Murder in Vegas

JOHN WESSEL

Harry Chase sat in the back of a small casino chapel watching as bikers dressed in wedding casual—black leather, chains optional—exchanged prayers for endless roads, a long happy life together. He was wondering if the Bulls had covered the spread. Another man might have been praying for his own wife back in Lockport, Illinois—another man wouldn’t have put five large on the Bulls in a rebuilding year—but Harry knew better than to ask for any favors. He assumed God was a player and had his own action.

It was early evening, Harry’s favorite time in Vegas. The chapel was full of dreams, the night was young, anything was possible. He would hit the buffet, eat light—he had another two pounds to lose, he was avoiding dairy—and then head for his favorite roulette table, number six, where Jackie the Beneficent turned the wheel—St. Jackie, goddess of the lucky spin, the perfect bounce.

A group of tourists peeked into the room. He watched them come up the aisle, heads craned, hands full of cameras, guidebooks, postcards. They held a lot of celebrity weddings in here—third-rate sitcom stars, eighties musicians—Harry knew the place as well as the guides, he thought. He’d listened to enough of them give their tired spiel.

This group was Italian, most in their fifties, with dice-shaped nametags from EZ Tours in New York. Harry turned and watched them finding seats, listening to the guide run through the history of the casino and the wedding chapel. She wasn’t bad, Harry admitted. As a guide and as a woman. Tall, little granny glasses, a nice figure. Long blond hair, newly cut. She had a cute way of leaning against the pew, using one tan loafer to scratch her calf. Harry wondered if she was local. He’d never seen her before.

One of the men seemed to appreciate her, too. He sat directly in front of her, listening intently. He laughed at her jokes, smiled at her references. Harry knew just enough Italian to follow along. He stared at the man, then examined the others in the group, studied their clothes, their shoes. He watched, and waited for a sign or tell—a sideways glance, a half smile … . I see you, Harry … .

There were three men, but only one of them stood out. The one asking all the questions. He had a scar on one cheek, and a heavy build jammed into a cheap sport jacket. And he seemed to be alone. The other men each had wives.

Or was that a cover too?

Relax, Harry, he thought. It’s been ten years. You’re a thousand miles from home. Not even your family knows where you are. You covered your tracks like a goddamn Indian.

He needed a drink.

Looking back on it now, Harry saw the events that drove him from his home in Chicago as a series of unfortunate natural disasters. The point guard from Kansas twisting his ankle in the final four, for example … the wet track at Arlington that wiped out Harry’s trifecta … even the wild left hook that floored Harry’s boy Eduardo in the second round—a a freak thing, really, one in a million, all the papers said so—these things were out of Harry’s control, something he explained, repeatedly, during a series of conversations in a west Chicago storefront, where Harry signed a series of forms that took his restaurant, his car, his house, eventually his name. At first it seemed best to apologize, plead, beg. And then it seemed best to run.

He’d heard good things about Canada. So he left one morning the way any commuter might, with no bags, just a brief case, climbed on the 151 bus, transferred at Union Station, took the 10:08 north to Toronto, moved from small town to small town like a circus carny, finally settling in Saskatoon. A year later he moved on to Thunder Bay, then Vancouver Island, Winnipeg, Fairbanks. He bought a new name in Nogales, Arizona, from a man amused to be selling fake paper to a gringo; bought a used Blazer and kept his possessions to what would fit in back. He worked either as a bartender or a short order cook—he’d learned to cook in the army, and there was always a diner or greasy spoon needing a grill man. There was always a local sports book to take his bets.

As for his wife … their marriage had been shaky at best. My fault , thought Harry, lying in his bed one night in British Columbia, a rented cottage, a diamond-blue lake. Harry still getting used to the silence. No garbage trucks, no sirens. No thumping bass from the floor above. The gambling had made her crazy, drove them apart. That was all my fault …

For the first year or so he sent her cryptic postcards—Hong Kong unreal … looking forward to the Seven Corners—relayed through relatives, family friends. She had a collection of small teacups … . He bought one or two, wrapped them carefully in bubble wrap and packed them beneath his socks, carted them from city to city. He underlined the local attractions in a Lonely Planet book and drove to each one, taking pictures of waterfalls and scenic overlooks and seeing them less and less through her eyes. One morning—the streets full of snow, Chicago weather—he bought a cloned cell from a street hustler in Montreal and phoned her. He couldn’t decide which was sadder, that he had to identify himself to his own wife, or the way she said nothing, then hung up on him. He mailed one more postcard. He left the teacups in a Chinese restaurant.

