Book of Secrets (18 page)

  I checked into a hotel on the other side of town, far away enough from the action to be cheaper and with less tourist traffic, but without question still Vegas. There were slot machines in the lobby, and the keys to my room came with a handful of complimentary chips. I dropped my stuff in my room, put a fresh shirt on under my suit coat, and then headed back downstairs. At the hotel's café, I had the waitress bring me the white pages and the special, and after wolfing down what passed in Nevada for chicken fried steak, ripped the page I needed from the phone book and tipped her all my chips. On my way out, the waitress started to kick about the mangled phone book, but saw her tip and decided to let it slide.

  The doorman was happy to help out with directions, at least once I waved a couple of bucks at him, and so fifteen minutes later I was pulling into the parking lot of a rundown apartment building on the outskirts of town. Double checking the address, I locked up the car, and headed towards the rickety stairs to the second floor, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. I probably shouldn't have bothered. In a neighborhood like that, being inconspicuous only makes you stand out all the more.

  The lock on the door proved no problem, the work of a little over a minute. An antique 1.25" Mortise cylinder almost rusted through; I could have just shoved it open quicker, but professional pride demanded I do it the old-fashioned way. Tan would have been pleased. When I had finished, I pocketed the two slim picks and gently turned the knob. I wasn't prepared for what I found.

  Either Marconi was a bigger slob than even Tan let on, or someone had really worked the place over. Particle board furniture was shattered into splinters and dust, and the ceiling fan overhead had been yanked out by the roots. The doors were ripped off the cabinets in the kitchenette, the drawers pulled out and tossed across the floor. In the small bedroom, things were even worse. A stained twin mattress had been gutted lengthwise, its ticking pulled out, the stuffing lying in a carnage of synthetic fibers all around. Someone had been looking for something, and they had been thorough. From the looks of the casual damage to the walls and ceiling, though, they hadn't found what they were looking for, and had taken out their frustration on everything else left standing.

  I was poking around in the bedroom closet, trying to find anything still in one piece that might help me figure out who Marconi had been working for, when there came a knock at the door. It was followed by a gruff voice calling out, and then the sound of heavy footfalls in the living room. There are times when I regret my decision never to carry a gun. This was one of them.

  I make it a rule never to go into a situation I don't know how to get out of, but overcome by the destruction of Marconi's apartment I'd allowed myself to get boxed in. There were no windows back in the bedroom, no convenient ceiling tiles to push out of the way and crawl through, no sideboard vents. I was stuck. Seeing no other option, I straightened up, dusted off my suit as best as possible, and walked into the main room.

  The cartoon that stood there waiting for me screamed landlord. Sweat-stained undershirt, barefoot and Bermuda shorts, he was overweight, grizzled and balding. Smelling the stink of his cheap cigar, I wondered if guys like him were drawn into the property management field by genetics and cultural conditioning, or whether they got to looking like that only after taking the job.

  "You a friend of Marconi's?" the sweat stain asked warily, eyeing me up and down.

  I thought quickly for a clever story and, failing miserably, did the best I could. I was too tired for this.

  "His cousin," I said in an East Coast accent. "Sal Marconi. In town for the funeral."

  I stuck out my hand and he limply accepted, drawing his hand back as soon as was possible.

  "Funeral, huh?" he said. "Didn't think enough people gave two shits about Marconi to pay for planting him."

  "Well," I said serenely, every bit the grieving relation, "we may have had our differences, but Gian was still family, you know?"

  "Sure, sure," he answered, apologetic. "No offense."

  "None taken." I motioned at the destruction around us. "Did Gian always keep his place like this?"

  "How the fuck should…" he began, then calmed himself and clamped down on the cigar. "Nah, he was a slob, but nothing like this. It was all tore up when the cops came by the other day to check things out, and they said it looked like there'd been a break in."

  "You don't say."

