.
“Tell him,” Doucette said to his bride.
“Her name’s Cecilia Torch, and she lives in Sunnyvale, California.” Shaz read off a xeroxed sheet of the woman’s driver’s license that security had made after pulling her off the floor. “That’s all we know about her. She hasn’t spoken a word.”
“Did she ask for a lawyer?”
“No.”
“How about a husband? Did she want to call him? She’s wearing a wedding band.”
“I didn’t hear her ask. Did you?”
“No,” Doucette said. “You think she’s hiding something from us?”
“It sure seems that way,” he said. “Maybe she’s supposed to be on a girls’ weekend, but came to Vegas to shack up with her boyfriend. Or she told her hubby she was heading downstairs to shop, but blew a few grand on the tables and is too ashamed to tell him. Whatever the reason is, she doesn’t want to talk about it.”