While he and Marshall waited for Druperman in the CEO’s outer office, Forrester telephoned Lester Kinnear at his home and issued a series of crisp instructions. Kinnear was the hotel’s food services manager.
Just as Forrester hung up, Druperman walked in.
“Emmett Druperman, Frank Marshall of the LVMPD,” said Steve as he and the policeman rose. Druperman and Marshall shook hands briefly.
“Let’s go inside,” said Emmett without ceremony, barging through the heavy double doors onto the Bridge.
“Sorry about all this,” Marshall began as they settled in around the massive conference table that dominated one end of the CEO’s office. “But it looks like you and your association have a real problem. These people are obviously serious. There appears to have been an intentional poisoning in your coffee shop.”
“Goddamn it,” said Druperman. “Are you sure it was intentional?”
“We can’t be a hundred percent positive until the coroner gets back to us. But I’d bet my miserable pension it was. Meanwhile, you guys better not take any chances.”
“I spoke to Kinnear,” said Forrester. “He’s having all our restaurant managers dispose of any food that’s been removed from its original packaging. That includes everything edible in the kitchens: meat, vegetables, baked goods, fruits, seasonings, flour, shortening. We’re replacing glass sugar dispensers and salt and pepper shakers on the tables with individual sealed paper packets. I also told him to contact his opposite numbers at the other hotels and alert them. Probably a case of closing the barn door after the horse has escaped, but I thought it was … prudent.”
“Prudent, eh? Won’t the managers ask questions?” said Emmett.
“Kinnear’s telling them what I told him: that there was a case of food poisoning in the Cosmic Café,” Forrester replied. “I just didn’t happen to mention that it was probably intentional.”
“Good. The fewer people know what’s going on, the better.” Druperman picked up a plastic-sleeved letter that was lying atop his spacious mahogany desk. “What’s this?”
“We took the liberty of opening your, ah, latest mail,” said Frank. “They’re asking for a huge sum of money … . See for yourself.”
Stone-faced, the CEO sat down and read aloud: “‘ATTENTION LAS VEGAS CASINO ASSOCIATION! WITH THIS POISONING ACTION WE HAVE PROVED OUR POWER. PREPARE TO PAY TEN MILLION DOLLARS! ’ Ten million dollars! Fucking thieves!” Druperman’s eyes narrowed to feral slits. He tossed the letter aside and addressed Frank Marshall. “I already made myself clear on this subject to Steve, and I’ll tell you the same thing,” he rasped. “I will not pay one cent to any fucking shakedown artist or extortionist or whatever the hell you want to call them. I don’t give a rat’s ass what they threaten us with. You just put a few of my goddamn tax dollars to work and nail these bastards before they do some real damage.”
“That may not be so easy,” said Marshall quietly, glancing at Forrester, who nodded agreement. “These people are not stupid. Look, why don’t we at least play the video they sent?”
“Do what you want,” said Druperman, folding his arms across his chest. “Just don’t expect any money from this hotel or the association or …” His voice trailed off to a dark muttering as Steve inserted the cassette in his boss’s VCR and pushed PLAY.
Once again, it was a movie clip.
“Who do these assholes think we are,” Forrester sighed. “Ebert and Roeper?”
The scene opened in a gloomy subway tunnel. Staccato mood music lent a sense of impending danger to the atmosphere. One man appeared to have his foot caught in the train tracks. Another man carrying a length of what looked like metallic pipe rushed up behind the trapped man and raised the pipe threateningly. The trapped man yelled, “Frank!” A third man, tall, blond, whom Forrester knew he had seen before in the movies or on TV, raised a pistol and shot the man brandishing the pipe. As the man fell, his foot on one rail, the metal pipe he was holding touched the third rail and a
cascade of sparks exploded from his body. Quick cut to a close-up of the trapped man. Cut again to yet another character running away down the tunnel. Back to the electrocuted man, smoke issuing from his collapsed body and residual sparks winking out around him like dying embers. The clip ended, the screen went blue.
“So now what are they going to do?” Druperman snapped. “Electrocute somebody?”
“Looks that way, Mr. Druperman. Anyway, you didn’t finish the letter,” said Marshall. “Let me read you the rest. It says, ‘TERRIBLE RESULTS WILL HAPPEN IF YOU REFUSE TO PAY THIS MONEY. DO NOT FOOL YOURSELVES! ON THE VIDEO HEREWITH IS OUR NEXT OPERATION. THE POLICE CAN NOT STOP US. TO AVOID THIS ACTION, PLACE ON OR BEFORE FRIDAY A CLASSIFIED AD IN SECTION 260 OF LAS VEGAS REVIEW-JOURNAL! CONFIRM AGREEMENT TO PAY THEREIN! SIGN IT, LVCA! WE WILL CALL YOU WITH INSTRUCTIONS ON FORRESTER’S CELLULAR TELEPHONE. THANATOS.’” Frank laid the letter down and picked up a small plastic bag containing two red chips. “Oh, and by the way, this time they enclosed two five-dollar chips. These Dunes chips must be their calling card. And a cute way of letting us know how much the payoff is. Ten dollars in chips equals ten million dollars in blood money. I wonder who writes their material.”
“Anybody recognize the movie?” Forrester asked.
“What difference does it make?” said Druperman. “Now that they’ve delivered their message—”
“Don’t be too sure about that, Mr. Druperman,” Frank said. “You’d be amazed how much information our guys will be able to infer from that video. Not just physical evidence; we’ve got people who can get right into these guys’ heads.”
“Today’s Wednesday, gentlemen,” Forrester said. “Do we run the ad?”
“Why not?” replied Marshall. “Maybe it’ll buy us more time to track down the perps.”
“Run it, don’t run it, makes no difference to me,” said the CEO grimly. “I’ll speak to the other members of the Las Vegas Casino Association and bring them up to speed. Just as a courtesy, you understand? Because I know how these boys think. In fact, I can tell you right now exactly what they’re going to say.”
“What’s that, sir?” the policeman asked.
“My associates will say that for ten million bucks they can zap all the ferkochte tourists they want.”
At the Cosmic Café, the last of the Crime Scene Investigation team had departed, leaving the Galaxy’s night cleaning crew to wipe down the table and swab the bloodstains from the floor.
“What kind of shit they servin’ in here, bro’?” one of the cleaners asked his associate.
“I dunno,” replied the man. “But it sure as fuck done disagreed with this dude.” He picked up a folded piece of paper that was lodged in the foliage of the potted plant and casually tossed Barney Leopold’s receipt for five hundred and seventeen thousand, four hundred dollars into a bright orange trash bag.