Double Blind (38 page)

It didn’t, but Billy didn’t seem to care. He just laughed and stood. “You’re funny, Ellison. Anyway. I gotta go—told this chick I met downstairs I’d show her my suite. She probably thinks I forgot her by now.” He shrugged, then nodded. “Okay. You win. Your thirty million will be moved over to the assets account by tomorrow morning. But I warn you, that’s the last you’re getting. And just so it’s clear, you
will
deliver. You won’t like what will happen if you don’t.”

Again, the statement would have been very threatening if Billy knew how to deliver it, but once more he just sounded like a petulant child. But Ethan was already sober enough on this point, because somehow Crabtree was still behind this. Sarah Reynolds had called him the casino manager and had taken him up here. Sarah Reynolds, who knew about the secret door and who dismissed Billy and who knew all about Crabtree—
she
had handled all this.

Which, actually, might be worth checking against Billy too. So Ethan asked him.

“Sarah?” Billy laughed. “She’s nothing. Nobody. Doesn’t handle anything at all. She’s Crabtree’s daft old secretary. Thinks this place is still run by the Chicago Outfit.” He rolled his eyes and patted the doorway. “Do me proud, Ellison. Remember—you’re my man.” He paused, looking like he wanted to qualify that, then shrugged and went back down the hall to the elevator.

Ethan stared at the place where Billy had been for a long time, the conversation rolling around like a loose marble inside his head. Then, finally, he picked up the phone and dialed extension one.

“Yes, Mr. Ellison?” Sarah answered, brightly, but professionally. “May I help you?”

“Would it be possible, Ms. Reynolds,” he asked, just as professionally, but much less brightly, “for me to get a laptop up here with a wireless connection?”

“Absolutely, sir,” she said. “I’ll send Fitz up with one right away.”

Less than five minutes later the same gangly, nervous youth from before was hovering in the doorway, this time bearing a gleaming Macbook.

“Thank you, Fitz,” Ethan said, and even though he could have gone across the room to take it from him, he waited for the young man to bring the computer over. He wasn’t sure why, not until Fitz had begun his hasty retreat. But as the boy dashed back down the hall, he figured it out: it was because Sarah Reynolds, who was clearly the exact opposite of what Billy had painted her as, had named him the casino manager.

He thought it was probably best to act like one.

Opening the laptop, Ethan pulled up the Internet and began to surf, starting with Wikipedia because it was so obvious, but he veered off into academic sites, too, his focus on one thing: the presence of organized crime in Las Vegas. He got far more on the past than the present, but he soon learned this was an education within itself. As Randy and Crabtree had hinted, the articles told him there were two distinct mob presences here. First had been an Italian/Jewish organization based out of New York whose initial job had been monitoring sports races but which had fallen into the casinos like fish into lakes. Then the Chicago Outfit had arrived in the sixties and carried into the seventies and even the eighties. Some said there was a third mob starting now. The current mob was considered base and crass, especially compared to the mob of the fifties. But there was no question which mob was the most dangerous, the most brutal, and the most brash: the Chicago Outfit.

Of course, that had been the mob Billy had just referenced.

Ethan looked hard for a reference to Crabtree, but he couldn’t find any. He found plenty of references to Tony Spilotro and Michael Rosenthal, and Evelyn Carter, and even William Herod Sr., who had been the squeakiest-clean of the lot. But there was nothing on Crabtree. There were pages and pages on Spilotro, whose brutality was not comforting. Rosenthal had somehow come semi-clean and died in his bed of natural causes. Carter—he was hard to pin down, but he didn’t seem terribly pleasant. His reports were shadowy, mostly cloaked in rumor, but he was clearly nasty. He’d also died in 1991, gunned down in the desert. Before that, however, he’d been the manager of Herod’s.

He’d also been one of the last men to oversee the mob’s skimming a take off the top of the casino’s income pre-taxes, and millions and millions of dollars from the casino vanished with him. Most assumed that this was why he had been killed.

Billy Herod Sr. had died of a heart attack. He’d been reclusive before his death, spending most of the early nineties in a mountain cabin, and he’d died there, too, alone. He’d called out for pizza, but by the time the delivery guy got there, he was dead. No foul play at all, but then, Billy Senior hadn’t been much for that sort of thing. He just liked to play poker and hang out in his casino, and then, for whatever reason, the mountains.

Nothing on Crabtree, though. Absolutely nothing at all. Which was frustrating, because Ethan was absolutely certain the gangster—or alleged gangster, since there was no record of him at all—was the key to everything. He was the key to understanding what was going on, to start. But he was also the one responsible for Ethan’s present predicament.

He knew he’d been in this snarl too long when he could almost hear Crabtree’s Santa chuckle and whispered correction in his ear.
Not your predicament. Your opportunity.

