The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [73]
“Kind of,” Wayne said. “And by the way—undo the hack you put in that NASCAR slot before you get your ass fired.” Hassan grinned.
An hour later, Wayne had popped into Club Nikita. It was only seven o’clock, so the club was mostly empty and the music was set at a third of prime-time volume and the lights were still up and Kelvin was restocking the bar, humming some tune out of his head. Although Wayne knew his preoccupation with Nada was a whispered joke around the casino, he said without a hello, “The last night you saw Canada Gold.”
Kelvin turned with a cool look, arched brow, and a knowing half smile, then nodded. “Hey, Wayne. Yeah. A couple weeks ago. She was in here talking to some old dude.”
“Guy’s name was something like Jameson, right?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How did he pay?”
“Cash. Lots of it. Big tip.”
“Do you know where he was from?”
“Aw, man. It was late and it was loud.”
“Was he staying in this hotel?”
“People staying here usually just sign for their tab, right? So no, probably.”
“Shit.” Wayne tried to think. He tried to imagine what a real detective, not a half-assed amateur like himself, would do. What question he could ask. “Did he mention another hotel? Make small talk? Ask about the score of some game? Anything?”
Kelvin said, “Wait a minute. No, he was definitely staying here. Because when he sat down, he was shivering and complaining about the heat out there and the cold in here. He said he wasn’t going outside again until his flight the next day. And then he said it was practically this hot back in Chicago already.”
Chicago. There were more than a hundred Jamesons who had stayed at the hotel since it opened, and three just last week, but it took Wayne only five minutes on his computer, searching the hotel’s billing records, to find a home address for Gary Jameson of Chicago: 1555 North State Parkway.
At the Puma Lounge, the beer and Amoyo arrived at the same time and Amoyo waved off Wayne’s attempt to pay. “First one’s on me,” Amoyo said. Wayne thanked him with a duck of his head and then forced the ten into the waitress’s hand as a tip.
Amoyo was handsome in an unqualified way. Wayne had heard his mother was Filipino, but his father might have been from Saharan Africa or Sicily or the Basque area of Spain. Whatever the ethnic ratio, it was a perfect aesthetic blend, unidentifiable but pleasantly toned and exactly proportioned. Wayne liked to believe his own face would be considered handsome if it weren’t so fleshy and oversize, and when he was younger, he had spent hours in front of a mirror trying to substantiate that fact. A generous woman might have found Wayne attractive, but Amoyo was the kind of good-looking everyone agreed on. You could hate his guts and still find him handsome.
“Wayne Jennings,” Amoyo said. “What in the world could I have done to make one of Steve Rhodes’s musclemen pay me a visit at my office? For the record, I swear I haven’t set foot in your hotel since the unpleasantness.”
Wayne absorbed the mockery and took his first sip of cold beer. “I’m not here representing the casino.”
“Not working tonight?”
“Went home sick.”
“Interesting.” Squinting, Amoyo tried to discern Wayne’s intentions. “Maybe you want out of the hotel dick business and into something with a little more upside. Huh? Maybe you’ve saved up some money. Looking to make an investment? Or find a friendlier work environment? How’m I doing?”
“Nope,” Wayne said. “This is about Canada. She’s missing.”
A noise in Amoyo’s throat. “Missing? When?”
“At least a week.”
“I heard you guys were letting her play blackjack again. In exchange for …” He paused to see if Wayne would betray some secret. “You better keep her on a short leash around cards. That girl could take you down hard if you turned your back. But you know that. And you probably know she’s not greedy like me.”
Wayne nodded. “Any idea where she is?”
“Nope. I saw her Friday before last, so she hasn’t been gone longer than that.”
“Where did you see her?”
“In my bed.” If he knew that information would hurt Wayne, he didn’t