HE OFFICES OF NEW YORK, NEW YORK–the Las Vegas casino, that is–were abuzz. Its security team had upped the ante, intent on playing an even faster-paced, higher-stakes game of money and fun than usual. FBI agents had been posted at various exits and instructed to work in concert with regular security, all bent on putting a stop to the sophisticated yet blatant credit-card money-laundering scheme. Agents assigned to work in the offices replayed dozens upon dozens of security tapes, trying to identify the perpetrators. The game could end up being a long one, as a blanket search warrant covering the entire hotel was out of the question.
Head of security had explained that all the casino’s cameras didn’t run all the time. It would be an impossible task even to handle the thousands of tapes per day, much less view them all.
It was Horne–not the agent posted at the door–who noticed the two preachers making their way through the lobby. One was toting an oxygen bottle over his shoulder, his naked upper lip suffering from a singularly nervous twitch.
The agent quickly got on the horn and called Barnes. “Reverend Keller just walked in. And you won’t believe who he’s collared up to look like a preacher.”
Barnes’s ears perked up. “Keller’s in the casino?” Poor juggler that he was, he held a radio in each hand, trying his best to shuffle two operations going down at the same time.
“Affirmative–and Bino’s at his side, looking like he just finished a sequel to the original Sermon on the Mount.”
“What the hell?” panted Barnes, itching to be on-site. “Maybe the good reverend isn’t what he pretends to be. Keep back and see what’s going on. And hold off on the bust of the old woman if you find her.”
Up on the 7th floor, that very old woman was eyeing the clock. “Time t’ go, Cap’n,” she fussed.
Sound was asleep, still in his vertical position, breathing in quiet, wispy breaths. His head yet rested on Cap’n’s broad shoulder, like that of a sleeping child. The strongman’s arms felt heavy as lead. “Can’t now. He just got t’ sleep,” he argued, slowly rocking back and forth.
“He wakes up and you ain’t done your job, there’ll be a price to pay,” Nurse fumed. “Won’t be much use savin’him if’n we don’t finish the mission. None a’ it ’ll be worth a hill a’ beans.”
Cap’n disagreed. “Won’t be a mission worth finishin’ if we don’t all make it out alive.”
“We knew th’ risks back when we decided t’ take on Mr. Vinnie,” countered Nurse.
“But the damage came from within the ranks.”
“Was Desert Storm worth fightin’?” she grumped.
“Was,” Cap’n nodded. “We kicked them Iraqi, oil-lovin’tails back where they came from.”
“Friendlies ever take fire?” she asked.
“Did.”
“So ya’ think we should’a gived back Kuwait jus’ ‘cause a few friendlies took it in th’ shorts?”
“Not over their oil-burnin’ hides.”
Nurse’s comparison built top to bottom, she pointed at Sound. “Then you put him down an’ come finish what we started; make th’ losses worth his while.”
Cap’n’s arm’s shook from fatigue as he lowered Sound down onto the mattress. Nurse positioned herself at the head of the bed to help hike his skinny frame up to lean against the headboard. A little moan came from his parched lips. He stirred, opened his eyes, and smiled. “Thank you, Laurence Elroy Jackson,” he whispered, as an ice-cold hand pressed against Cap’n’s flushed cheeks. “I feel much better. You’ve been a good friend. It’s been a pleasure serving in the trenches with you. Now you dry your eyes and lift your chin.” Sound brushed a tear from the fleshy, black cheek. “When I get through the door, I’ll tell the Big Man upstairs you never meant to hurt anyone. I know you have a heart of gold. God knows it too.”
“You hang in there ‘til I get back,” said Cap’n, stabbing at the air with his index finger.
“I’ll be here with bells on my toes.”
Nurse brought in a glass of water and set it on the nightstand. “Thanks,” said Sound, patting her hand.
