Harlan Coben - Deal Breaker

He felt his heart crash into the pit of his stomach, like a skydiver with a ripped parachute. “Oh, shit.”

“What is it?”

“Sally, I need you to run a test for me.”

The address of Brian Sanford, private investigator, was a go-go bar conveniently located one block from Merv Griffin’s Resorts. Atlantic City was like that. The big hotels were like beautiful flowers untouched and unbothered by the unseemly weeds of poverty and sleaze that surrounded them. The big flowers had not beautified the neighborhood as promised by the casino owners. The contrast, if anything, had made the weeds more glaringly hideous.

The go-go bar was called Eager Beaver, and it was exactly what one would expect. Blinking sign with missing letters on the outside. Lots of lowlights around the bar, lots of bright spotlights on the stage. Bored women danced in shifts, most of them unattractive. Lots of flab. Lots of implants. Lots of herpes.

Myron made the key mistake of entering what might loosely be designated a bathroom. The urinals were stuffed with ice cubes-an adequate substitute, Myron supposed, for an actual flushing mechanism. No doors were on the stalls, which did not deter the defecators at all. One man smiled and waved to Myron from a squat.

Myron decided he could wait.

He called over a bartender. “Could you tell me how to get to Brian Sanford’s office?”

“Michelob, Bud, Bud Light, Coors.”

“I just want to know-”

“Michelob, Bud, Bud Light, Coors.”

Myron took out five dollars. The bartender pocketed it.

“Door in the back. Take the stairs up a level.”

He didn’t wait for Myron to thank him. Capitalism.

A dancer on break approached him. She smiled. Each tooth was angled in a different direction, as if her mouth were the masterwork of a mad orthodontist.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“You’re really cute.”

“I don’t have any money.”

She spun and walked away. Ah, romance.

The stairs did not creak. They cracked. Myron kept waiting for them to collapse. On the landing there was only one door. It was open. Myron knocked on the wall and peeked in.

Myron called out, “Hello.”

A man he assumed was Brian Sanford came to the door. All smiles. Dressed in a beige suit that had last been pressed during the Bay of Pigs. “You the guy who left the message?”

“Yes.”

The office was a minicasino. No desk but a roulette table. A one-armed bandit in the corner. Decks of cards everywhere. Souvenir dice, the kind that have a hole drilled in them, littered the floor. So did racing forms. Keno cards too.

The man put out his hand. “Brian Sanford. But everyone calls me Blackjack. You know who gave me that nickname?”

Myron shook his head.

“Frankie. That’s what I call Frank Sinatra. Frankie. Not Frank. Frankie, I call him.” He paused, waited.

Myron said, “Good nickname.”

“See, Frankie and me were playing at the Sands one night, right, and I was on one of my streaks, you know. And Frankie turns to me and says, ‘Yo, check out Blackjack. He can’t lose.’ Just like that. Frankie says, ‘Hey, Blackjack.’ Out of nowhere. The name stuck. Now everyone calls me Blackjack. All ‘cause of Frankie.”

“Great story,” Myron said.

“Yeah, well, you know how it is. So what can I do for you, Mr…?”

“Olson. Merlin Olson.”

Blackjack smiled knowingly. “Okay, I can play it that way. Have a seat, Mr. Olson.”

Myron sat.

“But before we start, Mr. Olson, I have to tell you one thing right up front.”

He was holding dice in his hand, moving them around in his hands the way some people do with those Chinese balls that are supposed to help circulation.

“What’s that?”

“I’m a very busy man. Lots of big stuff going on right now. You know how I started in this business?”

Myron shook his head.

“I used to be chief of security for Caesars Palace in Vegas. Head chief. You know how it is. I was in Vegas, right? But Donny-that’s what I call Donald Trump, Donny-Donny asked me to head up security for his first hotel on the strip. Then he started nagging me to set up the Taj Mahal’s security. I told him, I said, ‘Donny, I got too much on my plate, you know?’”

Myron looked up. A small crop plane flew overhead, leaving mucho cow manure in its wake.

“So my problem is this, you see. I got a meeting tomorrow morning with Stevie-Steve Wynn. First thing, seven A.M. sharp. Great guy, Stevie. Morning guy. Up at five every day. You know he’s practically blind? Got cataracts or something. He keeps it hidden. Only tells his closest friend. So anyway Stevie wants me to do something for him. Normally I’d tell him no, but it’s a personal favor and Stevie’s a good friend. Not like Donny. I’m not crazy about Donny. Thinks he’s some hot stud now that he’s got Marla.”

“Mr. Blackjack-”

“Please,” he said throwing up his hands, “just call me Blackjack.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, uh, Blackjack. I need your particular expertise on an important matter.”

He nodded. Very understanding. He didn’t hitch up his pants importantly, but he should have. “What’s this all about?”

“You performed some work for a friend of mine recently,” Myron said. “Mr. Otto Burke.”

A big smile now. “Sure. Otto. Swell kid. Smart as a whip. He calls me whenever he comes down.”

Probably calls him Ottie, Myron thought.

“You gave him a magazine a few days ago. An issue of Nips .”

Blackjack looked wary now. He rolled the dice on the table. A three. “What about it?”

“We need to know how you located it.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“I work with Mr. Burke.” Even saying it made Myron feel nauseous.

“So why didn’t Ken call? He’s the usual contact.”

Myron leaned forward. Conspiratorial. “This is bigger than Ken, Blackjack. We don’t feel anyone can be trusted with this but you.”

He nodded. Again very understanding.

“Frankly, Blackjack-and this has to remain hush-hush.”

“Of course.”

“You’re our first choice to replace Ken. But we know how busy you are.”

His eyes gleamed a bit. “I appreciate that, Mr. Olson, but for someone like Otto Burke, I could try to open-”

“Let’s talk about this case first, okay? How did you come across the magazine?”

The wary look again. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but how do I know you work with Otto? How do I know you’re not some schmo off the street?”

Myron smiled. “I knew it.”

“What?”

“I told Otto you were the right guy for the job. You’re not sloppy. You’re careful. We like that. We need that.”

Blackjack shrugged. He picked up the dice, gave another roll. Snake eyes. “I’m a professional,” he said.

“Clearly,” Myron agreed. “So why don’t you call Otto yourself on the private line? He’ll confirm everything. I’m sure you know the number.”

That slowed him down a bit. He swallowed, trying to disguise it, looked around like a cornered rabbit. Myron could see the wheels churning. “Uh, no reason to bother Otto with this,” Blackjack said. “You know how he hates that. I can tell you’re an honest Joe. Besides, how would you know about the magazine if Otto hadn’t told you?”

Myron shook his head. “You’re an amazing man, Blackjack.”

He waved a hand of modesty.

“How did you find the magazine?” Myron asked.

“Shouldn’t we talk about my fee? On the phone you said something about ten grand.”

“Otto said you were a trustworthy guy. He said to bill him through Ken. Whatever you think is fair.”