Overturned Page 14

  A final passenger exited, tatted arms visible up to the short sleeves of his polo tee. He didn’t quite fit the group either, but he’d never seem out of place at this hotel since, technically, he owned it. Cedric Carlino belly-laughed and patted the CEO-looking dude on the shoulder.

  Glancing our way, his eyes were sharp despite their pinkish, sleep-deprived tint. Nodding his recognition, he jogged over, yelled toward the valet, “You taking care of my friends?”

  The valet’s relaxed swagger vanished, clearly uncomfortable. “Mr. Carlino,” he said, “can I pull up something from the fleet?”

  “Naw, naw. I just got in. Was gonna go sleep for, like, twelve hours, then I saw the lovely ladies.” The valet took it as a dismissal and moved on to the next car.

  “Hey there, Molly,” Cedric said.

  “Hey, yourself? So you were out being bad last night.”

  His grin curled up to his ears. “You know it. Another promoting gig. Had to take care of my people.”

  “What kind of gig was it?” I asked, perhaps overstepping my boundaries. But the crew on that bus was so not like what I was used to in this town.

  “Corporate thing. Fast-food franchise—Monte Fishto, ever heard of it?”

  Before I could answer, he said, “They got a bunch of the owners at a convention here. Wanted a bus to see the town. Me, being a full-service kind of guy, was happy to oblige. What are you two doing here?”

  “Picking Davis up for school.”

  Cedric leaned on Molly’s door, his body jutting into the incoming traffic lane, forcing other cars to veer around him. “Little brother finally got tired of the Richie Rich routine, huh?”

  “I … guess.” What else could I say?

  “Good.” His tone shifted suddenly from jovial to something more serious. “I’m glad he’s getting to have fun and be normal. I’m glad he’s got friends like you.”

  Molly’s eyes flicked to me, and I returned the gesture. What’s that about?

  A couple of awkward beats, then Cedric looked past Molly, to me. “So you know about our poker room?”

  Okay, that was a turn. “I know it exists. That it’s huge.”

  “Forty-five tables. Crystal card shoes. Ergonomic memory-foam chairs, I swear you could play for days without so much as a back spasm.” He looked more than a little proud.

  “So you’re trying to convince me to book my eighteenth birthday party here?” I was way more comfortable with hustler Cedric than with the weird introspective version from a moment ago.

  “ABC. Always be closing. My dad’s saying. I think he stole it from a movie. But no. Not that. I like the way you handled that cheater Saturday.”

  I was uncomfortable again. He might be the only one who liked it.

  “I see you got mad respect for the game, is all. You can come through, play some hands here anytime.”

  This felt eerily reminiscent of a conversation with my father. “I’m not old enough.”

  “If you’re a Carlino guest, no one’s gonna sweat you about ID.”

  “What’s this about sweat?” Davis said, joining his brother.

  “I just gave Nikki the golden ticket to some Hold’em here at the Nysos.”

  Davis shook his head. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Good players attract good players. If what you say about her is true …”

  “Could you please stop trying to use my friends for your own personal gain?” he said as he climbed into the car.

  Cedric raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Invitation stands, Nikki. You all have a good day. By the way, don’t know if you noticed, but you’re half an hour late for school.” He winked and backed into the revolving doors until they swallowed him whole.

  “Anybody up for some window-shopping?” Davis asked, leading the way through the Caesar’s Palace gaming floor into the corridors of the Forum Shops, a relatively short walk from the Cosmopolitan. We were plenty late for school, but plenty early for the meet. With three hours to kill, we blended in with tourists and tried to appear older than we were, lest we attract security guards seeking IDs and explanations.

  In the presence of such retail, Molly lost her mind, abandoning us for dressing rooms of things she couldn’t afford. While she frolicked, Davis and I retreated to the shadows of the Atlantis animatronic show at the hub of the Forum Shops. It was a storytelling contraption made of fountains, stage lighting, and scary Muppet-like statues that recounted the sinking of Atlantis, or something. Mostly it made babies cry.

  “I spoke to my dad,” he said.

  “And?”

