The Best American Mystery Stories 2004

Jeff Abbott Bet on Red

From High Stakes

“I’ll make a bet with you,” Bobby said. He was bourbon-drunk and he leaned close to Sean’s ear to talk over the arpeggios of the piano music, the never-ending chimes of the slot machines, the high roar of gamblers who, just for a moment, were beating the odds.

“I’m listening.” Sean thought it was about time to head up to his room, tired of talking to Bobby, just tired, period. Bobby was scaring off all the women with his overeager laughing, raising his glass to passing beauties like an idiot dink. It was a shame, really; this was Bobby’s last night to be with a woman and the odds weren’t pretty. Sean was supposed to get rid of Bobby tomorrow, take him into the desert outside of Vegas, shoot him, bury him deep in the dry earth, and then fly back to Houston with Vic’s hundred grand and pretend he hadn’t set foot on the Strip recently.

“I bet,” Bobby gestured with his near empty glass, “I can nail that pretty little redhead at the end of the bar.”

Sean looked. Pretty was an understatement. She was gorgeous, hair that soft color of auburn that made Sean’s throat catch, skin flawless as a statue’s, dressed tastefully in a little black number that suggested a firm, ripe figure but didn’t give away too much of the show. She was sitting alone, not looking at anyone, not trying to make eye contact. Maybe a high-class hooker, maybe not. Maybe just waiting on her boyfriend to finish at the craps table. She was drinking white wine and she cradled the stem of the glass between her palms, like she was keeping a delicate bird from taking wing.

“You aim high,” Sean said.

“I got the gun for it,” Bobby said.

“And you could impress her with all the cash you got,” Sean said. At least temporarily. Sean thought about Vic’s money, neat bricks of green he would have to hide in his checked bag tomorrow morning, wishing now he was driving from Vegas to Houston, but what a dreary, endless drive it would have been. He didn’t dislike Bobby, didn’t like the idea of killing him, but orders were orders and when Vic gave them, you listened.

“Listen, man, that’s Vegas for you. The air is thick with constant possibility. You never know which way the ball’s gon’ drop and then you’re broke or rich, all in an instant,” Bobby said. “I’m feeling like the ball’s dropping my way. She’s been looking at me.”

“Looking ain’t buying,” Sean said. “And the keno screen’s above your head, buddy.”

“But see, that’s all Vegas is about. The potential of every single moment.” Bobby pulled a wad from his pants pocket, twenties rolled into a thick burrito, and Sean thought, this is why Vic wants you dead, you dummy.

“A thousand bucks says I get her,” Bobby said.

Sean said nothing. A thousand bucks. Money in his pocket he could take and not feel guilty for taking and keeping after Bobby was dead. If he shot Bobby and then pocketed the money, that would be stealing from Vic, his boss — an unwise move. But if he won the cash from Bobby, then that was fair. Fair as could be. Plus it would be funny to watch Bobby try with the perfect redhead, and hell, if Bobby won, he’d die happier. Harmless. Sean felt an odd tug of friendship for Bobby, soon to die, with his heavy, earnest face flush with life.

“And if you do bed her, what do I have to pay?” Sean said.

“Man,” Bobby said, “that happens. I’ll have already won.”

“That’s not a fair bet,” Sean said.

“Tell you what: I win,” Bobby said, “and you help me straighten out this misunderstanding with Vic. You tell him I’ve got the deals working just the way he wants.”

Vic had sent Bobby to Vegas to shut down his drug operation, sell out the remaining supplies, close the office Bobby ran the deals from three days a week, clean the last hundred grand through the Caymans, pull up stakes, and kiss Vegas good-bye. The Feds and the locals were cracking down hard and Vic didn’t have enough friends in town to make dealing worthwhile. Bobby didn’t want to give up Vegas. And instead of taking three days to wrap up the project. Bobby had taken a week, living off Vic’s account at the King Midas, apparently doing nothing but drinking and betting and generally not closing shop in any great hurry, keeping the money tied up. And Vic was killing mad.

“That’s really between you and Vic,” Sean said. “It’s your business. Bobby.”

“Yeah, but you got his ear more than I do. You could help me a lot. I got the feeling he was a little irritated with me the last time we talked. He doesn’t get that it took me longer than I thought it would to collect all the money.”

Bobby was fun but dumber than a stump. It didn’t matter how long it truly took to gather funds and close shop, it mattered how long Vic gave you to get the work done. Sean finished his beer. Bobby didn’t have a chance in hell with the redhead. This was betting with a dead man, and Sean was the house. “Okay,” he said. “You’re on.”

Bobby finished his drink, motioned to the bartender for another. “Observe, grasshopper,” he said, moving down toward the redhead.

