The Downtown Deal (17 page)

"You're
doing the talking."

"But
before I do any more talking," he said, "I must have your assurance
that you understand this critical concept."

"Okay,
okay, I understand it. Now, what's your point?"

"My
point is that there will be no new venue built in Las Vegas to accommodate
Major League Baseball, the NFL, or any other big league sporting activity."

"Who
says?"

"It
would not be good for gaming, Mr Barnett, so therefore, as you have just
agreed, not good for Las Vegas."

I
said, "Well, that's your opinion."

"Not
just my opinion, but the opinion of certain local gaming interests. They have a
rather large stake in the well-being of this city. And the presence of a
baseball team would definitely … how shall I say it? … cast a negative glow
over that well-being." He spread both his hands out as if to draw a
picture of a negative glow. I got it.

"Don't
you mean that the presence of thirty or forty thousand people sitting in a
stadium eighty-one nights a year, rather than gambling their lives away in a
casino, would cast a negative glow over the casinos' bottom line?"

Mr
Black replied, without the slightest shift in his quiet tone, "Mr Barnett,
the interests I represent have decided that a baseball team is not what this
city needs. Las Vegas cannot support a team. There are no real local people
here, no one with roots, and such people are the backbone of any team's fan
structure. Everyone who lives here is from somewhere else. Surely you know
this."

"Yes,
I know it very well." I added a nod to underscore that point.

"There
is already entirely too much competition for the entertainment dollar here.
Also, there is the potential problem of players and coaches, and maybe even
umpires, gambling on the games. You see where that could lead." He
gestured a few more times with his right hand, as if to show me where that
could lead. "A baseball team, which would require a sizeable investment by
the city's hard-working taxpayers, would not pull its own weight, and would
ultimately be a losing proposition. Don't you agree?"

"What's
the difference if I agree or not? I'm not the one building the stadium. I don't
have any money invested in it. And why are you here telling me all this?"

"Because,
we know you are in a very, shall we say, singular position."

I
liked the way he used the word "singular". His pronunciation of it
was exotic, appealing.

He
then said, "You are connected to both parties who are trying to get the
rights to build this stadium. Up till now, you appear to have their trust. You
are in a position to aid one or the other of them in this futile quest of
theirs. It is the sincere hope of the interests I represent that you might
simply refrain from assisting them at any time. It would be to everyone's
advantage if you did so. Including your own."

Again,
someone's telling me where my best interests lie, and again, my guard went up.
When it did, I'm sure he caught it.

I
said, "Forgive me for asking, Mr Black, but just how in the hell do you
know so much about my activities."

He
allowed himself a flash of a smile, showing the briefest glint of white, white
teeth. "Mr Barnett, I represent local gaming interests. And they are quite
— let me say — resourceful."

Although
he apparently never got tired of using the phrase "local gaming interests",
this guy deserved the Oscar for Best Understatement Of The Year. I was going to
tell him so, but instead I said, "Something you have to understand. I have
absolutely no influence over anything connected to this stadium. I'm just a
private detective, investigating the death of Sandra Blake. It happened to lead
into that … quicksand, as you called it, but it's quicksand I can easily step
out of. I can promise you that none of these real estate people are going to
listen to me if I start badmouthing the stadium idea. I think you're way
overestimating my role here."

He
leaned back in his chair. "We know what your role is, and you are not to
assist anyone in putting together the land for the stadium. It would not be
good for Las Vegas."

"Well,
if that's all you're after, you got it. Like I said, my part in this has
nothing to do with getting land for anyone. I'm not in that business. But I
guess your 'gaming interests' must already know that, right?"

"The
people I represent know a lot more than you may think, Mr Barnett. Now, I have
given you their message." He then stood up, his large figure casting a
shadow over me. I looked up at him. At that moment, he looked like the biggest
guy I'd ever seen. The gaze from his large, black eyes damn near went right
through me.

He
said, "I hope you heed their message. For your sake." Then he
immediately left the room.

I
hollered out the door after him, "If they know so much, can they tell me
who killed Sandra Blake?"

B
ecause it was being played in New York, game one of the World
Series was scheduled to start in the late afternoon, Las Vegas time. That would
enable me to watch it, then go on down to the Bootlegger to catch Martine's
last set or two.

After
a makeshift lunch, a feeling continued to nag at me as it had since my last
talk with Blake. I picked up my phone and punched in his office number. They
said he was out of town for the weekend, and I remembered he'd told me as much,
so I dialed his cell number. He answered.

"Mr
Blake, there's something I have to ask you. You said Olivera might sell his
land to you for a song, just to get his hands on the wine. But that would mean
giving up this entire scheme of his, in which he stands to make a sizeable
fortune. Why would he want to do that?"

"Simple,
Jack. If you really want to, you can always find land for a stadium. But a case
of wine like this one only comes along once in a dozen lifetimes. And Olivera
knows it."

"But
if he sells you the land, then you'll build the stadium yourself."

"I'm
not —"

"Save
it. I already know that you're pulling Silquist's strings. And that the
so-called forty-six million dollar deal with him was a smokescreen, pure and
simple."

I
heard him exhale. "This better be held private, Jack. No leaks to anyone.
And I mean
none.
"

"Don't
worry. It's all private."

Another
exhale, then he lowered his voice like there were people right there who might
overhear him. "It's like I told you yesterday. Olivera thinks he's in
control of the whole shooting match. That's his fatal flaw. He believes Mayor
Niekamp sees
him
as the white knight,
the only one who can bring the Marlins here because of his minority shares in
the team. He thinks he can tie this whole thing up until Niekamp moves for an
eminent domain seizure in his favor. But he doesn't know the mayor as well as
he thinks he does."

