“How much did Ike steal from us?” Rock said to the speaker.
“Who’s this?” the cage manager asked.
“The person you were supposed to give the money orders to.”
On the screen, Don started coughing. A reflexive action, born from fear.
“Answer the question,” Rock barked.
“He got all eight million,” the cage manager said.
“How the fuck am I gonna pay my dealers back in LA!”
“I don’t know,” the cage manager said.
Rock brought his fist down on the speaker, disconnecting the call. Then Rock played back the events of the past twenty minutes and realized that while he’d been watching the Gypsies scam him, another scam had been taking place. There was no doubt in his mind that Cunningham had orchestrated this; Ike and T-Bird were too brain-dead to scam a casino and get away with it.
Rock shifted his gaze to Doucette. “Your guy ripped me off.”
“You’re not blaming me, are you?” Doucette said.
“Yes. I trusted you, and you failed me.”
“Wait a minute-I’ve got an idea,” Doucette said.
Doucette removed an abstract painting from the wall and spun the dial of a combination safe. It sprang open, and he pulled out stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills, which he tried to give to Rock’s bodyguards. The bodyguards refused to take the money, and Doucette tentatively approached Rock. The drug kingpin shook his head and scowled.
“Give the money to your dealers, tell them the rest is coming,” Doucette said.
“Coming from where?” Rock said.
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”
“You’ve never had a smart idea in your life.”
“Come on, Rock, I’ve always been loyal.”
In Rock’s experience, those who proclaimed their loyalty were usually the first to roll on him. He clutched his walking stick with both hands and took a practice swing. The stacks of bills spilled from Doucette’s hands to the floor, and the casino boss started backing up.
“No, please,” Doucette begged.
“I’ll make it painless, if that makes you feel better,” Rock said.
Doucette tripped over his own feet and fell backward onto the couch. His arms shot out and he begged for mercy. Rock didn’t know the meaning of the word and came forward.
A shot rang out. One of the TV screens imploded, the image of Don the cage manager cascading to the floor in a thousand pieces. The bullet had sailed by Rock’s head, yet the drug kingpin hadn’t flinched. It wasn’t the first time he’d been shot at.
Shaz stood behind her husband’s desk, holding a silver-plated handgun she’d pulled from the center drawer, her arms trembling in fear.
“Leave him alone,” she declared.
“And if I don’t?” Rock said.
“I’ll shoot you, and those dumb Mexican bitches as well.”
“Is that a fact?”
“I’m not kidding, Rock.”
“Why you doing this? I thought Marcus was just a meal ticket.”
“Maybe so, but he’s the only one I’ve got. Stay away from him.”
Rock had already decided how he was going to handle the situation. He dipped his chin, and his bodyguards drew knives from their sleeves, the polished blades sparkling in the bright daylight. Before joining his organization, they’d murdered scores of rival members of the drug cartel they’d worked for. Killing was in their blood, and their faces took on feral expressions.
“Take her out.”
With feline quickness they crossed the office and attacked from opposite sides. Shaz fired at them amateurishly, the bullets spraying the walls. One of the bodyguards caught a ricochet and brought her hand up to her chest in surprise.
The second bodyguard let out a cry for her wounded comrade. She knocked the gun away and began poking Shaz in the abdomen with the point of her knife, determined to make her suffer. Shaz was a dead woman; she just didn’t know it yet.
Rock shifted his attention to Doucette, who was crawling on his knees toward the door in a sorry attempt to escape. Rock despised weakness and realized what a terrible mistake he’d made trusting Doucette to run his casino. He got on top of the casino boss and raised his walking stick.
“Say your prayers.”
SIXTY-ONE
Cory and Morris watched the rental peel out of the casino parking lot. Ike and T-Bird were going to be in for a rude surprise when they discovered the briefcase was filled with rocks.
Their job done, they began the long walk around the property to the Strip. The escape plan called for them to grab a cab and head back to Gabe’s. Vegas cabs were not allowed to pick up rides in the street, and they had already scoped out a taxi stand a block from Galaxy.
Cory was sick with worry. He’d forgotten to wear his disguise inside the casino, which was the worst mistake a cheater could make. He decided to confess to Billy before Gabe told Billy what he’d done. That way, he’d have a chance to apologize and beg for mercy. But before he did that, he needed to tell Morris. It was only fair that Morris knew first.
“Listen, man, I’ve got a confession to make,” Cory said.
“This sounds bad,” Morris said.
“It is.”
“Worse than the time we were sharing a bed and you had the runs?”
“Much worse.”
“Lay it on me.”
A sickening barrage of gunfire ripped a hole in the afternoon air, the sound coming from the street where the two ex-gridiron stars had just gone. Across the parking lot, a door to an NV Energy truck banged open, and gaming agents wearing NV uniforms piled out, brandishing guns.
“It’s a raid. Get inside,” Cory said.
Inside they found another bad scene. Cory grabbed a cocktail waitress and learned that a brawl in the lobby had spread and people were panicking.
They decided to try the front entrance and hustled across the casino floor. Mobs of players huddled around the felt-covered tables, while dealers and pit bosses stood statue-like at their posts, guarding the trays of precious chips in their possession.
The hotel lobby was no better. A crowd had gathered and was trying to leave. Blocking their way was a line of stern-faced gaming agents checking ID.
“Maybe there’s another exit we can use,” Cory said.
They retreated into the casino. The gaming agents disguised as NV workers were now blocking the rear exit, setting the trap, and Cory knew what that meant: arrest, bail, lawyers, and if the crew got lucky, a plea deal that would let them get out of the slammer before they were wrinkled and gray. Or maybe there was a solution right in front of his face that he wasn’t seeing. He walked over to a Wheel of Fortune slot machine and fed a crisp twenty into the bill feeder.
“Are you crazy? What are you doing?” Morris asked.
“Thinking,” Cory said.
“Hurry up, man.”
The slots in the Strip casinos were tight, and his money was gone in the blink of an eye. As he donated another twenty to the machine, Travis and Gabe took a pair of seats beside him.
“What happened to the assholes?” Travis asked.
“I think the cops took them out,” Cory said.
Pepper and Misty took the chairs next to Gabe and Travis, still wearing their Mexican hit-women disguises. Misty dropped the briefcase with the money orders to the floor.
“That sucker’s heavy. Anyone seen Billy?” Misty asked.
“Billy just texted me,” Travis said. “He wants to meet up in the men’s room.”
“Why there?” Misty asked.
“No surveillance cameras in the john,” Travis explained.
Billy sat on the elevated chair in the shoe-shine stand and studied his crew as they came in. No one was freaking out or crying. That was good, because they needed to stay calm if the plan he’d hatched to get them out of the casino was going to work.
A plastic bag lay at his feet. He picked it up and passed out the ball caps, T-shirts, and cheap pairs of sunglasses he’d lifted from one of the casino’s clothing stores.