Barney Leopold was invincible, unstoppable, immortal.
He was Manolete braving the corrida, Saint George slaying the dragon, Chuck Yeager pushing the envelope.
The gambler had held the dice for an eternity. They were alive in his hands. When he whispered to them, they complied. When he shouted at them, they obeyed. And the crowd was riveted. A great roar would ascend to the very peak of the Galaxy’s atrium each time he made a winning pass, followed by a breathless silence while he massaged the gleaming red cubes in preparation for the next.
Without actually counting his chips—that was bad luck—the gambler was vaguely aware that he’d parlayed the ten grand, his last money on earth, into a small fortune. But right now the money didn’t matter. It was the action, the thrill, the adrenaline rush. It was the courting of disaster on every roll. It was the thrill of anticipation as the dice tumbled through the air, seemingly in slow motion, ready to do his bidding time after time.
Barney wasn’t just hot, he was sizzling.
The boxman had been obliged to replenish the table’s chip supply twice, and still the Californian hadn’t cooled down. Leopold was a do bettor, playing the pass line and placing the numbers, pressing up his bets.
Each time a new point was established, he backed up his pass-line bet with another bet—the free double odds—which effectively tripled the amount of his original bet.
He also placed large bets on the other five numbers.
All he needed was for the place numbers to happen, and ultimately the point to repeat, before a seven was rolled.
And they happened. And repeated. And happened. And repeated. Barney’s fingers were magic.
“Six, six, the point is six,” chanted the stickman.
Leopold stacked a pile of chips behind the pass line for his free odds bet. “Gimme twenty-six hundred on the numbers,” he commanded, tossing the dealer a handful of black and white chips. The dealer quickly placed five hundred each on the four, five, nine, and ten and six hundred on the eight.
Leopold rolled two deuces.
“Hard four. Pay the man nine hundred,” said the stickman.
“Press it up—with another hundred,” Leopold shouted over the excited clamor of the other players. The numbers kept coming.
“Easy four.”
“Five alive.”
“Ten easy.”
“Three craps.” This made no difference to Barney; he had dodged that particular bullet on the come-out roll.
“Nine.”
“Hard eight. No field.”
He rolled number after number, but never a seven except on his come-out rolls.
Finally, “Six easy, pay the line.”
Leopold had held the dice for over an hour. He was running out of space for his chips. He had filled the rack in front of him several times and his pockets were bulging.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, cutting through the euphoria like a TV commercial, a persistent little voice was trying to make itself heard.
You’ve done it, said the voice. You’ve got it all back even though God knows you don’t deserve it. You can pay off the sharks and the mortgage and the loans and get the car and the watch back, and Shirley doesn’t ever have to know how close you came to the edge. Maybe you can even buy your way back into the business.
For once in his life, Barney Leopold listened.
You’ve been given another chance. Don’t blow it this time.
With the Boston Red Sox cap and mirrored wraparound sunglasses, Buster Malloy felt reasonably confident in his anonymity.
As usual at dinnertime, there was a long line at the Cosmic Café. Malloy was obliged to wait almost half an hour to be seated.
“A single, sir?” inquired Gladys Adams, the hostess, when he finally reached the head of the queue. “Perhaps you’d care to sit at the counter?”
“Give me a table,” said Malloy brusquely.
“Smoking or nonsmoking?”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, sir. Right this way, please.” Gladys glanced at her customer curiously. There was something familiar about him, she thought as she wove through the tables with the big man in tow. Where have I seen him before? But without Buster’s uniform and his telltale eye patch, she failed to make the connection.
“How about this one in the corner?” Malloy demanded, indicating a table that was shielded from general view by a large potted palm.
“No problem, sir. Enjoy your meal.”
Malloy knew he’d have to wait several minutes to be served. He had carefully planned this little visit to coincide with the café’s busiest time. Making certain that he was unobserved, he pulled a pair of cotton work gloves from his windbreaker pocket. After surreptitiously slipping them on, he removed a padded brown envelope from inside his windbreaker and stuck it, using the double-sided tape he had applied earlier, to the underside of the table. Finally, he produced a small, clear plastic bag from his shirt pocket and unscrewed the chrome cap from the glass sugar dispenser.