“Good luck,” Sean said, meaning it, being nice, ordering himself another beer for the floor show.

It took about twenty minutes. Sean watched, trying not to watch, Bobby easing onto the stool next to the woman. Sean kept waiting for her to tell Bobby to get lost, to name her price, to ask the bartender to tell Bobby to leave her alone. But instead she gave Bobby a soft, kind smile, talked with him, a little shyly at first, then laughed, let him order her another glass of wine. Once she looked toward Sean, seeing him watching them, maybe having noticed him sitting with Bobby before, knowing he was the friend watching his friend make a move. But she didn’t smile at Sean and she looked right back at Bobby, who was now playing it cool, not over-eager like he had been the hour before.

They finally got up when she finished her second glass of wine and headed into the acre of casino proper. Bobby giving Sean a knowing wiggle of eyebrow and a subtle thumbs-up with his hand at his side, Sean raising his beer in toast, a little surprised, the redhead never glancing Sean’s way.

See you in the morning, Bobby mouthed.

Sean watched them head out into the hubbub of the slot machines and gaming tables, smiling for a minute. Well, it was one sweet way to spend your last night on earth. The angels were on Bobby’s side. Sean downed his beer, went out to the roulette table, bet twice on black, watched the ball fall wrong both times, his chips vanish. He didn’t really like betting. He remembered that a little too late.

Sean tried Bobby’s hotel room early the next morning, about seven, figuring the guy would be sacked out, sleeping late on the last day of his life.

“Yeah?” A woman’s voice, sleepy. But polite. A little smoke and purr in her voice. Bobby must have done right by her.

“Is Bobby there?”

“He’s in the shower. May I have him call you?” May, not can. The redhead was a nice lady.

“No, thanks, I’ll just call him later.” Not wanting to leave his name.

“May I tell him who’s calling—” she started, but Sean hung up. Got himself showered and dressed, fast, now wanting to get the job done, collect Bobby and the money, kill the poor guy, go home.

Sean called Bobby’s room again. No answer, fifteen minutes after he first called. He didn’t leave a message on the voice mail system, decided he didn’t want to stop by Bobby’s room, risk the redhead seeing his face again. Bobby was a breakfast eater, loving the cheap but lavish Vegas buffets, and so Sean headed down to the restaurant. It was crowded with tourist gamblers in vacation clothing, a few bored teenagers, some conventioneering high-tech geeks wearing golf shirts with corporate logos on the pockets.

No Bobby working through a fat omelette, alone or with the redhead. Sean got coffee and a plate of eggs and bacon and sat down in a corner booth, wearing his sunglasses. If Bobby came in, he could excuse himself quickly, tell Bobby to come to his room in an hour, let him enjoy his last meal.

They didn’t show. Maybe Bobby’d taken the redhead out for a nicer breakfast than one might find here at the King Midas. Maybe down to Bellagio or Mandalay Bay.

Sean finished his breakfast, checked his cell phone. One message. From Vic.

“Hey, bud,” Vic said. “Just calling to see if you’re knocking ’em dead in Vegas.” That Vic. His little code was a scream. “Hope you’re winning big. Call me when you’re back.”

A little niggle of panic started in his stomach. Sean ignored it, finished his coffee, kept scanning the crowd for Bobby’s blond hair, listening for the boom of his voice. Nothing. Tried Bobby’s cell phone. No answer.

Sean waited another thirty minutes, tried Bobby’s room again, got nothing. He went up to the room, used the extra key Bobby had given him when he got to Vegas yesterday. Bed a mess, Bobby’s clothes still in the closet. The slightest scent of perfume was in the air — the redhead smelled like rose petals and spice. But the bathroom was clean, the shower dry, the towels in maid-hung precision.

He’s in the shower. But no one had showered in this room.

“No, no, no,” Sean said to himself. “Not after I was a nice guy.” He ran from the room, his heart thick in his chest, and headed straight down to the lobby.

Sean drove his rental car down the Strip, then to Sahara Avenue, to the leased office Vic had rented when he and Bobby set up the Vegas operation two months ago, before Vic started feeling pressure from the Feds and decided Vegas made him overextended. The sign on the door read priori consulting, which Vic and Bobby had thought clever, because consulting could mean it was any kind of business, and the legal term sounded respectable and fancy.

Sean had a key and he tried the lock.

The door opened. The office was simple, just a desk and a chair and a laptop computer. A motivational poster on the wall said ACHIEVE, with some dink standing atop a mountain summit at dawn, arms raised in triumph. Like that was supposed to impress Sean or Vic, hard evidence of Bobby’s absent work ethic. No Bobby. Sean locked the door behind him, set the deadbolt.