Ethan was willing to work with that—just as long as it wasn’t an opportunity to get himself killed in a very messy and painful way.

He surfed the Internet some more, not really learning anything and not getting anything done, either. Ethan was almost relieved when his cell phone rang. It was, of course, Randy.

“You still want to go shopping, or what?”

Ethan thought Randy sounded a bit rankled, and he stopped worrying about himself for a minute and focused on Randy. But he knew better than to ask what was wrong, so he didn’t.

He gave Randy some of his own medicine.

“I want to go shopping, Ace,” he replied, “but there had better be some poker first.”

“Well.” Randy relaxed a little. “I suppose that could be arranged, if you insist. Have you been to Bellagio’s tables yet, Slick?”

Ethan felt pleased with himself at how well he’d played his cards. “I can’t say that I have.”

Randy snorted. “Jesus. Well, get your ass downstairs. I’ll be by on my bike in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Ethan promised, not bothering to hide his eagerness. Because sometimes he didn’t want to bluff. He just wanted to enjoy the game.

Randy
tried not to feel relieved and happy when he saw Slick coming out of the casino toward him. He realized he’d been having that reaction pretty much constantly every time he was with Ethan ever since his blurted confession. He also realized that it had yet to work, that happiness repression, and he always ended up just feeling really fucking glad Ethan was there.

This,
he thought, setting his teeth and tightening his hands on the bike handles,
is what therapy fucking does to you.
And he had another dose of it coming in two days. He revved the bike a few times, making the bell captain glare at him, but he just gave him a smirk and did it again, louder.

Ethan slid on behind him, grinning. “Hello, hot shot,” he said, and kissed the side of Randy’s helmet before reaching behind him for the spare.

“You’re a bit overdressed for a motorcycle,” Randy said, turning so he could get a better look at him. Jesus fuck, but Slick did look good in a suit.

Ethan settled in behind Randy, but he pushed his body forward as much as possible so that their bodies were pressed tight together. Resting his hands on Randy’s thighs, splaying his long fingers, he said, “Would you like me to get undressed?”

Randy’s body responded in a low-level hum.
Fuck yes, get undressed.
He leaned back into Ethan a little. “You want to skip Bellagio and go home?” Then he remembered Sam and Mitch and figured they’d be there, doing the same thing but with a fuckload of angst. He sighed. “Shit, we can’t. Never mind. Let’s go play poker.”

“Whatever you like, Ace.” Ethan squeezed Randy’s thigh. Randy shut his eyes for a moment, enjoying it, then wrenched his focus back and took them off toward Las Vegas Boulevard.

The poker rooms at Bellagio were the best in Vegas. There was no disputing this fact. They were the best, period. Crabtree hated them for it, because he said back in the day there was nothing finer than Herod’s, but then the Feds had come in and wrecked everything. But Randy really liked Bellagio. He loved the Nugget for friendliness and ambience and because he liked Mandy, but there was no question that Bellagio had the best, toughest games. Their rake was the best deal going too.

Of course, you could die trying to get a drink in the place.

But this was about Slick right now, not drinks. This was about putting Ethan up against some of the best players in the world and watching how he did. It was also probably going to be about losing a lot of money, which meant Randy needed to play, too, to get some of it back.

Or so he thought.

“I’ve got my own,” Ethan said, when Randy tried to hand him five hundred dollars. Before Randy could protest, Ethan reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out five bills of his own. And then he pulled out another five.

And then another.

“Holy shit, Slick,” Randy whispered as Ethan tucked the money away again. “You rob a bank?”

“This was in an envelope on my desk,” he said. “Along with this.” He pulled out a balance sheet from a bank account, which Randy scanned quickly, then read again more slowly. He read it one more time, and then Ethan was holding his arm and helping him backward to a stool at a nearby slot machine, which was good because his knees had stopped working.

Ethan had an account in his name for ten million dollars.

“So,” Randy said, when his voice would work again. “You aren’t just
playing
at gangster now.”

Ethan sat down beside him. He was calm, which was good, but he clearly comprehended the full gravity of this, too, which was much more important. “Do you know Sarah Reynolds?”

“Shit, yeah, I know Sarah. She runs the place when Crabtree isn’t there. Not that Billy will admit it. Why?”

“She called me the casino manager.” Ethan frowned down at the carpet. “Except Billy still thinks some other guy is. Which is understandable, since I’m a casino manager on the seventh floor in a non-air-conditioned office.”

Randy wanted to protest this, to say that he didn’t like it, but the weird thing was, despite the fact that Ethan was fucking with forces he didn’t even begin to understand, it was clear he was actually enjoying himself. He had a light about him that grew brighter with every step he took further into this shitstorm.

“Oh yes,” Ethan said, still looking down at the floor. “Did I mention that I’m supposed to make the casino profitable by the middle of November?”

“You didn’t, no.” Randy watched Ethan’s face carefully. “That’s going to be a bit of a trick, is it?”

