The Disciple of Las Vegas (11 page)

“No,” Francis said, writing down his email address and handing her the paper. “For some reason I trust you.”

Ava stood. “The trust is mutual,” she said. “Although I do need to ask that no one from the band contact anyone at The River. I think it's best all around if they think this issue is behind them.”

“All right,” Francis said.

“You'll have my email in half an hour,” she said.

“I'll make a phone call. You'll have the names by then as well,” Martin said.

Francis and Martin stood, and each in turn extended a hand. Harold was still slumped in the chair, holding his arm. Ava realized she might have jabbed him a little more forcefully than she intended.

“I have to say, I didn't expect this to happen when you walked through the door,” Francis said.

“Sometimes meetings take on a life of their own,” Ava said, nodding at all three men.

Ava left the mezzanine, went to the concierge to retrieve her bags, and checked into a room. Her cellphone had been off during the meeting, and when she turned it on, her mother's number was at the top of the missed calls list. The bamboo telegraph has been working overtime, Ava thought. Philip Chew's attempted suicide would be the talk of countless mah-jong tables. She just hoped her mother didn't think that they or Aunt Lily had pushed him over the edge.

When Ava got to her suite, she went to work on the memorandum of agreement for Francis. It took longer than she thought to get the wording right. She couldn't help slipping in phrases that created loopholes; in the end she took them all out. There was no point in risking his alienation by trying to act the amateur lawyer.

When the email had been sent, she waited twenty minutes and then went downstairs to the mezzanine level. Martin stood outside the boardroom, talking on his mobile phone. She saw a copy of her email in his hand.
This is good
, he mouthed, and passed her the piece of paper.

She held it against the wall and signed it, then kept her distance until he had closed the phone. “Here,” she said, handing the paper to him.

He took the email from her and disappeared into the boardroom. He was back in less than five minutes. “These are the names you want, and here's my card. The Chief asked that you call me if you need anything else. Or if you think there's anything we need to be warned about.”

As she handed him her card, Ava noted that Martin's family name was Littlefeather. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty-eight.”

“So young.”

“We're the first generation to benefit from the Chief's work. He has faith in us.”

“I'm impressed.”

“But I can't take Harold out and I can't control the Chief the way you did,” he said.

“I'm older than you are.”

“Bull,” he said.

She leaned forward and offered her hand. “I'd like to stay in touch with you.”

“Me too,” he said, taking her hand and holding it. She smiled, then turned and walked towards the elevator.

She opened the slip of paper when she was alone in the elevator. There were four names on it.
Philip Chew. Felix Hunter. Jack Maynard. David Douglas
. Where was the fifth? Then she saw that Douglas's name was written next to both
Buckshot
and
Kaybar
. She needed to talk to Jack Maynard.

“David Douglas,” Ava said, when she got to her room. She sat down at the desk and opened her notebook.

“What about him?” Maynard asked.

“Who is he?”

“The Disciple.”

“Who?”

“David ‘the Disciple' Douglas, one of the greatest poker players in the world. A fucking master.”

“I think he's also Buckshot and Kaybar.”

“Impossible,” Maynard said, dragging the word out.

“Why?”

There was a long pause. “I don't know. Maybe
unthinkable
is a better word.”

“Did you play online with him?”

“A couple of times.”

“Did he win?”

“Yeah, but he's the Disciple. Him winning isn't exactly a surprise.”

“Check all your records and see if he ever played against you at the same time as either Buckshot or Kaybar, and then call me back.”

“Wait,” he said. “I can correlate that in a few seconds.”

She waited, her head already halfway to Las Vegas.

“Son of a bitch,” he said finally.

“Jack, you can't discuss this with anyone, not even Felix.”

“I can't believe this shit. Douglas beat me, Philip, and Felix for maybe five or six million combined, but we never thought twice about it. It was Buckshot and Kaybar who made us freak out. Now I'm looking at my records and kicking myself for not seeing the obvious. None of them ever played together. Ever. And I'm telling you, when you factor Douglas's play into the numbers we ran on Buckshot and Kaybar, that ninety percent certainty we had that we were screwed jumps to one hundred. And do you know what hurts most?”

“I can guess.”