By the time the waitress arrived to take his order, he had vanished.
“Sir, that’s five hundred and seventeen thousand, four hundred we owe you,” said the casino cashier. “Would you like a bank draft?”
Barney Leopold thought for a moment and smiled. “No, I’d prefer cash.” A check was so impersonal. Besides, he was aching to feel those crisp Ben Franklins between his fingers. The cash would substantiate his triumph; somehow it would justify his journey to the edge of the abyss.
“That will take some time, sir. I can give you a receipt for the chips now and have the money ready in a couple of hours.”
“Okay. I’ll grab a bite to eat while you do that,” said Barney. The cashier wrote out a receipt, which Leopold carefully folded and put in his shirt pocket. “See you later.”
The newly reformed gambler marched purposefully toward the coffee shop, eyes front past the scene of his recent victory, supremely confident in his newfound self-control.
The dinner crowd had left and there was no longer a line at the Cosmic Café. So far, Barney Leopold’s luck was holding.
He just didn’t realize how little of it he had left.
There were eight restaurants in the Galaxy complex, offering diners a choice of menus and ambience ranging from fast food at the Asteroid Snack Bar to the finest French cuisine in the four-star Zodiac Room. One of the perks senior Galaxy executives enjoyed was complimentary meals for themselves and their business guests in any of these restaurants—a privilege that Steve Forrester seldom abused. This time he intended to make an exception. There was no business talk on the menu tonight.
The maître d’ of the Zodiac Room greeted the Galaxy’s vice president of security warmly as he arrived for dinner. “Weel you be seated now, Monsieur Forrestair? Ze table is ready.”
“Thanks, François, but I’ll wait in the bar for my guest. Lucy Baker. When she arrives, please show her over.”
“Très bien, monsieur.”
The restaurant was configured in a circular shape and featured a domed roof painted in Renaissance style with each of the twelve signs of the zodiac. Twinkling lights set into the paintings represented the stars that formed the constellations.
Fiber-optic sprays lit each table with a sprinkling of rainbow colors. The tables were arranged in tiered concentric circles around a small central podium upon which a string quartet was lightly underscoring the patrons’ conversations with a pleasant selection of dinner music.
Every detail was artfully conceived to enhance the overall effect—which was nothing short of spectacular, Steve Forrester reflected with some proprietary pride as he surveyed the tableau from his barstool. There was no doubt that he worked for a classy joint.
The musicians paused momentarily to a scattering of polite applause, then picked up their instruments again. Forrester signaled the bartender for a double Jack Daniel’s, reflected briefly, and changed it to a single. There never was going to be a perfect time to ease up on the drinking, he mused as he sipped the drink, enjoying the warm glow it always imparted. But what the hell, tonight was as good as—
“Hello, Steve. I hope I’m not late.”
Forrester swiveled round on his stool and almost dropped the glass. She
looked absolutely delicious in a deep blue velvet sheath that accented her slim figure and perfectly matched the color of her eyes. Her dark hair was haloed with reflections from the zodiac stars. She wore very little makeup—just a touch of complementary eye shadow, but it was enough.
He smiled and took Lucy Baker’s arm.
Seated in the Cosmic Café, Barney Leopold was still under the influence of the euphoria he’d experienced at the craps table. He’d never felt so alive! Too bad his gambling days were over. He extracted the receipt from his pocket and unfolded it. In his heart he’d known all along that his luck would change; now he had the proof right here in his hands. Five hundred and seventeen thousand, four hundred dollars. No more sharks, no more stealing, no more lies—he was through with gambling. Permanently.
But then again, once he was back on his feet, who knew what might happen? In this life there were no absolutes; nothing was for sure, nothing was forever. And Lady Luck finally seemed to be swinging in his direction … .
The busboy appeared at his table.
“Your waitress will be right over, sir,” he said. “Would you like a coffee while you’re waiting?”
“Sure.”