It’s for the best, he thought. This way they’d leave her alone. Someday he’d make it up to her. And the next time he met someone … he’d make better choices. Be a better man.

Harry had no illusions about his own fate, though. Someday, someone would find him …

“What’ll it be tonight, Harry?” Reverend Tim, the ponytailed bartender in the Dealers Lounge, was already reaching for Harry’s brand. He was used to seeing Harry about this time every night, used to Harry’s vague answers about his day and his past. Everyone in Vegas had baggage, came from somewhere else. He’d worked on Wall Street himself, before receiving the Word and a mail-order ordination.

“Crown Royal?” said Tim. “Single? Or double?”

“What did the Bulls do tonight?”

“Spurs by eleven, Harry. I keep telling you, don’t bet against the Spurs.”

“I don’t like the Spurs,” Harry said. “I like the Bulls.” He climbed on the barstool carefully, as though getting on a horse. “Better make it a double.”

He was on his third drink when the guide came through the lobby, off duty now, her plastic name badge gone. Her name was Anne Turner, he’d caught that much in the chapel. He watched her hesitate before finally taking a seat a few stools down from Harry.

“Bacardi and tonic, please,” she said, putting her purse on the counter. He noticed the white skin on her ring finger. Harry’s wedding ring was currently in a pawnshop in Reno.

He watched Tim light her cigarette, watched as she crossed her legs, did that thing with the loafer absentmindedly scratching her leg. She looked tired. Harry thought she was near his age, thirty-five or so, a graduate of one of those women’s colleges—Smith or Vassar or something—where she’d learned Italian and maybe French as well, thinking she’d use them on leisurely trips to Europe, traveling in much different circumstances than EZ Tours provided—Harry could construct a whole life for her if given enough time; it was a bad habit of his.

He asked if he could buy her a drink.

“I have one, thanks,” she said, then looked at him closer, as if studying his accent hanging in the air. “You’re from Chicago?”

“Born and raised,” he said. “You?”

“Rockford,” she said. “Small world, huh.”

“A big old goofy world,” Harry agreed. It was unusual for him to give out personal information so freely. But there was something disarming about her. “I saw you in the chapel, a little while ago …”

“Herding my sheep,” she said, stirring her drink. “I shouldn’t complain, they’re a good group. Better than most of the faculty groups.”

“You left out a few of my favorite stories,” Harry said. “The one with the midget wedding, for example. Always a crowd pleaser.”

“I wasn’t so sure how that would translate,” she said, smiling—a real smile, too, not the kind she used on her job. It left her face softer, a bit weary. “Academics don’t have the best sense of humor.”

“So this group … they’re all professors? From Italy?”

“One or two are from Columbia,” she said. “I think it’s some sort of exchange program. But everyone’s practicing their Italian. You must speak it if you were listening before.”

“A little. My family’s from there, originally. And my old man slipped into the vernacular whenever he had too much wine.” He could smell her perfume now, competing with the smoky air in the casino. “New York’s kind of a change from Rockford … .”

“Tell me about it.”

They talked for a while about New York and Italy, and Chicago, and Rockford.

“I miss it sometimes,” she said. “Not the town. My family …” Her sister had twin girls. Her father raised dairy cattle. He asked her a few questions; she seemed reluctant to say more. He didn’t press her.

“Here’s to the great Midwest,” Harry said. “Farmers, corn, and soybeans.”

“And cows. Don’t forget the cows.”

“Let’s drink to the cows.”

It had been a while since he’d done this, talked to a woman who wasn’t a dealer or a pit boss. He was slow to notice the way she slipped off her shoes and grew more comfortable around him, slow to catch the signs she was transmitting, letting him buy her a second drink, then a third, not pausing a beat in her story when he moved to the stool next to hers.

“—two weeks in Guadalajara, a week in Paris, I never know where they’re gonna send me next. Which makes it sort of fun. I just have to cram for each trip like finals in college. Read the guide books.” She shrugged. “Fake the rest.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Forever.”

“Some of the men must give you a hard time. That guy tonight in the blue sport jacket, for example … he looks like a handful. He sure doesn’t look like a professor.”