“We were fucked over big time by the very guy Felix and I almost model ourselves after.”

Ava was beginning to regret the phone call. “Jack, for the last time, please don't discuss this with anyone.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going after him.”

“For Philip?”

“For my client.”

“Well, fuck that,” Maynard said. “Get our money back at the same time. Then we can all bury that son of a bitch so deep he won't be able to show his face anywhere in the poker world.”

She knew she had lost him. Douglas's name had set off a firestorm in Maynard's head. “Listen to me, Jack. Maybe I can get some money back for you and Felix, but — and please hear me — I made a commitment to the Mohneida that I would keep this quiet. In exchange, they've made it possible for us to go after Douglas. Without them we would be nowhere. And I don't go back on my word.”

“Okay, then don't. Just get our money.”

“And you'll stay quiet about Douglas?”

“If I have to.”

“You do.”

“And you'll take my word for it?”

“Yes, I will. With one caveat.”

“I'm listening.”

“If you cause me to lose trust with the Mohneida, I'll take it very personally. And my people don't do car bombs. They do face to face.”

“Shit. I won't do or say anything, I promise,” he said.

Ava wasn't sure she believed him but she had no other choice but to go along. “Okay, then I'll do what I can to get your money back as well.”

“Thank you.”

“Send me an accounting of how much they took from you and Felix.”

“Will do.”

“And then send me your take on David Douglas. Pretend he didn't screw you. Pretend it's two weeks ago and you were asked for an objective assessment of him.”

“Can do.”

“I can see from the information the Mohneida gave me that he lives in Vegas. Where does he play?”

“When he's there, he plays the cash game at Wynn's. I played with him there myself. They told me he shows up just about every day.”

“Do the people at Wynn's know who you are?”

“Yeah.”

“Then do me a favour. Call Wynn's right now and ask if Douglas has been playing there, and then call me back.”

“Okay.”

It took less than ten minutes for Maynard to call Ava back. “He's been there every day for the past month or so. In fact he's sitting at one of the tables now.”

“Well, I guess I'm going to Las Vegas,” Ava said.

It was almost five o'clock. She doubted that there would be any direct flights from Victoria to Vegas, and she had no idea if she could get back to Vancouver and catch one from there. She went online and, to her surprise, saw there was a nine-o'clock flight from Vancouver to Seattle that connected with an eleven-o'clock flight that got into Vegas just past midnight. Ava phoned her travel agent in Toronto, but when she couldn't reach her, she went back online and booked the flights herself.

She was packing her bags when her cellphone rang. The 613 area code again — eastern Ontario. “Ava Lee,” she said.

“It's Martin Littlefeather.”

“How are you?”

“I'm fine. I just wanted you to know that I've finished going over the data you gave us. At first glance it seems to hold up very well. It'll take time to confirm, of course, but it's so well organized that it should take less time than I thought.”

“That's good.”

“I was also calling to see if you'd like to join me for a drink later.”

“Actually, Martin, I'm flying to Las Vegas tonight.”

“Vegas?”

“Yes, I think that David Douglas is my man, and that's where he is.”

Ava heard noise erupting from his end. “Just a second. I'm with people and they've decided to start to party.”

When he came back on, she heard a toilet flushing. “Sorry about that. Did you say David Douglas?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated. “I can't say I'm surprised.”

“Why?”

“He's a shareholder in The River, along with Jeremy Ashton. The company is registered in Cyprus.”

“Why didn't you tell me earlier?”

“You left before I had a chance to say anything.”

“I did, didn't I. Well, now that we're talking, tell me what you know about him.”

“I've never met Douglas. We've only dealt with Ashton, which is not unusual. A lot of these poker sites have well-known professionals attached to them to attract players. They're normally not involved in any of the day-to-day administration.”

“Then talk to me about Ashton.”

“He's English, a bit of a snot, and demanding as hell. I've actually talked to the Chief a few times about cutting them loose. When we started this business, we were so anxious for customers that we were more flexible with our standards than we should have been, and we didn't always do the kind of due diligence we do now.”

“Are you saying there's something odd going on with The River?” she asked.

“I'm saying I don't know if there is or not, but that there shouldn't be any doubt.”

