Sin City Homicide

9

Bill James woke with a start. His eyes darted open to see himself looking back at him. He realized he was lying on his back in his bed, looking up at his mirrored ceiling. The two women next to him wore nothing but high heels, and he watched them for a while, running his eyes over the perfect curves of their bodies. He had seen a thousand girls like them. They came to the city, looking for success, only to learn that the way to achieve success in Vegas was to sell everything-not just their bodies, but also their souls. Soon, they would be burnt-out junkies like the thousands who were already plastered all over the city, for sale to any psychopath who had a mere sixty bucks. But for now, they had youth and beauty, and he took them in.

He rolled out of bed and into his slippers. James glanced out the windows at the city below. His suite was made up of all windows with only one solid wall, a design specification he had requested. He wanted as much sunlight as he could get during the day and as much neon light as he could get during the night. He guessed from the dimming daylight that it was probably around five or six o’clock.

He used the bathroom, showered, and pulled out a Polo suit with purple pinstripes from his enormous closet before heading down to the casino floor. When he was depressed or anxious, he went there to watch the action. He hadn’t gambled in over thirty years, and he didn’t see the draw of it, but he knew it didn’t need a draw. He watched people’s eyes. They were almost in a trance.

“Boss.”

He turned to see his floor manager, Timmy Rodriguez, come up beside him.

“Heard you had a scuffle,” said James.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle. Just some drunk redneck who got pissed off. We got a bigger problem, though.”

“What?”

“High rollers’ room. Guy there’s playing blackjack hard and fast, fifty- or sixty-thousand-dollar hands. House is down over a million bucks.”

“Who is he?”

“Never seen him before. He wasn’t in Vanessa.”

James pulled a thin cigar from a gold case he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket and lit it as he headed to the human resources office. Vanessa was the computer database they used to keep track of the proficient gamblers, usually just the whales-the high rollers-who came, gambled big and fast, and left with his money. There was only one way to beat the casinos: quit while you were ahead. The longer gamblers played, the longer the casino’s edge wore them down. If this man wasn’t in Vanessa, he was either getting lucky, or he was a new whale on the scene.

The HR’s room was elegantly designed. James had brought the designer from Paris after he had designed the Prime Minister’s vacation home. The designer was a jerk, and James had nearly thrown him out on his ass, but his work was so good that James tolerated him until the project was complete.

The room had a type of soft lighting that was rarely found outside of the best five-star restaurants in the world. The rugs had been imported illegally from Iran because of an embargo. The tables were handmade with the finest wood available. The glasses were crystal with a hint of sapphire that glinted blue in the right light. The felt on the tables was handmade specifically for this room. He’d spared no expense.

Three tables were in play-two on the far right and one on the left. A crowd surrounded the one on the left, and a man was seated in the middle. James came up behind him and softly brushed aside some of the spectators. Timmy hadn’t been exaggerating. The man was currently betting over one hundred thousand dollars on this hand. He was betting big and fast, hitting a hot streak, and he probably knew when to quit. He was up by almost two million dollars-two million dollars of James’s money.

James went around the table and looked into the man’s eyes. He could find what he was looking for there. The face could smile, the hands could rise in triumph, the voice could cheer, but the eyes couldn’t betray what someone actually felt. And his eyes told James, “I don’t care.”

That was a hallmark of a degenerate gambler: the thrill of winning didn’t matter anymore. They gambled to gamble. Winning wasn’t the goal. They were the gamblers who lost homes, retirement accounts, college funds, cars, and grocery money.

James relieved his dealer and took his place. “That’s quite a hot streak you’re on,” he said.

“When it hits, it hits.”

“Bill James.” He held out his hand.

The man shook. “Jim Fontenot.”

James expertly shuffled the cards and dealt the hand. “Where you from, Jim?”

“Dallas.”

“Really? I own some property in Dallas. Try to get up there every so often.”

Jim stayed at eighteen. James hit at fifteen and got the ten of hearts. The crowd cheered and clapped. A woman wrapped her hands around Jim’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.

“Jim, you don’t enjoy this game. I can tell. For real gamblers like us, this isn’t it. How ’bout we show these folks what gambling really is?”

“How’s that?”

“Those chips you got there, I’ll match ’em. One hand. Winner takes all.”

“Don’t do it, baby,” the woman said. “Let’s take what we got and go.”

The woman was clearly his wife, but in that moment, James understood him better than she did. James had looked into his soul and seen what was there. His wife only saw what Jim wanted her to see.

