Sharks, p.4
Sharks, page 4
Out of impulse she checked her phone, and as if on cue a notification pinged.
Contact name: jason.
Message: we’ve got something.
5
King notified Violetta, then said, ‘What are you thinking?’
Slater didn’t answer.
Kept his eyes locked onto the rear end of the squad car, roughly a hundred feet ahead of them in the sparse traffic. Beyond, the Strip sparkled against the night sky, drawing nearer as they doubled back up Blue Diamond Road.
King said, ‘We might as well guess what we’re heading into.’
Silence.
King said, ‘If you had a gun to your head…’
‘Profits from Keith Ray’s sex trafficking network,’ Slater said. ‘Each duffel bag packed with hundred dollar bills. Maybe a few million in total. He would have taken it with him when he fled his old HQ to set up shop in that warehouse. Now this guy’s taking it back to the original base.’
King stewed silently.
Slater said, ‘You got a different theory?’
‘I don’t think they keep the cash in-country,’ King said. ‘I think it’s offshore.’
‘That’s a guess. All of this is guesswork. I don’t like it.’
‘Think about it. The three major players were a judge, a sheriff and a DA. Smart public figures, no matter how depraved they were. You think they were hoarding their dirty money under their mattresses? They’re a little more sophisticated than that. They’re sure as hell not keeping it in American banks and risking investigative journalists getting hold of financial statements.’
Slater said, ‘So where’s this lieutenant going?’
‘If only there were businesses in this town you could wash cash through under the guise of gambling.’
Slater went quiet.
King could sense him eyeing the towering casinos in the skyline.
Then Slater shivered.
King said, ‘What?’
‘I don’t have a great track record with casinos.’
‘I know you were a degenerate when you were with Black Force.’
Slater shook his head. ‘Not that.’
‘Oh.’
King remembered.
Shien, the little girl Slater had rescued from the depths of an entertainment complex in Macau. He’d pulled her out of hell and given her a life. She was the closest thing he’d ever had to a daughter. But his life was danger, pain, suffering, and anyone who lingered around him bore the consequences of that existence. She hadn’t deserved that, so he’d set her up with a foster family and let her pass out of his life.
Now King eyed the skyline, too. ‘Do you want to do this?’
Slater nodded.
‘Once we start,’ King said, ‘it’s irreversible.’
‘Is it ever not?’
King didn’t answer.
The seconds drew out — now they felt like hours.
Then the squad car took an exit.
An unexpected exit.
The lieutenant wasn’t heading for the Strip.
Slater eyed King warily, who shrugged and gestured to follow. Sometimes they were simply wrong. Maybe it wasn’t cash. Maybe it was something worse…
They drove north through Spring Valley, taking deserted side streets instead of congested roadways, which made the tail awfully difficult. Slater eventually had to resort to desperation, killing the headlights and risking a head-on collision with passing traffic.
Finally the squad car reached its destination, northwest of the Strip, surrounded by ordinary suburbia.
Lagoon Hotel & Casino.
A blue-collar joint, cheap and janky compared to the famous establishments with quite literally billion-dollar budgets. The Wynn alone cost $2.7 billion to build. At a glance King put the Lagoon Hotel & Casino in the multi-million dollar range — nothing to scoff at — but for a casino in Las Vegas it was amateur hour. He’d seen a bunch of similar places over the time he’d resided here in Vegas. There were a few of them off the Strip, scattered around the cosy suburbs, and they catered largely to locals wanting a splash of pleasure without having to venture into the glowing metropolis of the city centre. These places were less intimidating to salary workers and small business owners keen to throw a few dollars on low-stakes blackjack.
Lagoon was a big blocky structure probably sporting a few hundred rooms, a small casino and a couple of reputable bars and restaurants. No big brands, no flashing lights, no extravagant fountains or valets waiting for arriving vehicles. But it was deliberate, a vintage throwback to simpler times, and what little exterior decoration there was gave off a faux-Hawaiian vibe. There were a couple of palm trees, and the feature wall beside the entranceway was adorned with a graffiti-style artwork of an island woman in a bikini offering a flowery lei.
The lieutenant parked his squad car in the largely deserted parking lot, got out, snatched up the duffel bags and looked around.
Slater hovered the Audi in the shadows, the engine whisper-quiet, the headlights off.
The cop didn’t find anything amiss.
He started for the entrance. An elderly couple in cheap Hawaiian shirts passed him by on their way out, arm in arm, the wife swaying from going one cocktail over her limit. Date night, wrapping up by a predetermined bedtime. A simpler life.
Then someone with a less simple life appeared.
He was European — he looked stereotypically Greek or Italian — and he bled out of the entranceway like he specialised in discretion. His jet black hair was slicked back with gel, exposing a widow-peak hairline and a wrinkled face. He could be fifty, but King guessed he was younger, only with considerable mileage that had aged him prematurely. He was too far away to scrutinise properly, but King could recognise the cold eyes of a mob man. The guy went to shake the cop’s hand as he passed, then spotted his hands full with the duffels and abandoned the gesture. He gave the bags a long look, then jerked his head to the right. An imperceptible motion, but King and Slater had been trained to pick up on exactly those types of instructions.
