Exit Strategy (37 page)

Her head shot up. “He hasn’t been calling you?”

“He calls. I don’t answer.”

“What? You get a client like Maurice Gallagher on the line, you thank God for a steady income, Jacko. You don’t go telling him you’re too busy.”

“Don’t tell him that.”

“Good.”

“I tell him I’m not interested.”

“You what? For fuck’s sake, Jack!” She turned to me. “About those psychiatric case studies? Case in point.”

“Is this going to cause a problem, Jack?” I asked. “If he’s pissed off at you—”

“Not pissed off. Just not happy. We’ll work around it.”

Evelyn opened her mouth, but Jack cut her off by grabbing my suitcase.

“Better repack,” he said.

“Do I need the push-up bra?”

“It’s Vegas.”

“Damn.”

I’d really hoped to avoid my makeover for a few hours, but Jack insisted that we arrive and leave in character. Made sense, but
he
didn’t need jeans so tight they gave him a wedgie with every step.

Jack wore a golf shirt, chinos and loafers. Quite preppy…until you slicked back the dark hair, undid all three buttons on the shirt and added a half-pound of gold—chain, watch, rings, earring, even a tooth. Toss on mirrored sunglasses, and you took the persona from banker to loan shark. A five-minute trip to the bathroom and you’d be back to banker.

My outfit wasn’t nearly so versatile. I got a blowzy blond wig, painted-on jeans and cowboy boots. No five-minute change was making that more respectable…or more comfortable.

When we got to the airport, there was a guy soliciting donations outside the terminal doors, tucked behind a pillar, out of sight of security. When I saw the red pot beside him, stuffed with dollar bills, I thought
Huh, a bit early for the Salvation Army Christmas drive, isn’t it?
Then I saw the sign beside the pot: Your Dollar Accepted Here.

I slowed, and steered Jack closer to read the smaller print.

Protect yourself today,
it said.
Pay
your
dollar, and sign the list
.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered. “What’s he gonna do? FedEx the cash?”

“And the list, don’t forget, because I’m sure the killer is checking ID first.”

“Con artists. Fucking bottom-feeders.”

I looked around. “I should notify security.”

“No time. People are stupid enough to pay…”

He didn’t finish, just shrugging as if to say that you couldn’t rescue people from stupidity, and he wasn’t about to waste his time trying. So I waited until he was in line to check in, then zipped off to the bathroom, with a side trip past the security office. Sure, you can’t save people from stupidity, but at least you can stop others from getting rich off it.

“You want the window seat?” I asked as we boarded the plane.

An odd look crossed his face. He mumbled a gruff “You take it,” grabbed my overnight bag and hoisted it into the compartment. By the time he lowered himself into the seat beside me, I was almost done straightening and rearranging the in-flight magazines. I pulled an overlooked empty peanut bag from under the seat in front of me, then glanced around for a place to put it.

The light came on for us to fasten our seat belts. As I reached for mine, I noticed Jack’s hands as he fastened his, fingers trembling slightly. I looked at him, but his gaze was down, intent on securing the belt.

We listened through the obligatory safety spiel, then the plane began takeoff. As I shifted, getting comfortable, I happened to glance Jack’s way. He’d gone dead white…almost as white as his knuckles, gripping the chair arms like they might fall off if he let go.

“You’re afraid of flying,” I murmured, lowering my voice. “Why didn’t you say—?”

“No choice. Too far to drive.”

“Can I get you any—?”

“Talk to me.”

That was one thing I could manage, so I did.

Once in Vegas, we had to make a few stops. First to a safe drop where Jack kept disguises and equipment, including guns. Then to a hardware store, where I could find the material I needed to carry out our plan.

The Fortuna was the kind of casino frequented by three types of gamblers: old pros who hate the glitzy big operations, problem gamblers kicked out of the big operations, and lost tourists. It was off the Strip. Dated from when the mob ruled Vegas, it looked as if it hadn’t been renovated since, and wore its age like a badge of pride. If you wanted flashing lights and fruity drinks and gorgeous girls you went elsewhere. The Fortuna was for gambling.

