James Swain - Take Down

“Get up, you sneaky little bastard.”

A plumber’s dream of Cleopatra stood before him. Baby doll red dress, five-inch spiked heels, her lips a tight red scar, and enough cleavage to open a Hooters. He still hadn’t figured out what her deal was, and decided to make it a priority over the next two days.

“I resemble that remark,” he said.

She kicked him again. He saw it coming and shifted, letting the couch absorb most of the blow. She was on tilt, and in no mood for jokes.

“Hey-what did I do?”

Her hand made a sweeping gesture of the plates from last night’s feast. “Marcus doesn’t appreciate people running up bills in his name, and neither do I. Do it again, and I’ll cut your balls off. Now, get up. We have a lead on the Gypsies to check out.”

The words gave him pause. His plan to rip off Galaxy was contingent upon the Gypsies not getting caught before Saturday afternoon.

“Who got the lead on them?” he asked.

“I did.”

Crunchie stood at the bar wearing black cowboy attire. He’d scraped a razor over his face and cleaned himself up, yet still looked like death warmed over. The hustler’s life got bumpier the longer you stayed in the game; if you didn’t quit the business, the business quit you.

Their eyes met. Billy mouthed the words up yours .

“Same to you,” the old grifter said. “I set a trap for the Gypsies and just caught one of them. Appears I won our little contest.”

“You couldn’t catch the clap in a whorehouse.”

“Watch it, you little punk.”

“Just remember: you wouldn’t have had to blackmail me if you hadn’t screwed up.”

Angry spittle formed at the corners of Crunchie’s mouth, and the old grifter took off his cowboy hat and punched the crease. “I’ve had enough of your crap, Billy. I want to be treated with respect. Stop talking to me that way, or I’ll take you out myself.”

Billy laughed derisively. The old grifter charged across the suite. Shaz clapped her hands, stopping him in his tracks.

“Enough of your macho bullshit,” she said. “Go out in the hallway, and cool your jets. And don’t dare do that again.”

“He’s trying to divide us-can’t you see that?” Crunchie said.

“He’s just playing with you. Now get lost.”

Crunchie shot a parting dagger before retreating to the hallway. Divide and conquer was the only way to fight when you were outnumbered. Billy went to the bar, pulled a carton of OJ out of the fridge, filled two glasses, and brought one to her.

“You enjoy riding his ass, don’t you?” she said.

“Whatever gave you that idea? So tell me about this trap.”

“Ricky Boswell is registered in the hotel. Crunchie thought one of Ricky’s family might try to contact him before Saturday, so we kept his room open. Our operators have been monitoring phone calls to the room, hoping one of his family would call him.”

“Did they?”

“No. But this morning someone visited the room, and the door clicker went off. A security guard was sent. By the time the guard got there, the visitor was gone. Crunchie wants to search the room, see if this person left anything.”

Security in Vegas was more elaborate than most guests realized, not just in the casinos but in the hotel rooms as well, the fear being that guests might stage private card games, which were illegal. To prevent this from happening, electronic door clickers counted the number of times guests visited their rooms each day. If the number of visits exceeded a certain level, the hotel would send security guards to the room to make sure nothing improper was going on. Since Ricky Boswell was dead, anyone visiting his room would set off an alarm.

“What time did this happen?” he asked.

“Around eight thirty this morning.”

“That was hours ago. Why wait so long before doing anything?”

“Crunchie thought the person might come back, so we had a pair of security guards camp out in the hallway inside the emergency exit and wait for him.”

“But the person didn’t come back.”

“No. How’d you know that?”

“Because Ricky was a scout. His job was to check out your casino before his family took it down. From what you told me last night, Ricky had already given his family the green light before you killed him. That meant Ricky’s job was done. He wouldn’t have any contact with his family until Saturday afternoon. No phones calls, no e-mails, no texting, and certainly not any visits.”

“So who visited his room this morning, Santa Claus?”

“Probably a cleaning lady. Crunchie’s wrong to think a family member would make contact with Ricky prematurely. They’re too smart for that. If you want my advice, you need to stop listening to what old smelly says. He’s poison.”

“Really. And what does that make you?”

“I know what I’m talking about, and he doesn’t. It’s as simple as that.”

His shirt was halfway unbuttoned, and she placed her finger on his hairless chest and drew an imaginary line down the center as if preparing to do open-heart surgery.

“But what if you’re wrong? What if one of their family screwed up and went to Ricky’s room? Can you deal with that, Billy?”

“I’m not wrong.”

She pulled his shirt open and touched his nipple, making circles around the dimpled flesh with her white-painted fingernail. “You’re a cocky little son of a bitch. Let’s bet on it.”

“What do you want to bet?”

“Let’s bet to see who gets to be on top. Sound good to you?”

She pinched his nipple and gave it a twist. It was easy to imagine having sex with her-no foreplay or soft romantic music to get them in the mood, just hitting the box springs with the force of two overheated Greco-Roman wrestlers. He supposed he’d have a better chance of surviving if he started on top.

“I’m game,” he said.

“Let’s check out Ricky’s room and see who’s right. Where are those two clowns that are guarding you?” She went to the punishers’ bedroom and banged on the door. “Hey, you dumb slobs, get moving.” No answer, so she opened the door. “Oh, my. Isn’t that cute.”

Billy glanced over her shoulder into the room. A naked Ike and T-Bird were spooning on the bed. No wonder they argued so much. They were married.

“Get up,” she said.

T-Bird appeared in the doorway holding a sheet around his waist. In celebration of their deal, they’d polished off the bottle of Hennessy, and T-Bird looked wildly hungover.

“Wass up?” the bird man asked.

“Brush your teeth and throw some clothes on, and tell your lazy partner to do the same.”

“Which lazy partner is that?” he said, screwing with her.

“Don’t get smart with me, or I’ll have Marcus fire you.”

“I thought we were buds.”

She poked him in the gut. “Get moving, before I get mad.”

“Don’t do that. Nobody likes you mad.”

“Stop talking back to me, asshole.”

T-Bird laughed to himself. He was going to be a rich man soon, and it had filled his head with grand plans. He went back into the bedroom without another word.

To reach Ricky Boswell’s room, they rode an elevator downstairs, crossed the hotel lobby, and boarded a second elevator, which ascended to the nineteenth floor of Tower B, home to the hotel’s lesser-priced accommodations, its rooms facing a hideous unpainted garage. Billy stood in the corner so that he faced Crunchie. In the fashion of old-time gunslingers, they’d put each other on notice; now it was simply a matter of time before one called the other out.

He was not looking forward to their showdown. Fighting was for people not clever enough to anticipate the future. That was how he saw it, anyway. Still, there were times when the person standing before you was going to destroy your life, and you had no choice but to act out of self-preservation. The doors opened and they marched down a hallway littered with room service trays. Shaz was reading door numbers. She stopped and held out her hand.