The Downtown Deal (11 page)

I
muttered under my breath, something to the effect of, "I've had it",
as I got up from my chair to take a needed break, leaving my remaining chips on
the table in front of my seat. I walked out of the poker room, while I saw
Frank walking behind me. We went to the coffee shop.

It was
crowded down there, jammed with customers, plates clattering, waitresses moving
around, lots of noisy talk. You know, just the kind of place where you want to
go and unwind. We were shown to a small booth.

Frank
spoke first. "You made the right decision to fold, Jack. Don't forget
that. He's gonna have queens full ninety-nine times out of a hundred. Don't
beat yourself up over it."

I
wanted to believe him, but I knew better. If I'd called him, I'd have won a
thousand-dollar-plus pot.

The
waitress took our order, two coffees. Just then, my cell phone rang. I didn't
recognize the number on my caller ID.

"Hello."

"Barnett,
it's Colby Farrow."

I sat
up straight. "Yes, Colby. What's happening?"

"I
can hardly hear you, it's so loud there. Where are you?"

I
modulated my voice up a notch or two. "I'm in a crowded restaurant. What's
up?"

"I
thought you'd want to clear your appointment calendar for Thursday."

"Why
would I do that?"

"Because
Hector Olivera will be coming to town for the latter part of the week."

A jolt
ran through me. I'm sure Frank saw it. I motioned to him for a pen. He pulled
one out of his shirt pocket.

I
said, "What time, and where is he staying?"

"If
he comes on Wednesday, he'll be here around twelve-thirty. He's staying at the
Venetian."

"What
do you mean,
if
he comes on Wednesday?"

"He's
on his way to Chicago right now for the Marlins series against the Cubs.
Apparently, if the Cubs win tomorrow's game, it's all over for the Marlins. If
the Marlins win, then he says there'll be another game on Wednesday night. And
if that's the case, he'll stay for it and come on Thursday morning."

I
jotted it all down on a napkin. "What's he doing here?"

"He's
coming for Ryan's funeral, which is Thursday afternoon. Then on Friday, he'll
be meeting with me and a rep from the California pension fund that's going to
lend him the money for the downtown land. He won't miss that meeting, I promise
you. He goes back to Miami Saturday. Or, to New York for the World Series if
the Marlins win two from the Cubs."

"Thanks,
Colby. Where's the funeral?"

He
told me the name of the church and gave me the directions, while I scribbled it
down. I flipped my phone shut, then handed Frank his pen, as the waitress
brought our coffees.

"Colby
Farrow?" he asked.

"Right.
Olivera's coming to town. He'll be staying at the Ven —"

"Save
it, Jack. There's nothing we want from him. As far as we're concerned, he's a
respectable businessman in town representing his company, which is operating
well within the law. If it even looks like we're harassing him or interfering with
his business, we'd only be inviting trouble for ourselves."

He
stirred cream into his coffee and took a sip. Too hot. Then, he shifted his big
body in his seat, leaning halfway across the table toward me. His pale blue
eyes darted around to make sure no one was listening. Finally, they burned into
mine, and he said in a hushed tone, "However … if, uh, if you wanted to go
nosing around, we won't get in your way."

I
threw him a knowing nod, pulling my coffee cup up to my lips. Before it could
get there, he put a firm hand on my arm, nearly spilling the coffee into my
lap. He said, "Of course, if you should happen to find out anything,
you'll come straight to me with it. Right?"

"Right,
Frank. Straight to you."

I took
a drink of my coffee. It was just right.

I
took the next day off. There was a lot of personal business
that had piled up on me which I had to attend to. Bills, a quick run to the
supermarket, a minor repair on my car, and other little shit like that.

Worst
of all was a dreaded trip to the Post Office. Something about going there just
depresses me, you know what I mean? Like it spreads a black cloud over my whole
day. I think it's the certain knowledge that no matter what time of day I
arrive, there will be a long, long line waiting in front of eight windows, of
which only two will be manned. What's more, of those two working windows, one
will invariably be tied up for forty-five minutes by someone who doesn't speak
good English, with an armload of packages and a request for a dozen money
orders, each for odd amounts, to be sent to forbidden places like Libya and
Iran.

I'd much
rather go to the dentist.

Anyway,
despite the blow of losing that big hand to Fong at Binion's, I did manage to
recover later in the night and I wound up winning a couple of hundred, so I
used that to take care of some of these little items on my agenda.

Plus, I
still had Blake's ten dimes, or most of it anyway. But so far, I had only spent
that money on expenses directly related to the case. Not only that, after
getting sapped at Ryan Farrow's house and waking up with it still in my pocket,
I decided not to push my luck and carry it around with me anymore, so I kept
most of it hidden in my apartment from that night forward. Whatever was left
over after this case was finished, plus the additional twelve-five Blake would
owe me for finding Sandra's killer and for holding the wine, I was going to put
away in some kind of investment.

I
didn't know shit about that kind of thing, but I had a line on an investment
counselor, I think they call them, who could steer me in the right direction. I
was tired of living off the cash in my pocket, tired of not having anything put
back for my future, you know, because when I get there, there won't be any
pension or any kind of retirement package waiting for me.

That
was how it was in PI work, and that's how it is in the poker world.

I was
due to turn thirty-seven in January, and even though my retirement was still
quite a ways off, I was getting a little nervous just thinking about it. I
didn't want to eat up the years between now and then diddling around with no
preparations.

Back
in February, I gave back over eighty-five grand to Blake, which was actually
his money to begin with. I got it under unusual circumstances, which I won't go
into here, but suffice it to say I could've kept it without his ever knowing. I
don't really regret giving it back to him, because I know it was the right
thing to do, but now, with the anxieties I've been feeling lately concerning my
future, well, I just don't know. It damn sure would've provided me a nice nest
egg.

