“I’m never thinking what you’re thinking,” Valentine replied.
“If Bronco gets muzzled, only two people outside of Bill and Smoltz will know what’s going on. You and me.”
“So?”
“I sure hope we don’t end up with bullets in our heads.”
“Come on, Gerry, be serious.”
“I am, Pop. Think about it.”
Valentine did. And then it hit him. His son was right. In Vegas, it was all about the money, and the things they knew could permanently damage the way business was done. People had been killed in this town for less than that. A lot less.
“Guess we’d better watch each other’s backs,” Valentine said.
“Deal,” his son replied.
Chapter 52
Bronco was setting up the meeting with Xing, when there was a knock on his hotel room door. He said, “Hang on.” into his cell phone, and placed it down.
Going to the door, he stared through the peephole. A male uniformed hotel employee pushing a metal cart stood in the hallway.
Bronco opened the door. “What’s up?”
“Would you like your mini-bar restocked?”
“No thanks.”
He shut the door in the employee’s face. He’d had three visitors in the past hour. A maid wanting to turn down his bed, a maintenance man wanting to check the AC, and now this guy. It didn’t feel right, and he guessed the casino was getting antsy about him being in his room, and not downstairs gambling.
Or maybe it was something else. The police had probably figured out he was in town, and asked the hotels to check on any male guests who’d registered in the past twenty-four hours. Which meant that staying here was no longer safe.
He got back on the phone with Xing.
“You still there?”
“I’m here,” the Asian replied.
“Let’s do this now.”
“Come to my room in an hour.”
“Why not now?”
“Why? Are you in a rush?”
Xing was testing him. The Asian seemed to enjoy getting under his skin.
“No, I just want to get this over with.”
“One hour. The Cordova motel, room #24.”
“Got it.”
He folded his phone. If Xing knew that the slot machine scam was worthless, he hadn’t mentioned it. Hopefully, he hadn’t strayed far from his motel, and gone into any of the casinos on Fremont Street. If he did go into a casino, he was going to know, and then Bronco would have to kill him to get the Pai Gow secret.
Throwing his clothes into a suitcase, Bronco went downstairs and got his car from the valet. He still had not shaken the events of that morning, and his shirt was soaked with sweat. He pulled out of the hotel, and decided to cruise the strip.
He drove to the north end, turned around, and drove back. Back when he’d been married to Marie, he’d owned a convertible, and they’d often driven the strip with the top down, and looked at the tourists. He imagined Marie was sitting next to him, and heard her singing along with the radio. She’d always loved the slow stuff.
He came to Tropicana Avenue, and put his blinker on. The light changed, and his hands instinctively spun the wheel. He drove down Tropicana until he was in the desert. Up ahead, a road sign said Henderson, 10 miles. He was heading back to his house, and hadn’t even realized it.
He parked one street over from his house, and walked across a neighbor’s property to his own backyard. Yellow police tape was stretched across the back slider, telling him that his house had been turned into a crime scene investigation.
He stuck his head around a corner. No police cars were in the driveway or the street. He went to the front door, removed a key from a flower pot, and let himself in.
He wasn’t ready for the smell. Old cigarette smoke and spilled beer mixed with the house’s dead air. He considered opening up the windows and airing the place out, then realized he wasn’t coming back, so what was the point?
His next stop was the master bedroom. He instantly noted what things inside the room the cops had touched or moved. Nosy bastards.
Opening the closet door, he unzippered one of Marie’s clothing bags, and stuck his face into her dresses. Whenever he missed her so much that he felt like sticking a gun in his mouth, he’d gone and smelled her clothes. It was hard to explain how much he’d loved Marie; even he didn’t understand it. Or why he couldn’t get over her.
They’d met at a craps table at the MGM Grand. She’d been gambling with some friends. She was an innocent looking kid, real pretty, and Bronco had sensed she was someone he could work with.
The shooter had won. As the dealer paid the shooter off, he turned his back on Marie, and Bronco had added a stack of chips to Marie’s bet. He didn’t think the dealer would accuse her of cheating, because most dealers were suckers for pretty girls.
He’d been right. The dealer had paid Marie off without squawking. Marie had taken the money while staring at Bronco with her big blue eyes, like she couldn’t imagine anyone being so brazen. Bronco had stared right back. He’d never believed in love at first sight until he’d laid eyes on her.
Marie had taken her winnings and left the table. He’d followed her outside the casino, his palms sweating from the arrow that Cupid had shot in his ass. Marie walked to her car, then spun around. Taking her winnings from her purse, she threw half at Bronco’s feet.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she said accusingly.
He’d stood there helplessly. She was a vision; dark hair, dancing eyes, with a small, full figure and a face that every Italian kid dreams about.
“We could have both gotten arrested,” she said.
Bronco realized what she was saying. She’d thought it out, and decided the risk was worth taking. That was why she’d thrown his half at him. She knew what she’d done was wrong.
“Let me buy you dinner,” he’d said.
He’d expected her to walk away, and out of his life forever. Only she’d hesitated. It was just enough for him to know.
Reaching down, he scooped the money off the pavement, and handed it back to her. It was the beginning of something, and they’d both known it.
On the night table was a framed photograph of Marie taken on their honeymoon. There was a slit in the cardboard backing of the frame. He slipped his fingers into the slit, and removed the photograph of Mikey he’d hidden there long ago. It was the only photo of Mikey he had, and Bronco counted all the freckles on his son’s face. Mikey had died a year after Marie, and nothing had ever been the same.
He slipped Mikey’s photograph back into the frame so it lay next to Marie. He hadn’t planned to touch anything in the room, but now realized that was impossible. He had to take some memento of Marie and the boy, and he slipped the photograph under his arm.
