“The bastards that run this place!”
He didn’t believe it. Nick was a lot of things—womanizer, foulmouthed thug, Neanderthal—but not a crook. Down below, he saw six firemen inflate a giant mattress and position it directly beneath where Lucy stood. He stepped forward.
“Take my hand. You don’t want to die.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“But they ruined my life . . . ,” she sobbed.
He was close enough to grab her. Their eyes met, and he saw an emptiness where her soul had once been. The desire to kill herself was real, and he realized that if he didn’t act right now, she was going to jump. He reached out and took her arm.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” he said.
He made her face him. The railing was waist-high, and he pointed at it. “I want you to swing your legs over, one at a time. I’ll hold you steady.”
She started to say something. A helicopter came around the building, and drowned her out. It sounded lighter than a police chopper, and Valentine guessed it was from a local TV station. Lucy shook her fist at it.
She lost her balance and let out another scream. Shooting her hand through the railing’s bars, she grabbed the waist of his pants. They fell down, and a cool breeze shot through his jockeys.
He envisioned them both going over. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he lifted her clean over the railing. She was crying, and looked terribly ashamed.
He pulled up his pants. The TV helicopter came around the building again. He lifted his head and saw a grinning cameraman in the copter’s open doorway give him a thumbs-up.
Valentine flipped him the bird.
4
Chance Newman stepped away from the window as the TV helicopter flew by. The last thing he needed was to be seen on the news, leering at a suicide.
In the window’s reflection he saw Rags and Shelly standing behind him, their faces set in stone. Sal, the blackjack dealer, remained at his post on the other side of the room.
“You can leave now,” Chance told him.
Sal departed. Moments later, the door to Chance’s study opened, and a shaven-headed man in his late forties emerged. Dressed entirely in black, he was thin to the point of being unhealthy, his once handsome face marred by a zipper scar running from cheek to jowl. He approached the three casino executives.
“This is Frank Fontaine,” Chance said.
Shelly and Rags nodded stiffly. Fontaine sized each man up, then crossed the suite and picked up the Deadlock equipment sitting on the blackjack table. He shook his head.
“Shit,” he said.
“Shit is right,” Shelly practically shouted. Coming over to the blackjack table, he wagged his finger in Fontaine’s face. “You told us that nobody in North America knew anything about Deadlock. You said it was a cinch. So we invest a million bucks to buy ten of these fucking things, only to find out that you were wrong.”
Fontaine realized that Shelly was staring at his scar. Up close, it bordered on hideous. A few months ago, while serving a life sentence in the federal pen, he’d gotten his face slit for dealing off the bottom during a poker game. The doctors who’d sewn him back together had never expected him to walk free, so they’d made him look like Frankenstein.
“I was wrong,” Fontaine said.
“That’s it? You were wrong?” Shelly looked at Rags and Chance in disbelief. “Can you believe this guy? He was
“I think we’re entitled to compensation for our loss,” Rags said. He crossed his arms and puffed up his chest. “Know what I mean?”
Fontaine went to the window and stared next door. He found the statue of Nola Briggs in the fountains and felt a fist go tight in his chest. They had nearly pulled off the heist of the century; then Tony Valentine had stepped in and ruined everything.
“Not really,” Fontaine said.
“We hired you to shut the Acropolis down,” Rags said. “Do that, and we’ll be square.”
“Is that what you want me to do?”
Fontaine saw the three men nod in the glass’s reflection, and laughed silently to himself. He’d heard they wanted Nick to go under, so he’d made them an offer. He’d bankrupt the Acropolis if they’d fund him. All he’d wanted was capital. Not once had he said exactly how much it would cost.
“You’re saying I should work for free,” Fontaine said.
“That’s right,” Rags said.
Fontaine eyes shifted to the dumpy Acropolis and he felt himself smile. Nick’s casino was directly between Sin and two casinos owned by Shelly Michael and Rags Richardson. He’d always been good at figuring out puzzles. It was what had gotten him out of the joint. And now he’d figured out why these greedy pricks wanted Nick Nicocropolis gone.
“Isn’t that something,” Fontaine said. “I just noticed how Nick’s casino stands between your casinos. Did you guys ever notice that?” He turned from the window and gave them his best prison-yard stare. “You want to build a walkway between your casinos, don’t you? Keep the suckers all to yourselves. That way, you can’t lose them to a competitor.”
“Stay out of our business,” Rags said.
Rags’s tone had a real threat behind it. Fontaine looked him over. A big black guy dressed like an African prince, his clothes all shiny. Rags wouldn’t last a week in the place he’d just come from.
Fontaine removed a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It had been torn from the infamous Nevada Black Book. The book contained mug shots of individuals who’d cheated Vegas’s casinos, and were barred from entering any gaming establishment. He raised the paper to eye level, letting them see his picture.
“So?” Rags said.
“I’m not allowed in any Nevada casino, yet here I am. Know why?”
The three men shook their heads.
“Because the FBI wants me here, that’s why.” He paused to look each man in the eye. “I’ve got the tiger by the balls, boys. Welch on this deal, and I’ll
Fontaine saw the fight leave their faces. Mentioning the FBI had done the trick. They had become Nevada’s casinos worse nightmare, and had every owner in town shitting in his pants. He went to the door. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
“What about Valentine?” Shelly said.
“What about him?”
“You two have a history. He’s not going to ignore you if you run into each other at the Acropolis.”
A history. That was a nice way to put it. He’d killed Valentine’s brother-in-law twenty years ago, and Valentine had paid him back by getting Nola sent to prison, where she’d gotten sick and died. No, he and Valentine had a lifetime together.
“I’ll take care of him,” Fontaine said.
“Will we be funding that as well?” Shelly asked.
The question was on each man’s face. That was the beauty of Las Vegas. No matter what it was about, it was
“On the house,” he replied.
