Kelly's head started to pound full force when he thought about relocating all the high rollers already in residence. A few of them would give him a pile of shit; he knew it as sure as he needed to draw another breath to keep on living. He thought of the bad press this was going to bring down around his ears. He gulped down the coffee, which was growing cold. He picked up his cup, walked back to the bar, and told the bartender to add two fingers of good whiskey. A first for him. He'd never in his life drunk on the job. Well, there was a first time for everything, and this was one of those times.
Back in his chair in the corner, Kelly pulled the sheet of paper out of his pocket where he'd scribbled the names of the arriving guests. Other than Harry Wong, the world's number one martial arts expert, who had been in Las Vegas for demonstrations many times, he recognized the name of only one person: Jackson Porter Sparrow, the director of the FBI.
Well, shit, shit, shit, shit!
He rubbed at his temples, his eyes closed. When he opened them, his vision was slightly blurry. Standing in front of him was the biggest man he'd ever seen in his life, one Philonias Needlemeyer, owner of not one, but two penthouse apartments here at Babylon. Bert had introduced him to the giant a few years back, but this was the first time he'd seen him since.
He tried to smile but knew he failed. He stood and held out his hand. “Dixson Kelly, Mr. Needlemeyer. Bert Navarro introduced us right after I came to work here.”
Philonias held out one massive hand. “I remember that. You look like you might need some aspirin, Mr. Kelly,” Philonias said, setting down a tempting-looking salad on the bar table.
“Oncoming migraine, sorry to say. Anything I can help you with?”
“No, but thank you for asking. I'm good.” Philonias saw Kelly's eyes go to the spindly bar stool. He laughed, a great booming sound. “Not to worry. I'm not going to sit on it. I'll stand up and eat, the way I always do. I've heard that two Aleve will knock out a migraine within minutes. I don't know if that's true or not. Just thought I would mention it. Well, it was nice meeting you again, Mr. Kelly. Good luck with that migraine.” That ended Philonias's end of the conversation. He turned his massive body toward the table and attacked his salad.
For no reason that he could fathom, Kelly felt like the big man chowing down on the healthy-looking salad in front of him had just issued a threat to him. He shook his head once, then again, to clear his thoughts. He never could think straight when he had a migraine. Either that, or he was losing it entirely.
Kelly felt like his head was on an anvil that was being pounded with a very heavy mallet. He walked as fast as he could out to the main floor, then to a boutique at the end of the hall, where he bought a bottle of Aleve and swallowed two of them dry. Then he headed for the elevator that would take him to his apartment. He needed to think. Really think.
What the hell, he wondered, had just happened in the Tiki Bar?
Chapter 5
K
elly pressed the digits on his in-house cell that would connect him with his assistant, Pete Justice.
“Pete, I need you to take over for me for the next two hours. I have something I need to attend to.”
Assured that his orders would be followed, Kelly yanked at his tie with the perfect Windsor knot as he simultaneously tried to shrug out of his jacket. He tossed both on a chair as he kicked off his shoes, then flopped down on the couch, which was more comfortable than his bed. He took a second to set his internal clock for a ninety-minute nap, which hopefully would take the edge off his migraine. He'd promised Bert he would be on hand to greet his guests when they arrived. Knowing Bert, his ass would be grass if he didn't follow through on that promise.
Dixson Kelly woke precisely eighty-eight minutes later and realized that his headache was gone. Maybe it wasn't a migraine, after all, just a stress headache brought on by Bert Navarro's orders. Nonetheless, he got up gingerly, just to be on the safe side. Yep. Gone.
Within minutes, he had shed his clothes and was standing under a steaming-hot shower. He almost swooned at how good the hot water felt as it rolled off his shoulders. Then he danced under a freezing, needle-sharp spray, followed by another round of steaming-hot water.
Fifteen minutes later, he was shaved, scented, and dressed in one of his favorite Hugo Boss suits and ties. He checked himself out in the mirror over the dresser as he fastened his watch on his wrist. His gaze dropped to the top of the dresser, where nine burner phones were lined up like soldiers. Nine small spiral notebooks were next to each of the burner phones. On the back of each phone was a name under a strip of Scotch tape, and these represented all the women who were currently in his life and whom he juggled with an expertise that amazed even him at times. He knew there were messages on each and every one of the phones, but right now, he didn't have time to listen to them. He shrugged as he headed for the elevator that would take him to the main floor of the casino so he could relieve Pete Justice. His thoughts raced from one thing to another as he moved along.
As he walked around the floor, his gaze moving at the speed of light, he talked into his cell, relieving Pete Justice, then moved on to Sanders to see how he was doing with his housekeeping duties. He listened to the surly voice telling him about the complaints, the threats from the guests, and simply said, “I don't want to hear it. Deal with it, Sanders. That's what we pay you for. If you have a problem, Sanders, I'll be happy to give you Bert's number, and you can tell him what it is.”