As we moved through the room, I was struck by the difference between the Vegas I’d seen in advertisements and movies, and the reality. Maybe somewhere on the Strip there were casinos filled with handsome couples, grinning and cheering and having the time of their life, but here gambling seemed more a life sentence than a vacation. Those sitting at the antiquated slot machines looked like extras from a zombie flick, eyes glazed, faces ashen as they fed the coins and pulled the handles. The tables weren’t much better, everyone crowded around, expressions solemn, gazes fixed on the worn green cloth. At some tables, only the tinkle of the dice and the murmur of the dealers’ voices broke the quiet. Then we came along…

“But you promised,” I squealed as Jack dragged me to the blackjack table. “I wanna see Celine.”

Jack leaned down to my ear and hissed loud enough for everyone around to hear. “Shut the fuck up, or the only thing you’ll be seeing is the inside of the hotel room.”

I sniffled. Jack laid down a hundred-dollar bet and tried to snake his arm around my waist, but I sidestepped away.

“Come on, baby,” Jack said, his hand sliding to my rear. “Gimme some luck.”

“You said this trip was for me.”

“You give me a couple hours and we’ll see Celine, Newton…Hell, you can play with the fucking white tigers if you want, okay, babe?”

He started playing…and losing, a hundred bucks at a time, then two hundred. He won the odd hand, but most of his money went back to the dealer. Wasn’t long before a server sidled up with a tray of free drinks…the least they could offer for such a generous donation.

“Uh-uh,” I said, patting my still-flat stomach. “No booze for this baby. I got six more months and I’m sticking to it.”

Jack gave a proud papa grin and patted my stomach. “That’s my girl.” He shot the grin around the table. “Our first…and I’m here to win a room full of baby furniture.”

A murmured round of congratulations on the first point, tainted with skepticism on the second. The server returned with a soda for me and a Scotch for Jack. He made a show of taking a big gulp, but very little of the liquid left the glass before he surreptitiously slid it aside. My soda was supposed to be Coke. Judging by the taste, though, they’d substituted a no-name brand, then further cut costs topping it up with tap water.

After a few more rounds, Jack’s luck changed. Drastically. I knew he was cheating—that was the plan—but I have no idea what he did, only that he started winning big and winning often—too big and too often to be healthy. All eyes were already on us, with our role-playing, and he hadn’t won more than his sixth round before a beefy hand closed on his shoulder.

“A word with you…sir,” the guard rumbled.

“Sure,” Jack said. “If it’s congratulations.”

Another guard flanked him, and both took hold of his upper arms to escort him away.

“Oh no,” I moaned as I scampered after them. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack hissed over his shoulder.

“You promised!” I whacked him with my purse. “‘Not this time, babe,’ you said. ‘I’ll play straight, babe.’ You don’t know
how
to play straight, you no-good…”

And so we left the casino floor and headed for the security wing, Jack under armed guard and me running along behind them, alternately sobbing and railing. As we passed through the doors, a desk guard leapt up, probably to tell me to wait outside. Then he apparently decided this was one domestic dispute he didn’t want to get in the middle of, sat down and busied himself with his logbook.

It wasn’t until we hit the “holding” room that the guards stopped me, one stepping into my path as the other took Jack inside and closed the door. I didn’t try to follow, just snuffled and wiped my arm across my streaming nose.

“You can wait over there, ma’am,” the guard said. “He might be awhile.”

“I can’t believe he did this. He promised! This whole trip was for me, he said. ’Cause I’ve been so sick with the baby. For me, my ass. How could he—?” I clutched my stomach. “Oh, I don’t feel so good.”

“There’s a bathroom—”

“Uh-uh, if I start puking, I’ll never stop. I just need to sit down.”

He quickly pointed me to a small room. I spent only a couple of minutes in there, sniffling and moaning, then bolted for the door, hand over my mouth. The hall guard didn’t say a word, just got out of my way and waved in the direction of the washroom.

Once in the washroom, I did some retching, and tossed cupfuls of water into the toilet for effect, but I doubted the young guard came close enough to the door to appreciate my efforts. Still moaning and snuffling, I stood on the counter and wriggled the ceiling tile loose. Next I pulled the climbing gloves from my bra, and slid them on. Then I took out my key chain, unhooked my penlight, put it between my teeth and heaved myself up into the ceiling.

“Are you sure it’s removable ceiling tiles?” I’d said to Jack. “If they’ve plastered since you were last there, we’re in trouble.”