“Mr. Rossi? He’s a sweetheart, really. I think he teaches comparative lit. But his Italian needs some major work.” She checked her watch, slipped her shoes back on. “I should get going …”

“When does your group leave tomorrow?”

“Nine a.m. We’re going to Red Rock Canyon. Lots of cactus, apparently. According to Frommer’s.”

She was staying in the hotel. “A very tiny room,” she said. “A very tiny bed.” This was not a sign even Harry could miss.

They were upstairs, kissing, when Harry told her he thought the room would do just fine.

Housekeeping woke him at ten, presented him with fresh towels. He’d been dreaming of blue seas and dark mysterious fish, an underwater world glimpsed through the windows of a glass-bottomed boat. He showered and shaved and used the small coffee maker and wondered at his luck in finding Anne. The note she’d left—if it’s Tuesday, this must be Red Rock—struck the perfect note; no complications implied. He had a vague memory of her slipping from bed, her hair down. He remembered how small she’d looked in the moonlight.

His own job was at the far end of the strip, a small trendy restaurant—New Southwest cooking, served on square metal plates—where he waited tables and sometimes tended bar; his own home was an hour away, a two bedroom apartment in a very untrendy suburb. He’d lived there a year. The walls were still bare. There were lawn chairs in the living room, an old chaise lounge for a couch.

He worked the lunch shift, left at four, brought home a Cobb salad and ate it standing in his kitchen: He reviewed the horses scheduled for tomorrow at Churchill and Arlington Park, phoned in a few bets, mostly offshore books. He took his second shower of the day. What was Anne doing? He pictured her hiking through the Canyon. And what was she wearing? Cute walking shorts maybe. White sneakers. He looked through his wardrobe and tried to remember when he had last shopped for clothes.

There was an outlet mall a few miles from where Harry lived. Sammy’s Sportswear promised designer clothes at insanely low prices.

“Just like Versace,” the salesman said, when Harry picked up a pair of slacks and found a shirt he liked. “Better, really. Because this you can wash. The dry cleaning eats you alive these days, am I right?” The shoes were half-price. He told the salesman to bag his old clothes.

At seven Harry walked through the casino’s main lobby, stopped briefly at the gift shop to buy a paper, saw Anne with her group inside Chow’s; she waved at him with her chopsticks. She was surrounded by the three men from her group. The big one in the blue sport jacket sat just to her right. He looked over at Harry, a smile that doubled as a smirk.

He played video poker for an hour or so, just killing time. He talked to Jackie, his favorite roulette girl at table six, but didn’t play. There was always a buzz in this place, from the crowd, from the action, it pulled you in, but for some reason tonight Harry felt beyond its grasp.

“Finally,” Anne said an hour later, appearing suddenly at his side. Her perfume took him back to last night. “They’re going to see the show at the Bellagio. I think they can make it two blocks without me.”

“How was the desert?”

“Dry,” she said. “Very dry. I need a drink.”

He took her away from the Strip, to a place Harry liked with a small trio and good Scotch and they played pool, straight eight ball; she had a nice, soft touch. He introduced her to the owner and the waitresses and then drove her past a few other favorite haunts, local bars mostly but a few artsy spots too, that house where so and so lived, the famous writer, the hot singer, galleries, a sculpture garden mixed with cactus and white sand. I’m acting like a tour guide, he thought. It had been a while since he’d felt like sharing these things with anyone.

“This is nice,” she said at one point, sipping a Mai Tai through a straw. He liked her sundress and sandals, her bare legs, the way she changed the radio station without asking. He liked just about everything about her.

It was midnight when they stopped at Molly’s, a casino/taco joint used by locals the way gamblers in other states use lottery machines, a daily quick fix; just three tables and a single-zero wheel, wedged between a Laundromat and take-out Thai. The wheel wasn’t smooth like those on the Strip; it made loud clicking noises with each turn, like a car with a flat. They sat on bar stools and watched chips being moved on the layout. Harry explained the rules, a bit of strategy.

“I have to bet something,” he said. It felt like his lucky night. Nineteen red was his usual bet but he moved it one over one for the hell of it. In honor of Anne.

“Because we’re neighbors,” he said to her, smiling. A Rockford girl.

“Aren’t the odds rather bad in roulette?” Anne said.

“You did your homework. It depends on the table, how you bet. But yes, you’re better off at blackjack, or even slots. I like roulette, though. Watching the bounce. You play this number or that number and the rest is fate.”

