Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [9]
“You always carry that around?” Valentine asked.
“Used to carry a gun,” Rufus said. “After 9/11, I started carrying the whip. In some ways, it’s better than a gun. You should learn how to use one.”
“You think so?”
“It’s like fly casting a fishing rod. Ever try that?”
“I fly-fished once on vacation,” Valentine said. “I caught the hook on my earlobe. Had to go to the emergency room at the hospital to have it removed.”
“Maybe you should stick with beating people up.”
“Thanks.”
Rufus returned his pint to the suitcase, then consulted his wristwatch. It was an old silver dollar that had been turned into a timepiece. The coin needed polishing, but probably wouldn’t see any in Rufus’s lifetime.
“Those hotel guards are mighty damn slow,” he said.
Valentine shifted the icepack on his face. A five-minute response time in a Vegas hotel was normal. Although their casinos had state-of-the-art surveillance systems, they were largely ineffective when it came to crimes against guests. There were simply too many rooms.
“They’ll show up eventually,” he said. “Since neither of us were killed, they’re not hurrying. It’s how things work. Everything gets prioritized. Especially guests.”
“And since you and I aren’t whales, we get the pooch treatment.”
“Exactly.”
Rufus removed his Stetson and patted down his hair like he was expecting company. He fitted his hat back on, and looked Valentine in the eye.
“I’d hate this crummy town if I didn’t like to gamble so much,” Rufus said.
In the bathroom, Valentine changed shirts, downed four ibuprofens, then appraised his profile in the mirror. He’d gotten his nose broken twice as a cop, plus a couple times in judo competition, yet it had never flattened. Good genes, he guessed. He returned to the suite, sat on the couch with Rufus.
“Come straight with me about something,” Rufus said.
“Sure.”
“When that guy was threatening me with the pipe, you thought I was selling you out, didn’t you?”
Valentine considered denying it, then decided not to lie. “Afraid I did.”
“Sorry. It was the only ruse I could think of.”
There was a commotion in the hallway. Four uniformed cops entered the suite, followed by Pete Longo, chief detective with the Metro Las Vegas Police Department’s Homicide Division. As Valentine rose from the couch, the cops drew their weapons.
“Stay seated,” a cop ordered him.
Valentine dropped back into his seat.
“Where are your guns?” the cop asked.
“We don’t have any,” Valentine said.
The cops searched the suite anyway. Valentine glanced at Longo, whom he’d known for many years. Longo had recently lost a lot of weight, but hadn’t changed his wardrobe. His rumpled suit swam on his body.
“Can’t you help us, Pete?” Valentine asked.
Longo shot him a skeptical look. “You don’t have any firearms in the suite?”
“There’s a bullwhip lying beneath the couch, but that’s it.”
The cops finished their search. The one who’d been doing the talking approached the couch and said, “You better be telling the truth.”
“Ain’t no reason to lie,” Rufus replied.
“Come with me,” Longo said. “I want to show you something.”
Valentine and Rufus followed Longo out the door, happy to be away from the uniforms. They took an elevator to the lobby, which was swarming with more cops, some in uniform, some plainclothes. Yellow police tape cordoned off an area around a door with an emergency exit sign above it. Longo lifted up the police tape and they walked beneath it. The detective pointed to a door propped open with a metal chair.
“Take a look,” Longo said.
Rufus went first, and came away shaking his head. Then Valentine stuck his head in. The light inside the stairwell was muted, and he let his eyes adjust. When they did, he saw their two attackers lying at the bottom. Their faces looked eerily peaceful, save for the bullet holes in their foreheads.
“Recognize them?” Longo asked, now behind him.
“Those are the guys who just attacked us in our room,” Valentine said.
“Did Rufus Steele shoot them?”
“No.”
“Did you shoot them?”
“No.”
“I’d like