Snake eyes, p.7
Snake Eyes, page 7
There. She’d taken a position by a marble column, on the very far side of the room, just outside the open-faced entrance to the adjoining nightclub, Dexter’s.
She leaned against the column and arched her back, her curves accentuated by its straightness, her gaze straight ahead, as if oblivious to the club’s presence. Then she turned and leaned against the column with both hands, supporting herself while she flexed her calf muscles.
Yowza. She was fit, Bob had to admit. But…
This is a display of some sort. She’s preening for someone.
In the club? Probably.
He shifted his view back to the blackjack tables. Arthur Wilkie was intent on his usual terrible performance, paying no attention to her from the far side of the room.
Tim Wright hadn’t made an appearance yet. And it didn’t seem like the world’s worst gambler was going anywhere.
He checked the room again for anyone watching him, then approached the club.
She passed him as they both crossed the gaming floor in opposite directions.
“Evening,” Bob said, smiling.
She lowered her chin and fluttered her eyelashes ever so slightly as she passed, her smile small and secretive.
Maybe Taylor had it right, maybe she’s a professional. He checked his shoulder as he approached the nightclub entrance, in time to see her glance back, then walk away, towards the high rollers’ tables.
Bob peered into the long, narrow club. It had dark-blue carpeting and dark walls, accentuating the black light atmosphere, booths lining each wall, a stage at the far end, smaller four-person tables in a horseshoe pattern, just ahead of the booths.
In the back corner, a double-sized booth and table seemed almost to have been built around the imposing, double-sized figure of Jerry Grosso. His white suit, shirt and tie fairly glowed under the black lights. He had a cocktail-dress-wearing girl on each arm, blank expressions written across copious Botox and plastic surgery. His two bodyguards stood on both sides of his booth.
I’m curious…
Bob walked over to one of the bodyguards and leaned in. “Excuse me, bud…”
“This booth is private.” The guard held his hands ahead of him like buffers, feet spread apart, expression stoic.
“Yeah… just curious. Does this guy own the club or something?”
“Sir… I’ll ask you nicely to respect Mr. Grosso’s privacy.” The warning was implied in the tone.
Bob held up a hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend.” He turned on both heels and stared back from where they stood, through the entrance. The marble column was in Grosso’s direct line of sight.
So that was either for his benefit, or these two chuckleheads.
Tiffany Williams withdrew an ivory-and-gold cigarette case from her clutch purse, opened it, and took out a filter-tipped Marlboro. She nodded generally to her left.
“Sweetie, I’m going to go have a cigarette at the bar. I’ll be back in a few, okay?”
Arthur looked up from his cards. “Do you need anything?” he asked.
She gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m good. You just worry about the cards.”
She wandered across the gaming floor. The casino was loud and smelled of body odor and stale liquor, and men in general. She hated it, hated the flashing lights, the crass displays by the occasional slot winners, the obliviousness of the gamblers to their surroundings.
And soon, I’ll never have to deal with any of this basic, low-rent bullshit ever again.
She sat down on a barstool. The bartender came over quickly, which was how things generally went for her. She’d always been pretty, always been able to get men to come at her beck and call. He leaned in and flicked a lighter for her cigarette.
“Martini,” she said.
She turned her attention back towards Arthur.
He was such a small man. His desires were basic and dull, his tastes in music and entertainment boring and slow-witted, his nerves perpetually shaken.
But he was nice. She had to give him that. Of all the men she’d sunk her fangs into since running away at age fifteen, he was the only one for whom the niceness hadn’t been a show.
They’d been ‘together’ for three months. He’d never forced her into bed, never even tried. He made it clear he wanted more, but he did it gently and softly, as if he genuinely worried about how she felt.
As if he genuinely loves me.
He was pathetic and a weakling. But it wasn’t really his fault. It was just his nature to be taken advantage of. If he’d been a wild animal, Tiffany supposed, he’d have been a baby deer, doe-eyed and shaky.
And I’m a survivor.
She felt a slight pang of regret over how they were treating him. The dour feeling was uncomfortable and unfamiliar, and she pushed it away. She’d never really believed in regrets.
Carl was Arthur’s polar opposite. Carl was strong, and ruthless, exciting and in control in the bedroom, his own stoic man outside of it. A wolf who trusted no one, believed in nothing.
He was also selfish, greedy and small-minded, and Tiffany figured she’d be no happier with him in the long run than Arthur.
But they both served their purpose.
“Excuse me, miss.”
She turned to her right. “Hmm?”
It was one of Jerry Grosso’s bodyguards, last seen guarding his booth. Her display had evidently caught his attention.
“Miss, my name is Arno Corelli. I represent Mr. Jerry Grosso, one of Philadelphia’s wealthiest and most successful businessmen. He would very much like you to join him for a drink in his private booth.”
She gazed across the vast casino floor, as if confused. “Booth?” she said.
He nodded to his right. “In Dexter’s, the nightclub adjoining…” He let the thought trail as she stared past him.
“A drink.” She tried to show a little unease, frowning, her mouth a tilted, skeptical line.