Cap’n shuffled stiffly from the bed into the bathroom. Cupping his hands under a flow of cold water, he drew it up to his face, head and neck. Over and over again he splashed himself with the cleansing liquid. When this prolonged baptism was completed, he took a towel from the rack and pressed it against his eyes. For a long time he stood like that, the soft terrycloth blotting out his perceived sins. His penance fulfilled, he turned his attention back to his job. Before marching out the door, he poked his wide head back into the room and said, “Sound, you think of silk sheets and clean pajamas while I’m gone, got that?”
“I will, Cap’n. Don’t worry, I will.”
Striding confidently down the hall to the elevator, briefcase in hand, Cap’n descended to the main level bar and took a seat at a table–one over from where the preachers sat. A waitress came over and asked what she could get him. “Coffee,” was his curt reply.
Meanwhile, Bino’s cloudy mind fought to stay focused. Skittish– and on the verge of a nicotine fit–he stared down at his watch. A second waitress bustled over to the table and asked if she could refill his coffee. He nodded and budged the cup a few inches her way.
Just then Reverend Keller spied three men entering the bar. He tapped Bino’s foot with his shoe and gestured towards the door. “That him?”
Bino straightened up in his chair and casually looked around. Then he turned his poker-faced gaze on the trio. He reached up with his hand and wiped his mouth. “The one in the middle,” he replied.
Two goons, who looked more like musclebound apes, scanned the bar and branched off. One wandered over to the bar and took a seat where he could survey the entire room. The other’s fixed stare fell on Cap’n. Making his way over to the table, he settled into a vacant seat, facing the mahogany-skinned giant. Cap’n smiled. The man rested both elbows on the wood-grain top and got down to business.
Stationed in the kitchen, Horne sent out a distress signal. “Something doesn’t look right!” he called into his radio. “Three wise guys just walked in.”
Barnes’s worried voice blasted through his earpiece. “Who are they?”
“I’d say they’re Vinnie’s friends.”
“What do they look like?”
“The boss has a high, flat forehead, gray hair, combed back, slicked down. His skin is pock-marked–like he had a case of real bad acne as a kid. He’s going over to Keller and Bino’s table.”
“What color are his eyes?”
“Can’t tell. It’s too dark.”
Out in the bar, both preachers stood to greet the main man. “Reverend Keller,” he nodded, the trace of a native Italian accent intermingling with an acquired Jersey dialect.
Keller extended his hand. “Mr. Domenico.” The man looked down. It was a breach of etiquette to extend a hand to a crime boss. Shunning the gesture, he slid out a chair and sat down. The reverend swung his hand sideways in Bino’s direction. “This is my associate, Brother Bernalillo.”
Domenico, barely acknowledging Bino’s nod, waved at Keller to take his seat. “You can call me Antonio,” he began. “I’m a great respecter of men of the cloth, but with what you’re about to do, I figure you’ll want to put your collars on the table and walk away. You catch my drift?”
Horne anxiously tapped the waitress who’d just entered the kitchen. “See that man sitting next to the two preachers? Go offer him some coffee. . . . And make sure you get a good look at his eyes.”
The tired young woman, not taking kindly to the stranger’s brusque orders, replied, “Sorry, mister, it’s not my table.”
Horne drew his badge and flashed it in front of her eyes. “Listen. I don’t care. I need your help.” The woman nodded, turned on her heels, and returned to the bar to pick up a pot of coffee.
At that very moment, Keller was at his persuasive best. “I think what I have to say will save you a lot of trouble. . . .”
When the waitress approached the table, the conversation ground to a halt. “Can I pour you some coffee?” she asked.
“Cappuccino,” Antonio replied. The tete-a-tete remained on hold until after she’d moved on to pour the black vagrant masquerading as a hotshot gambler a hot cup of java. Turning back to Keller, Domenico parroted the reverend’s words. “So you think you have information that will save me lots a’ trouble, huh?”
“Have you heard the latest on the stolen identity story? Several of our distinguished politicians have been making the headlines.”
“Yeah, the senate called a hearing. So?”
Reverend Keller paused. “Seems your nephew is the one responsible for that little headache.”
“What Vinnie does with his free time is no concern of mine.”
