Loaded Dice (17 page)

Amin steepled his fingers in front of his chin, deep in thought. Then he spoke to Pash in their native tongue. Gerry hated when he did that, and planned to mention it when their relationship got farther along. Amin ended the conversation by standing, and slapping Gerry on the shoulder. “I think we should become partners.”

Gerry looked into his eyes.
Amin bought the pitch
.

“You’re in?”

Amin nodded approvingly.

Gerry nearly let out a shout. “How about I buy you and Pash a steak? I think this is cause for celebration.”

Amin glanced at his watch. “We can eat later. There are some friends of mine I want you to meet. Do you mind driving?”

Gerry tried not to laugh. Did he mind driving? Amin was about to make him rich. He’d drive Amin wherever he wanted, and even wear a chauffeur’s cap.

“Ready when you are,” he said.

Amin sat in the passenger’s seat and had Gerry drive through Henderson, then get on Highway 93 and head east. The road was long and ruler-straight. Ten miles outside of town, Amin pointed to an unpaved road sitting off the highway.

“Take that,” he said.

Gerry drove down the road in a cloud of dust. Soon a gas station came into view. The building was abandoned and sagged drunkenly to one side. Nailed to its rusted tin roof was a crude, hand-painted sign.
BOULDER AUTO RESTORERS. NO JOB TOO SMALL.

Behind the gas station was another tin-roofed structure. Pointing at it, Amin said, “I’m meeting my friends there.”

Gerry spun the wheel, no longer feeling good about things. Friends met at bars and restaurants, not behind abandoned buildings in the desert. Something bad was going down. He drove around back to an auto graveyard filled with car skeletons and pyramids of empty lacquer cans. The air was chemically ripe, and he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray.

A beat-up station wagon was parked in the lot’s center. Two stern-faced Mexican men stood beside it. In their thirties, with jet-black hair and complexions the color of pencil erasers. Gerry glanced sideways at Amin. “These your friends?”

“Yes,” Amin said.

He parked a hundred feet from where the Mexicans stood. Then glanced at the paper bag sitting on the floor between Amin’s feet. He’d assumed it was food that Amin had brought for the trip. Now he knew otherwise.

“You packing?” Gerry asked him.

Amin ignored the remark. Grabbing the paper bag, he climbed out of the car. He started walking toward the two Mexicans and waved. The Mexicans waved back.

Pash leaned between the two front seats. “Is something wrong?”

“You bet there is.”

Pash’s face begged for an explanation.

“They’re border rats. Smugglers. Your brother set me up.”

“Set you up how?”

“He asked me to come as backup. In case these guys got any funny ideas.”

“You do not trust these men?”

Gerry shook his head. Back when he’d run a bookmaking operation in Brooklyn, a local hoodlum had brought two Mexicans by and tried to talk him into bankrolling a cocaine run out of Mexico. Gerry had listened because he was interested in how these things worked, then said no thanks.

What he’d learned was that border rats had become popular in the smuggling world since 9/11. Bribing border guards to ignore a truckload of cocaine was a thing of the past. Contraband was having to take different routes, and border rats were cheap alternatives. They carried the drugs on their backs, entering the country with illegal immigrants in southern New Mexico’s boot heel.

Amin’s friends looked menacing. Short and broad-shouldered, with steely glints for eyes and sweatshirts that hung over their belts. Gerry guessed they were packing heat. The Mexicans he’d met in Brooklyn had been.

“How well does Amin know them?” he asked.

“They’ve met once before,” Pash replied.

Gerry spun around in his seat and stared at him. “And Amin is about to give them a bag of money? Is he crazy?”

“You think they’ll kill him?”

“Of course they’ll kill him.”

“But they come highly recommended.”

“By who? Pablo Escobar?”

Pash’s eyes turned as big as silver dollars. “Oh, no,” he muttered under his breath. “Something is wrong.”

Gerry stared out the windshield. One of the Mexicans was holding stacks of money in his hands. His partner was pointing at the money and shouting. Gerry didn’t have to understand Spanish to get the argument’s drift. Amin had delivered less than he’d promised. That happened a lot in drug deals.

Only Amin wasn’t apologizing. He needed to fall on his sword and let the Mexicans have their pride restored. Amin was just standing there, talking calmly.

