Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [23]
“Who told you that?”
“The FBI are wiretapping Scalzo’s phones and over heard him putting out the contract. He did it in code, though, so they can’t arrest him.”
The FBI ran a special operation in Las Vegas that did nothing but try to prevent contract killings. Murder-for-hire was prevalent in Sin City, and the bureau paid snitches to keep their ears to the ground to hear when a contract came up.
“Scalzo doesn’t give up easily,” Bill went on. “Mark my words, he’s going to hire someone else to kill you.”
Valentine’s eyes had shut as his head sunk deeper into his pillow. Thirty more minutes of blessed sleep was all he wanted. “I’ll change rooms and grow a moustache.”
“Tony, I want to discuss this with you,” Bill said, growing agitated. “It’s my responsibility to make sure nothing happens to you while you’re in Las Vegas. I hired you for this job, remember?”
His eyes remained shut. Thirty years ago, having two guys try to kill him would have resulted in a sleepless night. He’d had a wife and a kid and a mortgage to worry about. But time had changed his situation: his wife was dead, the house sold, and Gerry a grown man. Being threatened didn’t have the same consequences anymore.
“I get it. This is one of those cover-your-ass phone calls.”
“Eight-fifteen in front of your hotel,” Bill said. “Be there.”
Bill’s shining Volvo C70 convertible was parked by the entrance when Valentine stepped through the hotel’s front doors thirty minutes later. Bill had driven Volvos well before they’d become fashionable, claiming that Swedish engineering and Native American sensibilities shared a lot in common. He sat behind the wheel, his protruding chin marred by random specks of gray. Valentine climbed in and they sped away.
The Volvo raced across the flat, sun-baked desert, the engine starting to breathe around ninety. Valentine tilted his seat back and stared at the endless highway ahead. Years ago, he’d considered retiring out west with his wife, having often heard it referred to as God’s country. Seeing it unfold in this morning light, he understood why.
Fifteen minutes later, they sat in the parking lot of a roadside gas station that sold hot coffee and fresh doughnuts. The woman behind the counter had made them out as law enforcement, and given them freebies. It made their day.
“Listen, I’ve got some bad news,” Bill said.
Valentine stared into his friend’s face while biting his doughnut. Bill was a Navajo, and kept his emotions well below the surface. “I hate to start the day with bad news. Tell me something funny first.”
“Why does it have to be funny?”
“Because you’re about to give me bad news. I’d like a good laugh first.”
Bill scrunched up his face. “Okay. Here’s a joke I heard. How do you get an eighty-year-old woman to say ‘Shit!’”
Valentine should know this one. He lived in Florida.
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Get another eighty-year-old woman to yell ‘Bingo!’”
He laughed. Definitely a Floridian joke. He washed down his last bite of doughnut with a gulp of coffee. It hit his stomach like a bomb, and he felt himself wake up. “Okay, I’m ready for your bad news.”
“I know this is going to sound harsh, but I’m taking you off the case,” Bill said.
“You’re firing me?”
“Yes,” Bill said.
Valentine didn’t know what to say. He stared out the windshield at the big, cloudless Nevada sky. Bill started the engine and pulled onto the highway, pointing the Volvo back toward town. A long minute passed.
“It’s like this, Tony,” his friend said. “Yesterday, I was given twenty-four hours by the governor of Nevada to produce hard evidence that there was cheating taking place at the World Poker Showdown. If I couldn’t prove there was cheating, I was told in no uncertain terms to leave the tournament alone. That also meant letting you go.”
“The governor told you to end the investigation?”
“That’s right,” Bill said.
“Is he being pressured?”
“Yes. The World Poker Showdown is helping every casino in town get business.”
“So the casino owners asked the governor to squash the investigation.”
“Bingo.”