The Collectibles (26 page)

“I'm not sure where she is . . . ”

“Get over yourself, Preston. People can find people everywhere. Trust me. You know where her mother lives, don't you? Start there. If you really need help, I've got a friend in the casino cage that can find anybody. Give her Marcia's birth date and a few other details, and she'll tell you where she is.”

“This is amazing, Missy. Thank you. You've given me a lot to think about, and I will. I'll try to reach her. Believe me.”

Preston took a deep breath. “You must be tired, having worked since early this morning.”

“I am. And my feet ache. It's funny, my feet didn't bother me when I was dancing up there on the stage. But walking around the casino floor, bringing drinks to God knows who, and having them stare at my boobs – that makes me tired.”

“I can understand that,” Preston said. “Tell me about your dancing. You look like a dancer. I can sure see you up on a stage. What happened?”

“My ex-husband happened,” Missy said, looking around a bit nervously. “In fact, I've been sitting too long with you right now. He's always watching me.”

“What has he done?” Preston asked.

“It's a long story. Let's just say he can't stand to have me dance, he can't stand to have other men look at me – because he loves me so much – so he demonstrates his love in a lot of ways that get pretty ugly.”

“Does he hit you?”

“He has, many times, including in the arms and face, almost to the point where he made sure that I would not be able to get on the stage. That's why I had to get away, why I went to New York.”

“He assaulted you. There have to be laws against that.”

“Yeah, there are plenty of laws. And they're not worth a damn. I've got a protective order against him right now. It's illegal for him to bother me in any way, even talk to me or be around me. If he decides to, that court order won't be worth the paper it's written on. That's just the way it is. And if I leave Vegas, I leave the very thing I want to do most. It's a Catch-22. In any event, I've talked to you longer than I should have here. If you're around tomorrow, I get off work about the same time, and if you feel like it, we can have lunch. But we should get together in another restaurant, someplace quieter and off the strip. There's a nice place between the strip and downtown called Charley's.”

“I would really like that.” Preston gave his cell phone number, told her his room number, and told her he would find Charley's and meet her there at 1:30 p.m., if that worked for her.

 

Preston sat there for another hour, thinking about the amazing conversation he just had.
I came here worried about what I'm doing here talking to her, and she spends all the time enlightening me. Incredible.

P
reston, checking at the front desk, was pleased to find that his room was finally ready. After he shaved and showered, all the time thinking about his conversation with Missy, he threw himself into the large chair by the desk, put his feet up, and gazed out the window at the strip. Then he remembered he had told Tommy Greco he would call when he got in. He dialed the number Alice had given him.

“Greco,” Tommy said.

“Hello, Mr. Greco. My name is Preston Wilson. We spoke briefly on the phone and arranged to meet out here. I told you I'd call when I got in.”

“Yeah, I remember. What's it you want?”

Silence for a moment.
I can't see telling this guy I'm here to get to know him and earn his trust. Now what?
“Is it possible, Mr. Greco, that we could meet someplace, have a cup of coffee?”

“You hittin' on me? I'm not that kind of guy, you know what I mean? You still haven't told me what you want. My time's valuable, Mr. Preston.”

“Well . . . I'm at the Frontier.”

“Good for you,” Tommy said.

“Where are you, Mr. Greco?”

“I'm in an important business meeting at the moment with some significant business associates. We're discussing some opportune situationals in which we believe a healthy economic environment could happen.”

“How long do you think you'll be? Would you be able to meet for dinner?”

“Now you've asked me two questions. I can meet for dinner, you doing the lifting.”

“Doing the lifting?”

“Yeah, you know, picking up the tab.”

“I can do that.”

“Next, as to how long I'm going to be, that depends on the progression of our discussions here. One of my associates is a dickhead, and that makes our progression a lot slower.”

Preston could hear a commotion over the phone. “Sorry,” Tommy said, “my last pronouncement created the unintended effect of a commotional, which then I, in turn, had to resolve.”

Preston could not believe he was having this conversation. He wanted to quit, but knew he had to keep going. “Where would you like to have dinner, Mr. Greco?”

“How's Barrymore's Steakhouse, end of the strip?”

“Good. Does six o'clock work for you?”

“No, it don't.”

“When would you like to have dinner?”

“I have to go over to Caesar's, check some action, see a few people. How's eight?”

“Eight it is,” Preston said, glad the negotiation was over. “I'll see you at Barrymore's Steakhouse at eight.”

Tommy hung up. Preston did, too, staring at his phone, before he called Barrymore's and made a reservation for two. After a nap, he showered again and dressed for dinner, deciding that tonight's meeting did not require a tie and that his blue blazer and an open blue Oxford shirt would be enough.