He was moving chips around now, making inside bets, corner bets, he felt like it was his night. And he kept winning. Nothing big, he didn’t want to jinx the feeling by pushing it.

“I could really use your help tomorrow,” said Anne. “It’s gambling day, for my group.”

“Doesn’t the casino provide someone?”

“They have a little presentation planned,” she said, nodding. “But I don’t think they stick around. If you’re not busy, maybe you could come over and help me answer questions … it would really help.”

“Sure.” Her leg warm against his.

Slow down, Harry …

In the parking lot he had this sudden urge to tell her who he really was. Just confess, get it out there for once. The moment passed. They held hands, kissed leaning against the hood of the car, like teenagers. He felt insanely happy.

“My place is just a few minutes from here,” said Harry. “It’s nothing fancy, believe me. But if you want, if you feel like it … Instead of your hotel.”

“That would just be so nice,” she said.

The gambling seminar provided by the casino was indeed cursory, enough to make everyone feel comfortable around the tables, without the strategy needed to win anything. There was a slide show with cartoon dice, a short Q & A. Everyone had Styrofoam coffee cups and pastries balanced on their knees. Afterwards, Harry tagged along with Anne from table to table, answering questions, relaying things through her, letting her translate. It reminded him of the postcards he sent to his wife, through his sister-in-law. Most of the group had a basic idea of the games.

They had a late lunch—they were on Vegas time now—and Harry stood in line at the buffet chatting with a lady from Manhattan. It felt nice talking to strangers again and everyone was very nice to Harry.

He was headed to the men’s room when he saw Reverend Tim motioning for him from the Dealers Lounge.

“Nice shirt,” Tim said, fingering the material. “What is this, silk?”

“Don’t start.”

“New pants, too. And shoes … I’m sure she approved.”

“It’s that obvious, is it?” Harry said and Tim laughed.

“She seemed real nice, Harry. Good for you. Good for you both.” He leaned across the counter. “Reason I wanted to talk … there’s a guy asking questions. About you.”

“Really.”

“Big fella,” Tim said. “Eye-talian. Wondered if you’d be in. This was last night, maybe two, two-thirty.”

“What was his name?”

“Lemme see. Russell? Ross?”

“Rossi.”

“That’s it,” Tim said. “Had a bunch of questions … where you lived, how long you’ve been in Vegas. Hinted he might be a fed … you been paying your taxes, Harry?”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Nothing,” Tim said. “I mean, you’re in the book, he can find you if he wants to talk to you. Right?”

The lights seemed brighter now. Harry walked back to the table, sat down next to Anne. His heart was pounding. The conversation turned to tomorrow’s final day and the group’s trip to Hoover Dam. Rossi sat at the back of the room, just like Harry would do.

“I’m bringing my kids the next time,” someone said. “They’d do better at the video games than I did today.”

“My kids would like the water park,” said another. Harry found it hard to concentrate. He laughed when the others laughed, nodded absentmindedly, said yes I see … yes, you’re right. Time to go, Harry. For a second he was back in that room in west Chicago, someone’s hands on his throat. He stood to go.

“All this water.” It was Rossi, moving his coffee to a closer seat. “Harry, you’re the expert on Vegas. Help me out here. Because I find this fascinating. I mean, we’re supposed to be in the desert, right? And yet you see nothing but water everywhere … the fountains, inside and out, the water sculptures … theme parks, with log flume rides.” His accent was New York, but it seemed to come and go. Harry realized he’d never really heard him speak Italian.

“They have Lake Mead,” said someone. “The Colorado River … I don’t think water’s such a problem.”

“We’ll learn more about this tomorrow,” said Anne. “At the dam.”

“Yes, okay,” said Rossi. “But even so … don’t you find it curious? I mean, it’s still a desert, isn’t it? Water should be like gold around here.”

“I think that’s the point,” Harry said. His voice sounding strange to him, as though his ears were stopped up.

“We’re supposed to be impressed by all the wealth? The money? The same reason they build these ridiculously huge buildings?”

“Something like that.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Rossi said. “Unfortunately, it’s always someone else’s money.” He smiled. “Isn’t it, Harry?”