Kelly blinked when he realized he was talking to dead air.
Bastard.
He blinked again when he realized he was already outside the Tiki Bar. It was busy now in the mid-afternoon, with guests seeking a little refreshment after a morning of some serious gambling. He looked around to see if the same bartender was on duty. He was. He waited until there was a lull, then motioned for Adam, the bartender, to come closer.
Adam took the initiative and said, “Your headache gone, Mr. Kelly? You were looking a little ragged when you were in here before.”
“Yeah, it's better. Listen, that big guy who was in here when I was here, what do you know about him?”
“Mr. Needlemeyer? I know
of
him, but other than what I hear, nothing. Why? Is he a problem or something?”
“Does he come in here often?” Kelly asked.
Adam laughed. “Are you kidding, Mr. Kelly? I've been working the Tiki Bar for the last fifteen years, and today was the first time I've ever seen the man in the flesh. I heard he was big, but, man, he is
big
. I do know that he calls down sometimes in the middle of the night for our spring rolls to be taken up. Guess he doesn't sleep much. He tips really well, they say, and gives generously at Christmas. He leaves cards with crisp hundred-dollar bills in them around the tenth of December every year. You know he's one of the richest men in the country, right?”
“So today was the first time you have ever seen him personally? Do me a favor. Ask the other two bartenders if he comes in when they're on duty.”
Adam moved down the bar and spoke quietly to the two bartenders there. He was back in a few seconds, shaking his head. “No, they've never seen him. What's going on, Mr. Kelly?”
“I don't know, Adam. Probably nothing. Call the guys who work the night shift. Do it now, please. And, listen, keep this to yourself, okay?”
Adam laughed. “Shame on you, Mr. Kelly. Don't you know the bartenders' number one rule? We're like priests. We never divulge what we hear. Stay here. I have to go to the office to get their numbers.”
Kelly wondered whether he was being paranoid or if it was his CIA clandestine operations training kicking in.
Probably a little bit of both
, he decided. He just couldn't shake the feeling that the big guy had sought him out for some reason. Even with the raging headache, it hadn't felt right at the time. He remembered how the hair on the back of his neck had moved. He had learned from his training always to pay attention to the little things. Paranoid or not, he was paying attention. Because . . . because a gaggle of people was due to arrive shortly. And then it hit him right between the eyes, the little thing that was bothering him that he couldn't give a name to. The thought hit him just as Adam snapped his fingers under his nose.
“I called all three, Lionel, Connor, and Lala. None of them have ever seen Mr. Needlemeyer here in the Tiki Bar. Lionel has been here for thirteen years, Connor seven years, and Lala has been here close to twenty years. She has seniority. She said she saw Mr. Needlemeyer once in the parking garage, and someone pointed him out to her. Otherwise, she never would have known who he was. That's it, Mr. Kelly. Anything else? The crowd out there is getting restless. Gotta go.”
Kelly handed over a folded twenty-dollar bill and winked at the bartender. “I'm good. Thanks, Adam.”
Back on the main floor, Kelly looked around. He couldn't see any problemsâthings were running smoothly. That little thing. He needed to think about that. He looked at his watch as he headed to the registration desk so he would be on hand in person to welcome Bert's personal guests. He moved to the side and pulled out his in-house mobile and pressed the digits for Bert's number.
“Everything's under control,” he said before Bert could identify himself. “Is there anything I need to be aware of, Bert?”
The silence on the other end of the phone bothered Kelly more than the words coming out of Bert's mouth. “Why do you ask?”
Kelly wanted to stomp his feet in frustration. “Did you forget who I used to work for? This crap you're shoveling my way has all the earmarks of an ongoing op about to go bad. Plus, my bullshit antenna is moving at warp speed. What? Did you think I wasn't going to recognize one of the names on the list? I'm starting to think you don't have a very high opinion of me, Bert.”
There was that silence again. “I think highly of you, Dix. Hell, why do you think I put you in charge? Because I like the way you part your hair or the way you smell? Get real here. I pay you three times what the other guys on the street make, and I'm not jerking your chain when I say you're worth every penny. The bottom line is I trust you.”
Kelly let Bert's declaration hang in the air for a full half minute before he responded. “Why is the director of the FBI among that gaggle of people who are due to arrive momentarily? Did you really think I wasn't going to recognize the name Jackson Porter Sparrow? Don't give me that NTK shit, either.”
“They're all friends of mine. You do remember that before I came to Babylon, I was the director of the FBI, don't you? And Sparrow is both a personal friend of mine and a real favorite of Annie de Silva. The gang is on vacation. It's that simple. Even a director of the FBI gets to take a vacation once a year. I did when I was director. I want them to have a good time. You did close off the concierge floor from the other guests, right? I don't want my friends bothered. You need to get over that CIA-FBI rivalry. Fast.”
