A pall of amber cigar smoke floated over the Starlight Hotel boardroom like an L.A. smog bank trapped beneath a temperature inversion. Around the marble-topped conference table eighteen pairs of eyes, belonging to the most powerful men in Las Vegas, bored mercilessly into the drooping countenance of Emmett Druperman.
“Look, Emmett, we may be in the casino business, but none of us are gamblers,” said the chairman of the Olympic Entertainment Corporation to the current president of the Las Vegas Casino Association. “Why take a chance on these crazies blowing up one of our properties?”
“Marty’s right,” added the owner of one of the newest megaresorts on the Strip. “We control, what, thirty-two hotels between us? So we pay these bastards fifty million—that’s only a million and a half apiece, give or take.”
“Cheap insurance,” the CEO of the Roman Palladium interjected. “We can’t afford to jeopardize this city’s reputation as a safe family destination. People come to our casinos because they feel secure. We’re giving ’em Disneyland with slot machines. It’s already taken us too long to recover from Nine-Eleven. Let’s not risk it now.”
Druperman rose from his chair at the head of the table and began to pace. “I believe you’re wrong, gentlemen,” he began slowly. “If we give in to terrorism—and believe me, that’s what this is—we might as well all close up shop right now and go home.” Jabbing the air with his cigar for emphasis, he continued more loudly: “Every psycho with a bomb or a gun or a package of matches is gonna try and stick it to us. Do you guys want to greet your guests at the door with metal detectors and bomb-sniffing dogs? ‘Welcome to Vegas, ma’am, excuse me while we strip-search you?’ What the hell’s that gonna do for our image?
“Look at Israel—they never give in to terrorists. For a very good reason:
they know that the more you give, the more these bastards take. Look at Eye-rack. Sure, Saddam was tough, but we were tougher. Yeah, I know, we had to clobber ’em three times, but in the end him and his rag-head pals got the message loud and clear—don’t fuck with the U.S.A.!
“Why do you think we bombed Afghanistan back to the Stone Age? Because it’s the only language these guys understand!
“History, gentlemen.” He paused theatrically.
“Look back forty, fifty, sixty years. Look at the Cuban missile crisis in ’sixty-three—Dean Rusk just stared those Russians down. Look at Hitler. If Churchill hadn’t had the balls to say no to the little prick, we’d all be Sprechen-Sie Deutsch-ing right now.” Emmett stopped pacing and leaned on the table, scanning the faces of his fellow casino executives one by one. He lowered his voice and spoke more intensely: “I say we hang tough and let the cops do their thing. One of these guys is already dead. They know the name of another one. Right now, there’s more cops swarming around our properties than a goddamn policemen’s convention.
“And I’m talking to you as a guy that’s already taken two gut shots from these killers. Don’t give ’em a plug nickel, that’s my advice.”
Druperman resumed his seat. A silence fell upon the boardroom. Some of the men shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Finally, the head of the largest group of hotel-casinos in Nevada, a world-famous business prodigy who had made his first million by the age of twenty, stood up.
“Emmett,” he began, “we all appreciate your position, and we respect your leadership abilities. On your advice, we’ve toughed it out so far. But frankly, enough is enough. You said the police had things under control. But they couldn’t stop the murder of Tony Francisco. They couldn’t save the four people who died in the Obelisk fire—although I admit it could have been a lot worse if that guy they arrested hadn’t talked.
“The point is, this Thanatos group has basically carried out every threat they’ve made, right back to the poisoning incident at your place. In my opinion, and I believe most of us around this table agree, we can’t afford to gamble with a threat of this magnitude.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “My God, Oklahoma City all over again … can you imagine the consequences?” The rhetorical question hung unanswered in the smoky atmosphere.
“Now, I’m sure the authorities will catch these people sooner or later. I realize that one of them is dead, and they’ve identified another one. But who knows how many more of them are still out there? It only takes one
guy to pull off a stunt like this—took at Timothy McVeigh. We have less than two days to comply with their latest demands, and that just may not be enough time for the cops to do their thing.
“So, what I’m saying, Emmett, with all due respect, is that we should pay up this time—and this time only. Right now, with this immediate danger hanging over our heads, we shouldn’t be worrying about opening the door to more terrorist demands. This is the time to protect our assets. And our asses.”
All eyes turned back to Druperman. “All right,” their president sighed. “You know my position. But I’ll go along with the majority. Let’s have a show of hands. All in favor of paying these shakedown artists their blood money …”
Slowly, one by one, hands were raised around the table. The vote appeared virtually unanimous.
“Those opposed …”
Emmett Druperman lifted his hand. His droopy eyes scoured the gathering for some sign of support, some crumb of compromise, but there was none.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Druperman said, his demeanor mournful. “We pay. Send me cashier’s checks by tomorrow morning.”
