Hour of the Assassins (8 page)

With some surprise he had replied, “Whatever I happen to be doing at the time.”

By the time Caine got back to the hotel, showered, and changed into his three-piece suit, it was almost six o'clock.

Caine began the evening with a steak dinner downstairs at the Bacchanale. While he was eating, Brown Jacket peered briefly into the restaurant. He was a burly man, about Caine's size, with deep-set eyes and unruly dark hair. Jesus, Caine thought, the dumb prick could use a few classes from Koenig, the Company's shadow and unarmed combat instructor. He explicitly ignored Brown Jacket and inwardly sighed. He would have to take him out right after dinner. The guy looked strong enough to be trouble, so he would have to do it quickly, he decided as he paid the pretty miniskirted waitress. Her eyes widened slightly as he peeled off one of the hundred-dollar bills from his roll. She smiled brightly, trying to expose her molars as she bent over to hand him his change, giving him the benefit of her cleavage all the way to the nipples. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a twenty-dollar tip. Maybe later, he told himself, and gave her saucy rump an affectionate pat as he got up to leave.

A spectacular rose-and-violet sunset splashed across the sky, like a giant reflection of the glittering neon that was lighting up all over the Strip, as he drove through the swarming evening traffic to the Pussy Cat A-Go-Go.

Catty-corner from the Pussy Cat, a white stucco chalet blazed with the neon invitation:

Wedding Chapel

Marriage License Information

Parking In Rear.

Next to the chapel was a storefront lawyer's office, with a large sign advertising, “Divorce. Uncontested Only $25.” Caine grinned and headed into the Pussy Cat.

The large dark bar was relatively empty, since the band didn't come on till 10:00
P.M.
It took a minute for Caine's eyes to become accustomed to the dim red light. He ordered a Coors from a red-cheeked bartender with a yellow bow tie and left the change on the bar.

Why is it bars are always dark? Caine wondered. Maybe people feel safer that way. Maybe it's so they can observe other people while they think that their own faces are safely hidden. While he waited, certain that Brown Jacket would have to come in to see if he was meeting anybody, he checked out the location of the men's room and the emergency exit.

At the other end of the bar two businessmen, the only other customers, were talking about how somebody named Roger didn't know a goddamned thing about the business. There was some discussion of Roger's connections. It couldn't be his brains, they agreed sagely, and argued over which of them should pay for the next round. Just then Brown Jacket came in, blinking blindly for a few seconds while his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Brown Jacket sat at the other end of the bar, near the two businessmen, and ordered a bourbon and branch. When Caine was certain that Brown Jacket had made him, he glanced nervously at his watch a few times, as though he were waiting for someone, and headed for the men's room.

He stood waiting in front of the urinal, his hands in front of him. At last Brown Jacket stumbled in anxiously and, seeing Caine alone, quickly made for the urinal next to him.

“That beer just goes right through you,” Caine drawled amiably. He noted the tail's shoulders relax a bit as he flushed the urinal.

“Yeah, I know what you—”

Brown Jacket never finished the sentence, for Caine, stepping quickly behind him, had thrown his right arm around the man's throat. As he leaned his weight against the back of Brown Jacket's knees, forcing him down, Caine shoved his left hand against the back of the head, smashing the startled face into the urinal. The sound of flushing water covered the man's gasp. Caine grabbed a fistful of hair and hauled the dazed man into one of the cubicles and slammed him onto the seat. He locked the door and unfolded the pocketknife. Brown Jacket sat there stunned, his nose broken and mouth bleeding. Caine grabbed the hair to keep the man's head still and pricked one of the half-closed eyelids with the knife point. Catching his breath, he said softly:

“I'm only going to ask you three times. If I don't get the answer I want the first time, I'm going to cut out your left eye. The second time I take the other eye. The third time I cut the carotid artery and you'll be unconscious in less than a minute and dead in less than five. And even if somebody somehow manages to save you, you'll be blind for life. Nod if you understand.”

He felt a shudder run through the man and then the weak, desperate nod. Brown Jacket's agonized gaze was desperately fixed on Caine's cold green eyes. Cat's eyes, Lim had called them once, Caine thought irrelevantly.

“Who are you?” he demanded quietly.

