Chance

CHAPTER 27

I left Hawk in Anthony's room to ward off Julius, and strolled down the Strip toward the MGM Grand on a bright desert morning.

It was about 105 and the perspiration on my forehead evaporated as soon as it formed. Traffic was heavy along the Strip, an equal mix of limousines and pickups. A lot of young women with big hair and thick thighs were on the Strip, and men with big bellies hanging over low jeans were on the Strip. Neon lights were blinking, in the bright sunshine, and ahead of us the MGM Grand rose greenly from the gravelly desert. The emerald palace. I was going to look for Marty Anaheim. When I found him I was going to talk with him. About the current situation. Or whatever. Because I didn't have any idea what was going on and I didn't know what else to do.

I went into the vast lobby chattering with slot machines. It was about forty degrees cooler inside. I walked past the Wizard of Oz exhibit in the front of the lobby, past the crap tables, and took up residence in sight of the guest elevators. It was of course possible that Marty wasn't staying here, that he'd been visiting someone else. According to the list the Vegas cops came up with he wasn't registered under his own name so I had no way to find out. Except to stand here and watch until I saw him. Or I didn't. Or hell froze over.

The MGM casino seemed bigger and more crowded than the Mirage, and noisier and more garish. People in short-sleeved shirts and Bermuda shorts and tank tops milled about the slots and crowded around the crap tables and marched reverently past the life-sized statues in the Wizard ofOz display, and ate in the restaurants and had drinks and came and went on the elevators. None of them was Marty Anaheim. After a couple of hours I looked at my watch. I'd been there twenty minutes. At the crap table to my far right a small cheer pushed through the routine hubbub. Big winner. I tried standing first on one foot then the other. Make use of the time. Improve my balance. That way, when I did find Marty and he gave me a shot in the mouth I'd be less likely to fall over.

The morning went that way. I varied my balancing exercises by doing toe raises. I stretched my lower back by flattening the hollow against the wall. I did isometric exercises, pressing my palms together or against the wall. I stretched my neck. I stretched my shoulders. I laced my fingers, turned my palms out, and stretched the muscles in my forearms. I thought about doing push-ups but concluded that people might notice. I looked at my watch. I began to count the number of women getting off the elevator that I would want to sleep with. They had to be getting on or off the elevator.

Women strolling past didn't count. After forty minutes the count was lower than it once would have been. When I was seventeen, the count would have been every.

Just before noon, while I was doing toe taps to guard against shin splints, the little guy in the Panama hat got off the last elevator to the left and walked on past me.

I said, "Hey."

He stopped and turned slowly, looking at me under the snap brim of his hat. His small black eyes were close on either side of his big nose.

"You talking to me?"

"Yeah. Where's Marty."

"Marty who?"

"Marty Anaheim that's been paying you to follow Anthony Meeker around."

"Buzz off," the little guy said.

He turned away. I reached out and got hold of his right arm. He stopped in half stride and turned his head back slowly toward me.

"Keep your hands off me," he said.

"I want to see Marty," I said.

He made no effort to get his arm free. He stood perfectly still, his eyes steady on me.

"He might even want to see me," I said.

"Why don't we go to a house phone and you call him. Tell him I've seen his wife."

The little guy kept looking at me. I kept hold of his arm.

"Okay," he said.

"I'll call him."

I let go of his right arm. He flashed his right hand in under his coat and came out with a short stainless-steel automatic. He pressed it against my stomach, standing close so that no one would see.

"What kind of gun is that?" I said.

"Next time you put your hands on me," he said softly, "you'll be breathing through your navel."

"Fast little guy aren't you."

"Remember it," he said and put the gun away with a small deft movement.

"So what kind is it?" I said.

"What?"

"The gun, looks like a short Colt."

"It is, nineteen ninety-one A-one Compact."

"Forty-five?" I said.

"Yeah, six rounds."

"Nice gun," I said.

He looked at me with no expression in his slatey little eyes.

"Gun's as good as the guy who holds it," he said.

"Sure," I said.

"Call Marty."

Which he did.

There was a pedestrian overpass across the Strip so people on the other side would have no trouble dashing over to the MGM Grand and dropping a bundle. Marty met me in the middle of it.

He was wearing a blue silk suit and a blue silk shirt buttoned to the neck.

"Okay, Bernie," he said to the little guy, "take a walk."

"I'll be over here, Marty," the little guy said.

