Thread of Fear (13 page)

TWENTY SEVEN

The two goons I'd beaten up in the grocery store parking lot were armed this time.

I made breakfast again for Lauren and Elizabeth and left after they did. The drive back to Vegas seemed longer this time, with traffic through Riverside and San Bernardino clogging the freeway. The desert stretch near Barstow seemed never-ending and I couldn't get comfortable in the car seat, my lower back and legs demanding a repositioning every few minutes.

Which was probably why I missed picking them up in the rearview mirror whenever they fell in behind me.

I pulled into the parking garage behind the Monte Carlo and I was just getting out of the car when they pulled in behind me in a gray SUV. The shorter guy hopped out, some sort of automatic handgun at his side.

He motioned to the back of the SUV. “Get in.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then I'll shoot you and put your bleeding body in the back of the SUV.”

We stood there for a moment. I didn't think I had any other options. I'd been stupid not watching my mirror and I didn't have a way out of the garage now.

I walked toward the SUV and the guy shuffled a bit to the side, raising the gun slightly.

“Nice limp,” I said, pulling open the rear passenger door.

“Fuck you,” he said. “And scoot all the way to the other side.”

I slid across the bench seat and he got in behind me, yanking the door closed.

The bigger guy eyed me in the rearview mirror, but didn't say anything.

We pulled out of the garage and headed north on the boulevard. It was still early in the day and the traffic was light, the sidewalks not yet filled with people walking shoulder to shoulder. The guy next to me kept his gun and his eyes trained on me.

The driver maneuvered the SUV into the right hand turn lane as we approached the Wynn, then turned right at the corner. He turned into a small alley behind the monstrous hotel and stopped at a single, unmarked door in the wall. He grabbed a phone from the passenger seat and tapped on the screen. Thirty seconds later the door opened, a guy with a shaved head wearing a dark suit standing there.

“Get out,” the driver said.

I looked at the guy with the gun on me and stared at him. He smiled back at me, motioning with the gun for me to get out. I got out and the SUV pulled away as soon as I shut the door. The bald guy nodded at me and opened the door to the building. I hesitated, then walked inside.

We were in a narrow, sterile corridor lit by overhead fluorescent lights. The walls were painted a dingy white, the linoleum floor a dull gray. It smelled of bleach and lemons and stale cigarette smoke.

The guy stepped past me. “Follow me.” His tone was cordial enough but it wasn't an invitation; it was an order.

I thought for a moment of turning around and sprinting out the door, but I really didn't think I'd make it that far. So, instead, I followed him down the long hallway, then down another one and then through a door that led us into the casino. The explosion of slot machine bells assaulted my ears and the dimness had me squinting. I followed the guy around an outer ring of slots and into the sports book. About fifty flat screen televisions formed a single wall in front of us, displaying talk shows, old college basketball games, and a few horse races. Below them, people were lined up at the betting windows. The guy moved along the back of the room and then stopped next to a high-backed red leather booth.

An overweight guy in his fifties was grazing on a mountainous plate of nachos. He was going bald, long wispy strands of gray hair slicked back over the top of his forehead. He had small eyes and a big nose and a full beard covering an extra couple of chins. His orange dress shirt was open at the neck, a gold chain with an ornate diamond cross winking in the light. He glanced up at me as he picked up a chip from the plate and nodded toward the other side of the booth.

I slid in across from him. He picked up what looked like a glass of iced tea and peered at me over the top of it, then took a long drink. He set it down and licked his lips.

“Mr. Tyler,” he said. “Thank you for joining me.”

“I wasn't given a choice.”

He grinned at me with perfectly capped, white teeth. “I wanted to make sure we had the opportunity to meet. My name is Matthew Delzano.”

I didn't say anything.

“You're working for John Anchor, right?” he said, pointing a fat finger at me over the nachos.

I didn't say anything.

He smiled. “Loyal. I like that. Okay. I actually know you're working for John Anchor. I'd like you to consider working for me, too.”