Dan Shiller glanced quickly around the lobby of the Monte Carlo. Once assured that he was not being overheard, the grifter picked up a house phone.
“Yes, operator,” he said. “I want to make a call to Panama City. Charge it to my room. Harold Brown, eighteen twenty-three.” Shiller suppressed a yawn while the operator punched up the unsuspecting Mr. Brown’s name and room number on her screen. When it checked out, she asked for the telephone number in Panama City. Again, Dan waited while the usual cacophony of clicks and chirps echoed across the satellite connection to Central America. Within two minutes a Spanish-speaking woman’s voice confirmed a successful connection with the Banco Internacional de Panama.
“Buenos dias to you too, baby,” said Dan. “Put me through to Señor Vasquez.”
More clicks, a double ring, then, “Ricardo, how are you? Dan Shiller here.” Shiller rattled off the account number he’d memorized. “Yes, fine …
I know, it should be there tomorrow before five P.M … . just confirming my instructions. That’s right … the Libyan Arab Foreign Bank … you have the account number.”
Shiller listened to the banker with growing impatience. “No, Ricardo, I am not asking you to lie. When I call tomorrow, you will quickly and privately confirm the transfer to me. A simple okay will do. Then, when my … associate comes on the line, you just tell him the truth: that there’s no money in the account. Let him draw his own conclusions. Got that? … Good. I’m paying you guys enough money for this … . All right. Is an hour enough time for the transfer? … Fine. Then I’ll call you tomorrow around six.”
Lieutenant Frank Marshall could not disguise the frustration he felt. “So the association did cave,” he snapped. “I had a feeling they might.”
“Hey, Frank—no need to shoot the messenger,” Steve Forrester replied. “Besides, I can understand where they’re coming from. It’s a hell of a risk for these guys to take just to uphold Druperman’s principles.”
“Shit, it’s just I hate to see those bastards win.”
“Well, they haven’t won yet. If I know you, you’ll catch up with them sooner or later.”
“Damn right. What really pisses me off is that we’re so close.” The policeman pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his desk drawer and lit up, pointedly not offering one to Forrester. Marshall added defiantly, “Anyway, it ain’t over till it’s over. We’ve got till five o’clock tomorrow, and the whole team’s on double shift. Sooner or later Malloy has to surface. The lab’s going over those unexploded incendiary devices with a fine-tooth comb. In the meantime, we’re not taking any chances with this bomb threat. Just because the LVCA has paid the money, I’m not trusting these killers to keep their word. We’re closing all the doors, just in case.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. In the Oklahoma City incident, they used a four-thousand-pound truck bomb. Which is the kind of explosive power it takes to rip open a building that size. So until we nail this Malloy, we’re going to search every single truck that goes anywhere near any of the hotels. I’m talking semitrailers, delivery trucks, even vans. As a matter of fact, we’re asking the hotels to lend us their security people to help out in the vehicle searches. And that includes your guards at the Galaxy.”
The late-afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the Boulder Highway. With a sigh of relief, Buster Malloy pulled off the shimmering ribbon of blacktop and parked the motorcycle in a shady spot on the Sam’s Town parking lot. He was sweating profusely under the leather jacket, and his black-helmeted head felt as if it had been baked in an oven.
Tucking the helmet under his arm, the big man slipped on a pair of sunglasses to help hide his face. Then he stepped into the cool recesses of Billy Bob’s in search of Dan Shiller.
Buster found his co-conspirator seated with his back to the wall in a dark corner of the barroom. “Hey, Shiller,” the Irishman said breezily, pulling up a chair. “How are they hangin’?”
Dan looked up sharply and slammed his glass down hard on the table, spilling half his drink. “Goddamn it, Malloy, what the fuck happened on Wednesday night?”
Taken aback by Shiller’s angry greeting, Malloy said defensively, “What’s your problem, boyo? Sounds like you got a hair across your arse.”
“Fucking right I do. You were supposed to torch the tower by eight-thirty latest.”
“Big deal. It was around eight-thirty.”
“So how come they had time to evacuate the building?”
“Well, you see, I got a little t‘irsty. An’ I just decided to wet me whistle before I fried ’em. I couldn’t help it if the cops got there while I was … otherwise occupied.”
“That’s exactly what I thought happened. Jesus Christ, do you realize what kind of damage you could have caused if you hadn’t been boozing it up when you were supposed to be watching the place?”
Malloy gave Shiller a twisted smile. “Hey, man, I snuffed a buncha people, didn’t I? An’ caused plenty o’ damage. If that little wanker hadn’t squealed—”
“Jurgen’s dead, you stupid fuck.”