 

Barrymore's consisted of three large rooms with a fourth private room in the back. The décor was heavy English, a lot of wood, gas lights behind stained glass, white tablecloths, heavy china. As the maître d' took Preston to his table in the second large room to the left, he told Preston over his shoulder, “I think it was a wise decision for you to go to your table now if you are expecting Mr. Greco. He customarily arrives a little late.”

He was right. Preston sat in the restaurant for forty minutes, munching on bread. When Tommy finally arrived, he appeared to do it in a burst, coming out of nowhere, walking in and sitting down all in one motion. Wearing black slacks, a black belt with a silver buckle, and a black shirt, open at the top, he seemed to have no chin. And no apology for being late.

“So you're Wilson.”

Preston stood up and extended his arm. “I am. Please call me Preston, Mr. Greco. It's good to meet you.” Tommy shook his hand with an iron grip.

“Pleased to meet you, too,” Tommy said. At that point, a tall, thin waiter who looked like he had been on Social Security for a while came to take their drink orders.

“Would you like some wine?” Preston asked.

“I'll just have a beer,” Tommy said. “You go ahead.”

Preston ordered a bottle of Merlot. Tommy seemed to change his mind and ordered Chianti. “So, Preston, what's the deal? What's going on? I don't have a problem with you buying me dinner, but tell me, what's going on?”

“We have a mutual friend, it seems. Joe Hart. He's the one who suggested that I meet with you.”

“You know Joe?”

“Yes,” Preston replied, his legs bobbing.

“How do you know Joe?”

“I first met him years ago when I was a kid up in the Adirondack Mountains. More recently, actually a month ago or so, I asked Joe to do some work for my company, Wilson Holdings.”

“What kind of work?”

“My company owns several large automobile dealerships around the country. A few of the dealerships had developed some financial difficulties with the banks providing them floor plan financing and loans . . . ”

Their conversation was interrupted by the waiter, who had brought their drinks and now wanted to take their order: two eighteen-ounce New York strip sirloins, Preston's well done, Tommy's rare.

“And so your guys went SOT,” Tommy asked, “and put you in jeopardation?”

“Actually, that's just what happened,” Preston said after waiting a beat and suppressing a laugh. “I was in serious financial trouble, a lot of zeroes behind the numbers. I asked Joe to help me out of it, although I had real doubts that anything could be done. Joe figured out a way to turn it all around. He met with the lead bank. It was amazing. I still can't believe it.”

“Yeah. Joe could do that. So Joe asked you to look me up?” Tommy tore into his steak with a large, black-handled steak knife. Holding the knife up in his beefy right hand, he looked at Preston and said, “I love these fuckin' things.”

“Yes. He asked me to find you and get to know you.”

“Why? If Joe needed me for something, he'd just call me.”

“No, it's not Joe needing you for anything. It's that Joe thought I should meet you. That I should get to know you, and vice versa, as he put it. May I call you Tom?” Preston asked.

“No. Tommy. So you flew all the way out here because Joe thought it would be good if you met me?”

“That's right,” Preston replied. “And so you could get to know me, too.”

“You sure you're leveling with me?” Tommy said. “You're not looking for money, some financing to help with them car dealerships? I know people with money, you know. I can be a facilitational guy.”

“Actually, my meeting you has nothing to do with money. Thanks to Joe, the banks are restructuring our debt and providing the flooring plans we need. Our workout is on track, actually better than I expected. What are you doing here, Tommy? Can you tell me a little bit about you?”

“I'm a businessman here in Vegas. I . . . ”

Tommy's answer was interrupted by Preston's cell phone. Preston looked at it and was about to shut it off when he noticed that it was Missy's number.

“Tommy, I've got to take this,” he said. Tommy nodded, picked up his steak knife, lavished a huge piece of butter on the last piece of bread in the basket, shoved the bread and butter in his mouth, and ordered more.

“What? Missy. Are you all right? What?” Preston could hardly hear her soft voice, which sounded as if she were crying. He heard enough to know she was in trouble. “Where are you? Where is that?” Preston said, asking Tommy if he had a pen. Tommy nodded and reached in the side pocket of his trousers. Preston grabbed it and wrote on a napkin. “I'll be there shortly,” he said and hung up.

“Who's Missy?”

“She's another friend of Joe's that I met just this afternoon. She sounds like she's in trouble.”

“We're out of here,” Tommy said, getting up from the table and motioning to the waiter for a check. The waiter rushed it over, handing the bill to Tommy. Tommy glanced at it and handed it to Preston.

“Here, pay it in cash and let's go,” Tommy said.

Preston, glancing at the check, left a $100 bill on the table. Tommy reached in his pocket and matched Preston's bill. Then they left.

Outside the restaurant, Preston started to look for a taxi, but Tommy told him to get in the black limousine, which Preston hadn't noticed.

“Is this yours?” Preston asked as they got in.