“He’s asking for trouble,” Gerry said.

Amin took something from his pocket. It looked like a casino chip. He offered it to the Mexicans, finally extending the olive branch. The shouting Mexican knocked it out of his hand, then went for his gun.

Amin lifted his shirt and drew his own piece. He was lightning-fast, and shot the Mexican three times in the chest. The Mexican’s gun discharged into the ground. He staggered backward and fell against the skeleton of a car.

The Mexican holding the money was helpless, and looked at Amin as if to say
Now what?
The guy was cool, Gerry thought. Telling Amin with a shrug that he’d settle for less, no harm done. A real businessman.

Amin lowered his gun. He reached for the battered briefcase the Mexicans had brought. Had his fingers on the handle when the Mexican leaning against the car came to life and started shooting. There were bullet holes in his sweatshirt, but no bloodstains. He’s wearing a vest, Gerry thought.

His partner ran for cover. The Mexican doing the shooting hid behind the pyramid of lacquer cans and kept letting off rounds. He was a crummy shot, but Gerry knew he was eventually going to hit Amin, who was standing in the open. Then the Mexican would come after him and Pash, and get rid of his witnesses.

“The car,” Pash said. “Drive it between them.”

Gerry shook his head. That would only get
them
shot. He looked out his window at the cans lying nearby. The labels said
PAINT REMOVER
. He jumped out and started shaking them. Finding one half-filled, he unscrewed the lid, pulled a snot rag out of his pocket, and made a Molotov cocktail.

“I need a light,” he told Pash.

Pash found his cigarette lighter and jumped out of the car. He made a flame appear, and turned the snot rag bright orange.

Gerry came around the car with the burning can in his outstretched hand. Running three steps, he threw the flaming can over his head with all his might. As it soared through the air, Amin, who was crouching on the ground, craned his neck to watch.

The flaming can landed on the pyramid and toppled it. There was a loud
pop!
as everything that was flammable caught fire at once. An orange wall rose up around the Mexican, and he screamed. Gerry could feel the heat from where he was standing. The Mexican ran out from his hiding place covered in flames.

Pash appeared at his side. “The human torch,” he mumbled.

They watched the Mexican run into a nearby field, his clothes throwing off black smoke. His partner ran in the opposite direction, the stacks of money clutched to his chest. They got in the car, and Gerry floored it. He jammed the brakes a few yards from where Amin stood. He saw Amin pick up a brown casino chip from the ground. He wondered if the Mexican had realized that it was worth five thousand dollars.

Amin dragged the briefcase across the dirt and got in. Smoke began to pour out of the ground, and Gerry stared at flames that seemed to rise an inch every second. Their motion was sensuous, almost taunting.

“Hold on,” he said.

He was doing seventy down the dirt road leading back to Highway 93 when he heard a muffled explosion. Slowing down, he turned in his seat. Everything behind them was on fire: the abandoned gas station, the auto graveyard, even the adjacent field. Had he not known better, he would have sworn that a giant bomb had just been set off.

Amin touched his sleeve. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re a lying son-of-a-bitch,” Gerry said. “You know that?”

27

Y
ou realize that I’m ruined,” Nick said as they rode downstairs in the elevator.

The little Greek said it like he was commenting about the weather. Only his voice was strained, and Valentine realized he was dying inside.

“The Gaming Control Board will take the assets of the thirty employees who ripped you off,” Valentine said. “You can use that to run the casino until you get a loan from a bank.”

Nick laughed harshly. “That’s not going to happen. Chance Newman and Rags Richardson and Shelly Michael control the banks—they run a few billion bucks through them every year. I’m a small fry. I’ve got no juice.”

Juice. It was the magic elixir in Las Vegas, even more powerful than money. Who you knew, and how well you knew them. And Nick was saying he didn’t have any.

“Have you considered selling the place?” Valentine asked as the elevator docked.

“I’ve had offers,” Nick said. “Venture capitalists, banks. Everybody wants to tear the place down, put in a big moron-catcher. Know what I tell them?”

“No.”

“I tell them to get lost.”

As they got out of the elevator, Nick punched Valentine in the arm. It really stung, and Valentine thought he understood. Nick had accepted that his run was over.