“Just a bit,” Ethan agreed.

His eyes were practically dancing.

Randy reached out and gave Ethan’s leg a friendly slap. “It’s time to put you in the big leagues, baby. You and your wad of hundreds are going to cop a squat at the big boy table. You’re going to play with the high rollers, Slick.”

Ethan balked. “Randy, I can’t possibly be ready for that.”

“Oh, fuck no. They’re going to wipe the floor with you. But this isn’t going to be about winning. It’s about learning. Your pot today is knowledge.”

Ethan didn’t look happy, but he made no further protest as Randy led him across the floor to the poker room.

The Bellagio poker room was not hidden away in some remote part of the hotel: it was proudly displayed with arches and what was a nice attempt at lighting. The tables were too close together, though. So Randy did his instruction on the way across the main floor and after they’d hit the cashier, before they went into the room.

“The best poker players come here, and they come here every day. There are poker tournaments here every day, too, but we’re not getting into them just now. This is the big league. They will beat you most of the time. Play tight. Do not become their fish. Just play your blinds and use most of the hands as opportunities to study. We’ll play for an hour, and then we’ll meet up at Snacks and debrief.”

“Snacks?” Ethan asked.

Randy pointed to the small restaurant just off the poker room. “There. The name of the café is Snacks. Direct and to the point. Which reminds me, get a drink now. It will likely be the only one you see.”

Ethan nodded, and they got their drinks—Randy got a Pepsi, and Ethan got mineral water. He was girding himself, Randy could tell, which was cute, but the sharks would be able to tell too.

“Be cool, Slick,” Randy said, and reached up to rub his neck.

“I don’t want to do this,” Ethan said.

“Then you’d better dump all that money back at Crabtree and Billy and borrow what you’re missing from me,” Randy replied, not giving him any more quarter. “Buck up, baby. You can do this. Stop making it so hard. It’s just poker. Same as ever. Just for more money and worse odds. Come on.” He patted Ethan on the back. “School time.”

Randy watched him go to the table, approving of the seat he chose, though it had to have been accidental. He was between Vic Tabor, one of the worst sharks in Vegas and a very nice but cunning woman named Cate whom Randy didn’t know well except that she was vegan and from Canada. He also knew that she played straight and fair—but to win. Cate sat to Slick’s left, and Vic to his right.

He predicted Cate was going to make a lot of money off of Ethan in the next sixty minutes. And he was right.

“The woman beside me keeps winning,” Ethan complained as he sat down across from Randy at Snacks. “I’m down to three hundred dollars because of her.”

“You’re down to three hundred,” Randy corrected, “because you’re not paying attention to her. You’re her fish, Slick, because you’re too focused on Vic.”

“That’s because Vic is an
animal!
” Ethan complained.

“Vic plays loose and wild. You’ll notice he hasn’t won many pots, and that’s because Cate is at his table, feeding off of you. Vic wins by intimidation, usually. He bluffs like crazy. But he knows how to play. He’s probably relieved you left, because now he can focus on Cate again. Though he won’t get far with her.”

Ethan swore and reached for the G&T Randy had ordered for him.

Randy smiled behind his hand, but he wiped his face clean before he spoke. “What did you learn, Slick?”

Ethan took his time before he replied.

“I learned that it makes me nervous to play with so much money,” he said at last.

Randy nodded. “Yes. But the game is still the same. You get that, right?”

“Yes. But it’s hard to implement that knowledge,” he confessed.

“Which is why you need to keep practicing. Because you’ve got bigger games coming, Secret Casino Manager.”

Ethan stirred his drink and stared into it, his guard dropping a little, and Randy could see his worry. “I’m not really a gangster, Randy.” He looked up. “Am I?”

Randy considered lying, then decided that wasn’t going to help anything. “Gangsters aren’t like you see in the movies. Most of the mob is made up of accountants.”

Ethan held Randy’s gaze. “Who is Crabtree? I can’t find anything on him. Nothing at all.”

“Don’t look.” That came out as an order, but Randy didn’t care. Slick had to get this one through his head. “Don’t try to find out who he is, Ethan. I’m not shitting you.
Don’t.
”

“But how can I—”

Randy held up a hand. “There are games that you see through to the end without really knowing what the other guy has. This is one of those. If Crabtree wants to let you know who he is, he’ll tell you. If he doesn’t, don’t go looking.”

Ethan pursed his lips. “
You
know. Don’t you.”

“No, I don’t.” Randy held up both hands now. “Swear to God, Slick. I have no fucking clue. What I know is that he is someone who needs to hide. You’ve been Googling, I can see. Let me give you a little more education. The best mobsters are not the Al Capones. The best ones never get named.”

“And you’re saying Crabtree is one of those?” Ethan asked, still clearly thinking Randy was holding out.