The Killing Kind

20

Alexander Engelmann stood at a roulette table outside the Fountain Room, alternating bets of red and black. Engelmann was not much of a gambler; he chose this game both because its odds were such that one could play for quite some time without requiring additional chips- roughly forty-seven percent on any red or black bet-and because it afforded him an unobstructed view of the entrance to the ballroom in which Purkhiser was to be killed. Engelmann was certain his quarry would reconnoiter the room-but he’d not yet seen anyone who matched the description Morales had given him.

Still, he thought, that did not mean his quarry was not here.

Engelmann absently fingered the cell phone in his pocket. He was tempted to dial his quarry’s burner phone, to see if he could hear it ring nearby-but he knew the potential upside to so brazen an act was too slight, and the downside too great. Cell-phone usage was forbidden on the gaming floor, to discourage cheating; it would be difficult to use his here without running afoul of casino security. And by every indication, Engelmann’s quarry was a cautious man-it was doubtful he would make so egregious an error as to leave his ringer on while on a job. But mostly, Engelmann could not because to do so might tip his quarry to the fact that something was amiss.

“Thirty-five,” called the croupier as the ball rattled to a stop. Engelmann’s fellow players sighed with disappoint-ment-the corresponding patch of felt was empty. “Nobody home.”

A flurry of betting as the wheel was spun again; Engelmann slid one chip, the table minimum, onto red. Then the croupier waved his hand over the table and said, “No more bets.”

That was fine by Engelmann. He was eager for the real games to begin.

When Leonwood burst, red-faced, out of the Fountain Room, Engelmann raised an eyebrow. For a moment it looked like Leonwood was headed straight toward him, and though Engelmann understood rationally that Leon-wood knew nothing of his existence or of his mission, a jolt of adrenaline pricked at his limbs at the perceived threat. But then Leonwood veered left toward the casino’s main entrance, and the moment passed.

Four security guards materialized as if from the cardinal points of the lobby’s inlaid compass rose, flanking Leon-wood but not engaging. Leonwood tried to duck past them, but one stepped in front of him, hands raised in a placating gesture. The guard said something to Leonwood, but his words were lost to Engelmann thanks to the clamor of the gaming floor. Leonwood responded angrily. Engelmann drifted away from the roulette table to better hear their exchange.

“Sir-” the croupier objected because the ball was still in play, but Engelmann ignored him. Anger blossomed in his mind. Anger, and a hint of fear. He couldn’t fathom what this stupid hunk of flannel-draped beef was thinking, making such a spectacle of himself, and he was all too aware that if Leonwood was thrown out, his last-gasp effort to eliminate the Council’s pest was as dead as Engelmann himself would be once the Council got wind that he had failed.

“Sir, I understand you’re upset,” said the guard as Engelmann got within earshot.

“You’re goddamn right I’m upset,” growled Leonwood. “All I wanted was a fucking drink before dinner, and that creepy guy with the dummy started heckling me! What kinda establishment are you running here?”

“Please realize, sir, that the views expressed by Mr. Tuschbaum do not in any way reflect those of Pendleton’s or her employees. I’m very sorry if he offended-”

“If?” Leonwood interrupted.

“-and, if you’ll just calm down, we’d like to make this right, so we could avoid any further unpleasantness.”

“Make this right how?” Dubious. Interested.

“You mentioned you hadn’t eaten dinner yet?”

“That’s right.”

“Then perhaps we could arrange for you a table at Gasparini’s, where I suspect the steak will be to your liking. We will of course refund the cost of the buffet, and tonight’s dinner will be on the house.”

Leonwood’s expression softened. “I suppose that’d be all right,” he said.

The guard led Leonwood to the concierge’s desk. Engelmann-satisfied that his plan hadn’t been derailed- turned back toward the gaming floor, only to run into a ridiculous Roy Rogers of a man in sunglasses, a silly mustache, and a garishly outsized Stetson.

“Pardon me,” said the man, a hint of drawl to his voice. “Just lookin’ for the head. Any chance you could point me in the right direction?”

That drawl was more Virginia South than Western cowboy twang, but Engelmann was unaware of the difference. “I’m afraid not,” Engelmann replied, and continued on his way.

The cowboy lingered a moment, watching Leonwood, the guard, and the concierge converse. Leonwood, ever the professional hitter, scanned the crowd surreptitiously a time or two while they spoke, and by suspicion or mere happenstance, his gaze settled briefly on the cowboy.

Then he turned his attention back to the concierge, flashing a polite smile at some solicitous, unfunny joke- and when he glanced up again, the cowboy was gone.