“I'm not for hire,” I said.

“No?” He picked up a chip loaded with cheese and sour cream and popped it in his mouth.

I shook my head.

He chewed and swallowed. “I pay pretty good.”

“I don't need the money.”

“What do you need, then?”

“Nothing. I'm good at the moment.”

He chuckled and pulled another chip from the pile, shoving it into his mouth. A dab of sour cream landed on his shirt and he picked up a paper napkin from the table and rubbed at the fabric.

“You're good,” he repeated after he swallowed another mouthful of tea. “Alright. So let's go in this direction. How about if you keep working for Anchor and you share whatever you find with me?”

“Why are you interested in what I'm doing for Anchor?”

“I could give a shit about Anchor,” he said, making a dismissive wave with his hand. “One of these days, someone will put a bullet in that asshole and I'm gonna show up on their doorstep with gifts, like fucking Santa Claus, to say thank you.” He pointed at me again with the fat finger. “I'm interested in Patrick fucking Dennison, that's what I'm interested in.”

“Why?”

“I paid him for something I didn't get,” Delzano said. “And I want my money back.”

“That's it? Just the money?”

“I'd like to have a little chat with Patrick, too,” he said, grinning at me with the perfect teeth. A piece of chip was wedged between and he flicked his tongue over it, trying to dislodge it. “Though I'd guess he'll do anything to avoid that.”

I looked around the sports book. A horse race was in progress on one of the screens and a trio of college-aged guys watched had their eyes trained on the action, their cocktails arrested halfway to their mouths. One guy looked worried, nervously chewing the inside of his cheek as he watched the race.

“What'd you pay him for?” I asked, bringing my attention back to Delzano.

He picked up another chip and dipped it into the blob of sour cream on top of the nachos. This time, a piece of cheese got stuck in his whiskers. He didn't brush it away. “Alright,” he said, his mouth full. “So you and I could play the whole cutesy game of pretending neither of us knows shit and try to get the other one to spill his guts. Me, I'm not much into stupid ass games. I've got shit to do. So here you go.”

He pushed the entire plate to the side so there was nothing between us on the table. “I know Anchor is looking for Patrick. I know that you beat the shit out of my guys in a parking lot and they're probably gonna need knee replacements in a few years. I know you went to talk to Patrick's little whore. So my guess is that Anchor told you that we are...competitors.” He smiled again. “In the business sense, right?” He nodded, answering his own question. “You aren't dumb and either is he, much as I wish he was. So I'm pretty sure you two have talked about me, so maybe you already know that I had a deal with Patrick or Anchor told you it was likely that we had a deal with Patrick. Because I did have a deal with him. I wanted information on what Anchor and his people were doing and Patrick promised to deliver it. I paid him. He didn't deliver.” His grin widened, like the Big Bad Wolf. “See? Wasn't that easier than each of us feeling each other out like a couple of teenagers in the backseat of Dad's car?”

He thought he was funny. I thought he was a pretentious prick. “What information was Dennison supposed to give you?” I asked.

Delzano leaned back in the booth and scratched at his beard. “Well, I don't really wanna get into particulars because you've already told me you're loyal to Anchor and I don't need you running back to him and sharing all my secrets. So let's just say I was interested in what he owns and how he runs what he owns. Patrick had access to that information and was going to share it with me.”

“So why didn't he?”

Delzano shrugged. “Got me. Huge fucking mistake on his part, but you got me. I admit, it was an error on my part to pay him part of his fee up front. I should've known better. But I have no idea where he is or why he's taken off.” His eyes went hard and the mirth was gone from his expression. “But I want my fucking money back and I want a conversation with Patrick.”

He grabbed the empty iced tea glass and held it up. Within five seconds, a cocktail waitress appeared at the edge of the booth, took the empty glass from him and set a full one down on the table. She left without saying a word.

“When did you strike the deal with him?” I asked.

