One More Night(17)
Sometimes a suit is just a suit. But sometimes it’s more.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, turning on the GPS, conspiracy theories were playing havoc with his head, and he knew he needed to get to Vegas as quickly as he possibly could.
He gunned the gas and sped away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday, 3:01 p.m., Las Vegas
“Did you get a name yet?” he asked as he made his rounds, strolling casually—or so it appeared—past the roulette tables. The crowds were building as more gamblers packed themselves like sardines at the games.
“Yeah. He’s Tad Herman. He’s a marketing executive at Farrell Spirits. Did a quick search on him. Lives in Vegas. Has for ten years. Looks like he was in some kind of trouble once, but it was several years ago back in Florida.”
He scoffed as he ran a hand through his dark, gelled hair. “Florida. That place is a hotbed for crime.”
His associate laughed. “Damn right it is.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Not sure. I need to do more digging.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he said gruffly as he continued his rounds. “Get out your shovel and dig that shit up.” He stabbed the end call button on his Bluetooth device as he meandered past the blackjack tables. A few feet away, he spotted a young man in a hoodie. He slowed his pace to watch the hipster. He looked just like those MIT fuckers who bilked millions from Vegas’ casino kings. Profiling, that’s what he was doing, and he knew it. But profiling worked, so he kept his focus on the hoodie who might very well be on the list of known card counters. Casually reaching for his phone, he swiped his thumb across the screen and snapped a shot. He’d send it on later to his contacts, and see if he was right. He was rarely wrong. He knew gamblers, and the professional ones could never stay away from the action for long.
Like that redhead. He’d like to get another look at her, at those ripe tits that would fit so nicely in his palms. Hot as fuck and a penchant for gambling—that woman must be all kinds of fire in the sack. If she came back down to the tables, he’d be ready for her. Oh, hell, he’d be ready for her.
He licked his lips, his tongue sliding over the bottom one.
* * *
Friday, 4:07 p.m., Highway 15 en route from Los Angeles to Las Vegas
As soon as he hit the highway, the sun was blaring high in the sky, like a goddamn alien beam of light from a spaceship, designed to blind him. He dropped his shades over his eyes, shielding them from the glare through the windshield. He slid his phone into the holder on the dashboard and turned on the speaker.
First, Charlie.
He hit the call button, and the man who used to have Julia under his thumb answered on the third ring.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the man with steel balls.”
Clay did his best to force out a laugh. “Iron, actually. I had a metal transplant last month.”
“Excellent news. I hope the surgeon stitched you up well,” he said in his lightly accented voice. Clay heard the sounds of dishes being stacked and assumed Charlie was at his favorite place in the world—his restaurant, Mr. Pong’s. “I hope you’ve finally come to your senses and plan to take me up on my offer of employment.”
“Afraid not. The actors and producers of the world are keeping me pretty busy.”
Charlie cleared his throat, stripped the casual tone from it. “So what do you want then? Or rather, what do you need? I’m watching the Giants game right now, and Buster Posey is on deck. I never miss Buster Posey at bat.”
“He’s your favorite player ever,” Clay said, remembering the conversation they’d had about sports the one time they’d had lunch at Charlie’s eatery when Clay had secured the terms for Julia’s freedom. “And he’s having a great season. On track for MVP.”
“He is. I’ve got my bets down already.”
“Of course you do,” Clay said.
“So why are you calling?”
He’d been weighing just the right words, but wasn’t even sure if the right ones existed for his question. “I don’t suppose you’ve taken up a new interest in Julia, have you?”
Silence. He was met with stark silence, and it felt lethal. Like he’d crossed a line. Seconds later, Charlie spoke. “Why would you think I have an interest in Red?”
“Because she thought there were some people following her in Vegas,” he said, figuring honesty was the best policy at this point.
“What a shame for her,” Charlie said in a dry voice. Clearly, he didn’t think it was a shame at all. “I hope it’s not bringing her trouble but—and correct me if I’m wrong, though I’m sure I’m not—we did have a deal, right?”