He went straight to the little vault in the back room of the office. Opened it with the combination Vic had given him, not wanting Bobby to know he knew the combo, not wanting to make a big deal about the money.

It was gone. Every last sweet brick of green was gone.

Sean sat in the King Midas bar, peeling the label off his beer in long strips, thinking this is my shin when Vic gets hold of me.

Bobby was gone.

Sean felt like control over his own fate had danced right out of his arms, like he was one of those losers who surrendered all to the spinning roulette ball, wailing for it to drop into red or black or a sacred number, every hope in the world wrapped up on how that damned ball fell. Now his generous act was going to screw over his life big time. Maybe the redhead would show back up here, if she was a working girl or a guest. He thought she might be a working girl; not many women came to Vegas alone. Maybe she knew where Bobby had run to. But she had lied about the shower, he believed, Bobby maybe paid her to lie. Give him a head start on his run.

Sean didn’t know a soul in Vegas who could help him find Bobby, didn’t know any of the street-level dealers Bobby recruited, and he had not known what else to do other than go back to the bar, cancel his flight to Houston and pray he got a lead on Bobby.

He had started to call Vic twice, hung up before finishing the number. Not knowing what he could say, almost laughing because he was afraid, scared in a way he didn’t want to admit, trying to imagine the words coming from his mouth: Bobby wanted to get laid, and it just didn’t seem likely, so I let him out of my sight. We had a bet. Sorry.

He switched to vodka martinis and was deep into his second when she came in and sat at the bar.

At first he blinked, not sure it was the same readhead. But it was, this time in leather pants and a white ruffled blouse, simple but stylish. She looked relaxed and she didn’t look over at him. She ordered a glass of pinot grigio.

Sean counted to one hundred, waiting to see if Bobby trailed in behind her. Please, Jesus. But no Bobby. Sean got up from the bar stool, took his martini glass with him, eased next to her. She glanced at him.

“I’m Bobby’s friend,” he said in a low voice.

“I know. And you’re probably a little more shaken,” she said, glancing at his martini, “than stirred.” Her smile was cool, not shy, not surprised. Expecting to see him, maybe even happy about it.

“Where is he?” Sean asked.

She took a dainty sip of wine. “He’s resting. Comfortably.”

“Where?” Trying to keep his voice calm.

“Some place you won’t find him.”

“I can look pretty freaking hard, honey. Tell me where he is. Right now.”

She ran a fingernail along the stem of her glass and let a few heavy seconds pass before she answered. “You’re not really in a position to make demands.”

“Not in a crowded bar.”

“Not anywhere,” she said. “You need to remember that. I’m not working alone. You’re being watched wherever you go.”

He was silent for several seconds, thinking what the hell is this? “I’ll remember,” he said. There was nothing to be gained by threatening her. Play it cool, he decided, play along, and get her alone and then she’d talk. She was enjoying the driver’s seat, relishing it a bit too much, and that was a mistake.

“So, this is the deal,” the redhead said. “Bobby had a hundred grand in cash on him. You get ten grand, just to tell one little white lie. Tell Vic you took care of Bobby but he had already blown the hundred grand gambling.”

“And Vic just believes me?” Sean said.

“We both know,” she said, “that yes, Vic will believe you. If you want, we’ll get a statement from a couple of blackjack and baccarat dealers that a guy matching Bobby’s description blew through a hundred grand in the past week.”

“What about the rest of the money?”

“Not your concern. But Bobby walks and gets a new life somewhere else.”

“And still has every reason to tell the cops about Vic. And me. No way.”

“Sean,” she said. “Do you think Bobby would do jail well?”

He surprised them both by laughing. She gave him back a smile, and the intelligence was sharp in her face, she was clearly no dumb bunny-Vegas lay. “Actually, no, Bobby wouldn’t do jail well at all. Be dead or someone’s punk in five minutes.”

“So you and I both know he’s not going to run to the police or the FBI and talk about Vic.”

“But he might go into WitSec, cut a deal that keeps him out of jail,” Sean said.

Her smile faded. “That’s a risk you take. You’re not getting close to him,” she said. “I’ve offered you the deal.”

“Usually with Vic,” he said, “I bring back a finger as proof.” This was a lie but he wanted to see her reaction. Vic would think he was a freak if he hauled back a bloodied finger.

“In your carry-on or in your checked luggage?” Not blinking, not afraid at his announcement.

“In a little baggie, actually.”

“Messy at security, and I don’t believe you.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“You can call me Red.”

“I’m impressed with the setup. You in with Bobby from the beginning?”

“I never met him until last night,” she said.

