Thomas Perry - The Butcher's Boy

At the end of the hallway he waited for a moment to see if another door opened, but there was no sign of anyone. It would be the maid, probably, who would be under orders to ring someone she thought must be an assistant manager as soon as Room 413 was unoccupied. He took the stairs to the casino and moved through the crowds in the direction of the front entrance. The telephones here were too closely flanked by slot machines. There was no way of telling who today’s watchers were, or even if there were some electronic eavesdropping system. It didn’t matter because if they could videotape every hand at every blackjack table they could probably pick up a number dialed on the house phones too, and there was no way for him to know what happened to the tapes afterward.

On the street he stopped to buy a newspaper at a vending machine, then walked into Uncle John’s Pancake House. He waited at the door to see if the watchers were following closely enough to be seen, then went to the telephone booth and placed the call.

He counted six rings before the voice on the other end said, “Dapper Dry Cleaners.”

“Mr. De la Cruz, please,” he said.

A voice shouted “De la Cruz” over the hum of machinery.

“Cruiser, I don’t want to talk long, so listen. I have a little work I need to subcontract—maybe two days’ worth and nothing noisy, so it can be any rummy as long as he doesn’t stand out. Can you sell it for me?”

“Well, hello to you too, amigo. I heard somebody seen you but I didn’t believe it. Bring me some shirts.” The line went dead. He said good-bye to the dial tone and went back to the line of patrons waiting to be served for breakfast.

He sat down at the counter and ate quickly, scanning the paper. It wouldn’t do to keep the Cruiser waiting too long: his other interests might take him away from the laundry. As soon as he could get out without seeming hurried, he was back on the street.

It didn’t look as though the maid had been to his room yet; at least she hadn’t cleaned it. He built a pile of his dirty shirts and fitted the hotel’s plastic bag around it. Once outside he walked the two long blocks to the Flamingo to lead whatever watchers there might be far enough from their cars before he got into a taxi. To his disappointment he didn’t see anyone rushing for a car as he drove off. That had been one of Eddie’s favorites: “Always look as though you’re doing one thing and do another; but do it smooth. Don’t look as though you changed your mind. A stupid watcher will commit himself too early and walk right up your ass. If they’re set up to cover you with a switch they’ll usually look at each other, just like one was handing you off. They can’t help it.” But that was only if they weren’t good. If they were, you might see them and you might not.

When he came through the entrance to the laundry he could see the Cruiser waiting for him in the center of the dry-cleaning section. Clothes on hangers suspended from the conveyer track on the ceiling whisked past the Cruiser’s dark, slouching form like frantic ghosts. Abruptly the moving track stopped and the dresses and coats swung forward once, then backward, then stopped too, and hung opaque like a curtain. The Cruiser stepped from among them.

“Hello, amigo,” he said, snatching the bag and shaking the shirts out onto the counter. “What’s happening?”

“Just some watching until tomorrow night. Nothing special.”

“How much?”

“Four hundred do it?”

“What’s the bonus?”

“Another four for the best. One if I’m just sure he was awake and nobody saw him.”

The Cruiser smiled and thumped the counter once with his fist and said, “Sold” and then returned to sorting shirts. “What’s the name?”

“Harry Orloff. He’s in the phone book. Want something up front now?”

The Cruiser nodded his head. “All but the bonus.”

He looked up as he took the four hundred. “You know I can’t do anything without something to at least flash at them, amigo. And if you’re not around Friday when I deliver these shirts—I’m not saying you wouldn’t want to pay, but things happen—I’d be out that much. I gotta live here, man, and—”

“It’s all right. Just get on it as soon as you can. I’d like the shirts at seven on Friday. That okay?”

“Sure, amigo. See you then. Earlier if there’s something to talk about. You at Caesar’s?”

“Yes. Four thirteen.”

“Okay,” he said, and disappeared behind the hanging curtain of clothes.

When he was back on the street he glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 already. The best time to return to the Strip would be after twelve when the first of the DC 10’s and 747’s from the East arrived and dumped their hundreds of passengers at McCarron Airport. Every day the taxis streamed onto the Strip to deposit them, disoriented and burdened with luggage too heavy for them to carry, under the gigantic roofed porticos of the big hotels. And then each taxi would roar out the driveway again to try for one more piece of this flight or the first passengers off the next one—the man who was first to the taxi stand because he was in a hurry and didn’t mind tipping big to get to the casinos.

He decided to walk. Sunshine and exercise were the best medicines in the world. He was feeling stronger already, even though his leg still didn’t feel right. And maybe by evening he’d know what was bothering Orloff. It was probably just that somebody had seen him with Little Norman and gotten scared, but it could be anything. And for that matter, Little Norman hadn’t behaved right either. As soon as he showed up with a bruise or two everybody had changed—as if he were an eyesore that was going to lower the going rates on hotel rooms or spoil the customers’ appetites.

He reached the Strip at Sahara Avenue and crossed to the other side of the street. He passed Circus Circus, the Stardust, the Silver Slipper, and settled on the Frontier. It was a little quieter this time of day, and it was mostly blue inside. He established himself in the dark bar off the main casino and ordered a Bloody Mary. He didn’t much like them, but if you were going to drink in the daytime you had to have what other people drank in the daytime.

As he sipped the Bloody Mary he could see that the midday flights must have begun arriving at the airport. Already on the other side of the casino the lobby was beginning to fill up with people wearing too many clothes for this weather, who apologetically stepped aside to avoid carts of baggage propelled with relentless efficiency toward the elevators by bellmen who seemed unaware of obstacles. In another half hour the first planes would be fueled and ready to take off again, and the scene would be complicated by the husbands in line at the hotel cashiers while the wives pumped the slot machine handles a few more times. If there were still watchers they would have to fight the crowds.

It was just about right, he thought. He wouldn’t stay out of sight long enough to worry anyone; just long enough so the watchers would have time to pick him up again and pretend they hadn’t lost him in the first place. Then he noticed that the bar was slowly beginning to fill up around him. In a few minutes more waitresses would appear, and when that happened the lights would begin to brighten imperceptibly so they could push the drinks without bumping into each other or losing track of anybody.

He edged farther into the shadows and watched the people coming into the bar. There were the usual couples—some middle-aged, husbands in sport coats and looking secretly pleased at the unfamiliar feeling of not wearing ties on a weekday. The wives in spotless unwrinklable pants outfits that were designed and manufactured to say money—some young, the pair not quite used to each other yet, the man still looking younger and greener than the woman in spite of what he thought of himself. Then there were a few solitaries, both men and women, all fortyish, who would sit down where they could get a good view of the casino. Usually they smoked heavily but didn’t drink much—drank at all only because it was the price of the seats they occupied while they collected themselves from the long flight and scanned the casino to see which tables seemed to be paying off. After the first drink most of them would have to get change because they didn’t have anything smaller than a hundred.