Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [29]
“Mr. Valentine?”
“What’s up?” he said, not slowing down.
“I have a message from Ms. Gloria Curtis.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s a written message.”
The concierge whipped a small white envelope from his outer breast pocket and presented it to him. Valentine dug for his wallet to tip the guy.
“No need, Mr. Valentine. My compliments.”
The concierge walked away. The help got paid garbage in Las Vegas, and he chased the guy down and stuck a twenty in his hand, then walked to the elevators reading Gloria’s note.
Tony, I heard what happened last night! I’m in my room. Please call me.
He found a house phone, and when an operator came on, asked for Gloria’s room. She picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Tony, is that you?”
“Hello, Miss Curtis,” he said, knowing that hotel operators often listened to calls.
“Where are you?”
“I just walked through the front doors.”
“Zack called me earlier. He said you and Rufus Steele were attacked in your suite last night, and the men who did it were found dead in the stairwell.”
“That’s the Reader’s Digest version,” he said.
“Were you beat up? Did they damage that beautiful face?”
His cheeks burned. Never before had anyone called his face beautiful. “The face is fine. My neck is sore, but it will heal.”
“Please come up to my room,” Gloria said. “I’m in 842.”
Valentine hesitated. The older he’d gotten, the more important mealtime had become, and he’d been looking forward to eating breakfast.
“Do you still want to eat?” he heard himself ask.
“I ordered breakfast through room service. I hope you like your eggs scrambled with cheese in them.”
“That’s exactly how I like them,” he said.
“You’ve got a neck like a bull,” Gloria said, examining the bruises on the back of Valentine’s neck while he sat on the couch in her living room.
“I should. I stand on my head ten minutes every day.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
“About twenty-five years.”
She sat down beside him with a funny look on her face. She wore a powder blue suit, white blouse, and a Hermès scarf wrapped around her neck. She’d told him a few days ago that her network was putting her out to pasture because she was getting older, but to him, she looked just right.
“It’s one of my judo exercises,” he explained. “I took judo up when I started policing casinos. My boss didn’t want us using our guns on the casino floor, so I got involved in the martial arts.”
“Let me guess. Shootings are bad for business.”
“Yes. It seems gamblers see it as a sign of bad luck, and stay away in droves.”
“So you still practice?”
He stretched his neck and nodded. Normally he went to judo class three times a week, and could still throw around guys half his age. Telling her would only sound like bragging, so he kept quiet. Breakfast sat on a trestle tray in an alcove off the living room and smelled delicious. Gloria saw his eyes drift toward the food, and she brought her hand beneath his chin. She raised his face an inch and held his gaze.
“If I were to ask you a question, would you give me an honest answer?”
“I’d try,” he said.
“Come on. Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Did you shoot those two men in the stairwell last night? Everyone says you did.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Please answer me,” she said.
You couldn’t be a television announcer for as long as Gloria and not have great eyes. Hers were a soft aqua that could melt your heart if you looked into them too long.
“No, I didn’t shoot them,” he said.
“Do you know who did?”
“No idea,” he said.
Gloria stared deeply into his eyes. After a few intense moments, her face softened, and he guessed she believed him. She gave him a soft kiss on the lips, then led him to the food.
He pulled a chair out for her, then sat down to break fast. He’d known Gloria four full days, and their relationship seemed to be forging ahead at