“I think that’s the first lie you’ve told me,” he said.

“Think what you like,” Red said. Her smile went crooked and she took a sip of her white wine. “Tell me. How were you going to spend the bet? The thousand bucks?”

“He told you, huh?”

“Yes.” She watched the bartender approach them and she shook her head. The barkeep went back to the other end of the bar.

“Fishing gear, I guess.”

“Fishing gear.” She said it like she might say urine sample. “I am so flattered that it was my maidenly virtue versus accessorizing your bass boat.”

Despite himself, he felt a blush creep up his collar.

Now Red gave him a sly sideways glance. “You want to make a bet with me, Sean?”

“No. I want to conclude our business and never see you again.”

“Now you’ve hurt my feelings,” she said with a coy pout.

“I’ll bet you heal fast,” Sean said.

“Bobby said you were ex-military.”

“Yeah, I was a grunt once.”

“I’ve always thought military men had a sense of honor.”

“I do,” Sean said.

“I have a sense of honor, too. I won’t screw you over, you won’t screw me and Bobby over. We’re all happier. Do we have a deal?”

“Don’t kid yourself that I want to cut a deal with you, honey. What if I say no?”

“Then you’ll be killed,” Red said. “How does that sound?”

He watched her face, chewed the last olive in his martini, swallowed the small puddle of vodka at the glass’s bottom. Watched her face for a hint of bluff and didn’t see any. “Bobby sure got smart since he got to town.”

“This town forces you to be smarter, Sean,” she said, and now she smiled at him and it seemed genuine, like they hadn’t discussed big money and death.

“It hasn’t worked on me yet,” Sean said.

“You’re plenty smart, hon,” Red said. “So agree to this. Come to the Misty Moor Bar — off the Strip, near the Convention Center — in two hours. Alone and unarmed. Break either rule and you’re dead. You’ll get your money then. You will be expected to leave Vegas immediately; we’ll even escort you to the airport.”

She swung her legs off the bar stool, pulled a ten from her purse.

“I’ll buy your wine,” Sean said. “You can buy my drink at the other bar.”

She tucked the bill back inside. “Thanks. I’ll see you then,” she said. “And, Sean?”

“What?”

“It’s nothing personal. Bobby likes you. So do I.”

Red turned and walked out, and he debated whether he should follow her. He counted to twenty, left money on the counter, got up from the barstool, headed out and hung back in the casino’s crowd.

She never looked back to see if he trailed her. But if she wasn’t working alone, as she said, then her partners might be watching him this very moment. He stayed back as far as he dared, weaving through the slot machiners hooting at their triple cherries, past a rail-thin lady carrying a bucket of coins with all the care she would give the Holy Grail, past honeymooners nuzzling in the lobby. She headed past the bell attendants dressed like ancient Greeks. There was no taxi line at the moment, and she quickly ducked into a cab with a promo for a wireless phone service mounted on the trunk, a monkey wearing eyeglasses talking on a cellular.

As soon as her cab pulled out of the circular driveway he grabbed a taxi, told the Nigerian driver to head down the Strip, and said, “See that cab up ahead? With the monkey talking on the phone? Follow it, please.”

“Excuse?”

“The ad on the back. See?” She was five cars ahead of them, her driver changing lanes, and Sean could taste his own panic in his mouth, sour and coppery. “Jesus, keep up, don’t lose them, but don’t get too close.”

“Ah,” the driver said. “No trouble is wanted.”

“That’s my girlfriend,” he said, “and I think she’s dumping me to go back to her husband. I don’t want trouble, I just want to know, ’cause if she’s leaving me, I’m just gonna go back to my wife.”

The Nigerian made a low noise in his throat that sounded like “Americans” but said nothing more.

Screw this meeting on her turf. He wasn’t about to risk Vic’s rage for a measly ten grand. Let her take him straight to Bobby. He would end their little game tonight, and then get the hell out of town.

The cab took her to a small house, in an older, quiet residential area distant from all the neon and glam. Not a well-to-do neighborhood but not too scruffy. He told the driver to let him off at the corner where her cab had turned, and shoved fifty at the Nigerian, who babbled thanks and rewed off. Sean sprinted away from the corner, out of her line of sight. He couldn’t see Red but her cab was pulling away from a house nine homes down from where he was, marked with a decorative covered wagon mailbox.

This was, he decided, a good hideout for Bobby. Quiet neighborhood, probably not a lot of crime, older folks who kept an eye on each other. Maybe it was the woman’s house, although she looked like she came from money. Or had money. The easy, unafraid confidence she had with him, the nice clothes she’d worn both nights.

