Murder in Vegas Page 25

  “My place is just a few minutes from here,” said Harry. “It’s nothing fancy, believe me. But if you want, if you feel like it … Instead of your hotel.”

  “That would just be so nice,” she said.

  The gambling seminar provided by the casino was indeed cursory, enough to make everyone feel comfortable around the tables, without the strategy needed to win anything. There was a slide show with cartoon dice, a short Q & A. Everyone had Styrofoam coffee cups and pastries balanced on their knees. Afterwards, Harry tagged along with Anne from table to table, answering questions, relaying things through her, letting her translate. It reminded him of the postcards he sent to his wife, through his sister-in-law. Most of the group had a basic idea of the games.

  They had a late lunch—they were on Vegas time now—and Harry stood in line at the buffet chatting with a lady from Manhattan. It felt nice talking to strangers again and everyone was very nice to Harry.

  He was headed to the men’s room when he saw Reverend Tim motioning for him from the Dealers Lounge.

  “Nice shirt,” Tim said, fingering the material. “What is this, silk?”

  “Don’t start.”

  “New pants, too. And shoes … I’m sure she approved.”

  “It’s that obvious, is it?” Harry said and Tim laughed.

  “She seemed real nice, Harry. Good for you. Good for you both.” He leaned across the counter. “Reason I wanted to talk … there’s a guy asking questions. About you.”

  “Really.”

  “Big fella,” Tim said. “Eye-talian. Wondered if you’d be in. This was last night, maybe two, two-thirty.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Lemme see. Russell? Ross?”

  “Rossi.”

  “That’s it,” Tim said. “Had a bunch of questions … where you lived, how long you’ve been in Vegas. Hinted he might be a fed … you been paying your taxes, Harry?”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Nothing,” Tim said. “I mean, you’re in the book, he can find you if he wants to talk to you. Right?”

  The lights seemed brighter now. Harry walked back to the table, sat down next to Anne. His heart was pounding. The conversation turned to tomorrow’s final day and the group’s trip to Hoover Dam. Rossi sat at the back of the room, just like Harry would do.

  “I’m bringing my kids the next time,” someone said. “They’d do better at the video games than I did today.”

  “My kids would like the water park,” said another. Harry found it hard to concentrate. He laughed when the others laughed, nodded absentmindedly, said yes I see … yes, you’re right. Time to go, Harry. For a second he was back in that room in west Chicago, someone’s hands on his throat. He stood to go.

  “All this water.” It was Rossi, moving his coffee to a closer seat. “Harry, you’re the expert on Vegas. Help me out here. Because I find this fascinating. I mean, we’re supposed to be in the desert, right? And yet you see nothing but water everywhere … the fountains, inside and out, the water sculptures … theme parks, with log flume rides.” His accent was New York, but it seemed to come and go. Harry realized he’d never really heard him speak Italian.

  “They have Lake Mead,” said someone. “The Colorado River … I don’t think water’s such a problem.”

  “We’ll learn more about this tomorrow,” said Anne. “At the dam.”

  “Yes, okay,” said Rossi. “But even so … don’t you find it curious? I mean, it’s still a desert, isn’t it? Water should be like gold around here.”

  “I think that’s the point,” Harry said. His voice sounding strange to him, as though his ears were stopped up.

  “We’re supposed to be impressed by all the wealth? The money? The same reason they build these ridiculously huge buildings?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Rossi said. “Unfortunately, it’s always someone else’s money.” He smiled. “Isn’t it, Harry?”

  “God, what a day,” said Anne, taking off one earring and walking to the bathroom. It was only nine p.m., but both of them were tired. The small hotel room seemed like a refuge now to Harry. “The noise level in that casino …”

  I should just run, he thought. He’d done so before, with much less provocation. How big was Rossi, anyway? Too big to fight, it wasn’t Harry’s style anyway … he must be two-twenty at least. And where was Rossi now, in his hotel room, probably, phoning Chicago … . I’ve got the bastard … .

