been done to this pair, was true with them all.
“Yes. They’re all the same,” Xing said.
“Do you understand how this works?”
“No. My boss did not explain the scam to me.”
“Red plastic can be penetrated by an infra-red lens. With a special pair of glasses, I can see through these dominos, and know what the dealer has. You just made me a very rich man.”
Bronco patted Xing on the shoulder and started to smile. Suddenly, his scowl returned. Xing followed his gaze, and saw the manager of the motel where he was staying leading a group of policemen down the middle of Fremont Street. The manger was pointing at young men the same age as Xing, and the policeman were grabbing the men, and showing them to the manager, who kept shaking his head. Then, Xing saw the manager point directly at him.
“Run,” Xing said.
Xing stepped off the curb, then felt his legs stop moving. His stomach was burning, and he placed his hand inside his leather jacket, came away with blood. He looked over his shoulder; Bronco had disappeared into the crowd.
Xing fell to his knees as the policeman swarmed around him. The noise went away, and the world grew still. The reality of what had happened was slow to sink in. Bronco had shot him in the back so he could get away, and save himself.
And I just made him a rich man, Xing thought.
Chapter 54
Everybody died differently. Valentine had learned that the hard way as a cop. He’d seen plenty of people pass on to the great craps game in the sky, and each departure was a little different and carried some signature of that person’s time here on earth.
The Asian with the bullet in his back died with a thin smile on his face. Valentine had gotten to him first, and had knelt down, and pulled the Asian’s head into his lap. Even though he didn’t know the guy from Adam, he thought it was the least he could do.
“Bronco’s getting away,” Gerry said, sounding panicked.
“Let the cops run him down,” Valentine said.
“But Pop—
“He’s got a gun, Gerry. Stay here.”
His son reluctantly agreed. Valentine gazed down into the Asian’s face. He tried to remember the guy’s name? Was it Xing or Zing or Bling? He couldn’t recall. He looked like a decent enough sort, but most people did when they died, all the bad things they’d done seemed to seep out of them, and just the core remained, until that too was gone. The Asian’s eyes fluttered and his smile grew. What was that about?
“Anything I can do?” Valentine asked.
The Asian shook his head, and then he was no more.
One of the cops got a blanket from inside the Nugget, and laid it over the dead man’s body. Valentine stood up and crossed himself. Then he grabbed Gerry and went looking for Bill, who was handling the search for Bronco on Fremont Street. They’d caught a glimpse of their fugitive as he’d run away; he had disguised himself by shaving his head, and would not be hard to pick out of a crowd.
The Fremont Street Experience was still in full swing, with laser lights flashing across the steel canopy accompanied by blaring disco music that was a few seconds out of sync with the rest of the show. The Experience normally drew a good crowd, and today was no exception. Thousands of tourists were packed on the street, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with their plastic cups of beer and glazed expressions on their faces.
“Where did all these people come from?” Gerry asked.
“This is Vegas, Gerry.”
“I know, but this is unreal.”
They sifted their way through the throng. Soon they could barely move. Gerry was right — the crowd was huge, and seemed to be growing by the minute. There was no sign of Bill or his posse, although he could have been a few feet away, and Valentine wouldn’t have spotted him. They reached the end of the Experience where Fremont met Las Vegas Boulevard, and Valentine pulled his son out of the crowd to a secluded spot beneath a withered palm tree where a homeless man lay sleeping.
“Look at all those cars,” Gerry said.
Valentine followed his son’s gaze. The boulevard was jammed with vehicles, none of which were moving. An irate motorist honked their horn. Within seconds, everyone was making their displeasure known, the situation spiraling out of control.
“What do you think’s going on?” Gerry asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s ask someone.”
Gerry had a knack of being able to talk to complete strangers. He jogged over to one of the stuck vehicles, and struck up a conversation with the driver, a white-haired man traveling with his wife. The driver handed Gerry a sheet of paper, and Gerry thanked him and shook his hand. Then, his son jogged back.
“It’s some kind of promotion,” his son explained.
“Let me see.”
Gerry handed him the sheet of paper. It was an e-mail addressed to Harold and Lorraine Duffy, its sender THE LAS VEGAS CONVENTION & VISITOR’S BUREAU. The print was huge, and practically leapt off the page.
Valentine smelled a rat. A big, giant rat. Still holding the email, he crossed the street with his son and entered Fitzgeralds, one of the older casinos on Fremont Street. The joint was mobbed, and he had to push his way through the front doors.
He pushed his way to a bank of video poker machines. Every seat at every machine was taken, and there were lines of people standing behind each seat. He approached several of the people on line, and held the email in front of their faces.
