“What’s
something
?”
“I have no idea.”
“Who’s the perfect guy?” Behr demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“You know. And you’re gonna tell me,” Behr said, closing the distance between them a few inches.
“I don’t. I really don’t. I would tell you if I did. Shit, I’m telling you everything already. You’ve got me slung over a damn barrel.”
“All right. What
kind
of detective—IPD?”
“No, private. A private investigator.”
“So Shug needed something done. Lenny had a private investigator,” Behr reiterated.
“That’s it. Exactly,” she said.
Behr felt like he’d reached maximum extraction from her. He asked her ten minutes of follow-up questions, but none went anywhere and it was time to shut it down. He nodded and started walking away.
“Hey,” she called out, “you’re not really gonna bone me on my taxes, are you?”
“No, I’m not, honey,” Behr said, “but we all gotta pay eventually.”
“ ’ello, dear.”
“Waddy!” Sandy’s voice came through the mobile loud and clear, from a mountaintop in Wales all the way to America’s godforsaken flatland, and put a pang in his chest. He tried to call every day when he was away for work. It was tougher years back before mobiles and sat phones, but now he was fairly religious about it.
“How are ya?” he asked.
“We’re all fine up here. Nobby’s doing a little better with the kidney medication.”
“Good news, that,” Dwyer said. Nobby was their shepherd, named after the legendary footballer. The shep had a hell of a bark, and unlike the saying, his bite was worse. Dwyer worried about his Sandy when he was away, both because of the enemies he’d collected, and run-of-the-mill arseholes, though she was plenty handy with the iron. He’d made sure of that when they’d first gotten married twenty-four years ago, and he occasionally made her go out and practice. She could fire tight, three-shot bursts while walking with an MP5, but her real skill was with a handgun. She was a cracking good shot with a SIG 9mm.
“You putting the alarm on nights?” he asked.
“Of course, dear.”
“Locking the gates?”
“Of course, dear.”
“The cameras up?”
“They are. Just how you left ’em,” Sandy said. “Any idea when you’ll be home?”
“Not quite yet,” he said. “Soon as I can though …”
Dwyer felt relaxed after he rang off, like he could go to sleep straightaway. Of course he couldn’t and wasn’t going to. Instead, he nosed the Lincoln into a spot in the big parking barn, slapped a cap on his head to look the part of an American punter, and headed inside.
The Indy Flats racino looked like the old Flamingo did in the pictures of early Vegas: an overbuilt facade, grand and flashy, standing lonely by a road in the middle of nowhere. Glowing red and gold and liquid neon purple even in daylight, it almost invited—implored—other structures to join it.
Behr had driven south from the Palms with a sick feeling in his gut over the connection he’d unearthed between Potempa and Barnes and Kolodnik’s man Shug Saunders. He had no idea what, if anything, it meant, but he didn’t like it. Potempa was a stand-up guy, by reputation and as far as Behr knew personally, but he was suffering over his daughter, and that could make someone vulnerable to all kinds of pressures.
He’d made his way around the city, got on 421 south, and began to pass square-box housing tracts that gave way to cornfields and eventually horse country. After a dozen more miles, he started seeing billboards and finally reached the exit for the racino. As he neared it, he passed a massive construction site that signage announced as the future Indy Flats Hotel and Villas. But something had gone wrong—most of the villas had been burned to their footings and an unfinished concrete tower was charred black. Cement trucks, backhoes, and other equipment, some of it fire stained, stood dormant.
He’d read about the massive fire. It was front-page news and the story featured comments by Lowell Gantcher, who vowed
that the project would be rebuilt and opened on time for next Memorial Day as planned. Gantcher’s name had caught his eye, since it had come up in his investigation of Kolodnik as a onetime partner. He’d gotten the idea that he’d like to talk to this Gantcher, or at least see his operation. It was why he’d come. He steered for the six-story-tall parking structure, where it was easy finding a spot among the pickup trucks and SUVs—too easy.
Inside, the place was a real carpet joint, as they said in the old days. And not just carpet, but marble and colored glass and mosaic tile and leather chairs filled the high-ceilinged space that spoked off the racetrack grandstand and was just as tall and cavernous as that structure. It was lavish, a show palace, built if not to rival the Las Vegas mausoleums, then at least to outstrip the riverboats and Indian casinos that dotted the region. Behr made his way around the casino, the gaming floor choked with machines that whirred and boinged—poker, blackjack, roulette, and craps—all automated. By law, no cards, dice, or dealers were allowed—just machines.