“God, what a day,” said Anne, taking off one earring and walking to the bathroom. It was only nine p.m., but both of them were tired. The small hotel room seemed like a refuge now to Harry. “The noise level in that casino …”

I should just run, he thought. He’d done so before, with much less provocation. How big was Rossi, anyway? Too big to fight, it wasn’t Harry’s style anyway … he must be two-twenty at least. And where was Rossi now, in his hotel room, probably, phoning Chicago … . I’ve got the bastard … .

He waited until Anne had closed the bathroom door, then unzipped her briefcase.

Andrews, Mazzio, Rossi …

The names were written in neat blue script, one to a folder. Rossi’s original reservation form was here; it listed a Brooklyn address. Rossi, Michael. Harry didn’t know New York well enough to tell if it was bogus or not. There was no driver’s license or social security number on the form, nothing personal. The rest must be back in the travel agency’s office, and he’d have to ask Anne directly for that. He wrote down Rossi’s room number. On the nineteenth floor … Harry’s lucky number.

The toilet flushed; Harry returned the files, zipped the bag. Had she laid it here, on the desk? Or on the chair? He couldn’t remember, and she was back in the room before he could decide.

“Do they make the rooms that noisy on purpose, do you think? To distract the gamblers?”

Harry said he didn’t know.

She sat on the edge of the bed, examining the heel of one of her shoes. “Damn, I can’t believe this is breaking already, these were so expensive—”

“I know a guy can fix that,” Harry said. His voice sounded flat. “How’d the rest of the group do? Professor Rossi, for example?”

“You know, I’m not sure. I didn’t see him after lunch.”

“Have you talked to him at all?”

“No more than the others,” she said. “He’s kind of an odd duck. Turns out most of the others in the group don’t even know him. He’s not from the university … I’m not sure what he’s doing on this tour.”

Harry said there must be an explanation for that.

“I suppose. But I’m too tired to worry about it,” she said. “Besides, after tomorrow night I’ll be back in New York, and Professor Rossi can go his merry way.”

Harry woke at three, staring at the ceiling. Drunks laughing in the hallway, the parade of neon outside his window. He listened to Anne’s gentle breathing beside him.

Just get up and leave. Now. It didn’t make any sense. The guys back in Chicago weren’t exactly known for their subtlety. Hiring someone who could fit in with a group like this … why bother? Plus, if he’s asking all these questions … he must not be sure it’s him, not yet. So why not just pull me aside, put a gun to my head and find out? Why the song and dance?

Rossi was what, six-two, six-three?

He could see the ball bounce back and forth on the wheel.

If it’s Sunday this must be Hoover Dam … Her note was taped to the bathroom mirror. She’d be back at three. The flight back to New York left at seven. He folded the note, saved it like a kid with a valentine.

He rang Rossi’s room, let it ring until the operator came back on and said the party wasn’t answering, did Harry wish to leave a message? He called long distance and got the number for Columbia University. There was no Professor Michael Rossi listed.

His landlord Mrs. Loomis was outside his building when he parked the Blazer. She told him Harry’s brother had stopped by yesterday, wanted to be admitted to his apartment … she wasn’t sure she should do that. So she didn’t. “I’m hoping I didn’t cause a problem,” she said. “You know. A family squabble.”

“No, you did the right thing,” he said. No wonder Rossi left the casino after the buffet lunch. And if he’s been here once, he’ll be back … .

He checked the locks. There were new scratches on the patio door. Or was that his imagination? Harry had a gun, a Luger that he bought from a Navajo at a gun show in Las Cruces. He kept it loaded and wrapped in a Motel Six towel under his bed. Just bringing it out now, checking the bullets—something clicked in his mind.

He decided to pack.

There was a routine to leaving … he gave himself over to it, cleaned out the carryout leftovers in the fridge, bagged the sports pages and old racing forms that made up his library, paid the few bills sitting in his shoe box, picked up some dry cleaning, filled the Blazer’s gas tank. He bought some fruit and bottled water and a new map of Mexico. He’d never been there. He could stop at Nogales first, say goodbye to Harry Chase. He could be in Santa Cruz by nightfall.

Something was holding him back, though, and he couldn’t tell if it was his age, that he was just getting tired of the whole damn thing … or something else. Like Anne. How much could he tell Anne anyway? How much did he trust her?

He drove to Fremont Street, a place he rarely visited, lost himself in the crowds of conventioneers and low rollers, sat with the housewives playing nickel slots, barely concentrating. He drank whatever they offered him. Twice he got the note out of his pocket. Twice he started to call Anne on her cell.

