ordered a martini from room service and the agent in place called for help. Padgett rapped urgently on Brayer’s door, then passed in.
Elizabeth returned to her reports: “Toscanzio is at the MGM Grand Hotel, where it appears he has been for at least twenty-four hours.” So that’s part of it, she thought. Somebody lost track of one of them, and now the whole organization is supposed to compensate for the lost day by watching them all twice as hard, as though they could bring back that day.
“Elizabeth,” said Brayer from his doorway. “Come on in. I think we’ve got something.”
Sure thing, Mr. Brayer, thought Elizabeth as she set aside the sheaf of reports and stepped to the inner office. It had to be an isolated farmhouse, she thought. The agents were getting edgy and it was about time for a farmhouse. Field agents seemed to live with the vision of an isolated house in the backs of their minds because they were weaned on the Apalachin conference and Boiardo’s private graveyard. It was like the Holy Grail to them, and you knew they were getting eager when it started turning up.
“What is it?” she asked.
“All hell seems to be breaking loose,” said Padgett. So it wasn’t the farmhouse. Maybe they were already up to the Man With A Rifle, always amended in final reports to man with a long, thin parcel (or golf club or broom or cane or pool cue).
“What, exactly?”
“Three murders in Las Vegas in the last two hours—at least two of them odd-job types. The other one seems to be some kind of businessman who just got in the way while they were taking out the first of the others. We’re checking, of course.”
“What makes you think it’s significant?”
“Because Balacontano made his first appearance in public while it was going on. Went down to the hundred- dollar tables and started betting the farm at the crap tables, not even looking to see if he’d won or lost, flashing a lot of money and attracting attention.”
Elizabeth noted that the farm had made its appearance in a new avatar, but didn’t let it distract her. “What about other people? Toscanzio? Castiglione?”
“All in an uproar for the first few minutes, then quiet. Shut up in their houses and hotels. But no soldiers in evidence anywhere, almost as though somebody got word to them and convinced them there was nothing to worry about. Like they were ignoring it for now. Or maybe they knew in advance. It’s hard to tell at this distance, and the reports are all of the ‘we’re standing by’ variety.”
Brayer was still silent, staring at the transcript on his desk. Elizabeth waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. She asked Padgett, “Any idea yet on how it was done?”
“No,” said Padgett. “Give me ten minutes. There’s a call out for the report of the LVPD as soon as the homicide team gets back in.”
She glanced at her watch: twelve o’clock. That meant nine o’clock there. Friday. Too early for much of the reaction. Some of them probably weren’t awake yet. The hourlies later in the day would be more reliable.
“What do you think, Elizabeth?” Brayer finally spoke up.
“I think we should check on the other two and see where they go. If there’s a conference in Las Vegas and this is really Balacontano, I would guess they’d head for home. If they show up in Las Vegas this was nothing. If they don’t, it doesn’t prove they’d ever planned to, but it’s still worth checking.”
“Agreed,” said Brayer. “And Padgett, be as thorough as you can when you’re checking on those victims. Don’t give up easy. If you can establish a connection with somebody in particular it’ll tell us what’s going on. We might as well know who’s mad at whom.” Then he added, “Even though it probably won’t do us any good or them any harm.”
Padgett wheeled about and headed for the door and Elizabeth followed. Brayer sat immobile, staring at the transcript. Elizabeth almost asked for it, but thought better of it. There would be another copy at the monitor’s desk. Brayer was either planning his next three moves or contemplating the vanity of his last three. If it helped to stare at a paragraph he’d long since memorized, so much the better.
“Amigo,” he said. “I got some shirts for you.”
“I’ll go pick them up.”
“Not a good idea, amigo. I’m on the road already. Ten minutes, no more.”
“Right.” The line went dead.
Shit, he thought. Any news had to be trouble, and it was—what? ten hours? before the shirts were supposed to be back. He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. The Cruiser never did business at nine. Most of his customers wouldn’t be up for hours. Even the cleaning business didn’t open until ten thirty.
He scarcely had time to dress before he heard the knock. When he swung the door open the Cruiser slipped inward with it as though attached to it, then tossed the box of folded shirts on the bed.
“Amigo,” said the Cruiser. “You really fucked me up.” The Cruiser was smiling, the first time he could remember having seen that exact expression: he was showing his bad teeth and his breath seemed to come in short gasps.
“What happened?” he asked.
“You said it was no big thing but it was. All you had to do was tell me it was. You know better, amigo. You should never have done it to me.”
“It’s no big thing. Orloff owes me money.”
“Not now. He’s dead.”
“How?”
“I sent a man to his office to watch. He was in a parked van all night and then I was going to send somebody else this morning. He was my cousin. Not smart, but I thought I’d let him have this easy one to make some money. But he wasn’t smart, so I sent my boy Jesus at seven to see if he was awake.
He was. God. Something to do was such a big deal he hadn’t even lain down all night. Sat there in a chair staring at an empty office through a peephole he drilled. He sent Jesus to get him something to eat. Jesus got back to the block in time to see it. Orloff drove up to the office and started to get out of his car. Then three of them just appeared from no place. Jesus said he thought the one with the shotgun came out of the building, one came from someplace on the other side of the street where the van was parked. The other might have been in the bushes, but he couldn’t tell. They just were there. Orloff just stood there next to his car shaking, and the one with the shotgun blew his head off. Jesus said my cousin panicked and jumped into the driver’s seat and tried to start the van. He must not have seen the one near him. Jesus said the guy didn’t look surprised or anything, just stepped to the side of the van and put a pistol to the window. He fired five or six times. After that Jesus didn’t see anything else. He was already running.”
“I’m sorry it happened. Where is Jesus now?”
“Outside in the car waiting for me. I’ve got to get us all out of town.”
“Will a thousand do it?”
“I think so. You know I’ll have to tell if they corner me, though. With Jesus and Ascencion—”
“Sure. But try to give me time. Leave now and keep going. I wish I could tell you something that would help you spot them, but I don’t know anything. He just owed me money and looked nervous. Did the kid tell you what they looked like?”
“No. Just three Anglos. One dressed like a cowboy and the other two in suits. They didn’t even look like they came together.”
“Thanks for the shirts,” he said.
“Yeah,” said the Cruiser. “See you sometime.” He slipped out the door and was gone.
He locked the door and sat down on the bed. It wasn’t good. There was no way to tell if it even had anything to do with him. Anybody who had any dealings with Orloff would probably consider doing it sometime. Orloff was cunning and greedy, and he sometimes got nervous. But the three who did it had to be the ones he’d seen in the Frontier, and that meant it had something to do with Carl Bala—but what? They’d either been watching for Bala or