So,
this money Blake was paying me to find Sandra's killer was sailing straight
into my retirement fund. I wasn't exactly wild about doing PI work again
— I really wanted to put all that behind me — but I decided that if
any of these other odd jobs came my way for money I couldn't refuse, said money
would go toward my future.

I
poured a Dalmore and turned on the TV. The Yankees had won their game earlier
against Boston, earning their ticket to the World Series, so I picked up the
middle innings of the Cubs-Marlins game in Chicago. According to the
announcers, the Cubs were the "team of destiny", absolutely
predetermined to go on to the World Series, where they would vanquish the evil
Yankees for their first championship in nearly a hundred years, blah, blah,
blah. Being a Yankee fan, I didn't really care for that kind of cheerleading
from guys who were paid to be impartial, but I watched the game anyway.

By the
top of the eighth inning, the Cubs were winning 3-0 and seemed to have
everything well under control, being just a few outs away from their
long-awaited trip to the World Series, so I turned the channel to a movie.

≈≈≈

I called Colby Farrow
first thing the next morning, trying him at work first. I was surprised to find
him there, given that his brother's funeral was scheduled for the following day.
He'd been pretty cooperative during our little meeting the other day at Ryan's
house, despite having just learned of the murder, so I thought I'd try pushing
him a little further.

"Colby,
Jack Barnett."

"Yes,
what can I do for you."

"I
need to know whatever you can tell me about Sandra Blake and Hector Olivera.
How were they connected?" While I was talking with him, I maneuvered
around my kitchen, making coffee with the phone between my cheek and my
shoulder.

"They
weren't, really. Or not directly, anyway. Ryan dated Sandra, as you know, and
he and I were putting together the money for Olivera. Like I told you, forty-three
million for his buyout of Blake, and then another four hundred million for the
stadium construction."

"Didn't
you say that stadium loan was all set?"

"Just
about. I've got a group of real estate investment trusts in the northeast who
are looking favorably on the stadium project. Provided, of course, that Olivera
can put all the land together."

I took
that all in. Colby was apparently preparing for a big payday once he got all
this dough in place.

I
said, "Okay, so what about Sandra? There must've been some kind of link
between her and Olivera."

"Why
do you say that?"

I
wasn't about to let him know that Olivera had told me he and Sandra were
working together on something, so I said, "I'm just trying to get a clear
picture of everything here. It's still pretty foggy. You were right there in
the middle of it all, so I figured you could help me sort the whole thing
out." After a little effort, I finally got the coffee on. Then I got some
bread to make toast.

He said,
"Well, there was no link."

"You
sure? I mean, I found his business card in her bedroom." I figured I could
let that much out and see where it got me.

"You
what?"

Bread
into the toaster, nice and easy now. "Hector Olivera's card was in her
bedroom. Now, what was it doing there?"

The
line fell silent. I let him take that around the block a time or two.

Then,
he said, "I knew she sold him a condo some time back, around last
Christmas I think it was. While he was in town for that, she introduced him to
Ryan one day. He and Ryan kind of hit it off, and pretty soon they were talking
about sizeable loans. Then I came into it, mentioning that I'd developed a
connection with the big pension fund in California. That's when he started the
wheels turning for his land-for-stadium scheme. But … but as far as I knew,
that was all she had to do with Olivera. You know, selling him the condo and
introducing him to Ryan."

"I
think there was more to it than that." Get the blueberry preserves from
the fridge.

He
hesitated again before saying, "You're not suggesting that … that there
was anything going on between them, are you? Or that Olivera had anything to do
with killing my brother?"

"I'm
not suggesting anything. I'm only trying to find out what the story is here. I
just want to get the names and numbers straight." Cup, saucer, plate. Put
them on the table.

"Look
here, Barnett, if you're trying to hang this on Olivera when Blake is probably
who you're looking for —"

"Keep
your shirt on, Colby. I'm not trying to hang anything on anybody. But you've
got to understand, I have to pursue every lead that comes my way. Now, I found
a connection between Sandra and Olivera. So I have to check it out. But if
there's nothing to it, well, that'll probably lead me right back to
Blake."

"Well
… all right."

"Now,
I want you to think hard. If you can remember any other time when Olivera might
have seen Sandra, or even mentioned her name in one of your meetings with him,
I need you to tell me, okay?"

"Okay,"
he sighed.

"Remember,
I'm on
your
side here. I want justice for your brother, and for Sandra
Blake, just as much as you do. Let me know if you can think of anything."
I hung up.

I
glanced at the paper. The sports section screamed out at me. Last night, the
Marlins pulled off a miraculous late-inning rally, beginning the moment after I
turned the channel. After trailing 3-0 with the game nearly over, they wound up
winning 8-3, forcing a seventh game in Chicago tonight. I was letting that run
around inside my mind, when I heard a sound from the kitchen.

Presto!
The coffee was ready at the very moment the toast popped up. Do I know what I'm
doing or what!

O
n Wednesday night, the Marlins completed their improbable comeback,
winning 9-6, and sending the Cubs reeling into another winter of frustration
and futility. The Marlins would now head to New York to face the Yankees for
Saturday night's opening of the World Series. Olivera would no doubt be in
attendance, so I knew I had a very limited window of opportunity to see him
here in Las Vegas.

I
called Colby Farrow to tell him I would be at his brother's funeral on Thursday
afternoon. He said Olivera and his cousin would be there, but he asked if I
would at least wait till the funeral was over to approach them, when he would
drop the two of them at the Venetian. I agreed. He repeated the directions to
the church.

≈≈≈