“Fair enough. Although it's a bit late in the day now.”

“I know,” he said softly.

“Hey, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to second-guess you.” Ava checked her watch. “Martin, I know I didn't clear this with the Chief, but can you send me everything you have on Ashton and Douglas and their businesses — The River and the holding company and whatever else you have on file?”

“I can.”

“Tonight, if possible.”

“Okay.”

“Do you need to discuss it with the Chief?”

“I don't think so. He did ask me to handle communications with you. I don't see how your request is out of the ordinary.”

“Thanks, and I'll talk to you later.”

“Good luck.”

Funny, she thought,
luck
wasn't a word she normally associated with her job, but this time it seemed to fit.

Even at midnight, McCarran Airport was a zoo. Serving a city with a population of only a million people, it was the sixth-busiest airport in the world, handling more than 600,000 planes and 45 million passengers a year. Hordes of people slumped towards the departure gates, tired, depressed, defeated, and broke. Moving past them in the opposite direction were thousands of confident, eager, energetic new arrivals.

Ava's plane landed at the main terminal and she walked out to the taxi stand. The lineup looped back and forth like one for a Disney World ride in peak season. She shivered, the cool desert air penetrating her nylon Adidas jacket. She spotted a limo driver with a sign that read
downtown
and headed towards him. A tall, lean black man got there just ahead of her. “The Venetian,” he said.

“Can you take two people?” Ava asked, poking her head around him.

“Up to him,” the driver said.

“Where are you going?” the man asked.

“Wynn's.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding at the driver.

McCarran Airport was in the southeast part of Vegas, only eight kilometres from the downtown area and about four kilometres from the heart of the Strip. Its outer boundary was mainly desert. On previous trips it had taken Ava not much more than ten minutes to get from the airport to the main Strip, but tonight traffic was unbelievably heavy. After crawling along Tropicana Avenue for fifteen minutes they still hadn't reached Las Vegas Boulevard.

“Is there something going on tonight?” Ava asked.

“There's always something going on,” the driver said.

The man she was sharing the limo with spent the first ten minutes of the drive working his BlackBerry. Whatever he was reading had brought a smile to his face. Ava thought he looked slightly familiar. She gazed at his long, lean frame. He wore a black silk jacket over a white T-shirt, black designer jeans, and a pair of expensive white sneakers. When he had put the BlackBerry away, he turned to her and said, “Hi, I'm Gilbert Jackson.”

The driver twisted his head to look back at them. “I thought I recognized you. Great to drive you.”

“I'm Ava Lee,” she said to Jackson.

“You in the movies?” he asked.

“No.”

“You didn't do that
Crouching Tiger
thing?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I think so.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling at her.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I played basketball, and now I'm an agent.”

“He's
the
agent,” the driver said. “He represents the best.”

“I was lucky,” Jackson said. “I wasn't much of a player but I learned how the system works. And I made a lot of friends.”

“I'm an accountant,” Ava said.

“I have one.”

“I wasn't looking for a job.”

He shrugged. “I'm here for an agents' meeting. You?”

“I came here to get some money.”

“Then you've come to the wrong place,” Jackson said. “They didn't build Las Vegas to give money away.”

Traffic lightened as they moved closer towards the Strip. As they turned north on Las Vegas Boulevard, four massive hotels — the MGM Grand, the Tropicana, New York–New York, and the Excalibur — lit up the night sky. Those hotels alone, Ava knew, held twenty thousand guests at any given time. Most of them, it seemed, had spilled out onto the jammed sidewalks.

It had been a few years since Ava had been to Vegas. On previous trips, always with her mother, she had done her run along the Strip in the early morning. She would start at Sands Avenue and work her way south, past Flamingo Road, Harmon Road, and Tropicana Avenue, out to Russell Road, where she was greeted by the famous
welcome to las vegas
sign at the tip of the boulevard. Just beyond had been patches of vacant desert, small strip malls, and stand-alone restaurants. Now Ava saw that the gaps had been plugged. On the west side of the Strip, New York–New York ran into the Monte Carlo, and beside it was the massive new City Center complex and the Bellagio, on the southwest corner of Flamingo Road.

“Hardcore Disneyland for adults,” Jackson said.