He felt a lava-heat anger with Bobby; oddly, he didn’t wish Red ill at the moment and his reaction surprised him. He liked her; Vic would have liked her too, but she had chosen the wrong side. She was the kind of girl he’d like to have taken back to Houston, taken out to dinner with Vic. She would have made Sean look good, would have had fun with him. Stupid Bobby, getting himself and this cool girl killed.

Sean headed for the next street, which ran parallel to the street she’d stopped on. In case she’d seen the cab, gotten suspicious. If she’d seen him, she and Bobby would run, and that might be the end of the money and of Sean.

He walked down a little street called Pelican Way — where the hell were there pelicans in Nevada? he wondered — counting houses, just giving her and Bobby time to relax, letting them start to get ready for meeting him at the bar. He counted nine houses, stopped in front of one. Brick, a one-car carport, wind chimes hanging by the front door, the trim and shutters needing a fresh coat of paint.

This ranch-style should be directly behind Red’s house. He changed his plan. The house was dark, entirely so, no cars in the small driveway, old oil leaks marring the carport’s concrete. The house next door was dark, too, although the house on the other side had a single light gleaming on its porch. He turned like he belonged here and walked, casually, straight up the driveway. He went through the carport, paused at the fence, listened for the rasp of dog breath, and then opened the gate and went inside.

The backyard was empty except for a swing set, an old barbecue, dusty patio furniture in need of a wash. Sean went to the fence and tiptoed onto the rail, peering into Red’s backyard. Three lights on in the house. A kitchen with an old-style bay window. Then he saw Red talking on the phone, moving from the kitchen table to the counter, sipping from a water bottle, moving back again. He ducked back down under the fence. Waited a minute. Looked again.

Now the kitchen was empty. He watched, counted to two hundred. Didn’t see movement in the house. Counted to two hundred again, looked. All appeared quiet.

No guards, no dogs. The thought that Red must be part of a rival drug ring in town who’d convinced Bobby to switch sides occurred to him, but then he thought not. She didn’t seem the gang type. Maybe she really was just working with him, no one else, a heist by her and Bobby. He hoped. It would make his work easier.

Sean went over the fence, dropped down, sprinted for the patio. He had a Clock under his jacket and as he ran he pulled it free. He got to the patio, waited against the door. Listened to the soft buzz of the TV. Sounded like an old John Wayne movie, the distinctive rise and fall of the Duke saying, “Hell, yes, I’m back in town.”

Then he heard Red’s voice, gentle: “I’ll be back in a little while, all right? Enjoy the movie.” No answer from whoever she was talking to.

Sean moved away from the door. He heard a door open to his right, into the one-car garage. Light footsteps, just one person, heels, a woman’s step. Red, alone. Then a car starting, pulling out of the driveway, headlights flickering on at the last moment. She had a car but had taken a taxi to King Midas so he couldn’t follow her to a parked car in the lot. Smart girl. Sean stayed still, counted to one hundred. He went around to the carport, tried the door to the house. Locked.

He popped the glass pane in the door, and it tinkled, surely loud enough for Bobby to hear inside the house. So he worked quickly, reaching inside, fingers fumbling to unlock the door.

There was no deadbolt. Instead, there was another key lock. Bobby was locked in from both sides. Weird. He leveled his pistol through the broken glass, waiting for Bobby to barrel out at the sound of the break-in, but there was no sound in the darkened house except the melodramatic score of the Western, faint as a whisper.

Sean waited ten seconds, a tremble of panic thumping his guts, and decided standing there waiting for Bobby to charge the door wasn’t bright. He went back to the patio and kicked in the glass door. Loud shattering noise. Two houses down a dog barked, sharp and hard, twice; then quiet. Sean counted to twenty. Nothing. No concerned neighbors popping a head over the fence.

Sean flicked open the door handle, slid the door open.

The room was a sunken den and the kitchen was to his right. A hallway went off at a left angle. He wailed, his gun leveled at the opening, and waited some more. He could hear the sound of horses riding hard and stopping, of John Wayne mouthing a good-natured threat, of a polite man answering with an oozy official tone.

Sean inched down the hallway, the gun out like he’d learned in his days in the army. A feeble spill of light — from a television — came from a room at the end of the hall. He moved toward it, calming his breathing, listening for the sound of Bobby moving, and finally Sean charged fast into the room, going through the door, covering the room with his gun.

Bobby was there. Both hands cuffed to a bed, gagged with a cloth jammed in his mouth and duct tape masking his mouth, ribboning into his hair. One of his eyes was bruised. He was shiftless, dressed only in the khakis from last night with a wet circle of stain on the front, and he smelled like he needed a shower. A pile of pillows kept his head propped up. A little television with a VCR stood on a scruffy bureau, the John Wayne movie playing.