Just leave, Harry, go … .

Boulder City was an hour’s drive from Vegas. There were no casinos there so Harry had never seen the point in visiting. He found a row of tour buses; one of them must be Anne’s. He asked two different park rangers if they’d seen her group. His description—a very pretty blonde lady with a group of professors, EZ Tours—didn’t ring any bells. Harry paid for a tour of his own, and then walked down a long series of steps to a sight-seeing platform. The sun was unbelievably bright, bouncing off the white concrete. He bought a lemonade and a candy bar and walked to another platform, waded through another group of tourists. Everyone was in shorts and windbreakers, everyone spoke French, Spanish, Japanese … where were the goddamn Italians, thought Harry.

And then he saw them, a small half circle gathered around a female ranger, two flights of steel steps below. There was Anne, one hand shading her face from the sun; Rossi, a few feet behind, watching the way Harry would watch; a man apart. He’d shed his jacket, was dressed in a loud red shirt and white slacks, wire sunglasses, white shoes. He still didn’t look like a professor. What was he doing here? Why was he still maintaining the façade?

Harry followed them until they’d finished their tour, heard Anne announce that the bus would leave “in thirty minutes, people, don’t be late, okay, please?” It was souvenir time.

He watched Rossi leave with the other two men, then caught up with Anne outside the gift shop. He loved the smile she gave him.

“What are you doing here?” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“No, but I had to see you—we have to talk, now—it couldn’t wait—”

“I’m coming back, you know. To the hotel. Didn’t you get my note?”

He hesitated. He’d rehearsed this all the way here but now his mind went blank.

“Let’s sit down,” he said, pulling her out of sight, to a wooden bench.

“Harry, what’s this about?” She lit a cigarette, waved away the smoke. “Sorry, I should quit these—”

“Don’t go back to New York, Anne.”

“What?”

“Come with me. I’m leaving Vegas … I was thinking maybe Mexico but if you’d rather go somewhere else, that would be fine, no problem, maybe Mexico’s too rough for you, or too hot, it doesn’t matter … .” Racing now to explain it, and hating the confusion he saw in her face. And dreading how this would end. I lied to you, Anne … please forgive me …

“We could go to Europe,” Harry said. “I always wanted to see Venice … or Athens—”

“Harry, don’t be silly … I can’t just leave.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t. This is my job. These people are my responsibility.” She patted his hand, like a nurse with a patient. “Harry, you knew I had to leave today.”

“I know but—”

“Come to New York,” she said. “Or wait—I can get another tour group for Vegas, they must do them all the time. One or two weeks, after I clear my calendar, they have me going to Orlando and Naples and then I can be back.”

He shook his head. “I won’t be here in one or two weeks.”

“What?”

“Anne, has Rossi ever asked you about me?”

“Professor Rossi? No, why would he? Harry, what did you mean, you won’t be here?”

“Are you sure? Think about it. Maybe it was just an aside in a conversation … or maybe you overheard him asking someone else in the group about me …”

“What does Professor Rossi have to do with this?”

“I’m leaving now, Anne. My bags are in my car.” He checked the hallway again; there was still no sign of Rossi. “Come with me … . forget the tour group, you’ve got your purse … whatever you need we can pick up later … .”

“Harry, I have to get back,” she said, as though playtime was over. She kissed him and started to get up and he knew he’d have to tell her everything or lose her forever.

Ten years of his life. It wasn’t hard—once he started, everything spilled out. She didn’t look at him, just smoked nervously, tapping her foot—he could see her thoughts spinning, trying to decide where to land. Was he nuts? Or for real? And how could she decide this so fast?

“I should have told you before now,” he said. “I started to, several times, believe me.”

She didn’t answer. She was looking past him, for a second he thought Rossi was there and he turned and faced an empty hallway. When she finally spoke her cigarette was finished and her voice was a whisper.

“You left her,” she said.

“What?”

“Your wife. You left her behind … .”

“I had to, Anne. I had no choice.” Afraid at first of being called a criminal, a thief, he saw now what she was thinking … You would leave me too, Harry …

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I swear.”

“But how could I be sure? After what you did? How could I trust you?”

There was no answer for that.

“You really think Rossi works for these men in Chicago?” she said.

He nodded.

“After ten years … they’d still come for you? Was it that much money?”

