“Some friends of mine are going to come out,” he said. “When they come to the car, I want you to smile and act normal. Understand?”
Gerry stared down the barrel’s eye. If his hands had been free, he would have eaten a bullet just to get them around Amin’s neck.
“Whatever you say.”
A minute later, two Middle Eastern guys in monochromatic waiters’ uniforms walked out of Whiskey Pete’s back entrance. One was tall and skinny, the other short and extremely fat. Amin flashed his brights. Both men waved.
They disappeared in the parking lot, then drove up in a blue Chevy Intrigue and parked alongside Amin’s rental. The tall one was driving, and had a big smile on his face. Amin rolled down his window.
“Thank you, again,” the tall one said.
The shorter one leaned across the taller one’s lap. “Yes! Thank you for renting this car for us. We have always wanted to see Los Angeles.”
“Good,” Amin replied.
“When will you be leaving?” the taller one asked.
“Later today. I have some business to take care of.”
The tall one removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. “This place we are to meet you at, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Is it easy to find?”
“Grauman’s is where famous movie stars put their hands in wet concrete,” Amin said. He jabbed a finger in Pash’s direction. “My brother will tell you the names of every movie they’ve ever been in.”
“Wonderful!” both men said.
“I almost forgot,” Amin said. “I need you to take something to Los Angeles for me.”
“Of course,” they said.
Amin pressed a button on the dashboard that opened the trunk. To Pash, he said, “The suitcase is in back. Go put it in their car.” He glanced in the back at Gerry. “I will watch him.”
Pash turned to stone. “Do they know?”
“But why—”
Pash went and got a battered suitcase from the trunk. He strained putting it into the backseat of the Intrigue. Gerry realized it was the same suitcase Amin had bought from the Mexicans the day before. Explosives. The Mexicans had sold him explosives.
Pash returned to the car, breathing heavily. The waiters departed, the tall one beeping the horn as he exited the lot.
“Why are we going to Los Angeles?” Pash asked.
“Las Vegas is no longer safe,” Amin said. “The FBI know we’re here. It is only a matter of time before they track us down.” He placed his hand on Pash’s knee. “We will go to Los Angeles and finish our mission. All right?”
Pash nodded stiffly.
“What’s that?” Gerry shouted, no longer able to control himself. “Blowing up a few thousand innocent people? Is that your mission, you crazy lunatic?”
Amin jerked the .357 from between the seats. Turning around, he leaned through the seats and flipped the gun so he was gripping the barrel. His eyes met Gerry’s.
“Yes,” he said, raising his arm.
Gerry started to curse him, then saw a thousand stars explode before his eyes.
45
Valentine returned to the Acropolis because he didn’t have anyplace else to go. The valet stand was deserted, and he parked at the front door. Inside, a receptionist informed him that he needed to be out of his room by three o’clock.
“We’re shutting the place down,” she said sadly.
He took the elevator to the penthouse. Lucy’s flowers were still in his suite. He filled two garbage pails with them, then grabbed a soda from the mini bar and went out onto the balcony. It was a picture-perfect day, and hordes of people mobbed the Strip. He watched them while drinking his soda.
He played the last two days over in his head. He’d bungled so many chances to help Gerry. Had he done it on purpose? Or had he been hoping that Gerry would work things out for himself?
He found himself remembering the day Gerry had been born. He’d been a little screamer, with lots of curly black hair. It had been the happiest day of his life.
When he’d found out Yolanda was pregnant, he’d thought that being a grandfather would bring him the same kind of joy. If Gerry died, he wondered if he’d be able to look at his grandchild, and not ask himself if he could have handled this differently.
Gerry opened his eyes and thought he was dead. It was pitch dark, and he couldn’t feel his arms or his legs, or for that matter any part of his body.
He tried to move his arms, and realized his wrists were still tied behind his back. A picture formed in his brain. He was in the trunk of the rental. What mobsters called a dead fish. Still alive, but just barely.
He took several deep breaths, then brought his arms down behind his back. If he could just bring his arms in front of him, he could untie his wrists with his teeth. He remembered a childhood magic book that had explained how escape artists did it. The description in the book had made it sound easy.
Lowering his arms, he tried to bring his wrists down below the soles of his feet. He stretched his arms until he thought he was going to scream.
No go.
He shut his eyes. The book had also said that escape artists could dislocate their shoulders. The book had warned him not to try it at home.
Gerry wedged his wrists beneath the soles of his shoes. Biting into the gag, he pushed down with his legs. The pain was excruciating. He thought about the suitcase Pash had put in the trunk of the waiters’ car. How many innocent people would end up dying because of that suitcase? Hundreds? Thousands?
He pushed some more. He heard his right shoulder pop, then his left. Again he tried to bring his arms around. There was enough room now, and he smiled through his tears as he brought his hands up to his face and pulled the gag away.
He breathed hard and felt his heart calm down. Bringing his hands to his face, he tried to undo his wrists with his teeth. The twine would not loosen.
He frantically felt around the trunk. He needed something sharp to cut the twine with. Only the trunk was empty.
He felt his panic return. What was he going to do? He could scream, but then Amin would pop the trunk and kill him.
Then he had an idea. Jamming his fingers into his pocket, he found his cell phone and pulled it out. Fumbling in the dark, he hit every single button until it powered up.
“Do you have any idea where you are?” Valentine asked his son. He could hear the fear in Gerry’s voice, and felt himself start to tremble.
“I just heard some voices,” his son replied. “One guy giving another guy directions. They were pretty far away. I think I’m at a gas station out on I-Fifteen. I remember seeing one when we drove out here. It’s about twenty miles before Whiskey Pete’s casino.”
“Did you call 911?”
“Not yet. I wanted to call you first.”