  Davis shrugged. “He said he knew of your dad from the early days of Andromeda’s Palace. ‘Casino owners are part of an exclusive club. I went to the funeral to pay respects.’ His words, not mine.”

  “My dad didn’t respect him very much.”

  “I got the same impression.”

  “What he told you can’t be all there is to it.”

  “I know. I never said my father was very forthcoming. At least not with me and Ced.”

  His mood shifted, same as Brady’s party when the subject of his dad came up. I didn’t want to push him, but we couldn’t keep skating around it, either. Our parents were keeping secrets.

  “Can I ask you a question that’s kind of personal, and might make you a little mad?”

  “You want to know if any of it’s true. The gangster stuff.”

  “How did you know?”

  “When I went to Cardinal Graham, anyone who knew me long enough eventually asked. It’s all right.”

  It wasn’t all right. Forget that I’d done anything like someone from Cardinal Graham, I could tell the topic exhausted him. I was sorry for going there, for doing to him what so many mean kids had done to me. I was sorry, but I didn’t stop. “Is it?”

  “I have no idea. Think about it, you know you were named after a waitress in Mexico because they told you. What if your parents and the waitress knocked over a bank that same weekend? They don’t say it, it didn’t happen. Right?”

  Except, if other people said it, I’d sure be curious.

  “My dad is a lot of things. Things I hate. He’s obsessed with his business. His kingdom. That doesn’t make him a killer. A not-so-nice guy at times, yes.”

  “Does Cedric share your opinion?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Something he said.” I’m glad he’s getting to have fun and be normal. I’m glad he’s got friends like you.

  “Ced’s had it rougher than me, for longer than me. Dad wants heirs. Ced’s the oldest. When our parents split up, Dad brought him out here immediately, while I spent seven or eight years in New York with Mom. Trust me, I got the better deal.”

  “How so?”

  “Dad’s intense now. And he’s made it. Back then, when he was trying to get to the top, he was obsessed with more, more, more. It’s why him and Mom split up. She thought he loved the business more than her. She was probably right. When he came here, he didn’t bring Ced to be his son, he brought him to be a junior executive. Or something. For a long time, Cedric told Mom he wanted to come back to New York. Back home.”

  Fake thunder and lightning crashed around us and the Atlantis statues yawned to life. Tourists crowded with phone cameras on. Functional families on display.

  I said, “He seems like he’s handling the pressure well. All those cars. His promotion business.”

  “What choice did he have? Dad shuts down all frivolous activity as soon as he thinks it’s a distraction. Ced wanted to be a baseball player. He was good, too. Dad pulled him out of sports at his peak, said it was a waste of time.”

  “That sucks.”

  Davis shrugged. “Like you said, he’s handling it well. He’s the son with potential.”

  “Not the way I see it.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him along. “Let’s walk.”

  “You want to come to the football dinner with me?”

  An abrupt change, which got me stammering. “You thin
k that’s a good idea?”

  “Until yesterday you played soccer. Most sports fans around the world consider that football. Feels appropriate.”

  “No, goof. I mean our family drama.”

  “I know what you meant. I’m still asking.”

  I squeezed his hand. “It might be a bad idea. Not the worst I’ve heard this week. Yeah, I’ll go.”

  Ten minutes before noon, we took our positions in the Cosmopolitan. Like the Wynn, the hotel resort mixed gaming, shopping, clubbing, and dining in a beehive. China Poblano was open for lunch, so I nabbed a table in the patio section, ordering water and a couple of pricey tacos to keep the waitress happy. Molly and Davis set up in Holsteins, thirty yards away. I saw them through the window, where Molly’s head bobbed joyfully over her crème brûlée milk-shake.

  This close to midday, hundreds of people bustled along with their bags and their plans. The low murmur of commerce echoed throughout the cavernous floor. My duck-tongue tacos cooled on my plate while I searched the crowd for Freddy-ish faces. I had no clue what he looked like. Only imagined a grizzled, aged man, based on his voice alone. Lines deep-cut in his face, a mix of thick facial hair and silver neck stubble, yellow eyes that weren’t the windows to his soul but portholes to his damaged liver.

  No one fit my description. From Holsteins, Davis stared unblinking. Intense. Molly slurped her empty calories.

