As we moved through the room, I was struck by the difference between the Vegas I'd seen in advertisements and movies, and the reality. Maybe somewhere on the Strip there were casinos filled with handsome couples, grinning and cheering and having the time of their life, but here gambling seemed more a life sentence than a vacation. Those sitting at the antiquated slot machines looked like extras from a zombie flick, eyes glazed, faces ashen as they fed the coins and pulled the handles. The tables weren't much better, everyone crowded around, expressions solemn, gazes fixed on the worn green cloth. At some tables, only the tinkle of the dice and the murmur of the dealers' voices broke the quiet. Then we came along...
"But you promised," I squealed as Jack dragged me to the blackjack table. "I wanna see Celine."
Jack leaned down to my ear and hissed loud enough for everyone around to hear. "Shut the fuck up, or the only thing you'll be seeing is the inside of the hotel room."
I sniffled. Jack laid down a hundred-dollar bet and tried to snake his arm around my waist, but I sidestepped away.
"Come on, baby," Jack said, his hand sliding to my rear. "Gimme some luck."
"You said this trip was for me."
"You give me a couple hours and we'll see Celine, Newton...Hell, you can play with the fucking white tigers if you want, okay, babe?"
He started playing...and losing, a hundred bucks at a time, then two hundred. He won the odd hand, but most of his money went back to the dealer. Wasn't long before a server sidled up with a tray of free drinks...the least they could offer for such a generous donation.
"Uh-uh," I said, patting my still-flat stomach. "No booze for this baby. I got six more months and I'm sticking to it."
Jack gave a proud papa grin and patted my stomach. "That's my girl." He shot the grin around the table. "Our first...and I'm here to win a room full of baby furniture."
A murmured round of congratulations on the first point, tainted with skepticism on the second. The server returned with a soda for me and a Scotch for Jack. He made a show of taking a big gulp, but very little of the liquid left the glass before he surreptitiously slid it aside. My soda was supposed to be Coke. Judging by the taste, though, they'd substituted a no-name brand, then further cut costs topping it up with tap water.
After a few more rounds, Jack's luck changed. Drastically. I knew he was cheating--that was the plan--but I have no idea what he did, only that he started winning big and winning often--too big and too often to be healthy. All eyes were already on us, with our role-playing, and he hadn't won more than his sixth round before a beefy hand closed on his shoulder.
"A word with you...sir," the guard rumbled.
"Sure," Jack said. "If it's congratulations."
Another guard flanked him, and both took hold of his upper arms to escort him away.
"Oh no," I moaned as I scampered after them. "You didn't. Tell me you didn't."
"Shut the fuck up," Jack hissed over his shoulder.
"You promised!" I whacked him with my purse. "'Not this time, babe,' you said. 'I'll play straight, babe.' You don't know how to play straight, you no-good..."
And so we left the casino floor and headed for the security wing, Jack under armed guard and me running along behind them, alternately sobbing and railing. As we passed through the doors, a desk guard leapt up, probably to tell me to wait outside. Then he apparently decided this was one domestic dispute he didn't want to get in the middle of, sat down and busied himself with his logbook.
It wasn't until we hit the "holding" room that the guards stopped me, one stepping into my path as the other took Jack inside and closed the door. I didn't try to follow, just snuffled and wiped my arm across my streaming nose.
"You can wait over there, ma'am," the guard said. "He might be awhile."
"I can't believe he did this. He promised! This whole trip was for me, he said. 'Cause I've been so sick with the baby. For me, my ass. How could he--?" I clutched my stomach. "Oh, I don't feel so good."
"There's a bathroom--"
"Uh-uh, if I start puking, I'll never stop. I just need to sit down."
He quickly pointed me to a small room. I spent only a couple of minutes in there, sniffling and moaning, then bolted for the door, hand over my mouth. The hall guard didn't say a word, just got out of my way and waved in the direction of the washroom.