Sean stared for a moment, then shook his head.

Bobby groaned, made pleading noises behind the gag. Sean muted the TV, left the tape running, John Wayne swaggering across a saloon.

“Are you going to scream if I take this off?” Sean asked. “I mean, Vegas is just full of possibilities, isn’t it. Bobby? So you said.”

Bobby shook his head.

Sean pulled the tape and gag from Bobby’s head, not worrying about the threads of hair that ripped free with the industrial tape, and Bobby said, “Oh, thank God, man. Thank God, Sean. I knew you’d find me. Get me the hell out of here.”

Sean sat down on the edge of the little bed. “Tell me what’s happened.” Calm. Curious to hear what the story was, because this tied-up-and-bound gig was not what he expected.

“That bitch, man, she’s crazy. Drugged me and tied my ass up. Christ, she’s nuts. Untie me, man.”

“Just a minute,” Sean said. “You’re not in with her?”

“In with her?” Bobby stared. He jerked at the handcuffs. “Do I look like it?”

“I went to your office looking for your sorry ass,” Sean said. “And all of Vic’s money is missing. The whole hundred grand.”

Bobby’s lips — chapped and blistered from the tape — turned into a frown. “Holy shit. She must’ve taken it.”

“She was in your hotel room when I called this morning.”

“Shit, man, she slipped something into my drink and knocked my ass out. I woke up here. She must’ve snuck me out of the hotel somehow. She’s got inside help. She probably took all my keys, took the money. Unhook me, Sean. Jesus, let’s get the hell out of here.” An edge in his voice; Sean thought he was about to cry.

“God, you’re dumb. You are so unrelentingly dumb. Did she bring the money here?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know — just untie me, please, before she gets back here!”

“No hurry.” Sean checked his watch. “Because she’s heading off to meet me at a bar. She’s negotiating on your behalf, buddy, for me to tell Vic that you’re dead and for you to keep all his money.”

Bobby struggled against the shackles, pulling his head up from the pillows. “That’s a goddamned lie. I’m not trying to steal Vic’s money! She’s set you up. Listen, untie me; we’ll wait for her to come back and then we’ll make her tell us who she’s working for.”

“You never saw her before?”

“No, man, I swear it. Swear it!”

“But she knows your business. She knows about you working for Vic. She knows my name. She knows there was a safe in the office and she got the combo. You must’ve seen her before.”

“No, I swear.”

“Then you must’ve blabbed to somebody, and that’s who she’s working with.”

“No, never, never,” Bobby said, but his voice dropped a notch, spurred by a little jiggle of memory, a thought of a mistake made and now wished away.

“Right, Bobby. Never would you make a mistake. You wear my ass out just listening to you.”

“Listen, Sean, she’s the bad guy, not me. We can get the money back. Together.”

Sean said nothing for a moment, thinking it out, feeling very tired and then wired, all at once. He stood up. Went and searched the house carefully and efficiently. There was scant furniture in the house; he decided it was a rental.

“Sean?” Bobby called quietly. “Sean?”

“Just a minute. Hush,” Sean said. No sign of the money anywhere. It wasn’t here. He went back to the bedroom, Bobby watching him with eyes glassy with sick fear.

“Sean, you’re my friend; Vic’s my friend; you know I had nothing to do with this girl’s scheme.”

“You know, I believe you, Bobby,” Sean said. “Had to chase the wrong girl, didn’t you?” He nearly laughed. He had made his decision

“Yeah, I guess,” Bobby said.

“Did you get her?” Sean asked, wondering what he’d say.

“No,” Bobby said after a moment.

“Then I guess I win the bet.”

“Well, that was a bad bet to make,” Bobby said.

“That’s real true.” Sean stood up, turned up John Wayne. Real loud.

Sean had thought the “Misty Moore” was maybe a bar named after the owner, some chick named Misty, but instead it was Moor without the e on the end, and when he went inside he noticed a silver thistle above the bar and the waitresses wore tams on their heads and snug little kilts across their asses and the wallpaper was plaid. He spotted Red sitting in a very private back corner booth, drinking her white wine. The bar was not terribly crowded, a dozen conventioneers watching a basketball game on the big screen, a few locals. He slid into the booth, sitting next to her, not across from her.

“You take the low road,” he said, “and I’ll take the high road.”

“Cute. Scotland was one of the few cultures not raided by Vegas,” Red said. She was very calm. “Then Braveheart came out and they opened up this place. If you get drunk, they’ll paint your face blue.”

A waitress approached them and asked Sean what he would drink. “Scotch,” he said. “Obviously.”