“Name's DePalma. Private investigator,” Brown Jacket managed to gasp through his bloody mouth.

“Who sent you?”

“I don't know. Said his name was Smith.”

“Say good-bye to your left eye,” Caine said and began to press on the point.

“Wait, please!” he gasped desperately. “Jesus! Oh, God, that's what he told me. I just do what I'm paid for. He pointed you out at LAX and told me to stick. That's all I know, I swear.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was a big guy. Hairy. You couldn't miss him. Oh, wait, he wore a gold earring,” DePalma added eagerly.

Freddie, Caine thought ominously. What was that asshole Wasserman trying to do? Of course, he hadn't really expected Wasserman to trust him, but didn't Wasserman realize that a tail destroyed his anonymity and made him vulnerable? He frisked DePalma and removed a .38 revolver from a shoulder holster. Then he cracked open the cylinder and dropped the bullets into his jacket pocket and put the gun back in the holster.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Caine said quietly. “If I ever see you again, that's the day you die. You catch the next plane to L.A. and tell the goon that hired you that I don't like company. Oh, yeah, and don't stop on your way to the airport.”

Caine thought he saw a sudden hand movement and, grabbing DePalma's throat so he couldn't scream, smashed his fist into the broken nose. DePalma started to slide to the floor, but Caine propped him against the side of the cubicle and left the bar by the emergency exit. He glanced at his watch as he got into the car. He just had time to get back to the hotel to meet Cassidy.

Cleopatra's Barge was a gaudy cocktail lounge, complete with oars, sails, waving ostrich feathers, and mini-togaed Nubian slave girls. The barge floated on a five-foot-deep Nile set beside a wide corridor just off the casino. At one end stood a lushly draped royal box, where the queen presumably entertained Antony. At the other end a baritone with capped teeth and an expensive toupee, fighting the battle of the bulge against his cumberbund, was standing on a small stage. He was holding a microphone in one hand, a cocktail in the other, and singing, “I Gotta Be Me.”

Caine lurched aboard across a gangplank, feeling slightly seasick from the hydraulic mechanism that rocked the barge. He caught the eye of one of the older bartenders and asked for Cassidy. The bartender pointed out a thin, ruddy-cheeked man with short graying hair, wearing a rumpled green suit. Caine sat down at Cassidy's table and ordered “whatever my friend is having” from a busty blond waitress, her thigh-length toga swirling to show a flash of yellow panties.

“What's the story?” Cassidy asked, briefly glancing at Caine with indifferent eyes and then looking back to contemplate the bubbles in his drink.

“Money,” Caine replied.

“That's what makes the world go round,” Cassidy said and finished his drink, wondering what Caine's hustle was.

“You sound like a cynic.”

“So what?” Cassidy replied cynically.

“The trouble with a cynic is that he's just a disillusioned idealist.”

“What's wrong with idealists, come to that?”

“They make mistakes,” Caine said quietly, his voice almost obscured by the baritone crooning that he had done it his way. For the first time Cassidy looked directly at Caine, stirred by curiosity. The baggy folds under his eyes gave Cassidy the appearance of an intelligent cocker spaniel.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“An idealist reasons that because roses smell better than onions, they must make better soup.” The two men grinned at each other and for an instant they were almost friends.

“Okay, Mr.…” Cassidy hesitated.

“Hillary,” Caine put in.

“Okay, Mr. Hillary. Are you buying or selling?”

“Buying. I want a name.”

“What's in a name, speaking of roses,” Cassidy remarked and signaled to the blonde for another drink.

“One thousand dollars,” Caine replied. “Five hundred dollars now, five hundred dollars when I meet the name.”

“That's a nice name. What are you looking for?”

“Suppose somebody wanted to buy a hundred-percent Grade A phony ID: passport, driver's license, the works. Top quality and satisfaction guaranteed not to be used in this town. Would you happen to know somebody who might have that kind of merchandise for sale?”

“Maybe,” Cassidy said, sucking his teeth. Then he winked at the waitress bringing his drink. He took a quick gulp and when he put the glass down, he saw that it was resting on a five hundred-dollar bill that Caine had laid on the table.

“Merry Christmas,” Caine said, but Cassidy made no move to touch the money.

“Are you with an organization, by any chance?”

