Нельсон Демилль - The Best American Mystery Stories 2004

“I bet,” Bobby gestured with his near empty glass, “I can nail that pretty little redhead at the end of the bar.”

Sean looked. Pretty was an understatement. She was gorgeous, hair that soft color of auburn that made Sean’s throat catch, skin flawless as a statue’s, dressed tastefully in a little black number that suggested a firm, ripe figure but didn’t give away too much of the show. She was sitting alone, not looking at anyone, not trying to make eye contact. Maybe a high-class hooker, maybe not. Maybe just waiting on her boyfriend to finish at the craps table. She was drinking white wine and she cradled the stem of the glass between her palms, like she was keeping a delicate bird from taking wing.

“You aim high,” Sean said.

“I got the gun for it,” Bobby said.

“And you could impress her with all the cash you got,” Sean said. At least temporarily. Sean thought about Vic’s money, neat bricks of green he would have to hide in his checked bag tomorrow morning, wishing now he was driving from Vegas to Houston, but what a dreary, endless drive it would have been. He didn’t dislike Bobby, didn’t like the idea of killing him, but orders were orders and when Vic gave them, you listened.

“Listen, man, that’s Vegas for you. The air is thick with constant possibility. You never know which way the ball’s gon’ drop and then you’re broke or rich, all in an instant,” Bobby said. “I’m feeling like the ball’s dropping my way. She’s been looking at me.”

“Looking ain’t buying,” Sean said. “And the keno screen’s above your head, buddy.”

“But see, that’s all Vegas is about. The potential of every single moment.” Bobby pulled a wad from his pants pocket, twenties rolled into a thick burrito, and Sean thought, this is why Vic wants you dead, you dummy.

“A thousand bucks says I get her,” Bobby said.

Sean said nothing. A thousand bucks. Money in his pocket he could take and not feel guilty for taking and keeping after Bobby was dead. If he shot Bobby and then pocketed the money, that would be stealing from Vic, his boss — an unwise move. But if he won the cash from Bobby, then that was fair. Fair as could be. Plus it would be funny to watch Bobby try with the perfect redhead, and hell, if Bobby won, he’d die happier. Harmless. Sean felt an odd tug of friendship for Bobby, soon to die, with his heavy, earnest face flush with life.

“And if you do bed her, what do I have to pay?” Sean said.

“Man,” Bobby said, “that happens. I’ll have already won.”

“That’s not a fair bet,” Sean said.

“Tell you what: I win,” Bobby said, “and you help me straighten out this misunderstanding with Vic. You tell him I’ve got the deals working just the way he wants.”

Vic had sent Bobby to Vegas to shut down his drug operation, sell out the remaining supplies, close the office Bobby ran the deals from three days a week, clean the last hundred grand through the Caymans, pull up stakes, and kiss Vegas good-bye. The Feds and the locals were cracking down hard and Vic didn’t have enough friends in town to make dealing worthwhile. Bobby didn’t want to give up Vegas. And instead of taking three days to wrap up the project. Bobby had taken a week, living off Vic’s account at the King Midas, apparently doing nothing but drinking and betting and generally not closing shop in any great hurry, keeping the money tied up. And Vic was killing mad.

“That’s really between you and Vic,” Sean said. “It’s your business. Bobby.”

“Yeah, but you got his ear more than I do. You could help me a lot. I got the feeling he was a little irritated with me the last time we talked. He doesn’t get that it took me longer than I thought it would to collect all the money.”

Bobby was fun but dumber than a stump. It didn’t matter how long it truly took to gather funds and close shop, it mattered how long Vic gave you to get the work done. Sean finished his beer. Bobby didn’t have a chance in hell with the redhead. This was betting with a dead man, and Sean was the house. “Okay,” he said. “You’re on.”

Bobby finished his drink, motioned to the bartender for another. “Observe, grasshopper,” he said, moving down toward the redhead.

“Good luck,” Sean said, meaning it, being nice, ordering himself another beer for the floor show.

It took about twenty minutes. Sean watched, trying not to watch, Bobby easing onto the stool next to the woman. Sean kept waiting for her to tell Bobby to get lost, to name her price, to ask the bartender to tell Bobby to leave her alone. But instead she gave Bobby a soft, kind smile, talked with him, a little shyly at first, then laughed, let him order her another glass of wine. Once she looked toward Sean, seeing him watching them, maybe having noticed him sitting with Bobby before, knowing he was the friend watching his friend make a move. But she didn’t smile at Sean and she looked right back at Bobby, who was now playing it cool, not over-eager like he had been the hour before.

They finally got up when she finished her second glass of wine and headed into the acre of casino proper. Bobby giving Sean a knowing wiggle of eyebrow and a subtle thumbs-up with his hand at his side, Sean raising his beer in toast, a little surprised, the redhead never glancing Sean’s way.

See you in the morning, Bobby mouthed.

Sean watched them head out into the hubbub of the slot machines and gaming tables, smiling for a minute. Well, it was one sweet way to spend your last night on earth. The angels were on Bobby’s side. Sean downed his beer, went out to the roulette table, bet twice on black, watched the ball fall wrong both times, his chips vanish. He didn’t really like betting. He remembered that a little too late.

Sean tried Bobby’s hotel room early the next morning, about seven, figuring the guy would be sacked out, sleeping late on the last day of his life.

“Yeah?” A woman’s voice, sleepy. But polite. A little smoke and purr in her voice. Bobby must have done right by her.

“Is Bobby there?”

“He’s in the shower. May I have him call you?” May, not can. The redhead was a nice lady.

“No, thanks, I’ll just call him later.” Not wanting to leave his name.

“May I tell him who’s calling—” she started, but Sean hung up. Got himself showered and dressed, fast, now wanting to get the job done, collect Bobby and the money, kill the poor guy, go home.

Sean called Bobby’s room again. No answer, fifteen minutes after he first called. He didn’t leave a message on the voice mail system, decided he didn’t want to stop by Bobby’s room, risk the redhead seeing his face again. Bobby was a breakfast eater, loving the cheap but lavish Vegas buffets, and so Sean headed down to the restaurant. It was crowded with tourist gamblers in vacation clothing, a few bored teenagers, some conventioneering high-tech geeks wearing golf shirts with corporate logos on the pockets.

No Bobby working through a fat omelette, alone or with the redhead. Sean got coffee and a plate of eggs and bacon and sat down in a corner booth, wearing his sunglasses. If Bobby came in, he could excuse himself quickly, tell Bobby to come to his room in an hour, let him enjoy his last meal.

They didn’t show. Maybe Bobby’d taken the redhead out for a nicer breakfast than one might find here at the King Midas. Maybe down to Bellagio or Mandalay Bay.

Sean finished his breakfast, checked his cell phone. One message. From Vic.

“Hey, bud,” Vic said. “Just calling to see if you’re knocking ’em dead in Vegas.” That Vic. His little code was a scream. “Hope you’re winning big. Call me when you’re back.”

A little niggle of panic started in his stomach. Sean ignored it, finished his coffee, kept scanning the crowd for Bobby’s blond hair, listening for the boom of his voice. Nothing. Tried Bobby’s cell phone. No answer.