“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah,” he said wearily. “I sure do.”
They met up in the men’s room of Main Street Station, an old-time casino on Fremont Street.
The men’s room had two unique features. The first was the urinals, which were set against a graffiti-covered piece of the Berlin Wall and had been sprayed by every drunk who’d ever set foot in the place. The second was the hidden entrance that only a few people knew of. He pumped Jimmy’s hand.
“Hey, shrimp.”
“Hey, fat boy.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“It’s been a slow day.”
Jimmy ran the city’s elite Homicide Division, wore tailored suits, and got his hair cut every few weeks. For a town into image, Jimmy projected a good one, and it was no secret that he was being groomed to one day run the show.
The hidden entrance was covered by a large mirror. Jimmy pushed the mirror inward and stepped through the space. Longo followed him down a darkened hallway and out the casino’s back door.
As they neared Fremont Street, both men instinctively glanced over their shoulders. No one was following them, and they crossed under a gigantic steel canopy called the Fremont Street Experience.
The Experience was a seventy-million-dollar gamble designed to draw tourists to old downtown. Every hour, the canopy was transformed into a ballet of mesmerizing images created by two million multicolored synchronized lights. It was a blast to watch, yet the only people who ever came were kids.
“How about Fitzgerald’s,” Jimmy suggested.
“Sounds like a plan.”
Fitzgerald’s was a smoky, low-ceilinged joint with penny slot machines, nickel roulette, and sixteen-ounce margaritas for a buck. Locals went to Fitzgerald’s when they found themselves longing for the good old days. An escalator took them upstairs, and they grabbed the last table at a bar called Lucky’s Lookout.
A waitress appeared before their asses hit their seats. A big gal, with monster arms. Jimmy ordered two drafts. She left, and Longo put his elbows on the table.
“What are you hearing?”
“Bad stuff. How well did you know this stripper?”
“I met her six weeks ago.”
“She was under investigation by the FBI.”
Longo felt an invisible weight press down on his shoulders. FBI meant wiretaps and tails. How many pictures of them did they have? And phone calls?
“What’s she suspected of doing?”
Jimmy lowered his eyes to the water-marked table, then lifted them slightly so there was no mistaking his seriousness. “Money laundering. They searched your girlfriend’s townhouse, and the grounds. They found a gym bag with casino chips in a Dumpster.”
Longo shifted uncomfortably. The waitress brought their beers and saved him, but only for a minute. Had he wiped the gym bag clean of prints? No, he hadn’t.
“I found the bag under the kitchen table,” he said.
Jimmy let out a little shudder. It was a habit he’d picked up after he’d become a homicide detective. “So you knew about it?”
“No, I didn’t know about it. I found it this morning, right after I discovered her.”
“Why did you hide it?”
“I knew it would lead to questions I couldn’t answer.”
“You don’t know what she was doing?”
Longo shook his head. He’d been 100 percent right. Nobody cared about Kris’s murder. All they cared about were the casino chips beneath her kitchen table.
“You didn’t think you were being used?” Jimmy asked him.
“Used how?”
“Like a shield she could hide behind.”
“No.”
He saw Jimmy gaze out the window and up the street past the El Cortez Hotel, an area filled with psycho panhandlers, porno palaces, pickpockets, and the world’s most depressing strip of cockroach-infested motels. It had been their first beat together and seemed like another lifetime ago. Jimmy’s gaze returned.
“You want to save your ass?”
“Of course I want to save my ass.”
“Then here’s the deal,” Jimmy said. “The department is going to close ranks around you. You had an affair with this chick, and that’s it. The FBI may haul you in, so don’t stray from your story. We’re not offering you up as a sacrificial lamb.”
Longo stared at the foam cresting the lip of his mug. He was going to keep his job, and some semblance of his old life. He wanted to lean across the table and give Jimmy a bear hug. Instead, he said, “Thanks, man.”
Jimmy sipped his beer. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
“What’s that,” Longo said.
“You looked through the gym bag, didn’t you?”
Longo nodded that he had.
“Did you find any chocolate chips?”
Longo pushed his chair back. “You accusing me of something?”
Jimmy gave him a mean stare. “Three different cops touched that bag after you put it in the Dumpster. The FBI needs to know, Pete. Did you find any chocolate chips?”
So that was why Jimmy had called him. The fucking FBI. From his pocket Longo removed the five-thousand- dollar chip he’d pilfered from the bag and tossed it to his ex-partner.
“Just one,” he said.
Jimmy pocketed the chip. Then he threw down a five-spot for the beers. The waitress hit the table like a shark, and didn’t ask if he wanted change. Jimmy rose from his chair. “You see who the gym bag belonged to?”
“Yeah, I saw it,” Longo said.
“Know him?”
“A little.”
“Stay away from him, if you know what’s good for you,” Jimmy said, and then walked out of the bar.
Longo stayed in his chair and drank his beer. Then he drank Jimmy’s beer. The waitress circled the table, wanting to give it to another couple.
“No,” he said firmly.
She gave him a hostile look and left. Out on the street, a man’s recorded voice filled the air. The Fremont Street Experience was about to begin. Longo shifted his chair to watch and heard his cell phone ring. He pulled it out and stared at the face. The caller was Lou Snyder, a guy in town who was wired in the hospitality business.
“Hey,” Longo said. “Find anything?”
“Valentine stayed at Sin last night,” Lou said. “He checked out this morning. I think he’s still in town, though.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I accessed the airlines’ computers, couldn’t find his name on any departing flights,” Lou said. “He also still has his rental car.”
The Experience’s light show had started and was accompanied by blaring
“My guess is, Valentine’s staying at the Acropolis,” Lou went on. “Word on the street is that he and Nick Nicocropolis are tight. If you want, I can call over there, find out what room he’s in.”
Longo thought about Jimmy’s warning and decided to ignore it. He wanted to know why Valentine had shot