The cop veered to the right and disappeared into Lagoon.
Slater said, ‘The cop’s known to the staff.’
King looked at the Italian and said, ‘That guy isn’t staff.’
‘I know,’ Slater said. ‘But they’re all in cahoots.’
‘You take him,’ King said. ‘I’ll try and get backstage. You feed me what I need to know when I need to know it.’
‘You got your earpiece switched on?’
King touched a finger to the Bluetooth device in his inner ear and was met with a soft electronic beep. ‘Yes.’
‘Then let’s go.’
Nothing more to it.
Earlier in their careers they might have deliberated over it for longer. After all, they were technically infiltrating an organised crime operation.
Now, they might as well have been sleepwalking.
Slater parked in a side street. They got out and went their separate ways.
The night swallowed them.
6
Slater walked into the building like he belonged.
Which was half the game, right there.
He was something of a master at it.
Gait cocky, every movement purposeful, he sauntered into the lobby and surveyed a deliberately tacky wooden post in the middle of the carpeted space made to look like it was skewered into a tropical pier. Faded signs fashioned into arrows at their edges gave directions to the hotel, the casino, the main bar and a seafood restaurant. A couple of bored-looking reception staff stood at attention behind a desk against the far wall. The lighting was low, downplaying flaws, generating a warm atmosphere, encouraging people to move around as they pleased without the sense they were being judged for their spending.
The mob guy was off to one side.
Confirming Slater’s suspicions that he was a sentry.
He might be an important figure elsewhere, but business was business, and when cash was on the line important people suck up their pride and accept their assignment to lesser roles. But that could be exploited.
The only thing worse than doing a job beneath you was screwing up a job beneath you.
Slater made a direct beeline for the guy, who took a back step, more out of surprise than anything else, but there’s a psychological aspect to it regardless.
Slater’s eyes blazed with silent fury. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
The mob guy got his back up. ‘What?’
But he kept his voice down, because this was a public place with civilians everywhere.
Slater mirrored the volume, hissing out the side of his mouth, standing only a foot away from the guy. ‘You’re at the wrong place.’
‘What are you talking about, champ?’
‘Don’t “champ” me,’ Slater said. ‘“Champ” the guys upstairs when they find out you’re guarding the wrong building. You’re supposed to be four blocks from here, you dumb wop.’
The guy didn’t even respond to the derogatory insult, he was that confused. He was on the verge of masking his perplexment with aggression, but Slater didn’t allow him the opportunity. With a look on his face like, We’d better get this sorted out quickly, Slater made a Follow me gesture with one finger and then strode straight back out the entrance like he had a thousand other places to get to tonight.
The mob guy didn’t even hesitate. He’d fallen into the shtick like most people do when confronted by a mysterious authority figure.
He obeyed, if only to find out what on earth was going on.
The sidewalk out front was illuminated by muted yellow downlighting and completely unpopulated. There was a lull in the steady stream of customers. Slater walked out and sidestepped, masking himself from view of the lobby with the help of a long row of Vegas-style xeriscaping surrounding the building’s perimeter. It didn’t exactly gel with the Hawaiian theme, but that was a conversation for another time.
The mob guy followed.
He hurried out in a storm of confusion, and started to say, ‘Buddy, who are you?’ before Slater cracked him in the ribs, folded him over, bounced an elbow off the back of his skull and dragged his semi-conscious deadweight along the front stretch of the complex and around the side, into the shadows.
The guy didn’t even get the chance to fire back with his own derogatory term, didn’t call Slater a ditzune or swear up and down at him. He was out of the picture before he knew what hit him.
King walked into the Lagoon Hotel & Casino ten seconds later.
7
King went right, as the lieutenant had done.
Followed the wooden jetty sign reading: casino.
As he predicted, the cop was still out in the open, because nothing in real life moves as quickly as it does in the movies. There’s plain old logistics to take care of — if certain staff members are bent, they’re not always going to be waiting with open arms to receive their cash. They have real jobs, which often involve hitting the floor or squirrelling themselves away in back rooms to take calls or fill out paperwork.
So the lieutenant was at a counter across the casino floor, under a sign reading “cashier”, hunched over and speaking in hushed tones to an attendant behind the security glass. The uniformed woman nodded animatedly, probably ensuring that the appropriate staff member would be with him in no time. He hunched further toward the glass with each sentence, stressing urgency. She kept nodding her understanding. The duffel bags rested at his feet.
It’d be simple enough to stride over there, take the bags, and drag the bent cop out of the building by his collar. Security wouldn’t be able to achieve much in the face of King’s rage.
But he wanted to work his way up the food chain, not find satisfaction with an easy kill.
King ambled across the casino floor.
He passed pensioners funnelling their last pennies into slot machines, eyes glazed with what they thought was hope but was more likely to be Stockholm syndrome. The gambling had them prisoner, and as a result they’d learned to love the odds, despite the fact they were never in their favour.