Out in the kitchen, Horne’s reluctant waitress reported in. “All he wants is a cappuccino.”
“What color are his eyes?”
“Blue.”
Horne shooed her away. “Get him his cappuccino.” Then he lifted his radio. “It’s him.”
Barnes pulled the agents in from the exits to form a tighter ring around the bar. Then from the other radio he listened in on the agents posted at Three Queens. “They’re coming out. . . . It’s just Vinnie and Ritter.”
“Keep your distance. We don’t want to spook them.”
Vinnie was driving a new sports car, a sleek, navy blue Jaguar XKR with beige interior and trim. “Nice wheels,” Ritter said, ogling the ride. “You and your lawyer have the same, fine taste.”
“Yeah, I talked with him a minute ago,” said Vinnie, a burr under his saddle. “He thought it was strange that it took so long to get you released this time.”
Little beads of sweat had formed on Ritter’s upper lip. He blurted out his canned excuse. “You know how it is, mate. They was tryin’t’get me back on their team. Didn’t want t’ let me out.”
Vinnie eyed the Brit suspiciously and fired a second salvo. “An hour before you came back, the agents up and pulled away from the casino. It looked like they knew you was comin’. You tight with them or somethin’?”
“It’s nothin’, mate. I didn’t budge.” Ritter rubbed his damp palms on the thighs of his pants.
Vinnie reached across the console and grabbed Ritter by the pinkie. “You’re lyin’ to me . . .”
The Jaguar’s airtight interior muffled the screams. “Okay, okay, I was goin’ . . . t’ tell ya’. . . .” he howled in anguish. “They put . . . this little thing in me belt, so’s they could follow us.”
Vinnie raised Ritter’s hand and slammed the damaged pinky down onto the shifter. When Ritter’s shrieks finally died to a sniveling whine, the mafioso directed him to take off his belt. “We’ll see if you’re tellin’ the truth,” he sneered. Racing under the freeway overpass, he tossed the belt out the window. Then, punching the gas pedal to the floor, he cut the wheel and squealed off down Stewart toward Eastern Avenue. In three minutes flat he’d pulled onto the Eastern on-ramp and sped back up the freeway. Two hundred yards from the overpass he pulled over onto the shoulder and watched.
Sure enough, on the road below an unmarked van was inching its way toward the bugged belt, which lay at the foot of a chain link fence running along the base of the freeway’s concrete skirt. “Which way are they headed?” Barnes called into his radio.
“Nowhere, sir. They’re not moving.”
“You have a visual?”
“No, sir. You said to stay back.”
“Give them a minute or two, then move in and take a look.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barnes drew the other radio up to his lips. “Everyone in position?”
“Yes, sir,” Horne replied.
“What are they doing?”
“Still talking.”
Antonio’s face registered little concern. “Credit card fraud, you say? And you have enough evidence to put him away for a few years? Big deal. Be good for him to do some time–might wipe that pompous grin off his mouth. The boy’s never been arrested. Too smart for his own good.”
Bino finally gathered the courage to ask a question of his own. His meek, hang-dog manner and soft, breathy utterances made him appear truly ministerial. “Did you know . . . Three Queens has been . . . shut down?”
“What do you mean shut down?” At last Keller could detect a little emotion in the crime boss’s voice.
“Out of commission . . .” clarified Bino, “empty . . . no guests.”
“So Vinnie finally got the permits. I been askin’ what was takin’ him so long.”
Reverend Keller shook his head. “He could have had the permits months ago,” he said. Removing a folded document from his pocket, he slid it across the table. “The application deadline expired only a few weeks ago. He could’ve pulled the permit anytime up to a year before that.”
Antonio skimmed the document–which a day earlier Keller had sifted from Nurse’s filing system. His visage hardened. “Maybe I put a little too much trust in the boy.”
“It’s worse,” Keller continued. “He’s been skimming off the top.” He pushed several more documents in front of his attentive table-mate. “This the kind of money you pay him?”
