“That’s right. I’ll call you later with the details.”
“Billy, wait!” Misty called after him.
His crew had come out of their chairs, their faces filled with hopeful expressions.
“What about us?” Misty asked. “Are we part of this deal?”
“Of course you’re part of it. All for one, and one for all, and everyone gets their usual cut. I’ll fill you in later, and explain what your roles are. Now let me go. I’ve got work to do.”
He jogged across the lawn and climbed into the oven-hot Camaro, the flesh on his back burning up as it touched the driver seat. His Droid lay on the passenger seat, and he picked it up to stare at its face. He hadn’t gotten any distress phone calls from Ike or T-Bird. No news was good news, and he fired up the ignition and made the engine roar.
This was going to work. The pieces were falling into place, the stars aligning in his favor. By tomorrow night, he and his crew would be rolling in dough, while Marcus Doucette and his murderous wife would be scratching their asses, wondering where the hell their money was.
He pulled onto the street. His crew had come outside to stand on the front lawn. They began waving to him. They looked so damn happy that he welled up with emotion. He hadn’t had much of a family life growing up-his mother in prison for stabbing a man to death with a pair of scissors, his father having to cheat at cards to make ends meet-and he’d always wondered what it would have been like to have a gang of brothers and sisters to hang out with. He guessed this was the next best thing, and he waved as he burned past.
“We love you, Billy!” Misty shouted.
THIRTY-FIVE
Mags stood outside her town house, cooling her jets. Frank had said noon, and it was now twelve fifteen. He could have called, but that would have been the polite thing to do.
The desert air was heating up, the air scorching hot. Sometimes, she toyed with the idea of skipping town and starting her life over in another city, but deep down, she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Her contract with the gaming board was ironclad. In it, she’d admitted to her crimes and had agreed to work off her punishment by becoming a paid informant. If she ran away, she’d become a wanted felon, and the police would run her down at warp speed. Hanging on her kitchen wall was a calendar that she used to count off the days. In eleven months and twenty-six days she’d become a free woman. If she only lasted that long.
Twelve twenty came and went. Murphy’s Law said light up a cigarette when you want something to happen, so she fired up a Kool and took a few puffs. Sure enough, Frank pulled into her drive and his window came down.
“Get in, and get rid of that butt,” he said.
She ground out her cigarette and hopped in. Frank had cleaned up. His unruly hair had gel in it, and he was wearing a pretty blue necktie. A box of candy appeared on her lap.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said.
She undid the bow and popped the lid. Chocolate-covered strawberries. Considering he’d smacked her in the face, she’d been expecting a piece of jewelry. The candy made her feel cheap, and she placed it on the floor between her feet.
They drove in silence. The relationship was starting to feel like a bad marriage. Sleeping with Frank had been a good idea at the beginning of their arrangement. It had let her exert control over him and had given her the upper hand. Now that control was gone, and she felt apprehensive when they were together, never knowing what he might do.
Soon they were driving past a wasteland of strip malls on South Decatur. Frank pulled up in front of a breakfast joint called Mr. Mamas and parked.
“Sit in the back. I’ll be in after I make this call,” he said.
“You want something?” she asked, trying to act nice, when all she wanted to do was hurt him.
“Get me some coffee and a breakfast burrito,” he said. Any mention of food always perked him up. “Order yourself something as well; just don’t go overboard.”
She went in. The restaurant had black linoleum tables, a counter with stools, and tables filled with Mexican workers eating chicken-fried steak smothered in gravy. She took a table in back where a printed menu sat on the table. She decided on a Greek omelet and ordered from a waitress who gave her a sympathetic look. She glanced in the mirror behind the table and saw the puffiness around her jaw. It made her want to hurt Frank that much more.
Coffee came, and she sucked it down. How was she going to pay Frank back for last night without fucking up her already fucked-up situation? She didn’t know. All she knew was that when the opportunity presented itself, she was going to stick the knife in.
Outside, a black sedan pulled up. A thickset man wearing a dark suit climbed out, said good morning, but didn’t shake Frank’s hand. The man’s face was a blunt instrument. His eyebrows were connected, his forehead sloped. This had to be Frank’s ill-tempered boss Trixie, who’d denied Frank a promotion after Billy had pulled the wool over the gaming board’s eyes at the Hard Rock. They spoke for a minute before coming inside and sitting down.
“This is my boss, Special Agent Bill Tricaricco,” Frank said. “Bill, this is Maggie Flynn, the paid informant I’ve been working with for the past year.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Trixie said.
“I’m sure it was all lies,” she said.
Their food came. It smelled delicious, and she blew on a mouthful of omelet before taking a bite. Frank’s breakfast burrito also looked good, although Frank didn’t touch it. The waitress asked Trixie if he cared to see a menu. He grunted no and told the waitress they wanted some privacy. He placed his wallet on the table so his gold badge was showing. The waitress shot Mags another sympathetic look before walking away.
“Sure you don’t want a bone to gnaw on?” Mags asked.
“Don’t get cute on me, little lady,” Trixie said. “I can make your life miserable in more ways than you can imagine.”
“More miserable than Frank has? That would take a lot.”
Frank leaned in. “Bill has a deal for you. Listen to what he has to say.”
“A deal? As in, Let’s Make a Deal? Oh boy, I can’t wait.”
“Just shut up, and hear Bill out.”
She liberally sprinkled salt on her eggs and resumed eating. A broomstick was about to get rammed straight up her ass, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. The knuckle-scraper sitting across from her cleared his throat.
“You have eleven months left on your contract with the gaming board,” Trixie said. “What would you say if we tore your contract up?”
“Who do I have to sleep with?” she asked.
“No one. Frank tells me that you ran into Billy Cunningham at Galaxy’s casino last night, and that Billy is doing a job for Marcus Doucette. Is that true?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Frank also said that you two know each other from the old neighborhood.”
She rested her fork on her plate. With cold eyes she gazed at Frank, then at his boss. “If you’re asking me to do something that will hurt Billy, the answer is no.”
“Billy’s a menace,” Trixie said. “He and his crew have ripped off every casino in town, many of them multiple times, and we’ve never been able to put him away. Now we can, and you’re going to help us.”
“Take the potatoes out of your ears. I said no.”
“No is not an option. If you don’t play along, I’m going to take you downtown and throw your pretty ass in jail, and no smart-talking lawyer in town will be able to get you out. I’ve got the goods on you, Maggie. Take a look if you don’t believe me.”
Trixie parted his suit jacket and removed a folded sheet of paper. He smoothed out the creases before placing it on the table in front of her. On the page were five cancelled checks captured on a color Xerox machine. Each check was from a wealthy widow who’d made the mistake of playing a friendly game of gin rummy with Mags poolside at one of the Strip’s fancy hotels, fifty cents a point. The amounts on the widows’ checks ranged between $2,500 and $4,000, payable to Maggie Flynn.