  He mouthed, You okay?

  Before I gave my thumbs-up, a woman screamed.

  “El Potrillo! Dios mío!”

  Twisting toward the main floor and crouching from my seat, prepared to hide fully if necessary, I spotted the woman. Latina and elderly in a Cirque du Soleil T-shirt, she was in a full freak-out, with two younger women—a daughter and granddaughter by the resemblance—attempting to calm her. Unsuccessfully.

  “El Potrillo! El Potrillo!”

  The singer Mr. Héctor once told me about? Here?

  The younger women restrained her from chasing the object of her desire. A dark-haired, denim-jacketed man fleeing the crowd. I didn’t see his face, though I’m certain it was not the singer. It’s a man who looked like him.

  Tomás?

  A voice behind me said, “You’re Nathan’s kid.”

  It was not a question. I turned my attention. The man I came to meet stood at my table. Hello, Freddy Spliff.

  He looked nothing like I’d imagined. He was old, like my dad’s age, but neater than I expected. He wore pleated khakis—too big in the waist, a belt cinched to the last buckle hole kept them on—and a pressed sky-blue shirt. The outfit had a borrowed feel, like when Molly and I wore each other’s clothes.

  His tanned cheeks were clean-shaven, blowing my stewbum image away. His hair oiled and combed. The eyes, though … they were the eyes of a drunk—yellow, crackling with red lightning. His breath was flammable, so much so, I checked his pockets for the telltale impression of a flask.

  I flicked a glance toward Holsteins. Davis signaled Molly, who turned in her seat so fast, she disconnected from her straw, dribbling milkshake down the front of her shirt.

  “You drop something?” Freddy asked, shuffling his feet, surveying our immediate area.

  My knees remained bent in the defensive crouch I’d taken when that woman screamed for El Potrillo. Or Tomás. Or I didn’t know. Too much was happening, and Freddy Spliff was the priority. I could easily find Tomás later.

  “Just my napkin.” I reclaimed my seat, grasping for my former composure.

  Freddy Spliff’s eyes seemed loosely moored in his head, bouncing around the vast retail floor, never settling on any one person or thing.

  “You are?” he said, his certainty softening. “Nathan’s kid?”

  “I’m Nikki. Sit down.” I nudged the seat across from me askew with my foot.

  The way wobbly Freddy collapsed into the chair, I felt I’d offered it just in time. He gave one more sweep of the area with his omnivision, lowered his head onto the table before curling his arm over his eyes, a shield from the light.

  Awesome. My potential source was a second grader in need of a nap.

  “Is he okay?” The suddenly-there waitress startled me.

  Freddy sprang up from the hip, wavering, an on-guard cobra. “Coffee. If you got espresso, I need a shot in there.”

  “No food, sir?”

  He glanced at the exotic uneaten tacos on my plate, winced. “Just coffee.”

  “Sure thing.” The waitress disappeared, her aloof chilliness wafting.

  “What information do you have about my dad?”

  Freddy’s rolling marble eyes settled on me finally. I preferred his unfocused mode. His gaze penetrated so deeply I craved one of those lead blankets the dentist gave you before X-rays. “Nathan really didn’t tell you anything about them?”

  “Them who?”

  He waved his arm in a wide arc over his head. “The watchers everywhere! Unseen by us.”

  “Like ghosts?” This drunken nonsense was the reason I skipped school?

  Freddy Spliff’s eyes narrowed. “No, girl. Like cameras!”

  When he swept his arm again, I keyed on the globes mounted in the ceiling. Typical surveillance. Obvious and overdone. Vegas casinos rivaled airports in paranoia. So what?

  The waitress returned with Freddy Spliff’s coffee in a porcelain mug and a chrome basket of sugars and creams. Unsubtly, she pressed her hand to her nose, like she couldn’t stand the reek emanating from our table. “Will you be needing the check soon?”

  I snapped, “You can bring it, but we may be here a while. Thank you.” She skulked off, and I said, “What about the cameras?”

  “Nathan was watching, too. He told me that the night before he was killed.”

