Double Blind (52 page)

Ethan wished he dared to ask for clarification on what his part was, exactly. “So I take it you think I’m doing well, if you’re finally showing up and getting yourself involved?”

Crabtree laughed, and that was all, but there was a strange note in the man’s laugh. And for a minute Ethan thought, almost felt he knew, that if Crabtree hadn’t liked what he was doing, he’d have known by now. He wouldn’t have had anybody follow him. He’d just have had Ethan removed.

Ethan sat back in his chair, shaking a little.

And then, though he couldn’t explain why, especially given what he’d just acknowledged, he became temporarily very, very stupid.

“Crabtree,” he said, his voice still shaking a little, “do you know what happened to Evelyn Carter?”

There was a pause, and it was heavy. “That’s a funny question for you to ask, young man.”

It wasn’t just a funny question; it was stupid, and Ethan knew this. But right then he was just staring down at the pile of papers on his desk, at Caryle’s sketches for the butterfly costumes, at his notes for Golden Vegas, and he didn’t think to be careful. He just asked the questions that had been bothering him.

“I’ve been reading about the past,” he said, pushing through the papers until he had his notes. “About the mob gangs that used to rule Vegas. Or allegedly did. I know about the fifties mob, and the seventies-eighties mob. I know about Lansky’s mob and then the Chicago Outfit. I know that the Lansky mob was supposed to be the kindler, gentler one, and I know the Chicago Outfit had a reputation for being brutal. I know about Rosenthal, and Billy, and I know about all the ones that get listed in the books and on websites. But—not Carter. He’s this shadow, and then he just ends. They say in a hit, but—” He stopped, feeling foolish because of what he’d been thinking, and stopped himself. “I don’t know. Never mind; it doesn’t matter. I’m just getting caught up in the story is all.”

“What story is that?” Crabtree asked, sounding mildly intrigued. Possibly amused.

Oh, this was just stupid, but Ethan couldn’t stop himself. “Okay,” he began, carefully, “this is just my theory. I mean, I don’t know. I know that. Nobody does. But I know you hung out with Billy enough to get him to make you Billy Junior’s godfather, so I guess I’m hoping you know enough to make this make sense to me. I know Rosenthal went down because he was too addicted to fame. He didn’t make himself anonymous. I know Spilotro went down in the cornfield because—well, I don’t know. Because he didn’t get a job done, I assume. But I don’t know about Evelyn Carter at all. I don’t know if they killed him because he screwed up, or if he got in the way, or what. And I don’t buy this stuff I read about him being caught up in the violence. I swear he was better than that.” He paused, embarrassed. “I don’t know. Just forget it. It’s probably just me watching too many movies, like you said, and I’m trying to make a romantic story where there isn’t one.”

There was a lengthy pause on Crabtree’s end, and Ethan cursed himself silently for being such an idiot. And then Crabtree said, quietly, “I knew Carter.”

And there was something in Crabtree’s tone, something that told Ethan he’d picked at an old wound, and it hit him—oh God, Carter was gay, too, and they were involved—then Crabtree kept talking, and Ethan was sure of it.

“I knew him well. And… well.” Crabtree chuckled, but it was a gentler laugh than Ethan had ever heard him give. “Well. He’d have been touched to hear you read through that mess and thought that. Pleased.” Crabtree sighed. “But I’m sorry to tell you, Ethan, that most of what you’ve read
is
true. He was indeed quite brutal, more than he needed to be. And it cost him, one piece at a time, everything he held dear.” He paused, then added sadly, “including me.”

“So they
did
kill him,” Ethan said, disappointed.

Crabtree sighed. “No, son. He killed himself.”

“What?” Ethan whispered.

“He had nothing left, Ethan. Nothing. He couldn’t even step foot in a casino anymore: they put his name in the Black Book. If he so much as walked in the front door of Herod’s or anywhere, he committed a crime. Worst of all, the days of the kind of organized crime he was used to were over. They were over before he got there, really. But it wasn’t just that. He had a chip on his shoulder, that one. He had it all figured out how the world was supposed to work, and he kept waiting patiently for it to show up, and then, finally, he got impatient and started just taking his revenge. Blew up everything around him, just because it wasn’t doing what he wanted. I don’t even remember what it was that set him off anymore. Something small, something he should have seen coming, I’m sure, but to him, it was just the last straw. And he went crazy, really. Slowly. Quietly. But people were starting to notice. And if he hadn’t killed himself, he’d have been taken care of.

“He’d have done well enough in the fifties, like you said. But the seventies were a different time. Different outfit. And much as I loved him, he lost his way, son. He lost sight of the code. He forgot this was about making money, not settling scores and—well, let’s just say he would have watched all your movies with you, kid, and put himself in the lead roles. He got too caught up in the game, and forgot what the real pot was he was playing for. And by the time he figured it out, it was too late. So he gave himself one last victory and took himself out before someone else could. And that, young man, is the story of Evelyn Carter.”

Ethan stared down at his desk again, but he didn’t see it. Instead, he saw the man he’d seen only in faded pictures on the Internet. And, though it made no sense at all, he was seeing himself. He wasn’t like Carter at all, but in some ways, he was. Like Carter, he kept waiting for the big payout. Waiting for the moment things would go right. For the time when the wheel would come around to his number and give him what he deserved.