“You’re a few minutes late,” Red said when the waitress walked off. “Fortunately I’m patient and forgiving.”

“More reason to admire you,” he said. “Let’s get to it.”

“I’ve got your ten thousand,” she said. “You still agreeing to lie to Vic, let Bobby walk?”

“Actually, the deal has changed, Red.” He kept his voice low and the waitress returned with his Scotch, set it down in front of him, walked off back to the bar.

Red was very still. “Changed?”

“You have the hundred grand. You also have a dead man in your house. You know, your house at 118 Falcon Street. Where you had the John Wayne movie marathon playing.” He saw the shift in her face, saw she believed him now. “So, baby, I can call the police, from that phone right over there in the corner, and I figure they can be at your house faster than you or anybody else can be dragging Bobby’s body out to your car. You’ll have a lot of questions to answer.”

“So will you,” she said, staying calm.

“No, I won’t. Because I sure don’t know you, and you can’t prove that I know you. Or that I knew Bobby.”

“You would have been seen with him at the hotel.”

“Maybe. Maybe those folks don’t talk after Vic calls his friends at the casino. But Bobby-boy’s dead in your house.”

“I haven’t shot a gun anytime recently. They have chemical tests...”

“I wouldn’t waste a good bullet on Bobby. Smothered with a pillow, sweetheart,” Sean said. “How hard they got to look for a new suspect?”

Red took a microscopic sip of her wine. She set the glass down carefully. “So. What now?”

“Who else here’s with you?” he asked.

“No one.”

“You had help in getting Bobby out of the King Midas. So don’t lie to me. It makes me want to call 911.” He smiled at her, touched her hand gently. “You’re no longer running the show, sweetness.”

She let two beats pass. “The guy in the windbreaker at the bar. He’s my partner.” Sean allowed himself a very quick glance. The guy was watching them, not threatening, but worried, and he glanced into his beer right when Sean looked at him. The guy was big but had a softness to his hands and his mouth, had a nervousness to him that made Sean feel confident.

“How’d you find out about Bobby and the money?” Sean asked.

She gestured to the waitress for another glass of wine, and he knew then she would tell him, that he had her. “My partner works for an office equipment leasing company. He delivered Bobby’s office equipment when Bobby got started. Late in the day, he and Bobby got to talking. Ended up going out for a beer. Bobby doesn’t like to be alone, ever, and here he was new in a big town where he didn’t know anybody. They got to be drinking buddies and Bobby’d give my partner a little coke now and then when he came to town. One night Bobby drank too much, talked plenty. The safe combo — Jesus, Bobby stuck the numbers on a sticky note in his desk drawer. Not the brightest star in the sky.”

“And you were the handy redhead.”

“It’s not natural,” Red said. “I spent $250 on this hair color at a really uppity salon on the Strip after Bobby told my friend he dug redheads.”

“Looks good,” Sean said.

“Thank you,” she said.

Sean looked back at the bar and now her partner kept his stare on Sean. “Your friend appears to be a little nervous,” he said. “Are we going to have a problem?”

“No.”

“He more than a friend?”

“My brother.”

“Oh, please.”

“No, really, he is. No joke.”

“I love a family that works together,” Sean said. “Okay, wave Bubba over here.”

She did and at first the brother, uncool, acted like he didn’t see her. But then she stood up and said, “Garry, come here, please,” clear as a bell and Garry got up and came and sat across from Sean and Red. His mouth was thin. Scared, in over his head.

Sean didn’t smile, didn’t say hello or offer his hand. “So, the two of you thought you could screw me over.”

“Not you,” Red said, “Bobby and Vic. Jesus, you act like it was personal.” Her smile warmed a little. “I told you it wasn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sean said. “You got a dead guy in your house. What I don’t have is what I came here for, Vic’s money. Now. I give you guys credit; the scheme was clever. You get rid of Bobby, get the money, and make Vic think that Bobby’s on the run so he never, ever comes hunting for you.”

“Thank you,” Red said.

“You’re welcome,” Sean said. “I want that money here on this table in ten minutes or I’m calling the police and telling them that there’s a funny smell coming from y’all’s guest bedroom.”

Garry went white as salt. Red took a calm sip of her wine.

“And if we don’t cooperate, you get nothing,” she said. “You get screwed over just as bad as us, because Vic’ll kill you, won’t he?”

“Of course not,” Sean said.

“Really? You’ll have failed in your errand and he’s not gonna take it lightly,” Red said. “Bobby told me all about him, and we did some checking on him. People piss themselves when Vic comes into a room.”

“Maybe Bobby did. He’s easily impressed,” Sean said, and for the first time Red laughed.

