Emmett Druperman’s office was known familiarly to the staff as “the Bridge” in recognition of his post as de facto captain of the Galaxy Hotel and Casino. The sixty-three-year-old chief executive officer presided over a staff of four thousand people, most of whom wholeheartedly agreed with his flagrant self-characterization as the toughest son of a bitch in Vegas.
Behind his back he had been nicknamed Droopy, a sobriquet reflecting as much his personal appearance as his surname. Everything about Emmett Druperman drooped. A single black eyebrow set in a disapproving V flopped like hairy Spanish moss above his eyes, while sets of concentric bags the color of ripe eggplant hung below them. Druperman’s face resembled that of an angry bloodhound—a resemblance reinforced by a pair of elongated ears that ended in rubbery half-dollar-size earlobes. Nor was the CEO’s drooping confined to his face—his shoulders slumped, his stomach sagged, and his suits, to the despair of his tailors, invariably bagged at elbows, waist, and knees. Yet regardless of this excessive droopiness, he commanded the respect, if not the affection, of his employees and the grudging admiration of his competitors in the industry.
He had been shrewd enough to publicly dissociate himself from the mob influences that dominated the Las Vegas of a generation ago—although it was rumored that his private address book still included the coordinates of certain individuals not unknown to federal law enforcement agencies—and had managed to effect a seamless transition to the lily-white corporate propriety into which his industry had metamorphosed.
Now, at the dawn of the twenty-first century, Druperman reported only to the board of directors of Summit Enterprises, the giant conglomerate
that counted among its assets more than a hundred subsidiaries, including cable networks, movie theater chains, car-rental companies, and resort hotels. Among all its investments, the most productive cash cow was the Galaxy, and in deference to his successful track record, the board had handed Emmett Druperman virtual carte blanche. Their only criterion was a steady growth in the bottom line, which Druperman had consistently delivered.
The speakerphone buzzed.
“Mr. D?” Edith asked.
“What?” he snapped impatiently, annoyed at this distraction from his tenth reading of the letter.
“Mr. Hooper from the United Hotel Workers is here.”
Druperman put down the letter and unwrapped a fifteen-dollar cigar, the first of three he allowed himself daily. “I’m busy. Tell that fat prick to go shake down some bellboys for tips.”
“He says it’s important.”
“Important to who?” the CEO asked rhetorically as he bit off the cigar’s tip and spat the plug onto the broadloom. “Just tell Hooper he’s had my last offer. I don’t want to see or hear from him or his goddamn union again until they’re ready to say uncle.” Druperman pushed the speakerphone button, lit a match, and raised it to his cigar.
Suddenly, a wild thought struck him. Or maybe not so wild. He pushed the button again. “Wait a minute, Edith.” He shook the match out, his cigar unlit. “Is Hooper still there?”
“Yes, Mr. D.”
“Send him in.”
Five seconds later the door opened and an overweight, sweating man in a wrinkled tan suit waddled into Druperman’s office. Forcing a toothy smile, the union negotiator extended his hand. Druperman ignored it and impatiently waved him to a seat.
“Good to see you, Emmett,” Hooper began. “I trust—”
“Shut up, Hooper.” Druperman half rose and without preamble flourished the brown envelope in his visitor’s face. “Are you and your goons responsible for this crap?”
The smile faded from Hooper’s florid countenance. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Because if you are, I’ll arrange a little visit from a couple of my friends. From the old days.”
The fat man paled at the mention of his host’s legendary mob connections. “Honest to God, Emmett, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Druperman eyed his visitor skeptically. He extracted the letter, videotape, and Dunes chip from the brown envelope. “You had nothing to do with this … this shakedown, this threat?”
Hooper reached for the letter, but Druperman pulled it back and laid it on the desk in front of his visitor.
“Don’t touch it; just read it.”
Hooper’s eyes widened as he scanned the letter. “Christ, no. We may not be choirboys, but we don’t do stuff like this.”
“I’ve heard otherwise.”
“My mother’s grave, Emmett.”
“I’d better not find out different, Hooper.”
“Come on, Emmett. You don’t really think it was us. I never even heard of this Las Vegas Casino Association outfit,” he said nervously. “Besides, what good would … threatening you guys do?”
The CEO considered this for a moment, then fixed Hooper with an icy stare. “You know what, my fat friend? You’re right. Threatening me and … my associates—what, to screw concessions out of us?—would be pretty fucking stupid, even for you guys.”
“We’d never—”
“Matter of fact, if there’s any threatening to be done around here, I’ll be the one doing it.”
The union man forced a smile and faked a chuckle. “What a sense of humor you got, Emmett—”
“You think I’m kidding, Hooper? I say the word, you’ll be sharing accommodations with Jimmy Hoffa, permanently.”
“Jesus Christ, Emmett, I come in to see you with the best of intentions, and all’s you do is treat me like shit.”
Druperman picked up his unlit cigar and reached for the matches. “Well, I’m real sorry if I overestimated you.”