“I know. An’ be careful who you’re callin’ stupid,” Buster said levelly, a blank expression on his face.
“I’m tired of pussyfooting around with you, Malloy. You’re not only stupid, you’re so psychotic about the killing that I’m beginning to think you don’t really give a rat’s ass about the payoff. So the quicker I see the last of you—”
For a large man, Buster moved with snakelike speed. In one fluid motion
he reached inside his biker’s boot, pulled out a switchblade, and snapped it open. Before Dan could react, Malloy had seized his companion’s wrist in an iron grip and pinned it to the chair arm. With the other hand he pressed the sharp point of the knife into Shiller’s belly, just below tabletop level.
“You know, Shiller,” he hissed, “Nobody calls me stupid—or crazy—and gets away with it. I’d just as soon spill your guts right here—”
The grifter did not move a muscle. Calmly, he stared at his own reflection in his attacker’s sunglasses and said quietly, “Back off, Malloy. You kill me, you won’t see nickel one of the fifty million bucks. I’m the only one who can access it.” The Irishman relaxed his grip on Shiller’s wrist but kept the knife pointed at his belly. “Think about it, Malloy. They know who you are. Your ugly face is all over the TV. You’ve only got one chance—and that’s to get out of the country. You can’t do it without money. And for that, you need me.”
Buster’s expression did not change, but he slowly withdrew the knife and folded up the blade. “All right then, boyo,” he said suspiciously, “what about the money? Is it there yet?”
“Probably. I haven’t called them yet.”
“Well, then, let’s do it.”
“Don’t you want to order a drink first?”
“Fuck that. I’ll celebrate when I hear we got the money. Come on, let’s go. There’s a pay phone over there.”
“We’ll need change for the phone. I don’t have a credit card.”
“I’ll get a bucketful from the slot girl. You stay right here.”
Malloy disappeared in the direction of the casino. Shiller slumped back into his chair, closed his eyes, and allowed the trembling to take hold of his body. He hadn’t come this close to the edge since his brush with those apes at Diamond Lil’s six months ago.
“Hello, Señor Vasquez, please.” A pause. “It’s Dan Shiller, Ricardo. What’s happening? Did the money get there?” The faintest hint of a smile flickered across Shiller’s face as he listened intently to the banker for a moment. Then his expression changed; he frowned and appeared surprised. “What? What’s that? You’re kidding!” The grifter pressed his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Buster Malloy: “Bad news, Buster. The money isn’t there.”
“What?” said Malloy. “But you said—”
“I know what I said. But apparently the association doesn’t believe we’ll go through with phase four.”
Buster’s pink face reddened. “Are you sure?” he asked slowly, suspicion creeping into his husky voice. “You wouldn’t be connin’ me now, would you, Danny boy? You wouldn’t be thinkin’ of keepin’ all that lovely money for yourself, by any chance?”
Shiller shrugged. “Here,” he said, handing his accomplice the receiver. “Ask him yourself. His name is—”
“I know what ‘is fuckin’ name is,” Malloy retorted, snatching the phone and placing it to his ear. “Hello, Mr. Vasquez. What about the money then? … You’re sure about that? … Yeah, I got it. Nothin’ in the account.”
Slowly, deliberately, Malloy replaced the handset on the pay phone. “All right. That’s it, then, ain’t it? They think they won. Well, those cocksuckers are gonna learn that you don’t fuck with Buster Malloy. I’ll blast ‘em to hell in a handbasket. It’ll be more awesome than Oklahoma City. An’ Nine-Eleven. Together. They’ll be diggin’ out bodies till Christmas.”
“You do that, Buster. Blast ‘em for Jurgen and blast ’em for me.”
Malloy smiled bitterly. “I knew in me heart they’d grind us into the dirt again, boyo. You can’t beat the fuckin’ system. You think you’ve won, but in the end you always get the shaft.” Clapping a beefy arm around his partner’s shoulders, he added sentimentally, “Sorry about just now, Dan. I still t’ink you’re a sneaky, low-life, lyin’ son of a bitch. But I’m gonna miss you. An’ I’m sorry you ain’t gettin’ nothin’ outta this neither.” Shiller nodded sadly in the manner of a fellow traveler who has also reached valiantly for the stars, only to fall facedown in the mud. For the best performance as a disappointed co-conspirator, he thought smugly, may I have the envelope please … .
Buster squared his shoulders and continued: “But don’t worry. I’m gonna give those bastards a fireworks show they ain’t never gonna forget.”
“I know you will, Malloy. And I suspect that you won’t really mind wasting all those people, will you?”
Buster Malloy did not answer. With an expression that was half malice and half anticipation, he jammed the biker’s helmet down over his ears, turned on his heel, and strode toward the parking lot.