“Let’s nail these people ripping me off,” he said.

They found Wily in the surveillance control room, hovering before the wall of video monitors. He was watching the roulette table, and Valentine could tell by the hunch in his shoulders that he was on to something.

“Figure out what Fontaine’s gang is doing?”

Wily nodded, surprising Valentine by not gloating over it.

“So tell us,” Nick said.

“The gang is double past-posting,” Wily replied.

Valentine was impressed. He’d only seen the scam once, down in Puerto Rico, where the game of roulette bordered on high art. The San Juan gang had lightened the house by over a million bucks. He decided not to steal Wily’s thunder.

“How?” he asked.

Wily pointed at the monitors. Because the roulette layout was large, two cameras covered the action. One camera watched the wheel, while the second watched the layout on which the bets were made. It was impossible for anyone in surveillance to watch both cameras at once, a fact known to most roulette gangs.

“The gang has three members,” Wily said. “The dealer, and two women standing at the end of the table.”

He pointed at two women playing roulette. Both were dressed like tourists. One was quiet and reserved, the other a blond woman who liked to bang the table.

“The quiet one’s past-posting. In the last twenty minutes, she’s won five grand. The reason we’re not seeing it is because the dealer and the table-banger are distracting us. Watch.”

They watched the ivory ball roll around the wheel. As it started to slow down, the dealer announced the betting was over. The ball landed, and they saw the table-banger attempt to place a late bet. The dealer stopped her and politely explained that the betting was over. Then he pushed her chips back.

“You see it?” Wily asked.

“See what?” Nick said.

“The dealer is blocking the camera when he pushes the chips back. The quiet one is sneaking a bet onto the layout behind his arm. No one pays attention to her.”

Nick looked at Valentine. “You ever seen this scam before?”

It was the stupidest damn thing, but Valentine found himself feeling proud of Wily. He’d smartened up, something chumps rarely did. So Valentine lied and said, “Heard about it, but never seen it.”

“No kidding.” Nick looked at Wily. “If the past-posting is hidden from the camera, how we going to nail them?”

“Was hidden,” Wily informed him.

“Let me guess,” Nick said. “You sent someone down to the floor with a video cam, and captured the whole thing.”

Wily smiled. “Yes, sir. I was thinking of letting the woman leave and having her followed. Who knows. Maybe she’ll lead us to Fontaine.”

Nick beamed at him. “Good thinking. Tony, the kid’s sharp, isn’t he?”

A few years ago, Valentine had likened Wily to a dog trying to walk on its hind legs. No more. “Real sharp,” he said.

Nick slung his arm around Wily’s shoulder. Then he led Wily across the room to a secluded corner and broke the bad news to him. Wily had worked for Nick for seventeen years, which was a lifetime by Las Vegas standards, and Valentine watched Wily’s face change as Nick explained that the Acropolis was doomed. Wily kept trying to interject, but Nick wouldn’t let him. It was over.

By the time Nick was finished, the head of security was weeping.

At a quarter of four, the thirty people responsible for destroying Nick’s empire began to file into the basement meeting room of the Acropolis.

Valentine watched them on the video monitors. The new hires were laughing and joking, unaware they were about to be busted. Nick appeared by his side, chewing a handful of Tums and gulping down water.

“Fucking rats,” Nick said. “I wish this was thirty years ago.”

“Why’s that?”

“In the old days, casinos shot cheaters in the head and buried them in the desert.”

Valentine glanced at him. “You ever do that?”

“Who cares?”

“I like to know who I’m working for.”

“No. I just had their legs broken.”

“That was civil of you.”

“Didn’t have a choice. There were no surveillance cameras back then. Sometimes you could snap a picture from the catwalk, but it was hard. Usually, it was your word against theirs in court. Juries didn’t buy it, and the cheaters walked.”

“So you broke their legs to keep them away.”

“Just one leg.”

“Why only one?”

“I didn’t want them becoming cripples. A guy with a cane can get around, find a job, lead a normal life. I’ve got principles, you know?”

Valentine’s eyes returned to the monitor. Wily was in the basement, standing directly in the camera’s eye. When all the new hires were present, he would stick a pen behind his ear. That was the signal for Nick to come down without Wily calling him and arousing suspicion.