The kid inverted the cup and filled it. Leopold tucked the receipt under the keno rack, careful not to spill coffee on it. He poured a heaping teaspoon of sugar from the chrome-and-glass dispenser into his cup, stirred it, and gratefully swallowed a mouthful of the steaming brew.
At which point, the last of his luck ran out.
“Well, this time we really did get a seat near the orchestra,” Lucy Baker said as she and Steve Forrester were seated by the maître d’ at a table on the innermost concentric ring surrounding the music podium in the Zodiac Room. “Would you believe I’ve never been in here before?”
“You’re kidding. My God, after all those comps you’ve written for other people, it’s about time you got to enjoy it yourself.”
“Strictly for research purposes, huh? Okay, you’re the boss.”
Forrester laughed. “Only sometimes. But not this evening, not with you. I promised myself there’d be no business talk tonight.”
“That sounds nice. But do you think first, you know, before we don’t talk business, do you think maybe you could answer one little question—”
“Yes?”
“I heard there was some kind of terrorist threat against the Galaxy. And since you’re the Vice President of Security, I thought you’d be the one to—”
Steve stiffened. “Where did you hear that?”
“Oh, around. You know.”
“No, I don’t know. Lucy, this could be important. Please tell me where you got this information.”
Disconcerted by her escort’s sudden seriousness, Lucy quickly realized she had better come clean. “Well, sometimes I eat my lunch with Edith Frick. You know, Mr. Druperman’s secretary. I’m sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned it … .”
“No, that’s all right. I’m glad you did.” Forrester made a mental note to confront the old douche bag, who must have been listening in on Droopy’s intercom, first thing in the morning. “In fact, it’ll enable me to plug a leak.”
“God, I feel like Linda Tripp.”
“Believe me, you did the right thing.”
“That’s not what Monica Lewinsky said.”
Forrester smiled. “This is different.”
“So, tell me more. I promise not to breathe a word.”
“What exactly did Edith say?”
“Something about poisoning everybody in Las Vegas. Apparently she didn’t get the whole story—”
“Guess we’ll have to increase the volume on her intercom. Or her hearing aid.”
“That’s not nice.”
“Neither is eavesdropping. Druperman doesn’t want the story spread around, for obvious reasons. But I’ll tell you if you really want to know. It’s kind of ugly, though.”
“I can handle ugly. It’s curious that always gets me.”
“All right. We received an envelope addressed to Druperman in his capacity as president of the Las Vegas Casino Association—you’ve probably never heard of the LVCA, but that’s the way they like it. Anyway, inside the envelope, there’s this letter and a videotape. It’s a movie clip that features a poisoning. Presumably to show us as graphically as possible that we’re vulnerable.”
As Steve talked, Lucy’s expression went from lighthearted to concerned.
“God, you mean somebody’s actually going to get poisoned?”
“We don’t know. This could all be some sick joke.”
“What are they asking for?”
“That’s the funny part. They didn’t make any demands. In the letter, they just told us they were going to demonstrate their power and said they’d get back to us. I guess this poisoning, if it ever happens, is going to be some kind of warning shot across our bow.”
“That is kind of scary. What are you going to do?”
“Officially, nothing. Off the record, I’ve talked to the police, but there’s not much they can do without more to go on. Whoever sent the envelope didn’t leave any fingerprints or other clues. Besides, Emmett’s afraid that if this gets out, it could seriously hurt our business.”
“I appreciate your telling me.”
“I feel that I can … trust you.”
“Funny you should say that,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t know why, but I sort of feel that way about you, too.”
It was a moment, the first real one they’d shared, and Forrester wondered if this might be the start of something he hadn’t experienced for years, if ever. Could she be feeling the same way? All the signs seemed to be right, yet still he sensed a reserve … .
The waiter arrived with menus. After some discussion, they decided to share an hors d‘oeuvre of escargots Galeries Lafayette—broiled snails with garlic butter and parsley. As an entrée Steve selected the boeuf Bastille; Lucy chose the feuillette d’homard Louis XIV. They agreed on a 2001 Clos de Vougeot Burgundy. It was a superb meal, yet Forrester hardly tasted it. All his attention was focused on his dinner companion, this wonderful young woman who had unwittingly taken over his thoughts—and stirred his libido. He silently thanked Tony Francisco, the bullying megastar whose misbehavior had brought them together. Lucy Baker was so different from anyone he’d ever met. She was worldly, as you’d expect from a casino floorperson, yet without the hard shell most of her coworkers had grown. Her sense of humor was delightful. She was genuinely interested in him, his job, his life.