The scars that ran along the crime boss’s right jaw and disappeared below the ear, deepened. His steely gaze met Keller’s. “I take care of my own family problems. You stay out of this.”
Unnoticed by Domenico, under the table Bino was giving Keller the shinbang treatment, clear signals to back off. Reverend Keller ignored the advice. “I can’t stay out of it. He’s hurt some of my friends. Any of your boys leave town the last few days?”
“How should I know? I got a big family.”
“A little girl’s been kidnapped. Another of Vinnie’s stunts.”
Antonio gestured to the man at the bar. The gorilla slid off his barstool and strode over to where the boss sat. After engaging in a brief and heated exchange–all in Italian–the goon returned to his stool and Domenico, as was his custom, recapped to that point their conversation. “Okay, so two of Vinnie’s old pals came to town and . . .”
At the next table over, Cap’n sipped his last thimbleful of coffee, picked up the briefcase, and exited the bar. Finding a phone, he called up to the room on the 7th floor. “It’s time,” is all he said. Then, wandering the casino, he began counting the agents trying to blend in with the guests–a little game to take his mind off the stress he was under. The G-men weren’t that hard to pick out. They didn’t pay much attention to his movements, rather, remained focused on what was transpiring out in the bar.
By this time, Domenico had heard about all he needed to hear. But Keller stayed on the offensive. “It’s never been your family’s MO to steal children,” he said. “In fact, it’s a bit cowardly, isn’t it?” The toe of Bino’s shoe was going nuts under the table, emphatically kicking the reverend’s heel.
In the kitchen, Horne called on the radio. “They’re still talking, sir.”
“About what?”Barnes asked.
“I don’t know. We’re almost ready to send in Sutton.” Agent Sutton, dressed in a skimpy waitress outfit, nervously balanced the cappuccino in her hand. A small listening device was taped to the bottom of the plate. “Go get ‘em,” Horne said with the enthusiasm of a little-league coach.
“Shut up, Horne.” Sutton waltzed from the kitchen and sidled up to the table. “Here you go, sir.” Chomping on her gum for all it was worth, she set the cup down in front of Mr. Domenico. “What else can I get you gentlemen?”
Antonio shot a glance around the room. All the other waitresses had mysteriously disappeared. Sutton breezed over to a nearby table and began wiping it down. The wise guy made another subtle hand signal to his bodyguards, both of which were now situated at the bar. One got up and walked the perimeter of the room. Then he moseyed into the casino. When he returned to his barstool, he sat back down and nodded over at the boss. “Miss,” Antonio said, calling over to Sutton.
“Yes, sir.”
“This cappuccino’s cold. Take it back; I changed my mind.” He pointed to the two coffees sitting in front of the preachers. “And take these away too. We don’t need anything else. Get lost.”
Sutton grappled with the plates and cups, gathered them in a pile and returned to the kitchen. “He made us,” she reported. “I couldn’t hear a thing out there over the noise.”
Antonio’s right hand rested in his lap. He wiped his flattened nose conspicuously with his left thumb–then came the unmistakable sound of the hammer of a pistol being pulled back from under the table. “You bring the cops?” he growled.
Bino almost wet his pants right then and there. Reverend Keller spoke softly but in a firm voice. “If I wanted to take this to the cops they wouldn’t be spying on us right now, would they? They’d have you in jail. . . . I want to cut a deal.”
“I haven’t seen anything worth my time. I’m washing my hands of the whole . . .” Antonio started to swear and then stopped. “sorry, Father–the whole fiasco. Vinnie gets the heat on this one. If the cops can pin the kidnapping on him, he’ll serve hard time. He’s tough; he can do it.”
Keller nodded faintly. “The next thing I have to tell you is the most important of all. See, I’ve been in contact with a few of your employees here in the hotel. I know for a fact they’re employed by you.”
Antonio laughed out loud. “The only men I’ve got are those two over there. They’ve proven they can be trusted.”
Suddenly, out in the kitchen, one of Horne’s men began to scream over the radio. “I’ve got a visual on the old woman!”
“Where is she?”