“I assure you, miss, Mr. Grosso is a deeply honorable man, a brilliant man of great respect and generosity. He simply stated that he admired your great beauty, on seeing you. I’ve taken the liberty to make the introduction.”
“Well, aren’t you the enterprising one?” she murmured.
His pitch was smooth enough to have been practiced, given dozens of times before.
She took a long drag off her cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke, studying him as if undecided. Then she sniffed a little, butted out the cigarette and stood up. “Okay, you’ve got me curious,” she said.
She retrieved her martini and brought it with her.
He led her past the Texas hold ’em tables to the open club entrance. She surveyed the room as if unfamiliar. It was too early in the afternoon for the club to be busy. The two women who had been on each of Grosso’s arms when she’d wandered over earlier were nowhere to be seen.
She had no expectations other than opportunity. The first thing she’d done when they arrived in Philadelphia was head to the library while the others slept, getting there early and researching the owners and big players at all seven casinos, as well as the horse racing bookies. Despite the internet — or maybe because of its sheer size — it was still much easier to find relevant information using library research tools and direct access to newspapers and documents.
Grosso had stood out, for two reasons: one, he was barely mentioned as a casino investor and clearly didn’t want his name connected to the business.
And two, he showed up in more crime stories than business. That made him dangerous, but also vulnerable, someone who couldn’t run to the authorities.
And who knows? Maybe he’s got as much in a suite safe as we have in the room. Maybe there’s a chance to get away from all these basic bitches earlier than expected.
She put on her most dazzling smile and began to cross the room, her walk slow and deliberate, her short skirt showing off her long legs and high heels.
12
Tim Wright looked tired. He made his way from the main doors to the casino stairs with his head down, not paying attention to the room.
By Bob’s count, Arthur was eight hundred bucks down after two hours. If he was planning to lose the usual two or three grand, they had a few more hours to go.
Bob got up and made his way over.
“Tim!” He caught the security officer’s attention.
Wright paused, one foot on the bottom step. He looked around nervously. “You think it’s wise—”
“No choice. I had to start wherever Wilkie is,” Bob said quietly, “so that I can find out where he’s going after.”
Tim studied the room. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s having unusual good luck, won three hands despite himself. Drew a three against an eighteen-point flop. You should’ve seen his face; I’ve never seen someone so disappointed by good fortune.”
“I have that file you wanted,” Tim said. “There’s a printer in the main security office. I can run a hard copy for you, if you want.”
“Good man,” Bob said. “I hate reading off a tiny screen.” He nodded towards the high rollers’ tables. “The blonde was here, too. She went over to the bar, but she’s disappeared on me. Did the police tell you anything else?”
Tim shook his head. “Your intervention seems to be messing up their case badly. They’re now working on the theory that it must have been personal: he got a call from a now-defunct burner number just before he was killed, and someone booted in his front door. I got the impression from the lead detective they’re going through his financials now.”
That was good, Bob figured. They wouldn’t find anything, but it would keep casino ties out of the picture for at least a few more days.
“Hang tight,” Tim said. He jogged up the stairs and entered the second office. A few moments later, he exited, file in hand, and jogged back down.
“Here.”
It was surprisingly girthy for a guy who Taylor described as a complete nobody. “Did he stick a PI on him or something? This is dozens of pages.”
“You know how Taylor was with computers. It’s mostly financial stuff, plus some background on the town he’s from.”
“Thanks for this.”
“Not a problem. Like I said, Taylor gave me a break, got me this job. You’re heading out as soon as Wilkie does?”
“That’s the general idea.” Bob frowned. “But where has that blonde disappeared to?”
Tiffany stood before Jerry Grosso’s table and clutched her purse ahead of her. “Mr. Grosso. I understood you inquired after me?”
Grosso shifted his enormous bulk just enough to lean over the table and offer a hand. She shook it and smiled warmly, holding his hand a split second longer than necessary.
Then she turned away from him, towards the four-person table just behind and to her left. She grabbed a loose chair and dragged it over to Grosso’s table, then plonked herself down directly across from him.
She tossed back the last of her martini, set it down, leaned against the table and crossed one long leg over the other, a picture of relaxation.
Grosso smiled and studied her with beady, lizard eyes. “You don’t feel like joining me on the bench here, sweetheart?” he patted the seat next to him. “It’s real comfy. Promise.”
She allowed herself a wary look, sucking on her tongue a little as if weighing an oblique question. “We’ve just met, Mr. Grosso, and as impressive as your success is… I think I’ll stay over here until we know each other a little better.”
He looked genuinely surprised, but also pleased.
Maybe no one ever presents him a challenge. Maybe they’re always too scared.
“So… ask away,” he said. “I doubt you came over because of my Hollywood good looks. Which means you’re intrigued by either the money, the power or both.”
She nodded gently and scrunched up her button nose a little. “Probably a little of both.”
