Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [95]
“Never!” Scalzo screamed at him.
“Come on,” Jasper begged.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Do it for the tournament. For me.”
Scalzo grabbed Jasper by the throat and thrust his weight against him, and for a moment it had felt like they were both going over the railing. “For you? You think I care about you or your fucking tournament?”
Jasper pushed him away. Other hotel guests were watching from their balconies, and he straightened his jacket and tie. “If you won’t do it for me, then do it for your nephew. If they arrest you, the police will want to talk to Skip as well. He’ll have to withdraw from the tournament.”
“So what?” Scalzo bellowed at him.
“You don’t care if your nephew goes down?”
“He’s not going down,” Scalzo said. “He’s leaving with me and Guido. We’re getting out of Las Vegas, is what we’re doing.”
“Have you talked with him about this?”
“Why should I?”
“What if he doesn’t want to go? He’s the tournament leader.”
Scalzo pounded his chest with both fists like a cave man. “Skipper does what I tell him. He’s leaving with me. Understand?”
Jasper nodded stiffly. There was no use arguing with a maniac.
“In two hours, I want you to drive me, Skipper, and Guido to a little airport on the outskirts of town,” Scalzo said. “We’re going to take a charter plane to Los Angeles, and from there, a private yacht to Central America. Just give me two hours to make the necessary arrangements. You drive us to the airport, and we’ll disappear.”
“At least let your nephew play before you leave,” Jasper said.
“Why should I?”
“Because he’s a goddamn celebrity, that’s why,” Jasper said. “The more air time he has, the better the tournament does.”
Scalzo stuck his chin out defiantly. “Okay.”
Jasper looked at his watch. “I need to run. I’ll see you downstairs.”
Jasper turned to open the slider. Scalzo’s hand came down hard on his shoulder, and he felt the old mobster’s breath on his ear.
“You’d better not mess this up,” Scalzo said.
Jasper felt himself stiffen. A shift had occurred, and he hadn’t even realized it. He was in charge now, with Scalzo’s fate in his hands.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Jasper said.
At twenty minutes to nine, Skip DeMarco came out of his bedroom. Normally his uncle came to his room before he went downstairs to play, and they went through their little routine. But today his uncle hadn’t shown, leaving DeMarco to dress without his uncle appraising his selection of clothes.
“Hey Skipper,” he heard a voice say.
“That you, Guido?”
His uncle’s bodyguard grunted in the affirmative.
“It doesn’t sound like you,” DeMarco said. “What happened to your voice?”
Guido’s big feet scuffed the carpet as he crossed the suite. “I hurt my nose,” he explained.
Guido had been his uncle’s bodyguard for twenty years; a more loyal employee you’d never find. But that loyalty came with a price. When his uncle lost his temper and flew into a rage, Guido’s role changed, and he became a whipping boy.
“He smack you in the face again?” DeMarco asked.
“Couple of times,” Guido grunted.
“What did you do this time?”
“I woke him up with bad news.”
“It must have been real bad.”
“The Atlantic City operation got busted last night. Everyone went down.”
DeMarco had never heard the full details of the Atlantic City operation from his uncle; all he knew was that it was his uncle’s primary source of income, and paid for his house and vacation house and full-time staff and brand-new cars every year.
“Where’s my uncle now?” DeMarco asked.