'Then why did do you think he killed her?'
'Because she knows where he lives. Mexico City isn't as far away as you might think. She's a risk.'
'And he kneecapped you for old times' sake,' Valentine said.
'Exactly. You agree?'
'I'm sticking with my original theory.'
'Which is?'
'Nola is as crooked as a corkscrew,' Valentine said. 'There's something bigger going on here, just like you said two days ago. Fontaine spent a long time planning this one, and Nola helped him.'
Sammy boxed the deck, deep in thought.
'How's Wily really doing?'
'He's trying,' Valentine said.
'Like a dog trying to walk on its hind legs?'
Valentine smiled. 'Something like that.'
'One day, I caught Wily eating fried chicken behind the craps table. The guy shooting the dice is taking us to the cleaners. Wily goes over and throws the chicken bones under the table. I ask why, he says, 'Well, it was bad luck for the chicken, wasn't it?''
'The place hasn't fallen down yet,' Valentine said. 'He's beefed up security, has everybody on his toes.'
'I begged Nick to do that years ago. We get so many hustlers it isn't funny.'
'Why's that? The $4.99 buffet?'
'Very funny,' Sammy said, suddenly getting cranky. He pushed a button and the bed tilted so he was sitting erect. 'When it comes to running a casino, Nick's the squarest operator around. He gives people better value. We play handheld games of blackjack, and at craps we let punters press their frontline bets up to ten times at stake. That's true odds. Tell me another house on the Strip that does that.'
There were a handful of casinos on Fremont Street that shaded the odds in the player's favor, but Valentine knew of no others on the Strip, which was where all the action was.
'None.'
'None is right. You don't have to cheat very hard to tilt the odds Nick's giving. When I arrived, the place was a candy store.'
'Why doesn't Nick play the same odds as everyone else?'
'I tried to talk him into it,' Sammy said. 'Nick wouldn't budge.'
'Why not?'
'He's got principles.'
Valentine thought Sammy was making a joke, and he laughed.
Sammy's face turned to a snarl. 'You spent your whole life in Atlantic City,' he said, making it sound like grade school. 'Las Vegas is different. The turnover at most casinos is a hundred percent. Nick's a saint compared to the rest of these owners. He's got profit sharing and health insurance. This stay ain't costing me a dime. What more can I ask for?'
Valentine looked around the room, which was sleek and contemporary. What was missing was a get-well card, or flowers, or balloons. But maybe that was too much to ask for. In that regard, Las Vegas really was different.
'I had a visitor yesterday,' Valentine told him.
'Someone I know?'
Valentine told him about the cowboy's visit and Fontaine's threat.
'You think it was the same guy that kneecapped me?'
'Sure do,' Valentine said.
'How the hell did he get into your room?'
'Someone inside the hotel gave him a key.'
Sammy sat up very straight. 'Who?'
'Could be anybody. A dishwasher, a bellboy, even Wily.'
'Jesus Christ.' The head of surveillance turned pale. 'Okay, so what are you going to do?'
'Find Nola,' Valentine said.
'If she's still alive, you mean.'
'Trust me, she is.'
Sammy took the blue Bees out of their box and put them through the motions. Valentine had watched a lot of top-notch mechanics over the years, but no one in Sammy's league. Others manipulated the cards; Sammy's fingers made love to them.
'Start with Sherry Solomon,' Sammy suggested. 'If anyone knows Nola's haunts, it's her. She works the graveyard shift, so you'll probably catch her at home.'
Valentine scribbled the address on a paper napkin. 'Thanks. I'll drop by tomorrow.'
'Bring a good cigar, will you?'
'You can't smoke in here.'
'I just want to smell it,' Sammy said.
In the hallway, Valentine ran into a bearded doctor clutching a clipboard. He wore a troubled expression, and Valentine got the sinking feeling that the news he was about to share with Sammy was not good. The doctor had a good Irish face, filled with freckles and lots of character, and Valentine guessed he was from Boston or New York or some other bastion of civilization back east.
'How bad?' Valentine asked.
'Bad enough,' the doctor replied.
Normally, Valentine would have hung around and lent Sammy some moral support. But his friend lived in a world where compassion was seen as weakness, and Valentine didn't think he'd appreciate the gesture.
'Take care of my friend,' he whispered.
Sherry Solomon lived in a futuristic development built on the rocky plains leading up to Red Rock Canyon. Turning the car off the highway, Valentine stared at the endless repetition of yellow stucco homes, their terra-cotta roofs framed by an angry copper sky, the color so vibrant it made his eyes hurt. A cheerful billboard welcomed him to Rainbow Valley, home to future country clubs, Pete Dye golf courses, schools, a hospital, police and fire departments, and, he imagined, lots of ugly strip malls.
He drove for miles, the rows of identical homes nearly putting him to sleep. As habitats went, it was about as inviting as the surface of the moon. Sherry lived in the last cluster, the remnants of a yard sale littering her front lawn.
He parked and strolled up the walk. On a card table sat mismatched dishes, plastic coffee mugs, and assorted knickknacks, twenty-five cents each. Also for sale was an assortment of furniture, a deflated waterbed, a ThighMaster, and a box of Cindy Crawford workout tapes. Post-its had been stuck to each with the words Best Offer.
The front door was ajar. Sticking his head in, Valentine said, 'Anybody home?' and heard a shrill voice bid him entrance. It did not sound at all like the young woman he remembered from Nick's office.
'Is this Sherry Solomon's house?' he inquired.
'Damn straight. I said come on in!'
So much for first impressions. Shutting the door behind him, he was greeted by a miniature canine with a pink ribbon in its hair. It was a cockapoo, normally a docile breed. This one was all teeth, and Valentine kicked it in the mouth.
'Scram,' he said.
He found Sherry in the dining room yakking on a cell phone. She wore ultratight gym shorts and a sleeveless UNLV jersey, her bronzed skin looking radioactive in the bright sunlight that poured through the curtainless windows. She gave him a puzzled look.
'You the real estate guy?'
'Tony Valentine,' he said. 'We met in Nick's office.'
'Oh yeah. What can I do for you, Tony?'
'I'm helping the police look for Nola,' he lied.
'I gotta run,' she said into the phone, and killed the power. She eyed him suspiciously. 'You're helping the