Love your enemy, and it makes your suffering easier to bear.
Eventually you convince yourself you deserve to lose.
He made it to the roulette tables near the cashier desk and hovered there, pretending to be interested in whether the ball landed on red or black. There was something hypnotic about the dealer’s movements. A repetitive cycle — spin the ball, read out the number, sweep the losing chips into a slot in the table, pay out the winners. Make a little profit for the house each time. A twenty-four-hour game, played on and on, stripping civilians of money they couldn’t afford to lose.
King would never fully understand why the world worked the way it did.
Then the female attendant at the cashier’s desk skirted aside, replaced by an older, severe-looking woman who nodded knowingly to the lieutenant. But there was some detachment there, and King thought he knew why. This cop wasn’t yet in the know. Keith Ray and all his thugs had been gunned down, so new players had to enter the game. The cash couldn’t stop flowing, so the cogs in the chain had to be replaced.
This was the lieutenant’s trial run.
If it went well, he’d get a piece of the action for every cash drop he made in future.
Shame King had to do something about it…
Thankfully, the fact the cop knew nothing meant the process had to be spelled out to him, and therefore King by extension. The older woman jerked a thumb to the left, guiding him toward a partitioned corridor that led to various supply closets and hallways — an access point to the labyrinth of behind-the-scenes rooms.
The cop nodded, picked up the bags, and followed.
King held back. Dipped behind the tall screen displaying the roulette numbers, touched a finger to his ear and mumbled, ‘I need a name. Now.’
In his ear, Slater’s voice said, ‘What’s your name?’
A distant voice said, ‘Fuck you.’
Then a scream, followed by, ‘Lenny D’Antoni. Stop.’
Slater said, ‘You got that?’
King stepped back out in the open and made a beeline for the partition. He was a couple of dozen feet behind the cop, who disappeared out of sight with the three duffel bags in his hands. King momentarily glanced down at himself. He was dressed in black jeans, a dark blue tee and a black leather jacket. Perfect for a stakeout, if a little dressy, but now it worked perfectly as mobster chic. At least it could be interpreted that way, and sometimes that’s all the prompting people need.
He was also big and wide and mean.
Which would help more.
He followed the lieutenant into the hallway, who didn’t glance over his shoulder once. A door labelled staff only crept open, and the cop came face to face with the older cashier. She ushered him in, sweeping him past her, then closed the door behind him.
King stepped up to it and knocked hard on the wood three seconds later.
Which didn’t even give her enough time to step away.
Hesitant, she inched the door back open, staring up at him. She was equally severe, equally no-nonsense, but she seemed to recognise the fact he could tear the door off its hinges if he really wanted to.
‘Can I help you?’ she said, tentative.
King said, ‘Lenny D’Antoni sent me to screen the new guy.’
Silence.
The cashier stared at him.
King gave a look like silence was the thing he hated most in the world and said, ‘Is that going to be a problem? Need me to get him in here to clear things up?’
He let a little flame show in his eyes. Demonstrating that everything would be a whole lot easier if none of this was questioned, if it all went smoothly instead of having to prove who he was and let his anger escape from deep within.
More silence.
Then a shake of the head, and a gesture to follow her.
Simple as that.
She didn’t want any trouble. It was bound to be a long shift for her, and human nature is inherently weak. We cave to the prospect of the easy path. She’d taken it without a word of protest.
King stepped through into the staff-only section of the casino.
8
Now King got a better look at the lieutenant.
He looked like your average middle-aged suburban dad.
Appearances are always deceiving.
The guy was clinging for his life to the hairline receding fast over his skull. He had tanned skin and green eyes and a small mouth. Conventionally attractive, and a little jumpy, like he hadn’t quite settled into his new role yet. But that was a joke, because anyone Keith Ray trusted to continue his operation had to be neck-deep in shit. So the nerves were a performance, either to disarm the staff or throw off anyone who might be tailing him. And the eyes never lie — his face and mannerisms were twitchy, but the green irises had steel in them.
The cop watched King step in behind him. He was tall, but King was taller — only by a couple of inches, but there’s an underlying power dynamic that comes along with that. The twitchiness subsided, replaced by the coolness the cop had felt all along. A display of dominance.
The lieutenant said, ‘Who are you?’
King didn’t even look at the cop. Just turned his attention to the cashier and said, ‘He’s new, isn’t he?’
She nodded, but didn’t smile.
The cop mirrored King’s actions — an attempt to show defiance. Like, Well, if you’re only talking to her, then so am I. He turned to her and said, ‘He’s not coming anywhere until he tells me who he is.’
The cashier said, ‘You ask him yourself. I’m not your messenger.’
Showing a little defiance to the lieutenant.
Which proved that the mob was a touch more important than a bent cop.
It rattled the guy, who turned to King and said, ‘Start talking, buddy. I’m the one who has what you need. Nothing gets done unless I’m in the know.’