He waggled a sausage-shaped index finger at her then turned to his bodyguard. “See, Arno… I told you this one was something special. You’ll have to excuse my coarse approach, Ms.…”
“Tiffany. Tiffany Martel,” she said. The last name was one she’d used before; if nothing else it would slow down any attempts by his men to dig up dirt on her.
A waitress scurried over. “Another whiskey ginger,” Grosso told her. “And the lady will have…”
“Martini,” Tiffany said. “No olive.”
“Lovely,” he said. “You must excuse me, Tiffany, as I said. My men are… eager to please, and know I’m single and often lonely. Some of their suggested companions are less cultured. Less sure of themselves.”
“Companion? Is that what you’re looking for, Mr. Grosso, a companion? Not just ‘company’?”
“Indeed. Women are not hard for me to attract as just ‘company’. As the old saying goes, I don’t treat them nicely to keep them around, I treat them nicely so they’ll go away. As you no doubt noticed, I am a man of considerable means.”
“That sounds brutally pragmatic and transactional.”
He tilted his head. “Eh, it is what it is. But they add nothing satisfying to my life, no new dimension. And everyone wants to find a person to share their life with. It’s the human condition.”
It’s the weakness of men. “Of course,” she said instead. “But as I said, we don’t know each other.”
“I’m an open book.”
That she doubted greatly. “This is your club?” she asked, scoping the room out, the black lights reducing brightness to a dull purple haze, tiny tea lights on the tables trying in vain to fight back.
“This my casino,” he said. “I own many businesses.”
Her martini arrived and she took a sip. “Another customer on their way out said you’re a gangster.”
Grosso rubbed the slight stubble under his double chin. “That, I guess, is a matter of perspective. One man’s gangster is another man’s Lord Protector. One man’s villain is another’s knight errant.”
Ah, crap. The big slug is an incel white knight type. If he calls me ‘m’lady,’ I swear to God, I’m going to lose it and punch him in the face.
Just… cool it, Tiff. Play it cool.
The worst ‘marks’ were falsely sincere, the ones who tried to paint themselves as virtuous towards women even as they tried to trick them into bed. They were usually the most dangerous, too, because deep down, they felt owed something just for being nice, and they denied their own issues.
That also made them satisfying to clean out. Grosso’s net worth was rumored to be in the hundreds of millions. She knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere near most of his ill-gotten cash.
But I don’t need that kind of money to disappear.
“And is that how your men see you, Mr. Grosso? As their protector?”
“Please… call me Jerry,” he said. “And very much so. We’re a family, and we do things as a family, with the rules of a family. That means we have to have inherent faith, absolute certainty in their loyalty to me, and mine to them.”
Give him a serious look; let him know you’re weighing it and buying this stream of self-indulgent bullshit. “That’s… a lot of trust. More than I usually find healthy,” she said. Make him work for it.
“Perhaps I can change your mind,” he said. “Perhaps, given a chance to get to know me, you might even find us a match.”
“I’ve never really been the matchy-matchy type, but I leave anything open to possibility,” she said. She smirked girlishly. “At least you hold up your end of a conversation.”
“I have all sorts of things I’m good at,” he said. His gaze narrowed and he peered at her curiously. “Do you play poker, Tiffany?”
“Not… really. I know how it’s played. I’ll admit it held my attention on TV a few times.”
“I have a game here, once a week,” he said. “It’s very special, a coming together of men of similar means and power, very important men in this city. The stakes can be incredibly high. Would you like to attend, as my date for the evening?”
She ignored her inner excitement. A high-stakes game for millionaires? That was something.
That was something she could work with.
“I think…” She let it hang there for a minute, letting her gaze drift into space as if deep in thought. She lifted her martini and took a sip, cocked her head as if a notion had just come to her. “I think that might be interesting, Mr. Grosso.”
“Please… call me Jerry.”
She rose from her chair. “I’ll leave my number with your man.”
“You have to leave?”
“Unfortunately, this was an unplanned — if pleasant — diversion from my schedule,” she said. “But I’m glad I did.”
“I would like to think so also,” he said. “Please…” He leaned across the table and took her arm by the wrist. Then he kissed the back of her hand like an eighteenth-century courtier. “Until then, m’lady.”
He let her go.
It took every ounce of self-control to bite the inside of her lip, and let the sting distract her from her overwhelming urge to smack him.
“Until then.” She turned and sashayed out of the room, working it.
13
Bob kept the beaten-up Oldsmobile sedan three cars back as he followed the cab along Arch Street, heading west through downtown.
He’d just managed to catch them. By the time Arthur and his lady friend had stepped out the front doors, he was a half-block away, sprinting to the only parking spot he’d been able to find.
That’s the glamorous world of stakeouts for you.
It was never as easy as in the movies; there was rarely a parking spot right across the road from a target, and they never behaved as expected.
The cab turned down North Seventeenth Street, past the towering Comcast Center skyscraper, across JFK Boulevard, traffic heavy as the afternoon slipped away. He half expected them to turn right and look for parking at the gigantic Westin Philadelphia Hotel, which connected to Bloomingdales and the rest of the glass-domed Liberty Place Mall, giving them multiple exits.
