R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

‘Mr Perez?’ Hartmann asked.

Perez opened his eyes. Hartmann imagined he heard a dry clicking sound, like a lizard sunbathing on a rock.

‘Mr Hartmann,’ Perez whispered.

Hartmann felt his skin crawl. There was something tremendously unnerving about the mere presence of the man.

‘I have been thinking,’ Perez said. ‘Considering the possibility that we may run out of time.’

Hartmann frowned.

‘It seems that the more I tell you of my life the more there is to tell. I was thinking only last night of another aspect of how these things have come about, and though I had never intended to tell you of them I feel they are integral to obtaining a full understanding of the situation within which we find ourselves.’

‘I’m listening,’ Hartmann said, ‘but I must urge you to tell me whatever you wish as quickly as possible. It would seem to be a pointless exercise if the girl dies.’

Perez laughed. ‘Not at all, Mr Hartmann. She is alive as long as I tell you she is alive. She could be dead even now. The beauty of this situation is that I am the only person who knows where she is… even Catherine Ducane herself has no idea where she is imprisoned. Until I tell you where to find her you will have to hear me out.’

‘So start talking,’ Hartmann said. He clenched his fists beneath the edge of the table, out of view. He willed himself not to lose patience. He was tired. He knew Schaeffer and Woodroffe and the other sixty agents assigned to this were tired also. They were all here, every last one of them, because of this man, and this man – this animal – was playing games with them.

‘Speak,’ Hartmann said. ‘Tell me what you want me to hear and let’s get this done, okay?’

Perez nodded. ‘You are fatigued, Mr Hartmann, no?’

Hartmann nodded. ‘I am fatigued, yes, Mr Perez. I am so dog-tired you have no idea. I am here because you insisted that I be here. I am willing to hear everything you have to say, and though everything you have told me so far makes me feel nothing but revulsion for what you have done, I am nevertheless obligated by duty and by loyalty to continue this charade.’

‘Emotions are strong,’ Perez said. ‘Revulsion? Duty? Loyalty? These are powerful words, Mr Hartmann. I would ask you not to lose your connection to reality until I am finished… I believe that is the very least I can ask of you, considering what I have done for you.’

‘For me?’ Hartmann asked, his tone incredulous. ‘What you have done for me? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Your perception of yourself,’ Perez replied. ‘Already I perceive that your own view of yourself has shifted. You have come to realize that you are in fact solely and exclusively responsible for the situation within which you find yourself. You have been a troubled man, Mr Hartmann, and if nothing else my presence here has assisted you to put such things into perspective.’

Hartmann shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and yet at the same time there was a dark shadow of something that told him that the man was somehow right.

Had his perspective changed? And if so, had it been because of Perez?

‘Whatever,’ Hartmann said, simply because there was nothing appropriate he could think of to say. He would not be played by this man. He would sit and listen. He would do his part in helping to locate Catherine Ducane, and then he would go home and do his best to straighten out the Vietnam of his own existence.

‘So talk to me,’ Hartmann said. ‘I want to hear what you have to say, Mr Perez… I really do.’

‘Very well,’ Perez said. ‘Because you asked, and asked politely, I will tell you.’

‘Okay,’ Hartmann said, and reached out to close the door behind him.

Las Vegas was the promised land.

One time a jerkwater nothing of a place somewhere in the desert – gas stations, truckstops, a scattering of run-down and ramshackle slot-machine emporiums and greasy diners where the Blue Plate Special was the kind of mystery meat you wouldn’t serve to a dog – but envisioned as a glittering opportunity going to waste by Meyer Lansky. Lansky kept hounding Bugsy Siegel to see the possibilities, to open his mind and let it run wild – the legalized gambling, the unconquered territory – and finally, in 1941, Siegel sent a trusted lieutenant, Moe Sedway, to see if he couldn’t figure out what Lansky was talking about.

After the war was over, Siegel, far more interested in his Hollywood playboy lifestyle, finally looked for himself and got a glimpse of the Las Vegas that Lansky had conceived of. Las Vegas, and the six million dollars that Siegel ploughed not only into building The Flamingo but also into his own Swiss accounts, became the legacy that would not only memorialize his life, but also instigate his death.

Meyer Lansky, never a man to capitulate on his own vision, assumed control of The Flamingo, and within a year it turned a profit. Las Vegas became a honeypot for the wasps. Las Vegas State officials levied stringent rules and regulations to keep the families out, but it was futile. Lansky controlled The Thunder-bird; Moe Dalitz and the Cleveland mob assumed autonomy over The Desert Inn; The Sands was controlled jointly by Lansky, Joe Adonis, Frank Costello and Doc Stacher. George Raft, the Hollywood actor, came in on the deal, and even Frank Sinatra was sold a nine percent share. The Fischetti brothers – the same brothers who took Sinatra to provide entertainment at the Havana Conference, Christmas Eve of 1946 – controlled The Sahara and The Riviera, alongside Tony Accardo and Sam Giancana. New England’s head honcho, Raymond Patriarca, moved in and took possession of The Dunes.

And then there was Caesar’s Palace. Back of Caesar’s were Accardo, Giancana, Patriarca, Jerry Catena from Vito Genovese’s outfit, and Vincent ‘Jimmy Blue Eyes’ Alo. Conversations with Don Ceriano never failed to include the legendary Jimmy Hoffa, leader of the Teamsters’ Union, a man who orchestrated the investment of ten million into the Palace and another forty million around Vegas’s other numerous hotspots. The money masqueraded as loans, but those loans were as good as permanent and no-one ever thought to return a dime. No-one thought, either, of the hundreds of thousands of over-the-hill truck drivers who never did get their pension checks as they’d been promised.

I went to Caesar’s soon after the Alcatraz Swimming Team arrived in Vegas. It was vast and extravagant, a place guested by those who, some decades before, might have guested the Titanic . I had never seen anything like it before. The hotels we had frequented in Havana, places like The Nacional and The Riviera, paled in comparison. I walked barefoot on a carpet that almost reached my ankles. I took a bath in a tub in which I could have effortlessly drowned. I lay on a bed, wide like a football field, and when I called room service they were there within minutes. Las Vegas seemed to be everything I could never have imagined it to be, and though I was there in Caesar’s no more than forty-eight hours, I felt I had – at last – truly arrived.

Once Don Ceriano’s business at the hotel was done, I and the rest of the crew moved to the outskirts of the city. We took a house on Alvarado Street. Don Ceriano came down the following morning and he gathered us together.

‘People here,’ he said, ‘ain’t nothing like the people back in Miami. This is where the real deal lives. This is where we get the running orders, and we run just like they say. Job needs doing we do it, no questions asked, no answers expected.’

He smiled, leaned back in his chair. ‘We ain’t smalltime, never have been, never will be, but this is earned territory. Lot of blood got spilled to make Las Vegas, and that blood belonged to men like us, men who were better than us truth be known, and we keep our hands in our pockets and our eyes going both ways at once if we wanna stay alive. You get me?’