“It's a convenience that is appropriated to me on certain occasions,” Tommy said. “Give me the napkin.”

Tommy gave the driver the address and told him to step on it. The limousine took off, and within fifteen minutes they found themselves in a quiet neighborhood of inexpensive townhouses close together, all looking alike. Preston knocked on the hollow sounding door. Missy opened it slightly, and then, seeing Preston, took off the chain and motioned him in. Tommy followed.

“This is Tommy Greco, Missy. Tommy, Missy Scarlatti. Tommy is a friend of Joe's, as well. He and I were having dinner when you called. I hope you don't mind my being here with him, but the way you sounded, I really thought I should come right over.”

“Tommy Greco!” Missy said, as she motioned for the two men to sit on the couch in her small living room. She was wearing sunglasses and her hands were shaking as she lowered herself into the chair next to the couch. “Joe mentioned your name to me, said I ought to meet you some time. It's good to meet you, Tommy. I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner.” She lowered her voice. “I just wanted to call and cancel tomorrow's lunch. I'm not going in to work in the morning.”

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“I'm all right,” Missy said, rising to get a drink of water. “Can I get you guys anything?”

“No, nothing,” Tommy said. “Preston here just bought me a big dinner. I can't believe you and I live in the same town and both know Joe and don't know each other. What a coincidental. Anyway, any friend of Joe's is a friend of mine, and I'm pleased to meet you.”

“Missy. Please call me Missy. I agree with you; us living here, both knowing Joe. We should know each other. Preston, too. I spent some time getting to know him this afternoon. I enjoyed the talk, but I apparently spent a little too much time.”

“Did he see us talking?”

“Who?” Tommy asked.

“My ex,” Missy said.

“Okay, I get it,” Tommy said. “Take the shades off.”

Missy shook her head no. “There's nothing we can do. If I call the police and tell them that he's violated the protective order, they can arrest him. Then he'll get out, then he'll find me again. Then . . . it'll be worse.”

“There's got to be something that can be done, Missy. Obviously, you've got a lawyer. Can you call your lawyer and see what he recommends?”

“It's a she,” Missy said. “And I know what she recommends. She wants me to leave town, go hide, just like I did the last time this happened. I went all the way to New York and hid in a motel up in the mountains, a place that Joe owns. He looked after me all that time. I could have stayed there, but I wanted to come back. I dreamed about being a showgirl out here, a dancer, and for a while, and with a lot of hard work, I made my dream come true. Like I told you this afternoon, Preston, if I leave here, I'll never get back in the show. If I don't . . . ”

“I think we should call the police,” Preston said.

“I don't,” Tommy said. “Missy, what's your ex-husband's name?”

“Sam O'Brien,” Missy said in a whisper.

“This prick's Irish?” Tommy asked. “And you're using your maiden name?”

“Yes to both,” Missy said. “I'm from Lyons, New York, originally.”

“I know Lyons,” Tommy said. “Small little town between Buffalo and Syracuse, right? I knew some vending machine guys up there. Also, a great area for . . . well, a lot of book comes from up there. Good to know you, Scarlatti.” Tommy smiled. “So where's Sammy the Prick work?”

“He used to work as a stagehand for the show at the Aladdin. Now he works for some company that does stage management for different shows on the strip. I haven't talked with him in a long time, tried not to, and I don't really know where he's working now.”

“What's he look like?” Tommy said. “Got a picture of him?”

“I burned the pictures,” Missy said, looking down as if she were trying not to cry. “But he has to have an ID picture on file somewhere.”

“What's his birth date?” Preston asked, wishing he were more involved in the conversation and feeling useless.

“December 4, 1974.”

Tommy took a small piece of white paper from his shirt pocket and jotted down the date.

“Do you mind taking them glasses off, Missy, so we can see what it looks like and whether we can get you something to make it easier?”

“Yes, I do, Tommy, but thanks. I know the drill. All too well. I've got a compress, I've got medicine, I'll take care of it. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Tommy said. “We'll leave you alone. You get some rest.” Tommy wrote a number on a card and gave it to her. “Stay in tonight and tomorrow. Keep the door locked. He shows up tonight, and you have any more trouble, you call me at this number. It was good to meet you.”

“Again, thank you. I can't believe you're helping me like this, Tommy,” Missy said.

“No problem,” Tommy said. “I'm from Niagara Falls, our side. I know what it's like to have people after you, mistreating you . . . in a lot of ways. My father knocked me around a lot, and my brother . . . well, he became an abuser in a different way. I also know what it feels like to try to make a life for yourself; try to improve . . . like reach another level . . . and then things keep holding you back. I'm a little rough, Missy, in my presentation. I'm working on it. I think you're a first class lady. To be honest with you, I hope we can see more of each other, and I mean that in a respectful way. Like I said, you've got my number.”