“Relax. If I were with an organization, would I have to come to you for help?”

“No, I guess not,” Cassidy said, rubbing his chin speculatively. After a moment he lifted the glass and took the money.

“The name,” Caine prompted.

“There's this guy,” Cassidy began. “Name is Hanratty. Pete Hanratty. He did a stretch at Folsom for counterfeiting. I hear he does some quality paperwork for a certain organization, which shall be nameless. He might be interested in a little private enterprise. It's okay to use my name. I've done him a few favors.”

“Where do I find him?”

“He works nights as a dealer at Billion's Horseshoe in Glitter Gulch,” using the term the locals have given to the central casino area on downtown Fremont.

“What's he look like?”

“Short fat guy. Mostly bald. Wears glasses too.”

“Good enough,” Caine said. “You wouldn't happen to know his address?”

“It's in the book,” Cassidy said, finishing his drink. A burst of applause signaled the end of the baritone's lounge performance. As people started to get up, Caine touched Cassidy's arm.

“Just one more thing,” Caine said. “Forget you ever saw me. Remembering won't do either of us any good.”

“What about the other five hundred dollars?” Cassidy asked.

“If Hanratty works out, you get the other five hundred dollars in the mail. If he doesn't,” Caine added softly, “I'm coming back for my five hundred dollars.”

“You're not threatening me, are you? Because I've been threatened before, by experts,” Cassidy replied, suddenly straightening up.

“You seem like a nice guy, Cassidy. I'm not threatening you. I'm giving you the best advice you ever got. Believe me, you never want to see me again,” Caine said, his cat's eyes glinting green and cold. Cassidy felt a shiver of uneasiness pass up his spine, and nodded. Caine put a ten-dollar bill down on the table. “For the drinks,” he said, and left.

Caine went to a lobby phone and placed a call to Wasserman's number in Hollywood. An answering machine answered the phone and beeped. Caine spoke quickly to the machine.

“Your last associate botched the job. Send any more and the deal is off and I keep the down payment.”

That should keep Wasserman off my back for a while, he thought as he hung up the phone. He checked his watch and decided that he had enough time to launder some of the money before he looked up Hanratty.

It was with a sense of wonder that Caine descended into the maelstrom of the hotel's sunken casino. The walls of the casino area were lined with plaster bas-reliefs of Roman gladiators, and the entire area was brilliantly lit by what was easily the largest crystal chandelier he had ever seen. The casino hummed with the noises of chips and machines and the exclamations of players begging whatever god they believed in to “Come on, baby.” Perhaps the noisiest section was where the long banks of slot machines were situated-phalanxes of middle-aged women mechanically cranked coins into the machines with all the spontaneity of clockwork figures in an automated assembly line. This was the real essence of Vegas, Caine thought, its
raison d'être:
the money machine. He felt himself caught by the excitement and sternly reminded himself that he was there to launder the money and not to gamble.

It would have been simpler a few years ago, Caine mused, as he bought $10,000 worth of hundred-dollar chips. In those days chips from any casino were as good as cash anywhere in Vegas. All you had to do was buy chips in one casino, and cash them in at another. But in a classic example of Gresham's Law, that bad money drives out good, counterfeit chips had appeared and now each casino would only cash its own chips.

He went over to one of the crap tables, changed two of the hundred-dollar chips for ten-dollar chips and bet cautiously on the Don't Pass line. After about half an hour he was down $120. The dice passed to a middle-aged woman in a yellow print dress. She made a six point and on a hunch Caine bet a hundred on the hard eight. The woman rolled the two fours as though they were wired. Feeling that she was still good, Caine put five hundred of the thousand he had just won on the Come. She rolled an eleven and he put five hundred on the Pass line. She rolled a ten and after five excited rolls, she made her point. In less than a minute, he had won $2,000.

He collected his chips, tossing a few ten-dollar chips to the pit man, and went back to the cashier. He cashed them in, making sure he was paid in fifties so he wouldn't get Wasserman's hundred-dollar bills back again, and went to another cashier's window and bought $10,000 in $500 denomination American Express traveler's checks, keeping about $2,000 of the cashed-in chips in cash. Then, heading back to the parking area, he had the attendant bring the car and drove down to Glitter Gulch.