The gambling pit was ringed by theme bars and restaurants, including the Bassmaster Café; the Small Batch Bourbon Still; a Mine Shaft steakhouse; and Winners, a grill that featured sports betting and had flat-screen televisions broadcasting games and races from all over the country and the world. There was also a nightclub.
Behr grabbed a glossy five-color brochure off a display and learned that the burned-out second stage of hotel construction that he’d seen was to include a world-class eighteen-hole golf course. Starting at a few hundred grand, players would be able to get a time-share. But to his eye it seemed unlikely that Vegas: The Midwest Branch would be springing up at Indy Flats anytime soon, considering that the clientele didn’t appear to be high rollers but mainly truckers and farmers dressed in fleece and Colts sweatshirts and Carhartt jackets, and retirees riding scooters, oxygen tanks in tow, sucking on cigarettes while camped out in front of nickel slots.
Since most patrons used player cards to track winnings, there
wasn’t even much in the way of clinking coins or tokens. Nor was there the crisp snap of cash as it was fanned on tables and shoved into strongboxes, no shouts of “Changing five hundred!” nor cheers as a dealer busted and the table won, and it rendered the place oddly muted. Nothing was quite as depressing as a dead casino, and it didn’t bode well for the future.
Behr found a spot with some railbirds in the poker room, taking a look at the high-stakes Hold’em tables. It was harder to follow the action without stacks of clay checks in front of the players, who had to rely on screens built into the table at each seat in order to see their bankroll and their opponents’. But the game took on a quiet rhythm of its own and moved along much more quickly without a dealer handing out the cards and constantly reshuffling. Before long, a slick young casino host named Brad approached Behr.
“Can I find you a game, sir?” Brad said, shooting the cuffs of his expensive Italian suit.
“Maybe in a bit.” Behr nodded. “Just taking a look. I’ve only played live deal.”
“No problem. I can get you a players card. You’ll catch on quick.”
“How’re the crowds? If I came down on a Saturday night, how long would I have to wait to sit?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be longer than a few minutes,” Brad said. “We’re a little busier than weekdays, but you know, there’s never any more than ten names on the wait-list.”
“Guess they thought the place would be packed when they dumped all the money into it, huh?”
“Something like that. I sure did. Took my master’s a few years back in hotel management and that’s what I was looking for when I signed on here. We get some play on weekends—young professionals and college kids with dad’s credit card. You know how it is.”
“Lots of action at the bars and clubs?”
“The bouncers stay busy. Seems like there’s a dustup just about every night.”
“Sounds like fun,” Behr said.
“It’s stupid, but it’s all right. Just guys liquored up, failing to score, and looking to vent.”
“The American way,” Behr said. “What’s gonna happen with the place? How are they gonna fill it?”
“Bosses say there’s gonna be a law passed soon—live-deal, full-blown casino action. Either it passes or I’m heading out to look for a job in Vegas. That’s what we hear, anyway. We get these company-wide e-mails.”
“From who, Lowell Gantcher?”
“Not him. Vice presidents usually. But I’ve met Mr. Gantcher. He comes walking through, shaking hands.”
“What kind of guy is he?”
“He’s a decent boss, and that’s all I’ll say about that. Haven’t seen him lately. Heard he’s here today though …”
Behr tried to appear only mildly interested. “Really? Corporate offices are here?”
“Sure. Nice suites above the casino floor. I’ve been up there a few times. Once when I got hired and then when my check didn’t come in the mail recently and I had to go ask for it …”
“The eye in the sky,” Behr said, folksy.
“You got it,” Brad said, eyeing a group of housewives who looked like they wanted some action. “Let me know if you want to sit.”
Behr nodded his thanks and watched for another five minutes. There were some heated words exchanged between a husky, milk-fed farm boy who took a pot off a pair of wiry Asians, who in turn criticized his play. Apparently he’d done it all wrong, though he’d taken their money. But it settled down quickly and Behr wandered away in search of the corporate offices.
