Jackpot

“This in confidence.”

“Won’t leave this room.”

“What happened in the past three years that would make seven Nevada Gaming Control Board’s top agents turn into thieves?”

Nick’s eyes narrowed, and Gerry almost thought he heard the gears shifting in the little Greek’s head. He tossed his cigar down, made a face that said he wasn’t happy.

“That’s a loaded question, kid.”

“Something did happen,” Gerry said.

“Lots of crap happens in this town. Most of it gets buried in the desert.”

“My father would be indebted to you if you’d tell me what it is,” Gerry said. Then added, “And, so would I.”

Nick pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room to the mini bar. He fixed two Scotches on the rocks and gave one to his guest. Gerry hadn’t had a drink before noon in forever, but this was Vegas, and the rules were different here.

They clinked glasses, and then Nick told him a story.

According to Nick, only two things mattered in Las Vegas. Sex, and money. Everything else was just camouflage.

The story Nick told him was about money. Lots of it. And it did not have a happy ending. It had started three years ago in a casino called Diamond Dave’s.

Diamond Dave’s was what locals called a sawdust joint, its clientele consisting of tour bus gamblers and locals. Dave’s shouldn’t have been making much money, yet it was. In fact, it was making more than many of its bigger rivals in town.

A routine audit by the Gaming Commission had uncovered a serious problem. The games at Diamond Dave’s were raking in the cash. The hold, which was the amount of money the casino kept, was double what it was supposed to be. The Gaming Commission had smelled a rat, and asked the Gaming Control Board to investigate.

The GCB had raided Diamond Dave’s, and shut it down. They’d brought in their experts, and carefully examined each game. What they’d found had shocked them. On every blackjack table the dealing shoes were missing high cards, making it impossible for the players to win. On the craps tables, the dice were shaved so only certain combinations would come up. At the roulette tables, the wheels were magnetized so management could make the ball stop wherever they choose. The slot machines were also rigged so players hardly won; even the lowly Keno game was fixed.

The casino’s manager was hauled off to jail, and soon confessed. His owner was losing money, and had ordered the casino manager to rig the games. Under pressure from the police, the casino manager agreed to testify against his employer, and was released on bail. Three days later, he was found in his car with two bullets in the back of his head.

Gerry sat on the edge of his chair, hanging on every word. He’d heard stories about casinos cheating their customers, but never anything on a scope like this.

“What happened then?” he asked.

Nick swirled the cubes in his drink. “That’s when things got interesting.”

Chapter 50

At eleven-thirty, Bronco took the elevator downstairs and gave the claim check for his car to the hotel valet. Minutes later he was driving south on Las Vegas Boulevard. It was a sunny day, the desert colors so vivid that they hurt his eyes. He’d always loved the fact that Las Vegas was in the desert. The town was like a mirage that did nothing but rip off suckers, and it was fitting that nothing grew here.

The Instant Replay was five miles from the hotel. He pulled into the gas station across the street and got out of his car. There was a phone booth beside the station, and he made sure the phone was working, then went inside the tiny convenience store, and talked the clerk at the register into giving him a rubber band and some scotch tape.

Back outside, he got into the booth, took out his wallet, and removed twenty single dollar bills and a single hundred. He wrapped the hundred around the wad of singles, secured it with the rubber band, and used the scotch tape to attach it beneath the pay phone. Then, he dialed the phone’s number into his own cell phone.

When he was done, Bronco glanced across the street at the Instant Replay’s parking lot. No cars had come in since he’d arrived, and he guessed Carmichael was still at the hotel with his son.

Bronco drove around until he found a boarded-up Mexican restaurant a block away. Behind the restaurant was a dusty lot. He parked beside the building, got out and popped the trunk, and removed the interior liner which covered the car’s spare tire. In the tire’s spot was an aluminum briefcase, which he removed, then slammed the trunk shut.

The restaurant had been closed a long time, its windows boarded with plywood. He removed his shoes and socks, and climbed onto the roof of the car clutching the briefcase. He placed the briefcase onto the restaurant’s roof, then used both hands to hoist himself up.

The restaurant’s roof was flat and covered with broken glass, and Bronco guessed it was a meeting place for kids to drink beer. The nearby buildings were also one-story, and he didn’t think anyone was going to see him if he kept low. Sitting cross-legged on the roof, he popped the briefcase, and removed the telescopic lens, barrel, and stock of the Sauer 202 “varmint” hunting rifle. He took his time assembling the weapon.

At ten minutes of twelve, Bronco raised his rifle, and began to take note of the cars entering the Instant Replay’s parking lot through the cross hairs of its telescopic lens. It was a busy place, and he saw a variety of different people pull into the lot, and go inside.

At noon, a black Mercedes with tinted windows came into the lot. The driver’s door sprung open, and a man wearing lots of gold chains hopped out and hurried inside. He looked like a two-bit hustler, and Bronco guessed this was Joey Carmichael.

Bronco carefully put his rifle onto the roof. Opening his cell phone, he got the Instant Replay’s phone number from information, and called the number. A few moments later was talking to a girl who sounded sixteen. He asked for Carmichael.

“Anybody here named Carmichael?” she called into the bar.

Someone said yes, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Guess who,” Bronco said.

“Tommy Pico? Where are you?”

“I’m nearby. There’s a pay phone across the street at the gas station,” Bronco said. “I’ll call you there in a minute.”

“What the hell are you trying to pull?”

“I wanted to make sure you came by yourself. You can never be too careful.”

“Don’t screw with me, Pico. I’m warning you.”

“Goodbye.”

Bronco killed the connection. He retrieved the pay phone’s number from his cell phone’s memory bank, and hit Send. Hearing the call go through, he placed the phone down on the roof, then picked up his rifle, and stared through the telescopic lens at the Instant Replay’s front door.

Carmichael came out of the restaurant a few moments later. He could have shot him right then, only he’d learned that it was damn hard to hit a moving target, especially at this range. Carmichael crossed the street and entered the phone booth. He looked around suspiciously, then snatched up the receiver. Bronco picked up his cell phone, and stuck it into the crook of his neck.