“Gallagher doesn’t redecorate. If it works, it stays.”

This plan was my idea. Jack had his own—which went something along the lines of “cheat, get caught, get taken into the secured area and demand to see Gallagher.” And my role? Just play along in the casino, then enjoy my evening gambling while he risked broken fingers with Gallagher’s security team. When I’d suggested this enhancement, I’d expected him to balk, but he’d only thought for a moment, then said, “Yeah, that’s better.” The balking came later, as we’d prepared our strategy, and he’d realized how much danger I was putting myself in.

“It’s no worse than your plan,” I’d said. “With yours, you’re relying on the guards to deliver your message…and Gallagher to accept it, rather than take advantage of the chance to beat the crap out of you for refusing his jobs. With mine, I do the delivery, and Gallagher has no choice but to accept it. Worst thing that can happen? I can’t get to Gallagher, and we’ll be back to your idea.”

“Or Gallagher gets you. Holds you hostage.”

“He has to catch me first.”

When Jack didn’t smile, I’d said, “You seriously think he can take me that easily? I’m careful, Jack. One wrong look from the guy, and I’m back up in that ceiling. See if he can follow me there.”

“Wouldn’t fit.”

As I squeezed into the gap between the beams and the floor above, I saw Jack’s point. Tight quarters up here. Not bad, though. I’d been in worse.

Still, Jack hadn’t seemed satisfied, kept poking and prodding, making sure I was prepared.

“I can do this,” I’d said finally, exasperated. “If you didn’t think I could, why let us get this far with the plan?”

Silence. After a moment, he’d said only, “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

Something had passed though his gaze, but he’d dropped it before I could get a good look.

I checked my compass. North-northwest was that way. Down on all fours again, flashlight between my teeth, and I was on the move. Dust swirled up with every step. Despite the contacts, my eyes watered, and more than once I had to stop and chomp down on the flashlight to swallow a sneeze.

“Take this,” Jack had said, thrusting the map at me. “Keep it handy.”

“I won’t need it,” I’d said.

“Humor me.”

I had, but I didn’t take the map out now. I didn’t need to. In high school, I’d spent a summer working as a guide in Algonquin Park, and the first thing I’d learned was not how to repel black bears and blackflies, but how to memorize maps. Nothing destroys tourists’ confidence—and a guide’s chance at a tip—so much as having her stop in the middle of an endless expanse of forest to pore over a map.

From below came muted whispers of conversation against the backdrop of the constant whirs and dings of distant slot machines. As I crossed one room, the sound changed to a steady clinking, a river of chips going through a mechanical counter—the sound of broken marriages, busted kneecaps and shattered lives. Never saw the appeal of gambling. Not with money, anyway. The risk of parachuting or white-water rafting is one thing—you know the odds are in your favor. But casino gambling? Just take a look at the owners, and how they live, and tell me where you think all that money is going.

I supposed it was all about the threat of risk and the possibility of reward. But the risk of financial ruin was, for someone who’d been there, not enough to get my heart pumping. Not like this—the thrill of true danger, crawling into the unknown.

Regular spelunking is risky enough. But there, in a cave, you have partners who can go for help and, most times, the biggest danger you face is broken bones. Here, if I fell, I’d be exposed as a thief or, worse, an assassin. Men like Gallagher didn’t handle either by simply breaking bones.

And with spelunking, it’s all about the journey, the thrill of knowing every move you make could land you in a crevasse, that you can try your damnedest to control every variable, but you still leave something to chance. The goal is the simple satisfaction of survival. Here, there was more. Not just increased stakes, but an actual prize. A name that could rip the mask from the Helter Skelter killer.

Crawling through this ceiling was the ultimate extreme sport. Or, perhaps, only the precursor to it.

As I moved, the clatter of coins gave way to slurping, interspersed with moans set to a sound track of “yeah, baby, that’s right, baby, uh-huh.” I listened for the familiar wocka-wocka music of a seventies porn movie. Yes, I knew what porn movies sounded like. When you’ve worked in a testosterone-dominated occupation, you have two choices: lecture the guys on the political incorrectness of watching porn with a female co-worker or laugh it off with cracks like, “Hey, how come
my
pizza delivery boys are never hung like that?”