The main cashier’s cage, brass bars shining, stood prominently down a carpeted path near the main entrance. Just beyond it was a small vestibule done in white Carrara marble that housed a set
of brushed gold double elevator doors. Standing sentry in front of the area was a pair of broad-shouldered bookends who’d only be able to board the elevator one at a time. The men wore blue suits and had earpieces and seemed several clicks beyond regular casino security. To Behr’s eye they were high-line hires. Getting a word with Gantcher wasn’t going to be as simple as waltzing in and chatting up the secretary. All the same, Behr started heading toward them to give it his best shot.
I’ve seen that fucker before
.
Dwyer was sitting at the bar, a Ford cap pulled low, sipping some vile swill called Monster for energy, when the thought flashed through his head. The blue suit, the mustache, the confident walk—it was familiar. After a moment he called up the location. It had been outside Kolodnik’s office. First at Kolodnik’s, now here. And he sounded a hell of a lot like who Banco described from the night of the shoot. Dwyer had originally made him for one of Kolodnik’s hired crew. But if he was, there’d be no reason for him to show up here, unless Gantcher had hired the same company and the bloke was reporting for his shift here. He was a pro in the field, that much was clear to Dwyer. It didn’t take long before one recognized his own in the game.
Dwyer had been planning on having a little chat with Gantcher, but seeing his newly installed protection had made him pause. Now he figured it could wait. Spotting this big laddie had just taken priority. The way the hired security were standing made it clear they didn’t know the man he’d seen at Kolodnik’s, and they sure weren’t going to be mates straightaway. The casino was too massive for the whole place to be affected, but the energy in the immediate area changed quickly and Dwyer knew what was coming. Some words were exchanged and the posture of the hired hands grew more rigid, and then the other man extended a business card that got looked at and jammed back into his chest.
The pair initiated the scuffle. They wanted to take down the
lone man, to throw him out, neutralize him or hold him in some capacity, but it didn’t go that way. The man from Kolodnik’s snapped his arm free from the grasp of one of the others and grabbed the attacker by the wrist, yanking him forward and off balance into a Russian arm tie. Then, with a very intelligent piece of footwork, the lone man spun his opponent and jammed him into his own associate, effectively cutting off his opportunity to join in. As the pair grappled for a piece of the loner, trying to get him around the waist and legs, he stuffed their takedown attempts by dropping his weight on the one he held and winging an elbow at the face of the other to keep him back. If the pair would’ve committed to an all-out attack, they might have been able to quickly take down their man, but perhaps they were concerned about causing a ruckus in the casino, or they lacked the skill. It was either that or the suits. Dwyer had seen men otherwise rough-and-ready rendered oddly subdued when dressed up on a job, as if the elegant attire seeped into their manner and stripped away their animal nature. If that was the case, it certainly didn’t happen to the other fellow. His grunts and expletives echoed around the marbled elevator bank.
Finally, with a great push, the lone man shoved away the one he’d caught and stepped back several yards, opening a chasm it would be hard for the pair to cross without going for something of a rugby tackle. Backing away, eyes on them, the lone man from Kolodnik’s headed for the door and was gone. Dwyer caught a glimpse of the pair smoothing out their ruffled lapels, collars, and ties and pulling out mobile phones. That was all he saw of them, though, since he followed the loner out the door.
Dwyer caught up to the man in the enclosed breezeway that joined the casino and parking structures. There were only three or four other people in the space, playing slot machines, which normally wouldn’t have been enough to obscure Dwyer’s presence had the lone man been paying attention—a solo foot surveillance
was a lot more difficult to pull off than the telly made it out to be—but Dwyer neared him in time to hear the man’s mobile ring. He took it out and answered as he walked, not slowing, wanting to get away from the casino quickly, Dwyer imagined, and began a conversation, which gave Dwyer the chance to fall back a decent distance as they entered the parking garage.
It was tricky to stay with the man finding his car while Dwyer found his. Dwyer went up the interior staircase, heading for a higher level than the big pro, but was able to see the tall man’s legs for a while as he walked toward his car, then the man went out of sight. Contact broken, Dwyer sprinted for his Lincoln, jumped in, rammed the stalk into reverse and barked the tires backing out in front of an old couple in a pickup truck driving so slowly it was going to take them fifteen minutes to leave the structure. The old coot farmer raised a fist in frustration as Dwyer pulled away and wheeled around the corner. But Dwyer quickly found he had no reason to hurry. The big pro was sitting in his car, an aging but well-kept Oldsmobile, talking on the cellular. Dwyer continued on down the row to an empty parking space by the exit, and settled in to wait for the big pro to leave.