The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [52]
He was going undercover for one more hit. Who the hell was it supposed to be? Why this secrecy right up to the last minute?
Charles Mackey had promised to contact him after eleven that evening. A dozen high-ranking mob heads were already inside Trump Plaza. They were there because of the recent murders in New York, but also in Palermo, in London, in Hong Kong. Why was he there?
It was easy to blend with the meandering crowd on the glitzy main floor of Trump’s. Parker showed a casual interest in the slots, where he quickly lost a palmful of quarters and dollar slugs. He drifted toward the craps and blackjack tables. Parker stomped around casually, as if he had no place to go, just some guy on a busman’s holiday.
He was pretty sure nobody was paying attention to him. Meanwhile, he had spotted several of Trump’s security detectives. It was a challenge picking them out, one by one, then memorizing the faces.
Parker saw a Hispanic waiter enter a small private elevator on the mezzanine floor. When the empty elevator returned, he stepped inside and took it to the basement.
He knew that the secret to being where you weren’t supposed to be was looking like you belonged. As he roamed past the hotel kitchen, a cart piled with food rattled out of the swinging doors. Parker walked alongside an elderly black waiter, a large, overweight man who swayed from side to side with every step.
“Men’s exercise gym down here somewhere?” he asked the waiter, whose eyes seemed dazed.
“Yes, sir. Men’s and women’s gyms. Keep heading the way you going now. Be on your right.”
“That must be some kind of party upstairs in the penthouse,” Parker continued in a casual tone.
The waiter glanced away from Parker. He stayed quiet for a few shuffling steps, then he started to talk.
“Those gentlemen are spenders, tell you that. Every one of ’em on the comp. You know the comp? Free ride? You better believe they players.”
“The whole place seems to be jumpin’ this weekend.”
“Every day in the summertime. Hey, I got to scoot, man. Don’t look like you need too much exercise.”
Parker laughed, and he stayed alongside the waiter at the service elevators. Now he was pushing his luck a little. He lit up a cigarette.
“Real players upstairs, huh. They frisk you and everything? When you go into that suite? Hey, man, I was in a big game like that one time myself. In Las Vegas. While I was in the army. I was stationed at Fort Sills, Oklahoma.”
“Fort Sills, yeah. They don’t frisk me. They not afraid some old fat man like me. Tip pretty good. Even the guys work for ’em tip good. You ain’t been in no games like this one.”
50
THE ELEVATOR FINALLY arrived and the elderly waiter stepped inside with his food cart. Parker waved nonchalantly. The waiter didn’t bother to wave back.
Isiah Parker turned away from the elevator. He walked down one of several tunnels that ran underneath the hotel. He considered the things he’d already learned walking around Trump’s, and asking questions.
The penthouse suite had its own private elevator, for one thing. The elevators were guarded. The shift change was every two hours, which kept the men fresh. The next change was at twelve. The penthouse had its own wet bar, restocked twice a day. The floor could also be reached by the fire-escape stairway, which was heavily guarded, but might be taken easier than the elevator.
Trump’s was definitely full. Donald Trump had originally bought the Plaza from Harrah’s. He had remodeled for one reason only: to capture the five thousand known heavy rollers who were shared by the Golden Nugget and Caesar’s. The entertainment schedule was upgraded from Norm Crosby / Mitzi Gaynor to Diana Ross / Frank Sinatra. Sixty-five easy-living suites were installed for the high rollers, who expected to be comped and treated like visiting movie stars at the casino-hotel. The syndicate members