He walked a ways toward the west end of the overpass and leaned on the railing, watching us.

"Tough little guy," I said.

"He can shoot," Marty said.

"You seen my wife?"

"Yeah."

"Where is she?"

"Where do you think she is?"

"What is this, some kinda fucking game?"

"Sure," I said.

"I'm trying to find out what you know, without letting you know what I know. You know?"

"This is what I know, asshole. I come down here to talk with you. I could throw you off this fucking overpass instead."

"Or not," I said.

"You don't think so?"

"Marty," I said.

"You don't scare me, any more than I scare you.

One of us is wrong, but do we have to find it out right now?"

"You called me, pal."

I nodded. I was thinking about what to say. Since I didn't know what was going on there wasn't much to think about. I turned to one of Spenser's rules. When in doubt tell the truth. It was a brand-new rule, and it might be worth testing.

"Your wife's with Anthony Meeker," I said.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"You know where?"

"At the Mirage," Marty said.

"You know Julius is there too?"

Marty didn't say anything.

"Julius is going to kill Anthony," I said.

"He better hurry."

"Julius's daughter, Shirley, was killed Sunday," I said.

"Cops found her in a vacant lot up the Strip a little."

"Yeah?"

"Julius is upset," I said.

"He blames Anthony."

Marty said nothing. Below us on the Strip, cars moved steadily in both directions. Across a short spread of scrub desert, Route 15 was busy with trucks and cars and RVs heading west to California and east to Utah and the northwest corner of Arizona.

"I'm under the impression," I said, "that you and Anthony were in on some scam together."

"Lying little fucker tell you that?"

"I got that impression."

"It's bullshit."

"So why are you here?"

"I'm going to kill him and take my wife back."

"He didn't do anything to you," I said.

"She did."

"Don't matter who did what. He dies. She comes back."

"And if she doesn't want to come back?"

"She'll come back."

"Or?"

"No or. She'll come back."

"And you'll forgive her," I said.

"Fuck forgiveness. Forgiveness got nothing to do with it," Marty said.

"She's with me, you unnerstand? That's how it is."

"Maybe not," I said.

"You going to get in my way?" Marty said.

"You kill Shirley Ventura?"

"Why the hell would I kill Shirley Ventura?"

"What was the deal with Anthony?"

"I got no deal with Anthony, asshole. He collected money for Julius, passed some of it along to Gino."

"Through you?"

"Everything goes to Gino through me," Marty said.

"Makes it easy to skim," I said.

"Any skimming was done by Anthony."

"Bibi says you and Anthony were playing a two-man game," I said.

"You're a fucking liar," Marty said.

"Bibi don't know nothing about my business."

"Says you introduced her to Anthony," I said.

"Says she ran off with him to get away from you. Says you're a. pig."

It was a gamble to get him mad enough to say something wrong.

It didn't work. He didn't say anything. He swung at me. He telegraphed it some, and I was able to turn my hips against the railing as it came. The punch landed on my right cheekbone, and rocked me backwards, and sent me staggering along the railing. Marty could hit. If I hadn't half slipped it I would have gone down. I could feel the shock of it through my head. Everything darkened and for a minute I didn't see well. The railing helped keep me up.

"I'm sick of you, Spenser. You got that? I see you again and I'm going to fucking beat you to fucking death."

My head was clearing. I steadied against the railing as my legs re solidified and my knees unbuckled. Fighting with Marty Anaheim wasn't going to help me figure out what was going on.

I said, "Not here, Marty. Not now."

He extended his arm straight out from the shoulder and pointed his finger at me.

"You been warned," he said and turned and stomped back toward the emerald palace.

I glanced down the overpass in the other direction. The little guy with the Panama hat was leaning on the railing looking at me and shaking his head. I felt my cheekbone. It was hot and already puffy. I had learned nothing and gotten popped on the kisser in the process. I was willing to take one on the chops now and then if it furthered my cause. I wasn't sure my cause had been furthered.

But Marty would probably be overconfident next time. Which was a good thing. And Hawk would be amused. No cloud without a silver lining.

The little guy strolled down the walkway and tucked a small business card into my shirt pocket.

"Take a pretty good punch," he said.

"Yeah, it's one of my best things, but I try not to do it too often."

"I'm in business out here," he said.

"You ever need some work done, gimme a call."

"You figure I need help?" I said.

The little guy shrugged.

"I know I need business," he said, and strolled off toward the MGM Grand.