Authors: J. Fields Jr.
Marty met up with Antonio and Mark in the entryway foyer.
“He’s just as dumb as I thought he was going to be.”
“I’ll call the Director of Gaming and get him a private room and deliver the details through the security officer posted on the door.”
“Good,” said Marty.
“I don’t want to know about it.
I want to have a drink and pass out.”
Antonio handed him an envelope.
“Your room key.
The suite is just down the hall.
The service bar has been arranged.
I took the liberty of adding a Macallan single malt.
You’ll find the ice bucket is full, and two rolls of your brand of antacid should be found on the sink in your bathroom.”
“Antonio, you’re a helluva guy.”
Mark Ford said, “We like him too.
We think it’s the bowtie that does it.”
“Good night fellas.”
With that, the tour manager carried his one piece of luggage down the hall, waving over his shoulder.
Sonny stepped out of the suite and closed the door behind him.
“I put the luggage away.
They’re still arguing about dinner.”
Antonio shook his hand.
“Thank you for all your help tonight, Sonny.
I truly couldn’t have done it without you.
Why don’t you go home and spend some time with your wife?
I’m sure she’s waiting.”
“Thanks Antonio.
I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Give her my best.”
As Sonny strolled away, Mark said, “I just sent you those pictures of Ang Wang’s broken furniture.”
Antonio opened the attachments on the email and scrolled through them.
“A broken chair.
A lamp.
What’s this one?”
Mark looked over his shoulder.
“That’s a dry-cleaning bag that he stuffed down the toilet.
Flooded the bathroom, soaked the carpet in the bedroom.
It was even a little squishy out in the hall right around the door.”
“Water soaks rapidly if left unattended.
Do you have any idea why he might have done this?”
“Retaliation for catching him in the armoire, then locking him in a limo.”
“I wonder.”
Antonio studied the pictures.
“Maybe we scared him off.
Big strong security guy, smart and tricky butler.
Hey,” he gestured toward Antonio.
“You’re eyebrow is doing that archy thing.”
“I’m only thinking.”
“That’s what I thought it meant.”
“Where might I hide if I were a determined paparazzo trying to avoid surveillance cameras, yet still needed access to Shannon and Brandon?”
Mark shrugged.
“Only four ways to get into that suite.
The two guest room doors, one on each of the Villa floors, where we have security posted.
The kitchen staff door, which is locked unless it’s being used.
And the adjoining door for the mini-suite, which is also locked.”
He stared at Antonio.
“Your eyebrow is still sticking up.”
Antonio began walking down briskly down the hallway.
“Remember what I said to
Brandon
down at the loading docks?”
Mark jogged to catch-up.
“The Sinatra story…the thing about it’s not what door you use but how you walk through it?”
“Precisely,” said Antonio.
“Has surveillance found any footage showing Ang going into the suite last night?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you up for a visit to the uniform department?”
“Right behind you, partner.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ang Wang had the kernmantle rope through the Jumar SRT ascenders and tested his weight in the sit-harness.
Both SRTs held, the one at chest-level and the one attached to the harness.
So far so good.
He enjoyed being called a Kamikaze but he didn’t really want to fall outta the sky like one.
He took his weight off the harness and pulled the trigger on the Jumar, moved it up the rope and pulled it back to lock it down.
It held his weight again.
He’d have to use a combination of arm strength and a foot loop to hold his weight while he made like Spiderman and climbed the rope.
He was actually just a tad bit nervous.
Just before he stepped off the roof to let the rope swing him the four feet to the wall, he cried out
Kamoh-kaaaa-zeeee
and it sounded so feeble he almost wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
With his feet leaving the rooftop and the pull of gravity whisking him forward towards the wall, he immediately looked down even though he knew that was a stupid idea.
Rushing past his dangling feet were dim images of utility trucks, big electrical boxes, fenced in mechanical equipment with evil blinking lights, all of it looking very hard and painful.
He looked up just in time to give himself about one second to figure out he would have to let go of the rope or his face would smash into the wall.
No way was he letting go.
He tried to twist around.
His right shoulder took the hit.