“Headed your way.”
Horne clicked over to Barnes’s frequency. “What do you want me to do?”
“Play it out.”
Nurse cleared the entrance to the bar and took a seat at a table near the door. Cap’n also sauntered back into the room and parked himself at a lone table on the other side of the room.
“See that old woman?” Keller said, gesturing towards Nurse.
“What about her?”
“Whether you know it or not, she’s been working for you. She has the phone records to prove it.”
Antonio scoffed, then swore under his breath. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“That’s not how she’ll testify. Matter of fact, she’s the one that orchestrated the entire scam with the politicians. She’s a homeless friend of mine. The FBI’s here in the building looking for her. My guess is the only reason she hasn’t been arrested is because they can’t link you and her together yet.”
Shakily, Bino unfolded the afternoon headlines and slid the newspaper across the table. Mitchell Wilson, Son-in-law to Congressman MacArthur, Arrested for Murder. As Antonio scanned the print, Keller rested his finger on Mitch’s front-page, black-and-white photo. “He’s another friend of mine–the one who shut down Three Queens. He witnessed Vinnie kill a Federal agent in cold blood. Now Vinnie’s blackmailing him, using the gun as leverage. He’s also blackmailing a different friend of mine on another murder he committed.”
Antonio eased his gun back in his jacket pocket and lurched to his feet.“And now I’m finished with your feeble attempt at blackmail.”
“We’re not blackmailing you, Mr. Domenico. We’re just the messengers–and sometimes it’s the messengers that end up getting hurt. See that big black man over there?” Antonio turned his head, peering across the room. “He’s the man,” Keller continued. “He’s got twohundred-fifty-thousand in his briefcase that he’s just been dying to give you. It’s your take on the credit card scam, money swiped from half the hotels in the city. That’s what the Feds are here for. You watch, though. The second he opens the case and points to you, you’ll be busted right along with Vinnie. He’ll testify against you, just like the old woman will. The clincher will be the careful records he’s kept and the photo records on every security camera in every hotel. The mugs of both money bags and the old lady have been in most of them. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more open-and-shut case. You’ll have every politician in the state of Nevada trying to hang their problems on you. Not to mention half the city council, guys who own the hotels. Your property will be so tied up with lawsuits, you’ll never get it developed.”
The blood drained noticeably from Mr. Domenico’s cheeks. He sat back down and looked Keller in the eye. “You’re bluffing, preacher.”
“That’s one thing I’m not doing. You remember Bino Daniels–ran the old Husky station out on Rancho Drive?”
“I think I met him once. The guy smokes like a stack.”
“That’s the one. He’s on oxygen now.” Antonio eyed Bino across the table, a tinge of recognition in his eyes, as Keller talked on. “No, he’s not a preacher. Just another one of your once-faithful employees, ready to go under oath. Bino’s been receiving the hundreds of envelopes your people have brought over the months. He’s got nothing to lose. He’ll squeal without batting an eye. If you’re willing to find out if they’re bluffing, let me ask the man with the money over to our table.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s simple, really. We want Vinnie, the one responsible for the murders and missing girl. Like you said, it might be good for him to do some time.”
“You’d think me a fool if I took your word on all this supposed evidence.”
“You’ll just have to trust us, just like we have to trust you. I’ve done some homework on you, talked with a couple of priests in your old neighborhood. They say your word is good, even for a wise guy.”
Antonio laughed. “They still use that term–wise guy?”
The reverend laughed too. “If it fits.”
Domenico pursed his lips, thinking. Then he gave a nod. “If what you tell me is true, I’ll give you Vinnie. You have my word.” That said, Antonio Domenico stuck his hand out and rose from the chair. “I like you, Reverend. I think we’ll get along just fine.”
Keller took hold of the brawny hand in a firm grip. “That depends, Mr. Domenico, on whether or not you break the law.”
The big boss gave a jerk of his head and his two hired goons climbed down from their bar stools and took their places at his side.