“If you like to gamble,” Ava replied.

“Hell, not many of my guys are into that. They come here to party — which, if anything, is worse. Vegas has the best club scene in the country, and there's more trouble to be found there than on any casino floor.”

“Women?”

Jackson laughed. “These guys are in the NBA. They use women the way you use dental floss.”

“Nice,” Ava said.

“No offence.”

“A bit late for that.”

“What I mean,” he said, as they neared the northwest corner of Flamingo Boulevard, “is that things get more complicated here. Yeah, there are women, but there's also drugs and booze and cash. Some of my guys really believe that shit about what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. When the NBA All-Star game was held here, it got so bad they had to shut down some of the clubs early on a Saturday night.”

“How bad could it have been?”

“Three shootings and a couple of near riots inside the clubs.”

“Geez.”

He smiled at Ava. “Yeah, geez. That's why I never let any of my guys come to Vegas alone, or with friends. I send a babysitter along with them. A big, tough babysitter.”

As the limo got close to Sands Avenue, the Venetian loomed into view. St. Mark's Square had been transplanted to Las Vegas with everything but the pigeons. They drove around the canal to the entrance. As Jackson left the limo, Ava said to him, “Just leave a tip. I'll pay for the ride.”

He looked at her as if she was joking. “That's a change.”

“I told you — I don't need a job,” she said.

The limo left the Venetian, glided past the Palazzo, and entered Steve Wynn's world. Wynn Las Vegas was, by Vegas standards, the epitome of class. The only theme was luxury. The forty-five-storey hotel had close to three thousand rooms and had cost almost three billion dollars to build. Its curved exterior was sheathed in bronze glass, with
Wynn
written in gold across the top. Inside, its marble and glass walkways were lined with high-end boutiques, including Cartier and Chanel. Overhead hung hundreds of light fixtures and chandeliers made of colourful blown glass. The casino occupied more than 100,000 square feet and was serviced by cocktail waitresses whose breasts almost touched their chins.

Ava had booked a deluxe resort room. It was more than six hundred square feet and decorated in soft creams and modern furnishings. She imagined that the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows would flood the room with natural light during the day. The bellboy spent a few minutes showing her the high-tech controls for the drapes, the massive flat-screen TV, and the en suite bathroom. She was less enthralled when he told her that if she put anything in the room's mini-fridge it would result in a charge. She also didn't like the idea that if she picked up a can of cashews for more than sixty seconds, she owned them.
As classy as they try to be in Vegas
, she thought,
there's always a hint of a tart
.

She booted up her computer to find emails from Martin Littlefeather and Jack Maynard. She pulled out her notebook and copied the corporate and personal information that Martin had provided on The River, David Douglas, and Jeremy Ashton.

Maynard's email was long and rambling, and he had attached a photo of David Douglas.

Ava now saw why Douglas was called “the Disciple.” He was older than she had imagined — she guessed around sixty — and had a strange build: tall, narrow in the shoulders, and with a hollow chest that swelled into a large, pronounced pot belly. His face was bony and angular; he had a sharp chin, a pointed nose, and eyebrows that were thickets of curls. The look was topped off by a head of long, wiry silver hair that had been coiffed into a puffy Afro resembling a halo. Maynard had written,
The hair is his trademark. He thinks it makes him look saintly.

Maynard explained that Douglas was considered an elder statesman of the poker community, someone who took his wins and losses calmly, never gloating, never whining. He had acquired his nickname from his unique coif, as Ava had thought, but also from his habit of casting his eyes skyward whenever he had a difficult decision to make at the poker table.

Maynard closed his email with a comment that Ava found telling.
It is every poker player's fantasy to be able to see his opponents' cards, to be completely in control. That prick Douglas took that fantasy and made it a reality. He must have felt like he was some kind of god, fucking around with us miserable mortals.

Martin Littlefeather's email was more concise and all business. The River was controlled by a holding company that was registered in Cyprus. It had three shareholders: Douglas, Ashton, and a company called Duncon LLP. There was no mention of who owned Duncon. Littlefeather had included the names and addresses of the banks The River dealt with. One was in Las Vegas; the other, not surprisingly, was in Cyprus.