They laughed about the Tony Francisco incident. They compared their tastes in music and books, finding a great deal in common. They shared experiences and explored each other’s background.
“Tell me about Vermont,” Forrester said, topping up her glass with the rich Burgundy Grand Cru.
“Not much to tell. My grandparents were French-Canadian. Our real family name is kind of hard to pronounce, especially for you westerners, so I changed it to Baker.”
“What is your real family name, then?”
“It’s Boulanger.” She pronounced it boo-lonh-zhay. “It means Baker in French.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave her his best suspicious-policeman look. “So, ma’am—you’ve been operating under an alias?”
“Yes, officer. And that’s not the half of it. My real first name isn’t even Lucy.”
“Whoa—who am I dating here anyhow, a CIA agent? What is your real first name? I suppose you’re going to say you’ll have to kill me if you tell me … .”
“No, silly.” She made a face. “It’s Lucette. And I hate it. In fact, not counting Personnel, you’re the first person at the Galaxy I’ve ever told.”
“I’m flattered. I think. But—why do you hate it?”
“I just don’t like the way it sounds in English. Loose-set. Loose set of what? Teeth? Other parts … of my anatomy?” Forrester thought he noticed a slight blush, although the subdued lighting in the Zodiac Room made it hard to be sure.
“I kind of like it, actually. Lucette Boulanger, right?”
“That’s what it says on my driver’s license, Steve. And by the way, your pronunciation of it …” She fake-frowned, held out a hand palm down and waggled it.
He chuckled apologetically. “That bad, huh? Okay, I’ll stick to Lucy Baker.”
“Merci, monsieur.”
“So, Miss Lucy Baker, you apparently speak French.”
“Oh sure. I learned to speak it before I learned English. Half my friends were French, and we got a lot of French Canadian guests at the hotel. You needed to be able to serve them in their own language.”
“Impressive. Personally, I never got past la plume de ma tante. What the heck was it doing on my uncle’s bureau, anyway?”
“I don’t know—maybe it’s a thing that French aunts have. I’ll ask one of mine next time I go home.” Her laugh was easy, reminding Steve of rippling water. “Tell me about yourself, Steve. You sound like you’re a westerner.”
“I’m from here, born and bred. Third-generation, as a matter of fact.”
Steve decided not to risk boring his date with an overly long genealogical dissertation. In fact, it had been quite a while since he’d given any thought at all to the Forrester family history … .
Had it been almost three-quarters of a century since his grandfather had coaxed an aging Model T across the desert to the embryonic gambling town of Las Vegas with its saloons and brothels and faro games? Was it really that long since Henry Forrester, desperate for a job, had risked his life for three years as a high scaler on the Boulder Canyon Dam Project? In the 1930s thousands of unemployed men came to this desolate canyon and for a few dollars a day worked in unspeakable conditions and almost unbearable heat to harness the raging Colorado River. Big Red, the workers called it. Too thick to drink and too thin to plow. One hundred and twelve men died on the job, but Forrester survived. He married a school-teacher and became a construction worker in Las Vegas.
Henry’s only son, John—Steve Forrester’s father—was less than a year short of retirement from the Las Vegas Police Department when his wife of almost thirty years answered the bell to find a grim-faced chief of detectives and police chaplain on her doorstep. Right away, Steve’s mother knew the worst—because they don’t send brass and chaplains around for minor injuries. As gently as possible the chief told her that John Forrester and his partner had stumbled upon a bank robbery in progress and that John had been fatally shot by one of the bandits. If it was any consolation, the chief continued, the man who killed your husband was himself gunned down, and both his accomplices taken into custody.