He rolled along the wall for a few feet, then rolled back, the whole time panicking that he was gonna get twisted up and something would unlatch and he would hear the rope whistling through the Jumar ascenders as he plummeted to his death.
Eyes squeezed closed he waited until he came to rest and was still.
He reluctantly let go of the rope with one hand and patted his pocket.
At least he still had his cell phone.
If he had to call 911 and take the heat for this stunt it was better than getting trapped until morning where someone was definitely going to wonder why a Chinese guy was hanging off the side of the building like a duck carcass in an Asian market.
He took a couple deep breaths.
Focused his mind on the money.
Squeezed the camera that was safely inside his zippered jacket hanging around his neck by a strap.
If he came out of this with a Shanndon pic he would be set for years.
He could write a freakin book about his exploits with captions about how he got each pic.
For this shot I had to feed Ambien to a Rottweiler using chunks of beef that I stuffed into my sleeve so he thought he was eating my arm.
Instant bestseller.
TV appearances.
Satellite radio.
Movie rights.
Too bad Jackie Chan was getting old, he’d be perfect.
Visualizing all the naked strippers that would be lounging around his outdoor pool (with waterfall) he opened his eyes, grabbed the chest-level SRT ascender, pulled the trigger, shifted it up about 2 feet, and locked it.
Right foot in loop, left hand on upper ascender, right hand unlocking harness ascender, he pushed with his foot and pulled with his hand and moved the harness up the rope.
Locked it down.
Sat back and rested.
He was still alive and a couple feet closer to Shanndon’s balcony.
Holy shit this was actually gonna work.
Chapter Sixteen
“The only people that come down here on grave shift are the ones that get barfed on by somebody.
Usually cocktail waitresses.”
Antonio and Mark were standing at the uniform room counter, watching the attendant eating taco salad out of a Styrofoam container.
Her nametag stated that she was Rosey.
It soon became apparent that this was merely her name, and had nothing to do with her disposition or her outlook on life in general.
“I do hate to interrupt your lunch,” said Antonio.
“But we have just one or two more questions.
As Mr. Ford mentioned a moment ago, we’re investigating a matter involving casino security.”
Rosey spoke around a mouthful of ground beef and cheese.
“I don’t get to take my break in the cafeteria because there’s nobody else here.
I’m supposed to get an hour break.”
“As is your right,” agreed Antonio with conviction.
“I fully expect you to take this time that we are using and add it onto the end of your break schedule.
But as you said yourself, you are the only attendant on-duty, and we do require some assistance.”
She eyeballed Antonio.
Then Mark.
Sighed.
Licked her fork clean and sat it down in the container.
“What kind of security matter?”
“That’s not important,” said Mark, briskly.
“We just have questions, like he said.”
Rosey’s eyes narrowed at him.
“You got an employee badge?
You’re not supposed to be walking around back here without wearing an employee badge.”
“I know that, lady.
I’m security.”
“Seems like you should be setting the example then, doesn’t it?”
Mark wrestled his badge from his jacket pocket.
“Happy?”
“Had more hair back then,” she commented, smirking at his badge photo.
Mark’s jaw clenched.
“Can we get back to our security crisis?”
“Oh, it’s a
crisis
now, is it?”
“It wasn’t,
Rosey
, but now that we’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes…”
Antonio interrupted.
“Do you like strawberry tortes?”
Both Mark and Rosey said, “Huh?”
Antonio smiled.
“There is a butler on my staff who makes the most exquisite strawberry tortes that you ever tasted.
He was once a pastry chef in
Manhattan
.
A year after he left the restaurant, taking the secret of the tortes with him, the owners filed for bankruptcy.”
Rosey pushed her taco salad around with her fork.
“I’ve never had one.”
“Ah,” said Antonio, putting a hand to his chest.
“This is a situation that we must rectify immediately.
I have one of the aforementioned strawberry tortes in the butler pantry at this very moment.
It was reserved for a VIP guest.
However, I would like to give it to you, Rosey, in gratitude for your patience and anticipated service.”
“There’s never any dessert left in the cafeteria on this shift.
Second shift takes it all.”
“A travesty.
I’ll speak to Chef Carl, the Executive Chef for Food and Beverage.”
“I like how you talk.
Like a butler in one of them movies.”