  "Yeah, but with his TV all busted up like that and nothing stolen, I figure it for a bunch of kids out for some fun. You know? Saw the place was empty, and decided to have a party." He paused, shifting his eyes. "I must have been away that night, 'cause I would have heard if something was going on."

  "I'm sure you would have," I said, nodding. I was also sure that blanketed in the fog of vodka I smelled on his breath, he most likely was "away" most every night.

  "Even so," he continued, "somebody's gotta pay for this mess. Marconi didn't keep any insurance, and the cops say that there's not enough left in his bank account even to cover his parking tickets, so I'm out a months rent right there, too."

  "I'm sure that the family can work something out," I said, "cover any outstanding debts."

  At that, he brightened up considerably, and probably would have shook my hand again if I'd let him.

  "Alright, then," he said eagerly. "I figure with the clean up costs, and the rent, and the charges for repairs, minus his security deposit, it should come to…" He wrinkled up his forehead, trying to impress me with his mathematical prowess. I got ready for a big number. He didn't disappoint.

  I promised him the family would cut him a check for the full amount as soon as the funeral services were done, and had him write down his mailing address on a sheet of shredded newspaper. I was all set to leave, figuring I'd overstayed my welcome and was only risking trouble, when he grabbed my arm and steered me out the door.

  "Come to think of it," he said, suddenly my best friend, "I got a package here for Marconi the other day. After the cops were here. I was going to mention it but… well…" He stalled, waiting for me to finish up for him, to get him off the hook. I didn't.

  "Anyway," he finally continued, squirming, "Marconi was always sending himself stuff when he was on the road, signature required, and those fucking delivery guys were pounding on my door all hours with shit for him. One week it was eight o'clock in the morning, on a Monday no less."

  I shook my head in sympathy.

  "Anyway, I always handed the shit over when he got back, and the bastard never once even thanked me." He looked at me guiltily, and added, "May he rest in peace."

  "I'm sure he will," I answered.

The package turned out to be a Fed Ex mailer, stuffed full and mailed a week before. I thanked the sweat stain for his time, and promised to send him the check in a few days. He bobbed his head so much he looked like he belonged on a dashboard, and waved at me from the doorway as I made my way back to the car.

  I waited until I was back at the hotel and safely in my room before I opened up the package, letting the contents spill out onto the bed. I was surprised to see a neat bundle of large denomination bills, a couple of matchbooks, and what looked to be pages torn from a ledger book.

  I counted out the bills, coming to at least ten grand. It seemed that Marconi didn't like to travel with a lot of cash, though I was impressed by his faith in the good name of Federal Express. The matchbooks came from the seedier topless bars in the Houston area. The ledger page, scrawled in a shaky hand and smelling of spilt beer, was a list of numbers and names, added up with a tally at the bottom. If this was a record of Marconi's debt, it was no surprise he'd run into trouble. On the credit side, he had listed one number, a big one. It wasn't enough to cover all his expenses, but it made a good start. Out along side the big number, in block letters, was a name: LUCETECH.

  I lit a cigarette with a match from one of the books, and stared long and hard at that name. I wasn't sure if I'd found a missing puzzle piece, or if things had just got a whole lot more complicated.

I managed to nap for a couple of hours that afternoon, waking in a cold sweat only once or twice, and by the time the sun set I was up again and ready to roam. I had nowhere to be for another twenty-four hours, so I had time on my hands, and thanks to the foresight of the dear departed Mr. Marconi, I now had money to burn.

  Other people might have thought twice about spending a dead man's money, even a dead crook's. I might even have, at one time. But the way I looked at it, the money was doing Marconi no good as it was, and if I turned it in to the cops they'd have to impound it and wouldn't even get to enjoy it. I could have turned it over to the landlord, but I didn't expect for a minute that he'd have given the package to me if he'd thought there'd be cash involved. Any way I jumped, the money would just be causing someone trouble, so it was best I keep it with me, and see to it the cash found a good home.