  He waited until Anne had closed the bathroom door, then unzipped her briefcase.

  Andrews, Mazzio, Rossi …

  The names were written in neat blue script, one to a folder. Rossi’s original reservation form was here; it listed a Brooklyn address. Rossi, Michael. Harry didn’t know New York well enough to tell if it was bogus or not. There was no driver’s license or social security number on the form, nothing personal. The rest must be back in the travel agency’s office, and he’d have to ask Anne directly for that. He wrote down Rossi’s room number. On the nineteenth floor … Harry’s lucky number.

  The toilet flushed; Harry returned the files, zipped the bag. Had she laid it here, on the desk? Or on the chair? He couldn’t remember, and she was back in the room before he could decide.

  “Do they make the rooms that noisy on purpose, do you think? To distract the gamblers?”

  Harry said he didn’t know.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, examining the heel of one of her shoes. “Damn, I can’t believe this is breaking already, these were so expensive—”

  “I know a guy can fix that,” Harry said. His voice sounded flat. “How’d the rest of the group do? Professor Rossi, for example?”

  “You know, I’m not sure. I didn’t see him after lunch.”

  “Have you talked to him at all?”

  “No more than the others,” she said. “He’s kind of an odd duck. Turns out most of the others in the group don’t even know him. He’s not from the university … I’m not sure what he’s doing on this tour.”

  Harry said there must be an explanation for that.

  “I suppose. But I’m too tired to worry about it,” she said. “Besides, after tomorrow night I’ll be back in New York, and Professor Rossi can go his merry way.”

  Harry woke at three, staring at the ceiling. Drunks laughing in the hallway, the parade of neon outside his window. He listened to Anne’s gentle breathing beside him.

  Just get up and leave. Now. It didn’t make any sense. The guys back in Chicago weren’t exactly known for their subtlety. Hiring someone who could fit in with a group like this … why bother? Plus, if he’s asking all these questions … he must not be sure it’s him, not yet. So why not just pull me aside, put a gun to my head and find out? Why the song and dance?

  Rossi was what, six-two, six-three?

  He could see the ball bounce back and forth on the wheel.

  If it’s Sunday this must be Hoover Dam … Her note was taped to the bathroom mirror. She’d be back at three. The flight back to New York left at seven. He folded the note, saved it like a kid with a valentine.

  He rang Rossi’s room, let it ring until the operator came back on and said the party wasn’t answering, did Harry wish to leave a message? He called long distance and got the number for Columbia University. There was no Professor Michael Rossi listed.

  His landlord Mrs. Loomis was outside his building when he parked the Blazer. She told him Harry’s brother had stopped by yesterday, wanted to be admitted to his apartment … she wasn’t sure she should do that. So she didn’t. “I’m hoping I didn’t cause a problem,” she said. “You know. A family squabble.”

  “No, you did the right thing,” he said. No wonder Rossi left the casino after the buffet lunch. And if he’s been here once, he’ll be back … .

  He checked the locks. There were new scratches on the patio door. Or was that his imagination? Harry had a gun, a Luger that he bought from a Navajo at a gun show in Las Cruces. He ke
pt it loaded and wrapped in a Motel Six towel under his bed. Just bringing it out now, checking the bullets—something clicked in his mind.

  He decided to pack.

  There was a routine to leaving … he gave himself over to it, cleaned out the carryout leftovers in the fridge, bagged the sports pages and old racing forms that made up his library, paid the few bills sitting in his shoe box, picked up some dry cleaning, filled the Blazer’s gas tank. He bought some fruit and bottled water and a new map of Mexico. He’d never been there. He could stop at Nogales first, say goodbye to Harry Chase. He could be in Santa Cruz by nightfall.

  Something was holding him back, though, and he couldn’t tell if it was his age, that he was just getting tired of the whole damn thing … or something else. Like Anne. How much could he tell Anne anyway? How much did he trust her?