"Really?"
I said. "What doesn't he know about her?"

"He
doesn't know she'll do business with Silquist in a heartbeat if we've got the
land and the financing. Reason being that she's very familiar with Silquist,
and she knows of his deep local roots. Nothing would please her more than to be
able to say that Las Vegas has become a major league city because of the
efforts of this great native son."

"Silquist
mentioned that to me yesterday."

"Not
only that, she wants to get the ball rolling on this whole thing as soon as
possible. She's due up for re-election in a couple of years and it would make
her look like a miracle worker if she could bring Major League Baseball to
town. She could get re-elected indefinitely."

"And
you think you'll get it? The stadium rights, I mean."

"I
know we'll get it. On account of the wine. Olivera has to have it. It's an itch
he'll never be able to scratch unless he gets it. As long as I continue to
stonewall him on the downtown land, he'll put his plan B into operation,
namely, sniffing around for other locations — in fact, it's been
whispered in my ear that he's already doing this."

I
said, "Why would he look for other locations if he thinks he can get your
land through eminent domain?"

"Because
if he goes the eminent domain route, he knows there's a strong likelihood I
won't just roll over, that I might be able to tie him up in court for years. He
can't afford to take that chance. His hour has arrived. He feels he can't let
it pass."

I had
to chuckle to myself over Blake's complete mastery of this situation. "So,
naturally, he doesn't know you know this, right?"

"He
thinks I don't suspect a thing, and unless I miss my guess, he's already
decided to sell me his land just to get his hands on that wine once he finds
another suitable location for the stadium."

"So
the wine is the key to the whole thing."

He
said, "Exactly. This deal is potentially worth hundreds of millions of
dollars to him. But he has to have that wine. Even if it means selling me his little
piece of land."

"And
then? Once you get hold of it?"

"Then,
we'll fast-track the stadium financing, which is already lined up, and nail
down the city's participation, which Niekamp will gladly do in order to ensure bringing
a major league team to Las Vegas. Once our whole stadium package is in place,
the Marlins ownership will go for it. It'll be too attractive to reject.
They'll throw Olivera overboard."

"You
sure about that?" I asked.

He
nodded. "I have a … let's say a
source
… in Miami who confirms this. Olivera won't have time to put together a more
favorable deal in another part of town. We get the land. We get the stadium.
The curtain falls. Game over. The good guys win."

I had
to hand it to him. He really had it covered. "You know, if you ever get
tired of real estate, you should try poker. You're a natural."

I
heard him chuckle. "I'll consider it. By the way, will you be watching the
World Series tonight?"

"Without
question."

"Who
do you like?"

I
said, "The Yankees all the way. The Marlins just don't have what it takes
to beat them."

"I'm
not so sure. The Marlins may surprise you like they surprised the Cubs. Now, I
have to run, Jack. Call me when you get any news."

T
he Marlins stunned the baseball world, including myself, by
defeating the Yankees that night in the opening game of the World Series. In
fucking New York, no less. The final was 3-2, and they looked good doing it.
This would not be as easy for the Yankees as I had predicted. Worse yet, the
other night at Binion's sports book, I had put eleven hundred on them to win
the Series.

I
stepped out of my apartment into a biting wind. As I zipped up my jacket, a
fist came out of nowhere, landing solidly on my cheekbone. Another plowed hard
into my stomach, putting me down. I couldn't see who it was, but I could feel
there was a pair of them, as they lifted me up and brought me back inside the
still-open door of my apartment.

Once
inside, they shoved me to the floor. One of them came over, picked me up, then
slammed my forehead against my wooden coffee table. I saw blood squirt out past
my eyes, as he got me up on my feet. Finally, I could see them.

There
were two of them, both large, wearing leather coats of black and gray. While
one propped me up, the other landed another punishing shot to my stomach. As I
struggled for breath, the one who hit me came very close to my bleeding face. I
smelled cigarette smoke on him as he said, "Keep your nose out of this
fucking stadium deal."

The
other one let go of me. I dropped to the floor and they left without another
word.

I lay
there, trying to blot out the pain, but I got nowhere. I tried cursing, cursing
them and Blake and everything about this case. It didn't do much for the pain,
but somehow it helped my attitude, which at the moment needed all the help it
could get. The blood continued streaming down my face onto the carpeting, so I
labored hard in order to get up on my feet, then staggered into the bathroom.

The
sight in the mirror was not pretty. A gash ran from my hairline about two inches
downward toward my right eye. I quickly applied a cold, wet towel to it,
holding it there for some minutes. A large, ugly red bruise dominated the left
side of my face where the first blow landed. A darkening lump was already
forming around it. My gut hurt bad.

I wet
the towel again, placing it back over the gash. After awhile, it appeared the
bleeding had stopped. At least, I wouldn't need stitches. I placed a large
gauze bandage over the cut, then got an icepack to keep over the bruise on my
cheek to hold the swelling down. I limped back to the couch and lay down on it.
An hour or two or three later — shit, I don't know how long it was
— my first aid seemed to be working. After changing the bandage, I poured
a Scotch, drank it right away, then collapsed into bed.

≈≈≈

I stayed home all day
Sunday to recuperate. I ordered out for Chinese, then called Martine to give
her the bad news. She rushed right over, bringing me Chinese takeout and plenty
of TLC, which was exactly what I needed. We didn't go anywhere, of course, and
she was very patient with me while I watched the second game of the World
Series. The Yankees took it handily, 6-1. She left around eleven, after which I
turned out the lights.