Once in the washroom, I did some retching, and tossed cupfuls of water into the toilet for effect, but I doubted the young guard came close enough to the door to appreciate my efforts. Still moaning and snuffling, I stood on the counter and wriggled the ceiling tile loose. Next I pulled the climbing gloves from my bra, and slid them on. Then I took out my key chain, unhooked my penlight, put it between my teeth and heaved myself up into the ceiling.
"Are you sure it's removable ceiling tiles?" I'd said to Jack. "If they've plastered since you were last there, we're in trouble."
"Gallagher doesn't redecorate. If it works, it stays."
This plan was my idea. Jack had his own--which went something along the lines of "cheat, get caught, get taken into the secured area and demand to see Gallagher." And my role? Just play along in the casino, then enjoy my evening gambling while he risked broken fingers with Gallagher's security team. When I'd suggested this enhancement, I'd expected him to balk, but he'd only thought for a moment, then said, "Yeah, that's better." The balking came later, as we'd prepared our strategy, and he'd realized how much danger I was putting myself in.
"It's no worse than your plan," I'd said. "With yours, you're relying on the guards to deliver your message...and Gallagher to accept it, rather than take advantage of the chance to beat the crap out of you for refusing his jobs. With mine, I do the delivery, and Gallagher has no choice but to accept it. Worst thing that can happen? I can't get to Gallagher, and we'll be back to your idea."
"Or Gallagher gets you. Holds you hostage."
"He has to catch me first."
When Jack didn't smile, I'd said, "You seriously think he can take me that easily? I'm careful, Jack. One wrong look from the guy, and I'm back up in that ceiling. See if he can follow me there."
"Wouldn't fit."
As I squeezed into the gap between the beams and the floor above, I saw Jack's point. Tight quarters up here. Not bad, though. I'd been in worse.
Still, Jack hadn't seemed satisfied, kept poking and prodding, making sure I was prepared.
"I can do this," I'd said finally, exasperated. "If you didn't think I could, why let us get this far with the plan?"
Silence. After a moment, he'd said only, "Be careful."
"I always am."
Something had passed though his gaze, but he'd dropped it before I could get a good look.
I checked my compass. North-northwest was that way. Down on all fours again, flashlight between my teeth, and I was on the move. Dust swirled up with every step. Despite the contacts, my eyes watered, and more than once I had to stop and chomp down on the flashlight to swallow a sneeze.
"Take this," Jack had said, thrusting the map at me. "Keep it handy."
"I won't need it," I'd said.
"Humor me."
I had, but I didn't take the map out now. I didn't need to. In high school, I'd spent a summer working as a guide in Algonquin Park, and the first thing I'd learned was not how to repel black bears and blackflies, but how to memorize maps. Nothing destroys tourists' confidence--and a guide's chance at a tip--so much as having her stop in the middle of an endless expanse of forest to pore over a map.
From below came muted whispers of conversation against the backdrop of the constant whirs and dings of distant slot machines. As I crossed one room, the sound changed to a steady clinking, a river of chips going through a mechanical counter--the sound of broken marriages, busted kneecaps and shattered lives. Never saw the appeal of gambling. Not with money, anyway. The risk of parachuting or white-water rafting is one thing--you know the odds are in your favor. But casino gambling? Just take a look at the owners, and how they live,
and tell me where you think all that money is going.
I supposed it was all about the threat of risk and the possibility of reward. But the risk of financial ruin was, for someone who'd been there, not enough to get my heart pumping. Not like this--the thrill of true danger, crawling into the unknown.
Regular spelunking is risky enough. But there, in a cave, you have partners who can go for help and, most times, the biggest danger you face is broken bones. Here, if I fell, I'd be exposed as a thief or, worse, an assassin. Men like Gallagher didn't handle either by simply breaking bones.
And with spelunking, it's all about the journey, the thrill of knowing every move you make could land you in a crevasse, that you can try your damnedest to control every variable, but you still leave something to chance. The goal is the simple satisfaction of survival. Here, there was more. Not just increased stakes, but an actual prize. A name that could rip the mask from the Helter Skelter killer.
Crawling through this ceiling was the ultimate extreme sport. Or, perhaps, only the precursor to it.