Except sometimes the wheel didn’t come around. Because the wheel wasn’t about you. The wheel wasn’t about anyone. It was just a damn wheel. It was like Randy said: you had to get the best of it.

You had to go and be your own wheel.

Crabtree’s chuckle drew Ethan out of his reverie. “You still there, son?”

“Yes. Sorry,” Ethan said, and cleared his throat. “Thank you for telling me about him, Crabtree.” He felt foolish again, and knew he should shut up, but he kept going. “I appreciate it. I appreciate knowing the truth about him. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, son,” Crabtree said gently. Then he cleared his throat. “The tournament will be handled through Ms. Reynolds, so don’t worry about it. But when people ask you, it will be four rounds, five hundred players, with first, second, and third prizes worth playing for, but the grand prize will be for ten million dollars.”

Ethan nearly fell off his chair. “
Ten million dollars
?”

“Yes. It will have to come out of the assets, son, though buy-in will be twenty grand, so that will help a great deal. We’ll have the opening table start on the first night, and we’ll end on the last. You’ll be going up against the World Series of Poker, by the way, so expect some angry people. But you’ll also be drawing some of the losers away. It should work out quite well.”

“Sure,” Ethan said, but faintly.
Ten million dollars.
Which he’d have to get from Billy. Fantastic.

“There will be a pre-game, too, that first night, to whet their appetite. A real game, but it will be just one round for show, and this one truly will be invitation only. Mine. A small table, but a big pot. You’ll be at the table, Mr. Ellison, so keep practicing, and on more than your little computer game. Get yourself to Bellagio at least once a day. You’re going to need that much at least, from the way you’ve been neglecting your practice.”

Had Crabtree been spying on him? Ethan snorted, quietly. Of course he’d been spying. He was Crabtree.

“Fine,” Ethan said, still reeling. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“If there is, I’ll be sure to tell you,” Crabtree promised. “Give my love to the boys,” he said, and then he hung up.

“
This
is the kill switch,” Randy said, pointing to the red button beside the right handlebar of the motorcycle. “If you get into trouble, if you aren’t sure the engine is totally off, and especially if you feel like you’re falling over and are going to crash,
use the kill switch
.”

Sam flexed his fingers on the handlebars and nodded through the helmet. “Kill switch. Got it.”

Randy hoped to hell he did. He’d shown Sam every YouTube video he could find about bike safety and what happened when you didn’t follow it, though he tried to keep the danger vids to a minimum because he didn’t want to freak him out. But now he was wondering if that had been a mistake. Maybe Peaches wasn’t going to take this seriously. Maybe he should stop this now and coach him some more.

“Randy,” Sam said, catching the look on his face, “I’ll be fine. We’re just trying it out. I’m taking the course next week and getting my permit. I even made sure to sign up with Kari, the instructor who you said is also a dealer at Herod’s. Just like we agreed. This is just a trial run. Across an empty parking lot. Relax already.”

“It’s just—fuck, Sam, there are so many ways to kill yourself on a bike,” Randy said. It wasn’t that hot out, but he was sweating to death.

Sam shook his head. “You and Mitch
do
think you’re my parents, don’t you? Which if you consider what I do to the two of you in the bedroom is seriously fucked up, you know.”

“I do
not
think of you as my son,” Randy said. “Maybe as a brother-like figure in my more overprotective moments. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the occasional paddle. You’re getting so good at it; it’d be a shame to waste such talent.” He paused, then tilted his head and looked thoughtfully at Sam. “Wait—do to the
two
of us? What kinky stuff are you doing with the Old Man that you’re not telling me about? Spill, Peaches. Spill.”

Sam took off his helmet and leaned forward onto the gas tank. “We’ve gotten into fisting.”

Randy blinked, then let out a wicked growl. “Oh, baby.
Baby
. You have been holding
out
! And what, no equal opportunity? Because, honey, you need to know that I am
very
good at that. And I’d be careful with you. You know I would.”

The look on Sam’s face was downright wicked, almost evil as he leaned forward even farther, looked Randy in the eye and said in velvet tones, “It’s not me getting fisted.”

Randy stared at Sam for a second. Then he blinked. Then his jaw hung open a little.

“No fucking way,” he whispered.

“Way,” Sam said, his eyes dancing. He straightened, sobering. “You can’t tell him I told. He’d be embarrassed. But he really, really likes it. And I do too.”

Mitch Tedsoe lets Sam fist him.
Randy shook his head. “Jesus. He really, really fucking trusts you, Sam. He swore to me he would never, ever let anybody do that to him. Ever.”

Sam tucked his elbow against his side and raised his hand, wiggling his fingers. “Little hands. That’s the key. I can’t take Mitch yet. I’m not sure I really want to. But it’s okay. That can be his thing.”

Randy leaned on the handlebar and put his hand on Sam’s thigh. “Peaches, as the owner of hands half the size of your husband’s meat hooks, I would be
happy
to fist you in his stead.”

Sam smiled, but he shook his head and pressed two fingers against Randy’s mouth. “You shouldn’t be thinking about seducing me, Randy. From what I saw the other night with you and Ethan, I think you have your hands plenty full.”