Leaving Las Vegas - Pt. 3

There used to be a coffee shop in The Trop—it's not there now—but, at the time, it was the ideal place for people like me: it was off the floor, but not too far; it was close to a couple of exits and, most importantly, it had pretty spotty surveillance coverage. It was the perfect place for a meet. Food wasn't bad, either.

Back in the day, this was “the office,” where we met when we were working in town. And, for a time, we were in town a lot. We would move against the mob and their agents by rigging, or un-rigging, their games, monkeying with their counts, or making it look like a trusted lieutenant had turned Judas. It was exhilarating work, a lot like gambling with other people's money.

In those days, when we came to town it was because we had been called. Someone had stepped out of line and come to the attention of the Secretary. Ordinarily, nobody gave a shit about what happened when gangsters fight among themselves, but when taxpayers get caught in the crossfire..., well, even the Secretary pays attention to stuff like that.

When we would come to town in those days, everyone knew it. Vegas was a small town and everyone was connected to everyone else either through silver or lead. We weren't crusaders, we were surgeons: we took out the bad parts and then left so the patient could heal. We were good for their business.

Not everyone always saw it that way.

More than once, after we had been in on a job, we would catch wind of a settling of accounts between competitors. Somebody gets in in their head that one of the competition ratted them out to us and there would be a very public reckoning.

They should have just left it to us.

The public executions and the noisy disappearances just made it painfully obvious who was running the tables and that, in turn, invited the attention of those of our brethren with no appetite for subtlety, no capacity for precision.

For Hoover, who had been making himself crazy with the Civil Rights and war protest movements, the opportunity to clean up Las Vegas was a shot in the arm. Old school gangsters were a much simpler target and one he knew how to hit.

The Gee came to town in a very public way and that made it next to impossible for us to do any work there. Our methods and those of the criminals were almost indistinguishable and we were under strict orders that his people should never catch wind of the existence of our people.

* * *

The more days I spent in town, the more confident I became.

I was certain I wasn't being followed. I was being recorded, but that wouldn't mean anything unless, or until, somebody chose to move against me, or mine. So long as I kept my head down and didn't do anything to draw attention then there would be no reason for anyone to pay attention to me.

I stood there staring at the wall that used to have our coffee shop in it and became aware that I had been standing in one place for too long. Time to get back to the garage and get my car.

Just off the floor in The Trop are several long arms of corridors that betray its earliest days as a motel. The back door to the garage was at the end of one of them, I just had to remember which one.

I made my best guess and started off walking.

My route took me past an escalator that came down from a second floor showroom.

I didn't see anyone at first, but I did hear some moaning.

At the foot of the escalator crumpled up like a college student's laundry was a woman. She was maybe in her fifties with practical hair, an age-inappropriate track suit, and brilliant white tennis shoes that had clearly never been outside.

The relentless parade of metal steps kept coming, seemingly oblivious to her situation, each one hitting her in the back of the head before it disappeared into the floor.

I think she tried to speak to me, but I couldn't make out what she was saying.

I reached over and swatted at the emergency stop button. The sound of the escalator was replaced with that of an angry bell that seemed to resent being disturbed.

“What seems to be the problem?”

I had not heard the uniformed staff person--”Graydon” from White Plains, according to his name tag—appear behind me.

“This woman needs help,” I said. “Do you know first aid? I think she's hurt.”

Graydon from White Plains was unable to answer me as he was working his radio. The ear-piece that attached his head to the radio on his belt made it difficult to appreciate both sides of the conversation. What I did know was that his eyes were locked on mine as though he was studying every detail of my face.

I raised my voice as I reached into my pocket.

“She needs help. Are you calling for help? Somebody needs to help her. Why aren't you helping her?”

I turned to look at her and he turned to follow my eyes.

I pulled the paper napkin from my pocket and began to wipe the sweat from my brow that only I could see.

“Help is on the way, sir. Please step back.”

Graydon from White Plains had one hand on his radio and the other behind his back on what I had to assume was a baton. This one had some training.

“Okay, but she needs help.” As I rather unsteadily rose to my feet, I made sure I revisited each of the surfaces I had touched with the now slightly-damp napkin. They might get my prints, but I wasn't going to to give them away.

A crowd had begun to form in order to take in our little piece of street theatre.

There weren't enough people yet for me to melt away just yet, so I had to make sure that everyone who was there was more focused on the woman in the white shoes than they were on me.

“She must have fallen down the escalator.... There's a reason the keep blowing up these old hotels: they're not safe.”

I was a little louder than I should have been, but loud enough to do the job. More people joined the audience.

More staff arrived as well, including paramedics from Clark County.

“Is she okay? Is she dead? Was she killed in the fall?”

Now everybody was looking at the victim in the track suit, searching for signs of life.

I had to go, but where? The longer I stayed indoors, the more video they would have on me and the quicker they would get an ID. I go to the parking lot and they will have all kinds of chances to grab me up. And, besides, it was important that, right at the moment, they not find my work car.

By this time, the EMTs had the victim sitting up.

Deprived of any more drama, the crowd became restless and ready to break up at any moment.

“She's okay,” I said loudly. “It looks like she's going to bed okay.”

I knelt down to tie my shoe and, in so doing, I moved to the back of the crowd. In one move, I shed my jacket, shirt and hat so that when I stood up, I had a whole new look. It wasn't going to fool anyone for long, but, hopefully, long enough.

As the victim was placed in a gurney, the crowd sighed and began to break up. I followed the largest group of them and, in time, made it to a street exit.

Fuck.

I just kept repeating it to myself.

Fuck!