Kelly clenched his teeth. “All taken care of. One more thing, Bert. Unless this is also NTK. What's up with that big guy from the penthouse, the one who is supposed to be richer than God? What the hell was he doing spying on me in the Tiki Bar? Telling me to take Aleve for my migraine. I can smell a setup a mile away. You want me to help you out here, and you tie my goddamned hands by telling me everything is goddamn need to know. Well?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Dix?”
“That guy Needlemeyer. What? You think I'm not on top of things?”
“Look, I don't have a clue what you're talking about in regard to that guy. Other than the time I introduced you to him, I've met him once officially. I've actually seen him twice, once in front of the casino and once by the elevator. Again, other than introducing you, I've spoken to the man only once since I took over Babylon. He's off-limits is what I was told. I never questioned Annie's orders. The guy is rich, like you said, owns two penthouses, and is a recluse. That is the sum total of what I know about him. Now, let me get this straight. You saw him, obviously talked to him, and he told you to take Aleve for your headache, and you see . . . what? A conspiracy with my friends arriving, along with the director of the FBI?”
Kelly chomped down on his lower lip. “When you say it like that, it does sound weird, but there's something there. I just know it.”
“Well, when you figure it out, call me first. Gotta go. Time is money. Take care of my friends, Dix. I owe you for this.”
“Yeah, right,” Kelly mumbled under his breath. Even a rookie CIA agent would have picked up on this, he thought to himself as he looked around. He knew that Bert was jerking his chain, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. At least for now. For the time being, he had to put a smile on his face and be a welcoming committee of one for his boss's friends.
Kelly felt a frown building on his brow as he played and replayed Bert's end of the conversation concerning the penthouse owner's appearance in the Tiki Bar. He'd sounded genuinely perplexed that he, Kelly, was reading something into the man's appearance that wasn't there to begin with. “Yeah, well, we'll just see about that,” Kelly muttered under his breath. He took a deep breath when he saw a crowd of people who appeared to be all together enter the casino.
Bert's friends. With a quick glance, Kelly decided they looked normal enough, with the exception of Jackson Sparrow, the only person he recognized. In fact, the group looked just like the majority of the people in the casino. Sparrow, though, was doing what he would have been doing if he were walking in his shoes, practicing his tradecraft: his eyes were everywhere, as if he was looking for something not quite right, off in some sense, something that didn't quite compute to his trained eye. Just the way Kelly had done when he'd met the rich recluse in the Tiki Bar.
Kelly extended his hand, identified himself to a tall man with a British accent; that was followed by an introduction to an equally tall man with a deep Scottish brogue. When the introductions were complete, he homed in on the director of the FBI and spoke just a tad too snidely, knowing full well that Bert was going to hand him his head on a platter when he found out. But he really didn't careâthe moment was here, and he seized it.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Director, you're the man who let Hank Jellicoe get away. At the time, I was the senior field agent working for the CIA. We worked on that case for two solid years, and if I recall correctly, the Vigilantes duct taped him to the front door of the Hoover Building, and some ten-year-old kid on a skateboard cut him loose. And then you guys gave out that story that he was in a federal prison, safe and sound. No hard feelings, though. All in the spirit of agency cooperation and transparency. Two years' work shot to hell on our part, and some ten-year-old kid blows it for you. I'm just saying. . .”
Sparrow sucked on his tongue, wanting to put his fist through Kelly's face, but he fought the urge and pasted a smile on his face. “Get your facts straight, Mr. Kelly. That happened before my time and not on my watch. You know what they say. You win some. You lose some.”
Ted hissed in Maggie's ear, “This looks like it might turn ugly. Do something.”
Maggie stepped forward, her hands up, palms toward Kelly. “This might be a good time for you and me to agree to how we're going to do our interview. Bert said you would be at our disposal, on orders from Countess de Silva. How about first thing tomorrow morning we start trailing you around? Will that work for you, Mr. Kelly?” Her tone of voice clearly stated that it better be all right.
Kelly suddenly felt like an ass. That round went to the Fibbies. “That will work for me, Miss Spritzer. I usually hit the main floor around ten o'clock. Meet me by the cashier's cage.” He turned to the group as a whole and said, “Follow me, people, and I'll show you to your rooms. Bert requested the entire concierge floor, and that's what you're getting. Food and beverages twenty-four/seven. Your own personal chef and bartender. Suites, not rooms, so I think you'll enjoy your stay here at Babylon. I count only nine. Bert said there would be fifteen of you. Or am I wrong?”
The guy with the British accent informed him the others would be arriving shortly, with the last guest due in later that night.
Something didn't feel right to Kelly. He'd learned a long time ago that when something didn't feel right, it probably wasn't. Fifteen years out in the field, with no one to depend on but himself for his survival, was sending a message to his tired brain. He decided to play a hunch, hoping he wouldn't regret it. “Would you like me to notify Mr. Needlemeyer that you've arrived?” He didn't see the reaction he had hoped for. Okay, false alarm on his part. Maybe. Then again, maybe not.