“I don’t believe you.”
She offered to have sex with him, as if fucking would lessen the betrayal. They’d gone into the bedroom, and he’d watched her undress and fold her clothes neatly and lay them in a pile. Then she lay on the water bed and motioned for Amin to join her.
She was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The tiny brain that hung between his legs wanted to have sex with her, and he’d started to undo his pants.
Then he caught himself. He couldn’t do it, not even in a moment of weakness. Screwing Kris would be the beginning of the end. She would destroy his resolve, and then he’d be lost. Lying on top of her, he’d pressed the .357 against her rib cage and pulled the trigger, killing her, as well as his desire to have her.
He snapped back to the present. The pit boss was standing behind the table, whispering to the dealer. The dealer nodded, then removed the cards from the shoe and added them to those in the discard tray.
“What are you doing?” Amin asked.
“Shuffling up,” the dealer replied.
The dealer was starting the game over. It was called preferential shuffling, and a favorite method of casinos to thwart card-counters. It meant he’d been spotted by MGM surveillance. Rising, he scooped up his chips, and left the table.
The MGM had four exits. His rental was parked behind the casino, so he took the escalator down to a subterranean mall, and walked past the shops to the exit. The mall was filled with people, and he overheard someone say that a computer convention was in town. Reaching the exit, he spied a destroyer standing by the glass doors, and felt himself shudder.
Most of the big casinos employed destroyers. Their job was to guard the exits and thwart card-counters and cheaters from entering. They worked off hot tips and were financially rewarded when they nailed an undesirable.
The MGM’s destroyer was black and built like an American football player. He had a tiny walkie-talkie headset and was talking rapidly. His eyes suspiciously brushed Amin’s face. Then he stepped forward and tapped Amin’s shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” Amin said loudly.
The destroyer dropped his hand. “Let’s see some ID.”
“You don’t have any right to ask for my ID,” Amin said.
“Let’s step outside.”
Amin followed the destroyer through the glass doors. The destroyer stopped, and whipped out his wallet from his back pocket. He was going to read from a card and inform Amin that he was trespassing. Then he would tell Amin never to step foot on MGM property again. Amin would agree and walk away. He’d done it many times, and saw tonight as nothing special.
Only the destroyer had a funny look in his eye as he read from the card. He cocked his head, as if trying to get a better look at Amin through the disguise.
“Don’t I know you?”
Amin turned and began walking toward the garage. He knew his rights. He hadn’t broken a single law. The MGM couldn’t back-room him, like they could with a suspected cheater.
He heard the destroyer keeping pace behind him. This was unusual. He saw a couple walk past and cast him a suspicious look.
“I’m talking to you, brother,” the destroyer said.
Amin knew that certain casinos routinely beat up counters. Bart had said it was what had driven him out of the business.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the destroyer said.
He sounded like a cop. A lot of the casinos hired ex-cops to be destroyers. Still walking, Amin removed his hand from his pocket and let his car keys dangle from his fingertips. “Just my keys,” he said.
He stopped at the garage’s stairwell. He couldn’t remember on which level his rental was parked, and didn’t want to go to the wrong floor.
The destroyer was right behind him. He came up, and pointed an accusing finger in Amin’s face.
“I know you.”
The destroyer grabbed him by the shoulder, and shoved him into the wall. Then he tore away Amin’s beard and baseball cap. For a long moment, he stared.
Amin’s keys were also a weapon. A little treasure he’d picked up during his travels. He squeezed the ring, and a stainless-steel three-inch blade popped out. In one swift downward motion, he sliced the destroyer’s throat.
The destroyer staggered backward in the stairwell. The blood flowing down his neck shone brightly against his black skin. Amin’s aim was good; he’d cut an artery. He raced up the stairs to the third floor and quickly found his car.
Climbing in behind the wheel, he felt his heart beating wildly and took several deep breaths. This was the closest he’d ever come to being caught. Hearing the engine turn over, he screeched backward out of the spot.
The car hit something solid. He threw the vehicle into park and jumped out. The destroyer lay face down on the asphalt behind the car, his legs quivering.
Amin’s eyes found the long ribbon of blood running back to the stairwell. For a long moment, he wrestled with what that meant.
Amin thought he knew. Bending over the destroyer, he pulled his wallet from his pocket. No ID. That was odd. He searched his other pockets. In the destroyer’s inner jacket pocket, he found a second wallet, designed to hold business cards. The ID was in there. Amin stared at it, felt himself shudder.
The destroyer was an FBI agent.
Amin backed over him a second time, then drove away.
15
Valentine had killed his evening cruising the Strip in his rental, looking for Gerry.
It was like searching for a needle in a haystack, but sometimes that approach worked. As a kid, he’d read an O. Henry story about a boy who sees his father’s murder, grows up to become a cop, and asks for the beat outside the New York Public Library, his reasoning being that the killer would someday walk past. The killer eventually did, and justice was served.
It was nine thirty when he walked into the Acropolis. Grabbing a house phone, he called upstairs to the surveillance control room and asked for Wily. Friday nights were when casinos made hay, and most security heads worked double shifts.
Wily came on a minute later. “What’s up?”
“I want to get my room changed, just in case that guy I tangoed with earlier gets any more stupid ideas,” Valentine said.
“No problemo.”
“I also want to disappear from the hotel computer.”
“You think someone in the hotel told that guy what room you were in?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Valentine said.
He heard Wily’s fingers tap a computer keyboard. “Done. I put you in the penthouse, Suite Four. Nick said you agreed to look at the tape of Lucy Price. Mind if I send it up?”
“Go ahead,” Valentine said.
He got a key from the front desk and went upstairs. His new suite faced west and afforded a perfect view of the Strip. He called room service, ordered a cheeseburger and fries. His food arrived at the same time as the tape of Lucy Price.