“He was impressed with you, Sean. He liked you. Truly.”

Sean felt a pang of regret, wanted to close his eyes, but instead put a hard stare on his face. “Don’t tell me that; you’ll make me feel bad.”

“I’ll make you feel worse,” Red said. “If you send us to jail, you go home empty-handed. You’ll never get your money because we’ll give it to the cops, cut a deal to tell all we know about you and Vic and Bobby, and you’re just as dead as we are. So call 911, Sean. We’ll sit here and wait.”

“For God’s sake...” Garry said.

“Hush, now,” Red said. “Sean’s thinking. He needs his quiet time.”

They had him by the throat just as surely as he had them. Standoff.

“So there’s no way out for any of us,” Red said, “unless we work together. And unless you’re willing to get out from under Vic’s thumb.”

“I’m not under his thumb,” Sean said.

“There’s two types of people in this world,” Red said. “Bosses and errand boys. Bobby, at least during his time in Vegas, he got to be a boss. But you’re always gonna be Vic’s errand boy, aren’t you? He could’ve kept his business running in Vegas, given it to you, let you take the risk. And the reward.” She leaned forward and he could smell the rose perfume he’d smelled in Bobby’s hotel room with its lie-dry shower, the soft scent of wine on her breath. “Are you always going to be an errand boy, Sean?”

He said nothing, watching her.

“I mean, say Vic was out of the picture, you could take over in Vegas. There’s a whole infrastructure of dealers and customers in place, ready for someone smarter than Bobby to step in. Make more money than an errand boy ever would. I could help you, Sean. We could get rid of Vic. Together. It beats sending each other to prison.” And she gave him a wry grin.

“I can’t just kill Vic. The rest of his organization would come after me like an army.” That was all of ten guys, but it was enough.

“Not if something happened to him here. Away from them, where they couldn’t know exactly what had happened. Maybe the same trouble that happened to Bobby. A rival gang, let’s say. Vic dies, you take over the operation before the other gang can, you’re a hero. End of story.”

“What,” Sean said, “are you suggesting?”

Feeling another rush of decision, of possibility, imagining a roulette ball spinning in her smile.

“Tell me,” Red said, “does Vic like redheads?”

The King Midas bar, two nights later, was quieter than the first time Sean had been in here with Bobby, a different bartender, tonight a black woman with a soft Jamaican accent. Vic watched her walk to the other side of the bar. They were at a back table but with a good view of the curved teak of the bar.

“These Caribes,” Vic said. “They’re everywhere. If you grew up on an island, why would you want to move to a goddamned desert?” He coughed once, sipped hard at his vodka and tonic. “It’s pissing me off.”

“Change of pace.” Sean cleared his throat. “I’m sorry this has turned into a hassle, but I’m confident we can catch the bastards that kidnapped Bobby.”

“You got a lead on these assholes?” Vic took another tense swallow of vodka.

“Asians from Los Angeles, moving east,” Sean said. “That’s the word on the street.” The lie was easy now, practiced in his mind, and it made sense.

Vic frowned. “Let ’em kill Bobby for all I care. Why should I meet with them?”

“Listen, he talks before he dies, and they’ve got the information to bring you down,” Sean said. “They can feed it to informants, cut a deal to trade you to the cops on a platter if any of their chiefs get caught. You need Bobby back in one piece. Plus, they’re being too clever, wanting to meet, wanting more money. Greed is stupid in this case. We’ll kill them.”

“Christ,” Vic said. “You’re sure this ain’t a trap they’re setting?”

“I’m sure,” Sean said, and he saw Red walk in. Same little black dress as before but now her hair was rich coffee brown, bobbed short, like Sean knew Vic liked. “They’re not that smart.”

“I want them dead when we’re done, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Sean said. “Listen, try to relax. This is Vegas. Have some fun. We can’t do anything until the meeting tomorrow, man. Chill out. You want to go see a show?”

Vic said, “Jesus, no, sitting in a chair for two hours would drive me nuts.” He finished his vodka, ordered another. Sean waited, giving him time, not wanting to force it. Finally Vic saw her.

“Check out the sweet treat at the bar,” Vic said.

“Which?”

“Five stools from the right. The tasty brunette.”

“She’s out of your league, Vic, a little too pretty.” Pushing Vic’s button.

Vic raised an eyebrow but wasn’t mad. Smiling at the challenge. “This from the little league.”

“I’m just saying, she looks like she’s happy alone,” Sean said. “She wouldn’t want to talk to some guy who’s all stressed about his business. Not thinking about having a good time.”

“Hey, I want her, I can get her,” Vic said.

Sean smiled. “You think so, Vic? How about a little bet?”