A grieving nineteen-year-old Steve, then a freshman engineering student at UNLV, decided to honor his father in the only way he knew how—by changing his major to criminal justice. If his father could sacrifice his life to protect this town, the young man reasoned idealistically, then at least he could carry on the tradition. The Forresters had a stake in the future of Las Vegas, Steve thought, because two generations of them had helped build it and protect it.
Twenty years later Steve Forrester still believed in his city, but with the hundreds of thousands of modern-day carpetbaggers flooding into what has become the fastest-growing city in the United States and the depersonalization of the gaming industry by the faceless megacorporations, his civic pride was becoming a little tattered around the edges. Las Vegas just
wasn’t the town he’d grown up in. Too many people, too much pressure. He already had one failed marriage to prove it.
But Vegas was still home.
Snapping himself out of his reverie, Forrester continued with the condensed version of his bio for Lucy Baker’s benefit: “Anyway, after college I got into law enforcement. I was a cop for eleven years until I lucked into this job.”
“I’m sure luck had nothing to do with it.”
He smiled and met her gaze frankly. It was another moment, and they both felt it wash over them like a warm tide.
“Did you ever … marry?” she asked.
“Just once,” he replied with an apologetic shrug. “It didn’t even last three years. No kids, thank God. She was a cocktail waitress at the Nugget. I’m still paying for my foolishness.” This could be serious, he thought, repressing a growing desire to take this woman in his arms then and there, and to hell with what the diners and the staff of the Zodiac Room might think. He forced himself back to reality. “How about you?”
“Uh-uh. I was engaged once. It happened on the cruise ship. I fell head over heels for this wonderful, charming man who turned out to be a real bastard. I was an assistant casino manager, and he was the manager. I’m kind of ashamed about what happened, to be perfectly honest.”
“I’m sorry. What did happen?”
“Maybe one day I’ll tell you about it. But not now. I don’t want to spoil this evening.”
“Nothing could spoil this evening,” he said, smiling.
Only if I let it, thought Lucy. For the hundredth time, she wondered if she really was doing the right thing. Once bitten … but she pushed the thought away. “Tell me,” she said, gazing intently at this attractive, likable man, “are we going to have a relationship?”
He met her gaze openly and frankly. “I think so. I hope so.”
The quartet was halfway through Pachelbel’s Canon as their waiter approached. “May I bring you coffee or dessert, ma’am, Mr. Forrester?”
Forrester looked questioningly at Lucy. Laying her hand gently on his, she heard herself say, “Why don’t we go to my place for coffee?”
Steve Forrester needed no further persuasion. “Have François send the check to my office in the morning, please,” he said quietly to the waiter, leaving a generous cash tip on the table.
Behind the potted plant in a remote corner of the Cosmic Café, Barney Leopold clutched his chest, turned waxy pale, and spewed a geyser of bright red blood, spattering the table with a pattern of scarlet gore. His body jerked, twitched, and stiffened, knocking over the keno rack. The coffee cup swung loosely down on his rigid index finger, neatly depositing its contents into his lap. His eyes rolled up in their sockets and he crumpled to the floor, crimson-chinned, a brown coffee stain spreading across his white Dockers.
The piece of paper tucked under the keno rack fluttered unnoticed off the table and into the foliage of the potted plant.
“Somebody help … . This man has collapsed!” cried one of the patrons.
People at nearby tables looked over in horror, then quickly turned away. Others appeared to be frozen to their chairs. Still others picked up their checks and beat a hasty retreat. One heavyset woman whispered to her companion, “Let’s get out of here, Lydia. We don’t want to get involved.”
Drawn by the commotion, Gladys Adams, the hostess, materialized. She knelt by the fallen man and gingerly felt the carotid artery in his neck. No pulse.
A waitress arrived and came close to supplementing the casualty list by nearly passing out at the sight of the blood- and coffee-stained victim.
“Is he … alive?” the waitress asked the hostess in a trembling voice.
“He’s stiff as a board. There’s no pulse,” said Gladys. “Call Security and tell them to get the paramedics over here fast.” Relieved to be liberated from the carnage, the waitress raced for a phone.
She need not have hurried.
Mr. Barney Leopold, recently reformed compulsive gambler from El Modena, California, would be dead long before help arrived.