“Let’s do it! Let it ride!”

The crowd cheered as his wife tried to talk him out of it, but she was too late. His eyes were wide, and he was staring at the table as though he wanted to make love to it. In fact, James wouldn’t have been surprised if Jim were sexually aroused. He’d seen it before.

James turned to Timmy. “How much does he have in chips?”

Timmy counted. “One million, eight hundred, and twenty-six thousand.”

“Get me a marker for that amount.”

Timmy wrote something on his iPhone, and another dealer ran in thirty seconds later with a slip, which he handed to James.

James put the slip on the table. “You ready?”

Jim looked as though he might faint. He was filled with lust, excitement, and avarice. His wife was yelling at him, physically attempting to pull him away from the tables. He pushed her away aggressively.

James smiled and dealt the cards. Jim glanced at his hand but had no reaction. James peeked at his cards. Jim brushed toward himself on the table, indicating that he wanted another card. James dealt it: the six of clubs. That brought Jim’s hand to twenty.

“I’ll stay.”

His wife gasped, her fingers turning white from squeezing his shoulder. James could tell that even a tractor couldn’t have pulled her away from the table right then.

James flipped his cards, revealing the three of hearts and the Jack of spades. He pulled out the next card slowly, enjoying the look of panic and ecstasy on Jim’s face. It was the eight of hearts.

Jim folded as if the air had been knocked out of him. His wife slapped his face and stormed away.

“Nice playing with you,” James said as the dealer began collecting the chips.

James walked away, and Timmy followed. He walked across the casino floor, excitement in his belly.

“The gambling commission’s not going to like that,” Timmy said.

“Call Mike Connors over there. Tell him to take care of it.”

Timmy made note of it in his phone then said, “That would’ve been a big hit. Four million dollars.”

“Most gamblers get their training from other gamblers. You know where they should start?”

“Where?”

James stepped into the corner near the men’s room, where he knew the eye in the sky wasn’t monitoring. “A magician.” He pulled out a ten of clubs, a two of diamonds, and a five of diamonds from his sleeve. “Get rid of these.”

Timmy smirked. “Yes, sir.”

James took a quick piss then washed his hands. He was excited; that was sure. He had actually enjoyed that hand, but it still felt empty to him. Regardless, no one was going anywhere with four million dollars of his money.

As James was stepping out of the bathroom, Milton Henry approached him.

“There you are. Where you been?”

“Didn’t know my CEO got to ask me that and treat me like some asshole.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t saying-”

“I’m just kidding, Milt. You need to relax. What do you need?”

“Cal Robertson’s here, and he’s causing a scene. They called me down to take care of it, but he threw a drink in my face and called me a kike.”

“Where is he?”

“Near the stage.”

James walked briskly through the casino and across the bridge over the strip. The casino occupied two buildings; he and Raj had come up with the idea together. One contained all the shops, shows, and attractions. The other was solely for gambling, a place where the hardcore gamblers could be alone while their families whittled away their time watching dance numbers and magic shows.

He made his way past the act on stage and saw that several of his guards had cornered Cal. He was ranting, flailing his arms, and shouting so loud that people were turning to look at him. James brushed past his men and grabbed Cal’s arm.

“What the fuck are you doing? Are you drunk again?”

“You son of a bitch,” Cal said, ripping his arm away. “You son of a bitch. I’ll have your ass, you cocksucker. She was nineteen, you motherfucker.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fuck you. Fuck you!”

He spit in James’s face. Milton handed him a handkerchief, and he calmly wiped the spit off.

“You need to calm down, Calvin. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m meeting with the board. You’re a psychopath, you cocksucker. We’re throwing your ass back to the ghetto you came from. And maybe I’ll have a talk with the cops, huh? I know what you did to Daniel, you fucker.”

“I had nothing to do with that, Cal.”

“Bullshit. You always hated his guts. You’re a murderer on top of a fucking cocksucker.”

“Get out of my casino.” James glanced around quickly and saw that only a handful of people were watching.

“It’s not your casino, you-”

Before Cal could finish his sentence, James bashed his fist into Cal’s jaw, knocking him back. One of his men grabbed Cal, and before he could open his mouth, James had struck him in the genitals and uppercut him in the face.

“Get him outta here.”

James watched as his men dragged away a barely conscious Cal Robertson. He put his hands on his hips and swore under his breath.

“That’s not good, boss.”

“You don’t need to tell me. Um, get… um, fuck. First, get me some fucking ice for my hand, then get the board on the line.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone.”