The negotiator considered Druperman’s last remark and frowned briefly, unsure whether he’d been further insulted. “No offense taken,” he said, pasting the smile back on. “Now, there’s just a couple of outstanding contract items I’m sure you and me can—”
“I told you last time, Hooper, no more contract talk.” Druperman consulted his desk calendar. “You’ve got exactly six days before I start firing.
And by the way, don’t breathe a word about this letter to anybody, understand? If it gets around, I’ll know it was you.”
The CEO stared stonily at his visitor, who gathered himself up and prepared to leave, another skirmish lost to this hard-nosed son of a bitch.
“Oh, and Hooper …”
Halfway to the door, the union man turned, his eyebrows raised hopefully.
“I do believe you about the letter.”
Hooper nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Emmett. You know we’d certainly—”
“You wouldn’t have the balls.” Druperman puffed his cigar alight. “Don’t slam the door.”
Diplomacy was foreign to Emmett Druperman’s nature; he subscribed to an unbending policy of survival of the strongest. It was a tactic that had generally served the company’s—and his own—interests well. Right now, with the Detroit boys testing the waters by attempting to gain job security, pay raises, and whatever fringe benefits they could dream up for the Galaxy’s service personnel, he was adamantly refusing to knuckle under, thereby incurring the wrath of the unions and of the affected employees—along with the gratitude of his competitors. The other owners were relieved that the union had targeted the Galaxy for this latest test of nerves. Most of them would have given in, sacrificed a little of their bottom line for labor peace. But not Druperman. His competitors knew he’d fight the union to his last breath. And probably win. Like his hero, Dean Rusk of Cuban missile crisis fame, Emmett Druperman would stand eyeball-to-eyeball with his adversaries until either they blinked or he dropped dead.
Druperman’s legendary toughness and his leadership ability were undoubtedly the reasons for his ascent to the presidency of the Las Vegas Casino Association. The LVCA was a highly secretive, high-powered group that included the heads of all the Strip casinos and many of the larger downtown establishments. It held a scheduled meeting once a month, more often if circumstances required. Each casino owner took a turn hosting the meeting, and until Druperman took over the position of president, it was a matter of pride to these wealthy men that each gathering should eclipse the previous one in luxury and splendor. Showgirls, expensive wines, charter flights to exotic locales—the sky was the limit. Upon his election, however,
Druperman quickly put an end to this practice, pointing out to his colleagues that it was stupid to waste money impressing each other—money that could be better spent where it would do some good, such as battling unions or bribing Gaming Commission officials.
Emmett Druperman glanced once again at the ominous brown envelope, and then at his watch. Almost nine. Where the fuck was his Vice President of Security?
At that moment, a somewhat haggard Steve Forrester cracked Druperman’s double doors and popped his head through. “Morning, Emmett,” he ventured warily.
“Closer to afternoon,” the CEO scowled. “Anyway, you’re here. Come in. Sit down. We’ve got a problem.”
Forrester was relieved to note that his boss’s anger appeared to be focused more on a certain padded brown envelope than on himself. “What’s wrong, Emmett?”
“What’s wrong? My hemorrhoids are killing me, that’s what’s wrong,” the CEO rasped. “The fucking unions won’t back down. That show business dago and his shyster agent are trying to screw me. And now this.” He slid the envelope across the polished desktop to his Vice President of Security. “I put the stuff back inside. This is just the way it came.” A rectangular address label on the outside bore the printed words, EMMETT DRUPERMAN, PRESIDENT OF LVCA, CONFIDENTIAL.
Forrester refrained from asking questions. Instead, he carefully emptied the envelope.
The computer-printed letter, the videotape, and the red five-dollar Dunes chip slid out.
The younger man read from the letter aloud: “‘ATTENTION LAS VEGAS CASINO ASSOCIATION! WE WILL THIS WEEK STRIKE YOU HARD. WHAT WILL HAPPEN IS ON THE VIDEOTAPE HEREWITH SHOWN. THIS IS NOT A TRICK. WE HAVE THE KNOWLEDGE AND THE POWER TO TAKE THIS ACTION. AGAINST US THERE IS NO DEFENSE. A LARGE SUM OF MONEY MUST BE PAID TO STOP MORE ACTIONS. UNLESS YOU PAY WE WILL INCREASE THE STAKE. YOUR ORDERS WILL FOLLOW’. IT’S SIGNED ‘THANATOS.’”
Having scanned the letter silently at least a dozen times, Druperman had virtually memorized its contents. But it was only when he actually heard his vice president of security read the letter aloud that he noticed the
awkward English. Whoever wrote the letter was not only a criminal but a foreigner, too, a combination that did not sit well with the CEO. He drummed the desk, angry to have been forced into a situation over which he had no control. It was a position Emmett Druperman hated. He believed that knowledge was strength and that knowledge of your adversary was the key to successfully resolving any situation. But unlike his traditional opponents, bureaucrats and union organizers and entertainers’ agents, this enemy was faceless. Who were they and how dare they threaten him? Finally Druperman said, “Well?”
“We could have a serious problem, Emmett. Or it could be nothing.”
Druperman raised a bushy eyebrow and twisted uncomfortably in his chair. “For insight like this we pay you, what, two hundred large a year?”