As I moved, the clatter of coins gave way to slurping, interspersed with moans set to a sound track of "yeah, baby, that's right, baby, uh-huh." I listened for the familiar wocka-wocka music of a seventies porn movie. Yes, I knew what porn movies sounded like. When you've worked in a testosterone-dominated occupation, you have two choices: lecture the guys on the political incorrectness of watching porn with a female co-worker or laugh it off with cracks like, "Hey, how come my pizza delivery boys are never hung like that?"
As I shimmied forward, being careful not to disturb the video watchers below, a shaft of light glimmered up through a fist-sized hole in the ceiling tile. Below it, I could see a balding head. The rafters on either side had pipes running over them. No detours possible. Damn. I eased back onto my haunches, took the flashlight from my mouth, turned it off and tucked it into my pocket. Then forward again, relying on the hole for light. I inched to the edge and peered down.
Below was a middle-aged man, his hands wrapped around a bleach blond head bobbing in his lap. He continued his porn star dialogue and she continued slurping, making way more noise than was necessary for the act--at least, as far as I remembered it. I was tempted to look around for the video camera. The man groaned and exhorted the woman to "Take it in. Take it all in," which, from my vantage point, didn't look very difficult. I crawled over the hole. Not like either of them was going to look up anytime soon.
As the live porn sound track faded, I put the penlight back in my mouth and pushed on. Only a few more rooms to cross now. In spite of the racket from the distant casino and the filth of seriously overlooked housecleaning chores, more than once a sudden grin almost sent my flashlight tumbling to the ceiling tiles below.
"Spelunking," I'd said when Jack had expressed some doubts about the wisdom of rafter-crawling. When his look demanded an interpretation, I'd said, "You know. Exploring caverns, caves, natural tunnel systems, that sort of thing."
His look didn't change.
"It's a sport," I'd said.
He'd shaken his head, as if unable to believe anyone would voluntarily do such a thing.
"What about getting down?" he'd said. "Long jump. You fall? He'll hear."
I'd rolled my eyes. "I'm not planning to fall...or jump. I'm going to abseil."
The look again. When I'd opened my mouth to explain, he'd lifted his hand and shaken his head. "You can do it? Good enough. Just be careful."
I paused for another compass check, realized I'd veered off at the last turn and backed up a few steps. Then there it was: the final marker--a tangle of wires that snaked the feed of every security camera into Gallagher's room. He'd be alone. Both Evelyn and Jack had sworn there was little question of that. Seemed Gallagher was antisocial as well as agoraphobic. He spent his nights locked in his control room, watching his money roll in.
Despite their assurances, I wasn't taking anything on faith. I stretched out across two rafters, grabbed a third with one hand, then lowered my head down as close to the ceiling tiles as I could get without slipping. A moment's pause, to double-check my balance, then I reached down with my free hand, hooked my fingertips around a tile edge and eased it to the side. It moved less than a half-inch, just enough to open a crack to the room below. And there sat Maurice Gallagher.
"He's a big guy," Jack had said.
He wasn't kidding. Evelyn had called Gallagher a spider, and I couldn't imagine a better metaphor. Gallagher was obese, at least four hundred pounds, with sticklike arms and legs, and a too-small, round head. He wore his dyed red hair slicked to each side, the part a blazing white stripe of pasty flesh that made his two patches of hair look like giant arachnid eyes. A spider, perched in his lair, watching his prey buzz about in the casino, entangling themselves in his web.
I wriggled back onto my main rafter, being careful not to make any noise, then crawled to the east side, where I'd find the bathroom. Next I took off my belt. It was a blue rope wrapped three times around my jeans, plus a length of chain and a ring clasp. A very practical fashion statement. I wrapped the chain around the rafter, attached the abseil ring, then looped the nylon cord through, and knotted it.
Again I braced myself on three parallel rafters and leaned down, tugging the tile up and out of the way. The whole time, I kept my eyes closed, concentrating on sound--how much I was making, and how much was coming from the adjacent room. One squeak of Gallagher's chair and I was out of there.
