“Good. Brando tells the other godfathers that he won’t do it. He says, ‘Drugs will be the death of us all.’ Well, I feel the same way. I’ve never been involved with them, and I never will be. Okay?”
“But a third of the money is yours,” Amin insisted.
Gerry took a pack of cigarettes off the night table and popped one into his mouth. He wasn’t going to tell Amin that he was damn straight some of the money was his—he’d saved their asses. Rising, he went to the door, said, “Give it to charity,” and walked outside to have a smoke.
Valentine drove back to the Acropolis with his head spinning. He’d nearly jumped into the sack with Lucy Price. The woman had more problems than a Hollywood starlet. He couldn’t deny the magnetism he felt when he was around her. But was it enough of a reason to have a relationship with her?
The valet stand at the Acropolis was deserted, and he parked his rental by the front door and ventured inside. A velvet rope had been run across the entrance to the casino, and a sign announced that the place was closed. He stuck his head into One-Armed Billy’s alcove. Even Big Joe Smith was gone.
He went to the front desk and rang the bell. A reservationist with a familiar face emerged from the back room. Seeing him, she broke into a smile.
“Hi, Mister Valentine. I hear you kicked some ass this afternoon.”
Her name tag said LOU ANN. “It wasn’t that big a deal,” he said.
“Tell that to Albert Moss. I hear every bone in his face is busted.”
“Where is everybody, Lou Ann?”
“Our guests checked out when they heard the casino was closed,” she said sadly. “Kind of a glum day. I hear Nick’s going down.”
“You work here a long time?”
“Since I got out of college.”
“What’s that? Five years?”
Her smile returned. “Try twenty. You checking out, too?”
“No, I’m here for the duration. I’m looking for my son. His name’s Gerry. He hasn’t been in asking for me, has he?”
“I’ve been on duty since this afternoon, and I haven’t seen him,” Lou Ann said.
He’d promised Fuller he’d bring Gerry in by midnight. Henderson was a twenty-minute drive, and he decided to head out there to track his son down. He hadn’t done that since Gerry was in high school, running with the wrong crowd.
He stepped away from the desk. “Thanks anyway, Lou Ann.”
“You want something to eat?” she asked. “The cook’s trying to get rid of the food. No reason to let it spoil.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I need to run,” he said.
“It won’t take five minutes. Give the staff some hope, knowing we have a guest.”
He didn’t know how to refuse a request like that. Lou Ann pointed at Nick’s Bar, and he crossed the casino and went in. A dozen employees were sitting at tables, eating. He sat down, and the hostess took his order.
While he waited for his food, he realized that Lou Ann and the other hotel staffers knew that Nick was heading toward bankruptcy and wouldn’t have the funds to meet their next paychecks. They’d stayed out of loyalty, a quality that was hard to find these days. Nick had always bragged that he had the best employees; now he understood why.
His cheeseburger arrived with a monster helping of french fries and an onion slice as big as the bun. He asked the hostess to thank the cook. The TV above the bar was on, and as he ate, he stared at the mute images on the screen.
He realized the images looked familiar. It was the same gang of FBI agents he’d met in Lucy’s condo. They were standing in the desert beneath the blazing sun. Behind them, a building was burning out of control. He found the bartender and persuaded him to jack up the volume with the remote.
The picture on the screen changed to a blond newswoman clutching a sheet of paper. “Reports differ as to what happened at a deserted auto shop off the Boulder Highway this afternoon,” she intoned gravely. “The highway was closed in both directions for several hours, with both the police and FBI manning the roadblocks. At the scene is Action News reporter Lance Peters.”
The picture changed to a Hollywood-handsome reporter standing in the desert. Grasping the mike with both hands, he said, “Thanks, Mary. Earlier, I talked with a Henderson Police Department spokesman and learned that there was a gun battle at the auto shop, which left one man dead. His partner, a Mexican illegal, was arrested in town driving a vehicle with an expired license.”
The picture jumped back to the female newscaster. “Lance, is it true that the FBI appeared on the scene with dogs and helicopters, and refused to let traffic pass in either direction?”
Back to Lance. “Yes, Mary. There are dozens of FBI agents out here. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we had a major catastrophe on our hands.”
The picture returned to Mary. “Did you get the opportunity to talk to any of them, Lance?”
Lance’s face lit up the screen. “That’s when things got hairy, Mary. The FBI refused to answer my questions, and threatened to seize our cameras and recording equipment if we filmed them. I do know that the FBI has taken the Mexican to an undisclosed location and is interrogating him.”
The picture went back to Mary. “Sounds like our tax dollars hard at work. In other news, six members of UNLV’s baseball team were suspended today for allowing imposters to attend classes for them. The team’s coach is appealing the suspension. All six players are hoping to play in next week’s College World Series . . .”
Valentine stuffed the last of his french fries into his mouth and rose from the table. Maybe the FBI could get involved with that case as well. They sure had gotten involved with everything else going on in Las Vegas.
He threw down ten bucks for the hostess, then remembered his cell phone. As he powered it up, it started to ring. He stared at its face and felt his heart skip a beat.
His son had finally decided to call him back.
33
Lying on the bed in his motel room with the lights out, Gerry spilled his guts to his father. He told him everything—from the moment he’d hooked up with Pash and Amin five days ago to the shootout at the gas station that afternoon. His father, God bless him, didn’t rush to pass judgment. He just listened, his breathing calm and measured.
“That’s all of it,” Gerry said, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. Twelve minutes had passed. It hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d thought it would be.
“My gym bag was found in the townhouse of a dead stripper,” his father said. “You think Amin killed her?”
“Must have,” Gerry replied, keeping his voice below the TV, which he’d turned on to a baseball game, the running commentary a perfect cover. “Pash told me Amin was using strippers to launder chips into cash.”
“There’s nothing to tie you to this girl?” his father asked.
“No, Pop. I haven’t dated or slept with or even kissed another woman since I met Yolanda. I’m clean.”
“Good for you,” his father said.
The remark made Gerry feel good all over. His father didn’t hand out compliments very often, not that he’d done anything to deserve any. But they were nice to hear, and he added them to the mental checklist of things he wanted to do when his own kid grew up.
“So, you want me to go to the FBI,” Gerry said.
“Yes,” his father replied. “You need to let them hear your side of it, pronto.”
“What if they don’t believe me? What if they think I bought the gun and shot this girl?”
“I can prove you didn’t,” his father said.
“You can?”
There was a click on the line, indicating his father had another call.
“Hold on, Wonder Boy, I’ll be right back.”
His father put him on hold. Wonder Boy. His father hadn’t called him that in a long time. One summer when