“They’d come if it was a dollar fifty,” he said. “A bus token. Anything in my pocket that should be in theirs … they’d come.” He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. He was frightened right now, but not of Rossi. He was scared of losing her. “I know it’s not fair, asking you like this.”

“I’ve only known you three days, Harry.”

“I know.”

“Three days.”

She shook her head.

“I can’t say yes or no out here,” she said. “In the middle of nowhere. Meet me tonight, back at the hotel. We leave for the airport at six.”

“Anne …”

“That’s the best I can do, Harry. I’m not asking for much. Just a few hours to digest all this. Before I decide.”

“So you’re thinking about it at least?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m thinking about it.”

He sat in a small lounge near the elevators on nineteen. He read USA Today, and when someone walked by he nodded and talked about the weather, just another friendly tourist. When Rossi got off the elevator Harry asked if he’d seen today’s paper, and he showed him the gun.

“If you’re robbing me, you’re going to be very disappointed,” Rossi said. His room was just across the hall. “None of those little tricks you showed us in the casino worked very well.”

“Open the door,” Harry said.

“Is this a joke then?” Rossi said. “One of those practical jokes—is there a camera somewhere?” Still not moving, just that annoying smile—Harry had to shove the gun hard in his back to get him to open the door. He didn’t blame him, he wouldn’t want to do it either. The hall was much safer.

“Stand over there,” Harry said, after patting him down. “By the TV. Put your hands up on the shelf.” The room was even smaller than Anne’s. The bed had been turned down, with the radio left on low, wrapped mints on the pillow.

“I want to know how much you told them,” Harry said. He wished he’d brought some rope. Or stopped at one of the adult boutiques on the Strip, they all sold handcuffs. “Do they know I’m in Las Vegas? And are you the only one here?”

Rossi didn’t answer. The wallet was cheap plastic, with the price tag still tucked in one pocket. There was just a New York driver’s license, and cash, two or three hundred in mixed bills. No credit cards.

“Can I sit down now?” Rossi said, and Harry nodded, motioning with the Luger. “We did so much walking today, I’m going to sleep real real good tonight. Hoover Dam is one of the seven wonders of the world, did you know that?”

“Whoever sold you the license should use better ink,” said Harry, tossing it back in Rossi’s lap. “It’s a fake. What’s your name?”

Again, no answer. Harry realized he would have to be rough to get anything out of him. It wasn’t his style but he was frightened enough to adapt. He’d been worked over a couple of times back in Chicago. He figured he knew the basic steps.

Rossi must have been thinking the same thing.

“The rest of the group’s back at the hotel now too, you know,” said Rossi. “The airport bus leaves in a few minutes, and if I’m not there someone will come looking for me. Hotel security perhaps, then the Las Vegas police.” Calm, treasonable. Still the professor.

“What’s your real name?” said Harry.

“It was originally known as Boulder Dam,” said Rossi. “And did I mention it’s one of the seven wonders of the world?”

He used the side of the Luger. It caught Rossi by surprise. He slid off the chair, landing on his knees, face down, blood dripping from one nostril. “Son-of-a …” The curse landed on the carpet. So did Rossi, when Harry’s second blow came even harder, and connected with Rossi’s cheekbone.

“You do that again,” Rossi said but didn’t finish the threat, gagging now, sniffing back blood. The New York accent was gone. So was the smile.

“So what’s your fucking name?” Harry put the gun to his temple.

“Top desk drawer,” said Rossi. “In the Triple A packet.”

There was a 9mm Glock guarding the drawer. The real wallet was curved black leather. Another thousand was tucked in the fold; these bills were new, crisp hundreds. The driver’s license belonged to a Norman Stone. Norman had a Visa, MasterCard, American Express. Norman was an organ donor. And Norman had a private detective’s license, too.

“They’re using P.I.s now?” Harry said. “They don’t have enough thugs on the payroll?”

There were photos below the packet, six or seven, grainy exposures from a cheap zoom lens. Harry and Anne sitting and talking in the Dealers Lounge, driving in Harry’s car. Harry coming out of Anne’s room …

“What are these for?”

“Take a real wild guess, Harry.” He struggled back into the chair. His mouth was bleeding now, too. “Get me a goddamn towel, will you? And some ice—they usually fill the bucket by now—”

“How much have you told them?”