  “Freddy, you might think you’re making sense, but you’re not. Please tell me exactly what my dad said to you.”

  “He said it was the same scam, the way it happened. He said it was like history repeating.”

  History repeating. What history? Dad’s death was like John Reedy’s. Eerily so. I knew that already. That couldn’t be what Freddy’s talking about. Unless Dad knew he was going to die the way he did …

  Which. Was. Insane.

  “What about the cameras? Is there a surveillance video from the night my dad died?”

  Freddy Spliff sighed and smacked his forehead. Like I was the one talking nonsense. When he sprang to his feet, I gripped my armrest, defeating my flight-or-fight response. Beyond Freddy, Davis and Molly mirrored my tight posture.

  Freddy Spliff rooted in his shirt pocket. When his skeletal fingers emerged, a flash drive on a lanyard dangled from them. “Nathan didn’t know a thing about modern computers, but I learned some things in lockup. I helped him put it all together.”

  I wouldn’t have been more rapt if he’d flashed a ten-thousand-dollar casino chip just for me. Shifting to the edge of my chair, I reached for it.

  Freddy Spliff snatched the drive away. “You were supposed to come alone.”

  “I—I didn’t—” At first I feared my own violations of our terms would keep me from the apparent gold mine of information. But Freddy Spliff hadn’t discovered Molly and Davis; he never even looked in their direction. He gazed past me. I twisted, spotted a couple of men in dark denim pants and solid black polo shirts, staring.

  “Them? I don’t know those guys.”

  “You’re working with them, too. Aren’t you?”

  “Freddy, please, I promise, I—”

  Freddy Spliff ran before I could convince him.

  For a lumbering drunk, the man was sneaky quick. He escaped the China Poblano dining area before I left my seat, nearly fading into the lunchtime crowd. He couldn’t get away, not with that flash drive. Grabbing the two phones on the table, I chased. Only barely registered the chilly waitress shouting, “Hey, your check!”

  Past Holsteins. Davis was up, yelling something at Molly. I couldn’t wait for them.

  A set of escalators led to the ground floor, and to fancier restaurant
s on higher levels. Freddy angled toward them while I weaved around human roadblocks, trying to anticipate if he’d go up or down. Neither. He dipped into a side corridor.

  Making that corridor a second too late, elevator doors closed on Freddy Spliff, the down arrow winking red. The placard next to the elevator indicated two levels of parking deck beneath us. Kicking off my platforms for speed, I shoved a phone into each of my back pockets and descended into the stairwell. At the next level, I leaned from the door, saw the elevator moving down, and I kept going, too.

  At the ground-floor landing, I caught a glimpse of Freddy Spliff’s shirt fluttering around him like loose skin. He ducked between bumpers and fenders like a maze runner, sparing an occasional glance over his shoulder.

  “Hey!” I yelled, still following.

  He had a significant lead, but no longer hindered by clunky shoes, I put on soccer speed. Gained. The secret to my speed—my bare feet—was also my downfall.

  I planted one foot solidly in a patch of shattered glass. It hurt like a mother, even if not all the tiny pebbles pierced the skin.

  Whimpering, slowing, I did not stop, but each step was a hot needle drilling into my sole.

  Freddy Spliff made for the far end of the lot, not going for a vehicle but an emergency exit. He bounced the door open, stepped through a blazing-white rectangle into the populated desert. My orientation was completely off. Were we facing the front or back of the Cosmopolitan? If that door put Freddy Spliff close to the clogged and crowded Strip, I’d never find him again. I willed myself along faster, despite the pain.

  Moving through that same door, wincing at the sunlight, I emerged not on the Strip. This was the back side of the hotel. A loading dock ran adjacent to giant rolling doors meant to accept crates and pallets. No trucks were offloading, so the empty loading bay felt like an abandoned part of the city. No crowds, no sounds of joy. Only the hum of unseen machinery. A single engine.

  Suddenly interrupted by Freddy Spliff’s screams.

  At the far end of the loading dock a black van idled, it’s back door spread wide like wings. Two men in dark denim and polos, the same pair from upstairs, held a kicking and screaming Freddy Spliff by the arms, forced him into the vehicle.