The Mohneida had run rudimentary background checks on both men. Born in New Mexico, Douglas had been playing professional poker since he turned twenty-one, when he had moved to Las Vegas. He had been married and divorced twice and had no children. No bankruptcies, no arrests, no drug or alcohol issues. His entire life seemed to revolve around poker. The report noted that, like Maynard, Douglas was well respected by his peers. He had won three World Series of Poker bracelets, but none in recent years. The report also commented that although Douglas's best playing days were probably behind him, his reputation would be an asset in terms of promoting The River.

Jeremy Ashton had been born in Sheffield, England, and attended the University of Leeds, where he graduated from business school. He had worked with Smyth's Investment Bank in London for less than a year, and then he went to New York to work as an analyst at Whiteburn. He'd never married and, like Douglas, he seemed to be free of scandal.

Ashton had met Douglas while he was at Whiteburn; he left the firm to help him start The River.
They seem to have raised the money they needed quite quickly
, Martin Littlefeather wrote in his email,
but competition was fierce and the site struggled.

Ava finished making notes and was about to shut down her computer when she saw that she had a message from an mgonzalez. She paused, and then she remembered the woman Mimi had mentioned and opened it.

Dear Ava,

My name is Maria Gonzalez. Your friend Mimi suggested I contact you, though I have to confess I've never done anything like this before. I've been living in Toronto for only six months. I work at the Colombian trade consulate. I have found, truthfully, the transition to the city and the weather and the culture to be very difficult. Mimi thought we had a lot in common. I like movies, good food, I'm Roman Catholic, and I love to salsa. I apologize if you find this approach not to your liking. But Mimi urged me on, so I thought I would take a chance. I hope we can get together, maybe for a coffee or a drink?My best regards, Maria Gonzalez

Ava read the email twice before responding.

Hi Maria,

Mimi did mention your name to me. I'm away from Toronto on business, and I don't know when I'll return. If Mimi thinks we could be friends then I think it's worth meeting. Let's keep in touch. Oh, and I like to salsa as well. Ava

Ava flopped onto the bed and then grimaced. Her body was beginning to recover and the pain was less severe, but now and then it couldn't help but remind her it was still there. She sat up. Her cellphone had been off since she left Victoria, so she turned it on to retrieve her messages. Her mother had called again to say she'd heard about Philip Chew and that the aunties were ready to kill Tommy Ordonez. Ava was relieved that no fingers were being pointed in her direction. And Uncle had phoned; he said simply, “Call me when you can.” She dialled his number after deleting the message.

“
Wei
.”

“Uncle, it's Ava. I'm in Las Vegas.”

“The Mohneida cooperated?”

“They did.”

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing. I just guaranteed that we would indemnify them from any legal action and try to shield them from negative publicity.”

“That is not nothing,” he corrected, and then paused so the words would sink in. “So, they were not involved?” he said finally.

“Not in any way that would matter.”

“You probably still promised them too much. We cannot speak for Tommy Ordonez.”

“I'm sorry, Uncle, but I needed their cooperation, and that's what it cost. And there was one other complication I had to deal with.”

“With the Mohneida?” he asked.

“No, two poker players who lost money the same way as Philip Chew. They helped me figure out what happened and who did it. They demanded we get their money back in exchange for their cooperation. I know we never like to have two clients at once, even if it's one thief we're chasing, but I said we would do what we could for them. I didn't feel I had any choice.”

“How much?”

“Seven million.”

“Our usual fee?”

“Of course.”

“If they helped that much —”

“Without them I wouldn't be in Vegas.”

“Who are you in Las Vegas to see?”

“A man named David Douglas. He's a professional poker player.”

She could hear barking in the background and the sound of traffic. He was walking the dog. “Do you need any assistance?” he asked.

“I don't know yet. I need to locate him and then figure out how to approach him. There's another man involved, a partner in his business named Jeremy Ashton, but I think Douglas will be my first priority.”

“Keep me up to date. Chang has called several times today. Ordonez is acting crazy where his brother is concerned. He thinks Chew's attempted suicide was just another way for him to avoid taking responsibility. Chang is not sure how long he can keep Ordonez from doing something rash. The only thing holding him back is fear of losing face.”