Delzano stared at me with the dead eyes, then chuckled as he stirred the straw in the glass. “I don't know how it works with you, Tyler, when you're finding missing kids, but this isn't a one way street. So far, all you've done is ask questions and I've answered. How about you open your fucking mouth now for a change?”

“I don't know where he is,” I told him. He stared at me, like if he looked hard enough he could figure out whether or not I was telling the truth. “Your guess is as good as mine at this point.”

“What's Anchor want you to do with him?”

I hesitated. “Find him. Bring him back.”

“Bring him back?” Delzano shook his head, a wide grin splitting his face. “That don't sound like Anchor.”

“He has some of Anchor's money, too.”

Delzano raised a bushy eyebrow, then laughed. “Well, well, well. I'll bet that really chafed Johnny Boy's ass.”

I didn't say anything.

“I'm surprised you'd work with a guy like Anchor, actually,” he said. “Given your history.”

“What does that mean?”

He eyed me, more curious than threatening. “Anchor has a history of making people...disappear. You okay with that?” He shook his head in disapproval. “I mean, maybe you've had to look for people he took? You ever think of that?”

He was trying to goad me into something and I wasn't interested. I knew exactly what Anchor was and I'd chosen to get involved with him because of how it helped me. I knew the gray area I'd stepped into. I might've been conflicted about that, torn up, even, but I wasn't confused.

“I'm not here to talk about Anchor,” I said.

Delzano made a face and rolled his eyes, then shrugged. “Okay, fine. What about the little whore? What'd you get from her?”

“Nothing,” I said, thinking back to my conversation with Carina. “I talked to her for a few minutes and didn't get much out of her.”

He watched me for a moment, stirring the straw in his drink. “Well, that's a shame, since now she can't talk to anybody.”

“You kill her?” I asked.

His eyes widened, his entire expression filled with exaggeration, as if the possibility was absurd.  “Little old me?” He pointed the stubby finger at himself. “Kill some bimbo whore because she might've been in cahoots with some asshole that tried to steal from me? Surely you're kidding, Tyler.” He smiled and winked at me. “Why, I don't think I have it in me.”

I had no doubt he had it in him and I had no doubt he'd ordered someone to kill Carina. I just wasn't sure why. “Did she tell you something that led you to believe she knows where Dennison is?” I asked. “I mean, before whatever happened to her happened to her?”

He sipped from the iced tea, smacking his lips. “My associates tell me that when they spoke to her prior to her untimely passing, she might've known where he was. Unfortunately, before she passed, she didn't tell them where.” He shook his head. “A tragedy, I tell you.”

Matthew Delzano was a pig, but I wasn't sure Anchor was much different. Anchor dressed and spoke like a businessman, but was a cutthroat killer. In some ways, he was worse because he tried to come off as different. Delzano, at least, couldn't hide what a piece of shit he was.

“Well, I don't know anything different,” I said to him.

“The wife hasn't given you anything?”

I thought about the missing camping equipment. “Not a thing. Everyone thinks he took off but I'm starting to wonder if he's dead.”

Delzano frowned. “I don't think so. He's Anchor's boy and a few people know he had something going with me. Anybody else that had any reason to take him out would've had to go through one of us first. And, trust me. He's too much of a pussy to hang from the end of his own belt.” He paused, then ran a greasy hand over his wispy hair. “He's running, Tyler. With my money.”

“Maybe.”

“So here's what you're gonna do,” Delzano said, pointing at me again. “You're gonna find him and you're gonna return my money to me when you do. That's non-negotiable. We clear on that?”

“I don't work for you,” I said. “This conversation hasn't changed that.”

He gave me the dead eyes again. “Tyler, I don't give a shit who's paying your bills. You don't wanna work for me? Fine. But that's my money and you're involved now and that's too bad for you. As far as I'm concerned, you're now responsible for bringing the money back to me. Anchor gets dibs on Patrick, but my money is mine.” His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together, almost disappearing behind the sea of whiskers. “So I'll be expecting it.”