Steve ignored the sarcasm, correctly assuming that it was mostly Emmett’s hemorrhoids doing the talking. “Any idea who or what Thanatos is?”
“Never heard the name before.”
“What’s on the tape?”
“Some kind of fucking movie. Put it in the machine and I’ll show you.” Forrester did as he was told; Druperman thumbed a remote control and the TV screen in the wall came to life.
After a few seconds of snow, the image of a grossly obese man slumped facedown in a plate of food appeared on the screen. The setting was a dark room. Somber mood music played in the background; it was obviously a clip from a movie. A black man who appeared to be playing the part of a detective entered the frame and shone a flashlight over the victim. Another man carrying a medical bag came into the room. A third man—young, white, handsome—asked the detective, “You thinkin’ it’s poison?” At that point the clip ended and the screen went blue. Forrester had vaguely recognized both the young white actor and the detective but was unable to come up with names.
“I fast-forwarded right to the end of the tape. There’s nothing else on it,” said Druperman. “So, Mr. Security. What do you make of it?”
“It’s pretty obvious. I don’t know what the name of the movie is but I don’t think it matters. The implication is clear.”
“It doesn’t take a genius. They’re going to poison somebody.”
Over the years, Steve Forrester had intercepted a number of threatening letters, both at the Galaxy and in his previous life as a detective in the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. None of the threats had ever materialized. But he had a funny feeling about this one.
“Sounds that way, Emmett. But at least the threat is directed against the association generally, not the Galaxy specifically.”
“What’s the difference? Whoever threatens the association threatens everybody in it. And everybody includes us.”
“Let’s analyze what we’ve got here.” Forrester forced himself to concentrate. “First, they’re smart enough not to use handwriting. There’s no postage stamp or courier slip, so they must have slipped it into the mail-room themselves or through an accomplice. They know your name and your position in the association.” He scanned the letter again, careful not to get any more fingerprints on it. “They’ve obviously done their homework—”
“Well, the fuckers sure got my attention,” Emmett snapped. “Not many people know the association even exists, let alone that I’m president of it.”
“These guys obviously do. They know that the association controls most of the money in this town, which, of course, is why they’ve targeted it. But the funny thing is, they haven’t told you how or when to pay the money. Or even how much they want.”
“You keep saying ‘they.’ What makes you think this is more than one guy? Maybe it’s just some crazy momser acting alone.”
“Could be, Emmett. Anything’s possible. The letter said ‘we’ and ‘us.’ I just have a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
“You know, cop’s instinct. Or ex-cop.”
The CEO raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And what does your ex-cop’s instinct tell you about this Dunes chip?”
Forrester carefully picked it up, using his handkerchief.
“I already touched it,” Druperman said unrepentantly.
“Probably doesn’t matter.” Mercifully, the Folgers was kicking in and Forrester’s hangover headache was beginning to subside. “The chip most likely has some weird significance, but right now I have no idea what.”
“And why the movie clip? Why go to all that trouble?”
“You mean, why not just write, ‘We’re going to poison somebody to prove how vulnerable you are,’ in the letter?”
“Yeah.”
“My best guess is that they wanted to … dramatize their threat. To make sure they had our attention.”
“Well, they got my attention. But I’ll tell you, Steve, that’s all the fuck they’re gonna get.”
“Emmett, quite frankly I’d be surprised—and disappointed—if you said anything else!”
“My friend, I’ve been shook down by the best in the business.” The CEO’s facial creases angled slightly upward and his drooping eyes displayed a hint of a twinkle. “They all rolled the dice with Emmett Druperman, and they all crapped out.”
“It wouldn’t be those redneck union boys trying to soften you up?”
“I already thought of that. I talked to Hooper. I don’t think they’ve got the balls or the brains.”
“You’re probably right. This isn’t their style.” Forrester surveyed the ceiling thoughtfully.
“So, what the hell do we do?” Druperman asked finally. “You think these ganifs are for real—or is this just some sick joke?”
“Well, I wouldn’t treat it lightly. It sounds like these people are laying the groundwork for some future extortion. But will they really follow through? And if so, who are they going to poison? And when? And where? And after that, what the hell happens? I’m wondering whether maybe you should alert the other members of the association.”
“They’re busy men. They don’t need this shit any more than I do.”
“Well, that’s up to you, boss. But I’d better get Metro in on it right away.”
“All right. But tell them to keep it unofficial. I don’t want this splashed across the front pages. It could be a fucking disaster.”
“I’ve still got contacts on the force. We can trust them to keep a lid on it. I’ll talk to Frank Marshall off the record—”
“Who’s Frank Marshall?”
“He was my partner when I was on the job. We’re not exactly bosom buddies anymore, but he’s a good cop. He can run all this stuff through the lab. I’ll check the mailroom myself to see if anybody saw the envelope delivered. But somehow I doubt if we’ll find anything significant.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Druperman.
“What’s that?”
“These bloodsuckers are not squeezing one lousy nickel from the Galaxy or from anybody else in the association as long as I’m president. Poison or no poison.”
At that moment, the CEO was totally unaware that his reaction not only had been anticipated but actually constituted the cornerstone of a plan that had begun to crystallize six months earlier … .