  He drove to Fremont Street, a place he rarely visited, lost himself in the crowds of conventioneers and low rollers, sat with the housewives playing nickel slots, barely concentrating. He drank whatever they offered him. Twice he got the note out of his pocket. Twice he started to call Anne on her cell.

  Just leave, Harry, go … .

  Boulder City was an hour’s drive from Vegas. There were no casinos there so Harry had never seen the point in visiting. He found a row of tour buses; one of them must be Anne’s. He asked two different park rangers if they’d seen her group. His description—a very pretty blonde lady with a group of professors, EZ Tours—didn’t ring any bells. Harry paid for a tour of his own, and then walked down a long series of steps to a sight-seeing platform. The sun was unbelievably bright, bouncing off the white concrete. He bought a lemonade and a candy bar and walked to another platform, waded through another group of tourists. Everyone was in shorts and windbreakers, everyone spoke French, Spanish, Japanese … where were the goddamn Italians, thought Harry.

  And then he saw them, a small half circle gathered around a female ranger, two flights of steel steps below. There was Anne, one hand shading her face from the sun; Rossi, a few feet behind, watching the way Harry would watch; a man apart. He’d shed his jacket, was dressed in a loud red shirt and white slacks, wire sunglasses, white shoes. He still didn’t look like a professor. What was he doing here? Why was he still maintaining the façade?

  Harry followed them until they’d finished their tour, heard Anne announce that the bus would leave “in thirty minutes, people, don’t be late, okay, please?” It was souvenir time.

  He watched Rossi leave with the other two men, then caught up with Anne outside the gift shop. He loved the smile she gave him.

  “What are you doing here?” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, but I had to see you—we have to talk, now—it couldn’t wait—”

  “I’m coming back, you know. To the hotel. Didn’t you get my note?”

  He hesitated. He’d rehearsed this all the way here but now his mind went blank.

  “Let’s sit down,” he said, pulling her out of sight, to a wooden bench.

  “Harry, what’s this about?” She lit a cigarette, waved away the smoke. “Sorry, I should quit these—”

  “Don’t go back to New York, Anne.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me. I’m leaving Vegas … I was thinking maybe Mexico but if you’d rather go somewhere else, that would be fine, no problem, maybe Mexico’s too rough for you, or too hot, it doesn’t matter … .” Racing now to explain it, and hating the confusion he saw in her face. And dreading how this would end. I lied to you, Anne … please forgive me …

  “We could go to Europe,” Harry said. “I always wanted to see Venice … or Athens—”

  “Harry, don’t be silly … I can’t just leave.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t. This is my job. These people are my responsibility.” She patted his hand, like a nurse with a patient. “Harry, you knew I had to leave today.”

  “I know but—”

  “Come to New York,” she said. “Or wait—I can get another tour group for Vegas, they must do them all the time. One or two weeks, after I clear my calendar, they have me going to Orlando and Naples and then I can be back.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t be here in one or two weeks.”

  “What?”

  “Anne, has Rossi ever asked you about me?”

  “Professor Rossi? No, why would he? Harry, what did you mean, you won’t be here?”

  “Are you sure? Think about it. Maybe it was just an aside in a conversation … or maybe you overheard him asking someone else in the group about me …”

  “What does Professor Rossi have to do with this?”

  “I’m leaving now, Anne. My bags are in my car.” He checked the hallway again; there was still no sign of Rossi. “Come with me … . forget the tour group, you’ve got your purse … whatever you need we can pick up later … .”

  “Harry, I have to get back,” she said, as though playtime was over. She kissed him and started to get up and he knew he’d have to tell her everything or lose her forever.

  Ten years of his life. It wasn’t hard—once he started, everything spilled out. She didn’t look at him, just smoked nervously, tapping her foot—he could see her thoughts spinning, trying to decide where to land. Was he nuts? Or for real? And how could she decide this so fast?

  “I should have told you before now,” he said. “I started to, several times, believe me.”