Down the highway a couple of miles, Barnes had just finished talking with the agents who’d found Ritter’s belt. He was not happy when he learned Mr. Domenico had simply gotten up and walked out of the hotel. “Can’t we bust him on something?” pleaded Horne.
“What for? For sending cold cappuccino back to the kitchen?” Barnes was furious. His snitch was missing and now all he had left was an indignant old woman sitting in New York, New York’s bar room. And she’d be as tight-lipped as the tooth fairy about her day’s activities. The promises she’d received from the Federal government for special consideration if she’d cooperate with the investigation didn’t mean a thing to her. For that matter, Barnes mused, the angry old lady probably would withhold information just to spite the FBI.
The hour-and-a-half conversation had been guarded at first. Mother and daughter, guests of the FBI, were each finishing a hundred-dollar plate atop the lavish Sheraton. Their chat had revolved mainly around safe subjects: the MacArthurs’ D.C. apartment, its interior decor, the congressman’s reelection bid, what Stephanie’s older brother was up to, and when the babies were due–not necessarily in that order.
When the small-talk had been exhausted and the inevitable, uncomfortable silence set in, both women at once opened their mouths to speak. “How’s daddy?” “How’s Mitch?”
Each smiled and fidgeted with her dessert. “I’m leaving him,” Levina finally blurted out. “I know I’ve needed to do it for years, I’ve just never had the courage. You’re the first one I’ve told.”
“But, Mom, you do love him, right? Why? . . .”
“For three years I’ve pled for him to phone you and tell you we wanted you back–Mitch, too. But he’s just too proud. He wouldn’t hear of it. His life, his image always takes priority. And I end up being the floor mat, a place to wipe his feet when he gets them dirty. I’m always the dutiful wife who puts on her ‘pretty face’ in public. I can’t do it anymore. . . .”
“But, mother . . .”
“Shh. It’s okay. I’ve made up my mind. Actually, in a way you helped me decide. I’ve always secretly admired your courage. You never needed him like I did. You could tell him no; ever since you were a baby you could tell him no. I used to wish I could. . . . But I’ve never been able to tell him no–not from our first date.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I had no idea.”
“Your father’s the kind of man who will take everything he can get. If he knows I’m not behind him, he’ll try to ruin me. I need your help.”
“Mother I . . .”
“No, I’m sorry. This isn’t the time to talk about it.” Mrs. MacArthur blotted her crimson lips with a napkin. “I need to know more about Mitch and your in-laws.”
After hearing her mother’s confessions, Stephanie’s head was spinning. Where could she begin? How could she recap all that had happened over the past week and a half? “He didn’t do it mother,” she said, coming straight to the point. “He’s a good man. I love him more than anything.”
“I can see it in your eyes, dear. They sparkle when you mention his name.”
“He grew up in kind of a rough environment, though. He lived with his grandpa.” Stephanie smiled as she pictured the old codger, his wrinkled, beet-red face, his eyes squinched in a perpetual scowl. “He’s such a neat old guy. Full of love and compassion, despite his gruff exterior.”
“Your father’s grandpa was a pig farmer in Iowa.”
“So why is Dad so pumped to succeed, so concerned about his image?”
Levina took a sip of her wine. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to remember where he came from. Maybe he’s so busy trying to forget his family’s past that he can’t see the forest for the trees–if that makes sense.”
Stephanie nodded. “He’d like Mitch, if he’d just give him a chance. He’s a fantastic student; he wants to be a great father–I’ve never seen anyone more anxious to have children. And he treats me so wonderfully. He listens when I talk, he’s got a great sense of humor, he loves me for who I am.”
“He sounds a little like your father, thirty years ago.”
“Yeah, maybe he is a little like Dad, except Mitch is always the first to apologize, Dad’s always the last. You’ll like him; his grandfather, too.” Stephanie gave a start. “Oh, I didn’t tell you. Grandpa had a heart attack a few days ago; I need to go see him again.”
Levina plucked the napkin from her lap and set it on the table. “What are we waiting for?” she said, suddenly energized. “I’m dying to meet him.”