“Come to think of it, I do,” he said. “Want to hear it?”
“Spit it out,” Trixie said.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, Reverend Rock had three assassins working for him. Two Mexican hit women and a black guy named Lamont Paris. Lamont had a zipper scar running down the side of his face, liked to wear his pants down by his ankles.”
“There’s no one fitting that description on the surveillance tapes,” Trixie said.
“Lamont’s a little guy. Probably got lost in the crowd.”
“What does this have to do with the fire alarm being pulled?”
“I was getting to that. While your agents were raiding the joint, I spotted Lamont in the casino. Lamont told me he’d had a dispute with Rock and that it had gotten ugly and he’d killed some people. Lamont was afraid your men were going to arrest him, so he’d decided to shoot his way out. I panicked and asked those women to pull a fire alarm. I mean, can you imagine how many innocent people would have died if Lamont had started shooting?”
The gaming agents knew bullshit when they heard it. He didn’t care and kept talking.
“The fire alarm goes off, and people start booking out of the casino. I ran into the lobby and found Special Agent Grimes by the front doors. I told Grimes what Lamont was up to. Right then, Lamont came into view. Lamont had a gun in his hand and a crazed look in his eyes. Grimes stepped right in front of him. I mean, it was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. Lamont knocked Grimes down and took off. Grimes jumped up and pulled his gun and tried to stop Lamont but wounded a bystander instead.” He paused. “That’s why I pulled the fire alarm.”
“That’s the biggest bunch of crap I’ve ever heard,” Trixie exploded. “There was no hit man named Lamont Paris. You’re making this whole thing up.”
Billy folded his hands on the table. There were times when the truth didn’t matter. What mattered right now was that his story painted the victims into bad guys, the gaming agents into good guys, and Grimes into a hero for saving innocent lives. It was a story with a happy ending that if properly fed to the media might erase the sewer-like stench that had engulfed the city.
“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” LaBadie said. “You’re saying Grimes wasn’t shooting at you but was trying to take down a hit man. Is that what you want us to believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that this hit man killed several people in Doucette’s office.”
“That’s what Lamont told me.”
“And that this character was a threat to the well-being of every person inside the casino.”
“A serious threat.”
“Would you swear to this?”
“On a stack of Bibles.”
LaBadie worked his gum, thinking hard. Either they ran with his bullshit story and used it to fix the mess they’d created for themselves, or they didn’t.
“Excuse us,” LaBadie said.
The gaming agents left to talk things over.
“This should be interesting,” the attorney said.
SIXTY-THREE
Billy and his attorney talked meaningless crap while waiting for the gaming agents to return. First they discussed the weather, which was a joke, since Vegas was sunny nearly every day of the year. Then they discussed the rumor that the NBA might let a team come to town, another joke, since the league was afraid the town’s gamblers would fix every game. They didn’t talk about anything of significance, knowing a hidden camera in the ceiling fire alarm was recording them. The tape recorder was just a ploy, put there to lull them into complacency.
The gaming agents returned wearing their poker faces. They stood in front of Billy and his lawyer with LaBadie in the center. With the gaming board, it was never a good cop / bad cop scenario. They were nobody’s friend and never would be.
“We want to strike a deal with you,” LaBadie said.
“A very good deal,” Zander added.
“One that you should take,” Tricaricco said.
“I’m all ears,” Billy said.
“We’ll write up the story you just told us, word for word, and have you sign your name to it,” LaBadie said. “Your story will become the official version of what happened at Galaxy’s casino yesterday afternoon. You will stick to that story come hell or high water, and will not waver from it, especially if you speak to the media. Does that sound good to you?”
“I can do that,” he said.
“We also want you to tell us where the eight million dollars in money orders went,” LaBadie said. “Do that, and we’ll let you walk out of here.”
“The woman in the photo with the briefcase has your money orders,” Billy said.
“We know that. We want to know her name.”
“I don’t know her name.”
“Come on, Billy. That woman works for you.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“You and I both know that woman’s face got captured in a surveillance photo,” LaBadie said, talking straight with him. “We’re going to scan every surveillance tape we can find using OCR, and we’ll figure out who she is, and run her down. You’ve heard of OCR, haven’t you?”
“Optical character recognition. Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
“Then you know it’s not just for text anymore. Its facial-recognition capability is infallible. So do us both a favor and give us her name. We’ll go light on her. You have my word.”
Though originally used for scanning print, OCR was now the latest tool in law enforcement. A computer created an algorithm based upon a suspect’s physical characteristics and scanned it against a surveillance tape. Each time a match came up, the computer would flag the frame. By using OCR, the gaming board would be able to find Misty on other casino surveillance tapes without her disguise and run her down.
But those things took time. Days, even weeks before a match was made. Enough time for him to save Misty’s ass. Leaning forward, he said, “That woman has never worked for me, and I don’t know who she is. Now, do you want me to sign your piece of paper, or what?”
“You’re being a fool,” LaBadie said.
“You’re the one with his balls in a vise.”
The lawyer’s gold pen lay on the table. Billy picked it up.
“Ready when you are,” he said.
Billy walked out of the detention center a free man. Underman offered to give him a lift, and they walked down Lewis Avenue to the county parking facility where he’d parked.
“Where to?” his attorney asked, driving away.
“I need to get my car from Galaxy’s valet,” he said.
“I would advise you not to go back there.”
“I need my car.”
“Can’t one of your friends get it for you?”
Billy wouldn’t ask a member of his crew to do something that he wouldn’t do himself. Underman dropped the subject and turned on the local public radio station that played classical music when it wasn’t begging for donations. They listened to one of Beethoven’s symphonies while driving south on the Strip, the beautiful music colliding with the jarring sight of late-night drunks trolling the sidewalks with drink cups dangling in their hands.
“What happened to Doucette’s wife?” Billy asked, figuring his lawyer would know.
“I’ve heard several versions,” his attorney said. “The most reliable is that she shot one of Rock’s bodyguards, killed the second by smashing an ashtray over her head, and bit Rock in the neck and severed his jugular. She did all of this with a knife sticking out of her chest. By the time the gaming board found her, she’d bled out. Did you know her?”
“A little.”
“What was she like?”
“She had a lot of anger in her.”
“I’ve got a question for you. Is there really a hit man named Lamont Paris?”