  She didn’t answer. She was looking past him, for a second he thought Rossi was there and he turned and faced an empty hallway. When she finally spoke her cigarette was finished and her voice was a whisper.

  “You left her,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Your wife. You left her behind … .”

  “I had to, Anne. I had no choice.” Afraid at first of being called a criminal, a thief, he saw now what she was thinking … You would leave me too, Harry …

  “I wouldn’t,” he said. “I swear.”

  “But how could I be sure? After what you did? How could I trust you?”

  There was no answer for that.

  “You really think Rossi works for these men in Chicago?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “After ten years … they’d still come for you? Was it that much money?”

  “They’d come if it was a dollar fifty,” he said. “A bus token. Anything in my pocket that should be in theirs … they’d come.” He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. He was frightened right now, but not of Rossi. He was scared of losing her. “I know it’s not fair, asking you like this.”

  “I’ve only known you three days, Harry.”

  “I know.”

  “Three days.”

  She shook her head.

  “I can’t say yes or no out here,” she said. “In the middle of nowhere. Meet me tonight, back at the hotel. We leave for the airport at six.”

  “Anne …”

  “That’s the best I can do, Harry. I’m not asking for much. Just a few hours to digest all this. Before I decide.”

  “So you’re thinking about it at least?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m thinking about it.”

  He sat in a small lounge near the elevators on nineteen. He read USA Today, and when someone walked by he nodded and talked about the weather, just another friendly tourist. When Rossi got off the elevator Harry asked if he’d seen today’s paper, and he showed him the gun.

  “If you’re robbing me, you’re going to be very disappointed,” Rossi said. His room was just across the hall. “None of those little tricks you showed us in the casino worked very well.”

  “Open the door,” Harry said.

  “Is this a joke then?” Rossi said. “One of those practical jokes—is there a camera somewhere?” Still not moving, just that annoying smile—Harry had to shove the gun hard in his back to get him to open the door. He didn’t blame him, he wouldn’t want to do it either. The hall was much safer.

  “Stand over ther
e,” Harry said, after patting him down. “By the TV. Put your hands up on the shelf.” The room was even smaller than Anne’s. The bed had been turned down, with the radio left on low, wrapped mints on the pillow.

  “I want to know how much you told them,” Harry said. He wished he’d brought some rope. Or stopped at one of the adult boutiques on the Strip, they all sold handcuffs. “Do they know I’m in Las Vegas? And are you the only one here?”

  Rossi didn’t answer. The wallet was cheap plastic, with the price tag still tucked in one pocket. There was just a New York driver’s license, and cash, two or three hundred in mixed bills. No credit cards.

  “Can I sit down now?” Rossi said, and Harry nodded, motioning with the Luger. “We did so much walking today, I’m going to sleep real real good tonight. Hoover Dam is one of the seven wonders of the world, did you know that?”

  “Whoever sold you the license should use better ink,” said Harry, tossing it back in Rossi’s lap. “It’s a fake. What’s your name?”

  Again, no answer. Harry realized he would have to be rough to get anything out of him. It wasn’t his style but he was frightened enough to adapt. He’d been worked over a couple of times back in Chicago. He figured he knew the basic steps.

  Rossi must have been thinking the same thing.

  “The rest of the group’s back at the hotel now too, you know,” said Rossi. “The airport bus leaves in a few minutes, and if I’m not there someone will come looking for me. Hotel security perhaps, then the Las Vegas police.” Calm, treasonable. Still the professor.

  “What’s your real name?” said Harry.

  “It was originally known as Boulder Dam,” said Rossi. “And did I mention it’s one of the seven wonders of the world?”

  He used the side of the Luger. It caught Rossi by surprise. He slid off the chair, landing on his knees, face down, blood dripping from one nostril. “Son-of-a …” The curse landed on the carpet. So did Rossi, when Harry’s second blow came even harder, and connected with Rossi’s cheekbone.

  “You do that again,” Rossi said but didn’t finish the threat, gagging now, sniffing back blood. The New York accent was gone. So was the smile.