Once the tile was moved aside, I took hold of the cord and lowered myself through the hole. I aimed for the toilet seat, which, thankfully, Gallaher's mother had taught him to keep down. My sneakers made contact, but I kept rappelling down until my full weight was on the seat and I had my balance. Then I slid to the floor, leaving the rope dangling in case I needed to make an emergency exit.
* * *
THIRTY-SEVEN
The bathroom door was closed. I eased it open and used my makeup compact to scout the room, keeping it tilted down so a stray reflection off the mirror wouldn't give me away. Jack had said the call button for security was on Gallagher's right. I located it, then turned my attention to Gallagher. He had his back to me as he scanned the bank of screens, his head swiveling from left to right, then back again.
His gaze moved at such a constant rate that if it wasn't for the measured breathing, I'd have suspected Gallagher had indeed croaked, and I was looking at an automated version of him. I could even time his visual scan. Eleven seconds from one side to the other.
I waited until he began the right to left scan, counted off five seconds and slid forward, moving between him and his call button. Then I waited. It wasn't until he scanned all the way back from left to right that he saw me "Hi," I said.
He didn't jump. Didn't dive for the call button. Didn't even blink. Just looked at me, gaze moving from my head to my feet, as slow and impassive as if I was a row of security screens. Then he eased back in his chair.
"If you've come to rob me, young lady, you've made a very serious mistake." His voice was high pitched, almost squeaky. "There is no money here and you will not get anything from me but a one-way ticket to jail."
"Jail?" I said.
"I was being polite."
"Ah. Well, if I was here to rob you, I'm very unprepared." I lifted my hands, stood and turned around. "No money bags, no cans of mace, not even a gun."
"So I noticed," he murmured. "Yet you must have a weapon hidden somewhere on that pretty body. I'd bet on it."
"How much?"
He tilted his head, gaze traveling over me, studying me with a scientist's eye. "Unarmed. That is most...peculiar." His gaze lifted to mine, head slanting the other way. "I do hope, my dear, that you didn't intend to use your body as your weapon because, I assure you, I am quite immune."
"Well that's good, because when it comes to the Mata Hari routine..." I shook my head. "Hopeless. Guns are really more my thing, but that just didn't seem right. You want to talk to someone, you don't pull a gun on them.
Very disrespectful."
"Quite so." He leaned back in his chair. "So you wish to talk? And what would a young lady like you want to talk to me about? Employment, perhaps? An interesting way to go about it. Much more...personally revealing than dropping off a resume."
"Actually, it's an employee I want to talk to you about, not employment. A former employee, that is." I gestured at the row of screens. "Camera number six. Recognize him?"
He looked for a few seconds, then shook his head.
"Try this. Pick up the phone, dial 555-2978."
"And say what?"
"Nothing. Just try it. Please."
He did. The phone in Jack's pocket vibrated, and he looked straight into the camera, and mouthed something.
"Jack," Gallagher said, twisting the name into a curse.
"He said you might not be happy to see him. That's why I'm here doing the talking instead of him. Well, that, and I'm much better at talking."
"So I noticed. I take it then that you are a..." He let the sentence fall away, as if he couldn't come up with a "polite" term for what I did.
"Right," I said. "I'm working something with Jack, and we need something from you."
He laughed, the sound a nails-on-chalkboard screech. I waited through it, then continued.
"And yes, Jack knows he's in no position to ask for a favor, which is why he sent me with an offer. An exchange of information. Seems you hired someone a while back to make a hit, and he double-crossed you."
Gallagher's eyes narrowed. "No one double-crosses me."
Gallagher locked gazes with me, but I just sat there, and waited him out.
"Double-crossed me how?" he said finally, mouth barely opening to let the words out.
"He told the mark about the hit, collected a tidy sum for the info, waited until the guy skedaddled to Europe, then came back, told you it was done and collected again."
"And Jack expects me to pay for the name of this traitor?" A tight laugh. "My dear, all I'd need to do is run a more thorough verification of the hits I've called."