  I have little love for casinos, at least the latter day variety, but when in Rome… So I showered off the day's grime, dressed, and headed down to catch a cab to the strip. The doorman, unctuous, asked if I'd found my friend's address alright with his directions, and then hailed a taxi, his hand out bragging the whole time. I was feeling generous and Dean Martin, so I laid a hundred on him as I climbed into the cab. For one night, I was going to be an old time swinger, and leave worries about webs of intrigue and murder and lunatic relatives until the morning.

  After the first couple of casinos, I was a star. The way I was dropping cash without blinking, and by my scruffy look, everyone eventually assumed I was Hollywood slumming, and hung at my elbow. I lost a month's salary at the craps table, won back half at blackjack, and drank whatever they put in front of me. It was Disneyland, with animatronics and out-of-work actors in goofy costumes, but if you squinted just right it was still Vegas.

  I was at a roulette wheel in a casino whose name I'd missed, when someone put their hand on my shoulder and spun me around. I panicked, all swagger lost, remembering the trail of corpses that had led me this far. I was having trouble deciding on cowering in fear or coming up swinging when I looked into a face that was almost as familiar as my own.

  "Amador?" I said.

  "I've been looking all over for you," he answered, his face grim. "We've got to get you out of here."

  I started to mouth a response, but was just too baffled – and maybe a little drunk – to even think straight. Amador got me to my feet, and taking my elbow led me away. The waitresses and pit bosses frowned at my back as we passed. The gravy train was leaving the station, and they'd have to make do with what I'd left behind.

When I finally sobered up, we were back in my hotel room, me lying sprawled on the bed and Amador trying to force a cup of coffee into my hands.

  "Where did you come from?" I said, sipping the coffee and immediately regretting it. Wherever Amador had found the stuff, the people there must have been happy to get rid of it.

  "You drink too much," Amador answered, loosening his tie and falling into a chair. "Always have."

  "Tan's right," I said. "You
are
a prig."

  Amador looked wounded for a moment, and then it passed.

  "Maybe," he confessed, "but just think if it hadn't been me found you reeling at that table. Suppose it had been the guys who got Marconi. I could have slipped a knife in your ribs and been gone before anyone had noticed what happened."

  "You were going to stab me?" I asked, still not up to full speed.

  "No," he answered, "but I could begin to reconsider." With that, he finally broke a smile and was the Crooked Lover all over again.

  He didn't look all that different than he had when we were kids. Still slim, with a dancer's figure and a bullfighter's build, with the right accent Amador could have gone far in Hollywood. As it was, he was probably the sharpest looking data processor the feds had on the payrolls.

  "You lost the goatee," I observed.

  "Nah, I still know where it is," he answered. "On the chins of half the guys working with computers these days. It's like a part of the uniform, and you know how I always felt about uniforms."

  "Hey, you're the cop, not me."

  "I'm not a cop," he shot back, sounding hurt, "it's just that when I decided to sell out, the FBI was the highest bidder."

"Lucky them."

  I rubbed at my temples, and against my better judgment took another stab at the coffee. It was worse the second time round, but I was feeling more alert and starting to think straight.

  "What the hell are you doing in Vegas?" I finally asked. "When we talked this morning, I thought you were still in Houston."

  "I was," Amador replied, "but after we hung up I started to do more digging on this Marconi guy. He was mixed up in some bad business, Finch, more than your run of the mill job. Around noon, I was called to the office of the Regional Director. The big wheel, the head G-man, and he wanted to know what I was doing sniffing around the Marconi case."

  "Marconi case?" I parroted. "He had a case?"

  "So it seems. Turns out that the feds had been after him for a while, after he turned up in routine surveillance of some of the bureau's most popular people."

  "Who? The mob?" I considered telling him about what I'd found on the ledger sheet, but decided to wait and hear what he had to say first.

  "I don't think it's the mob, but they wouldn't tell me who it really was," Amador answered. "I'm not authorized for that information, insufficient security clearance they said. But they did tell me that these people were bad news, and from all indications it was them who had done Marconi in."