“Christ, Harry, I think you broke my fucking jaw—”

“How much?”

Rossi wiped his hands on the drapes. “The real question here, Harry, is how much has she told you? Because you’re doing her, aren’t you? Unless you’re playing Scrabble in there at night. Or Monopoly. You playing Monopoly with her, Harry?”

“Leave her out of this.”

“Little Miss Anne Turner, our fearless leader …”

“I said leave her out of this.”

“Jesus … I get it,” said Rossi, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You think I’m here for you, don’t you?” He was laughing now. “You crazy fucker. No wonder I couldn’t trace you. What’d you do, steal somebody’s lunchbox?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Her name’s not Anne Turner, Harry. It’s Myra Hendricks. And the last guy she played board games with disappeared. As in quote unquote disappeared.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been following me, asking questions about me—”

“Only because you’re with her, Harry. Believe me. Before Tuesday I never heard of you in my life.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“And normally, quite honestly … I could care less what you believed. But since you’re pointing a gun at met …” He shrugged. “Like I said, her name’s Myra Hendricks. And she’s not from New York, not originally … she’s from downstate Illinois.’

“I know where she’s from. She told me that.”

“Did she also tell you about her husband?”

“She’s divorced.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” Rossi said. “Jack Hendricks felt the sudden need to take a midnight stroll eighteen months ago. No one’s seen him since. Myra got the money. Or rather, she will get the money, in another month, when they finally declare the husband dead. After that I doubt we’ll ever see Myra again.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Another shrug.

“Who’s paying you?”

“That’s confidential.” He paused. “A family member. But everything’s public record. Check the papers, knock yourself out.”

“I still don’t believe it.” And most of him didn’t. But a part of him couldn’t decide … the part that had kept him alive these past ten years, the toughened, calloused part … that whispered anything was possible, anyone could betray him. And remembered every hesitation of Anne’s, every reluctance to answer simple questions.

He stood up, gripped the Luger in his palm. He’d have to hit him harder this time, enough to knock him out, give Harry a head start … .

“You thinking of living with her, happy ever after?” Rossi said. “Be my guest. Buy a house in the burbs, raise lots of rug rats.

“But I wouldn’t go for any late night strolls if I was you,” Rossi said.

She was waiting for him in the secluded spot they’d both chosen, sitting on the bench like a schoolgirl waiting for a bus.

“I thought maybe you’d changed your mind,” she said. “I packed but I don’t really have the clothes for Mexico, maybe we could stop somewhere—”

She stopped, seeing something different on his face. He didn’t try to hide it.

“Rossi’s name is Norman Stone,” he said. “He’s working for your father-in-law.”

“What?”

“He’s on to you, Anne. He told me everything. But I don’t care.” Driving over here he’d realized, it’s better this way. She would understand him better. They would leave Rossi far behind, just start over, both of them, clean and fresh and it would all be okay. “Whatever happened … I just don’t care.”

“Harry, what did he tell you? What are you talking about? Because you’re scaring me again. Sit here, with me. Slow down.”

“There isn’t time—”

“Harry, whatever he told you, it was a lie to get away from you. Don’t you see?”

She reached for his arm. Her face blank somehow. He bent down to kiss her.

“Harry …” It was Rossi. Stepping out from behind a fence. A different gun in his right hand, military stance …

The ball bounced

“Move away from her, Harry,” Rossi screamed, “I can’t get a clear shot.”

The wheel spun

Harry felt the first shot whiz by him.

“Shoot him, Harry,” Anne said, clinging to him. “For God’s sake, just shoot him, now.” Looking into his eyes …

She is not who you think she is, Harry …

There were shots that sounded like popped balloons. One of them stung Harry’s left arm, the one closest to Anne, and she screamed, and turned towards him. She was saying something, over and over, and it took a few seconds for Harry to understand.

“I can’t go back with him, Harry. I can’t.”

He was sitting on the ground, the sun in his face, his chest on fire.

Last bets, everyone …

“Harry!”

He tried to talk but there was just a gurgling sound …

The wheel slowed …

He raised his own gun and emptied it into Rossi.

“Harry … my God, Harry, hold on,” Anne said. Everything was spinning now. His last sight was of Anne. Crying, holding onto him. He couldn’t feel her, though. He couldn’t feel anything. There was just her perfume. And the dealer smiling, saying he had won.

And then the wheel finally stopped.