The Downtown Deal (25 page)

Blake put
his fingertips to his forehead and sighed. "In the deepest, darkest
backwaters of my mind, I thought she might've done it, or that she was at least
capable of doing it. But I just couldn't bring myself to believe it. She was so
… so …"

"So
feminine."

"Yes,
feminine. Delicate. Not at all the type to shoot an unarmed woman in the head
at point blank range."

"No
one's the type. Until you give them a reason."

He
said, "And you think she might walk?"

"It's
possible," I said. "There's not much hard evidence. If they don't get
her to confess, well …"

He
gave that one a lot of thought. Then, in a voice that had turned from satin to
steel, he said, "Sandra
will
get
justice. One way … or another."

I gave
him a few moments of silence. Soon his voice returned to smooth level.
"Okay, Jack. Here's what I owe you." He pulled an envelope out of the
inside pocket of his suit jacket, then handed it to me. "Twelve thousand,
five hundred. For a job well done." He got up to leave, signaling
No-Sleeve Steve and Julius, and he appeared to be through speaking, but then he
added, "I didn't like the result at all, but it was still a job well
done."

I
considered that a high compliment. But coming from Blake, I would've expected
nothing less.

A
bout a week later, as I arrived home late one night from
Binion's, I heard, "Mr Barnett!"

The
raised voice came from the darkness behind me, just as I was about to unlock my
door. I wheeled around, ready for trouble.

"Mr
Barnett." This time his voice was at normal level. He stepped out of the
passenger seat of a big, black Bentley and walked the short distance to my
door. A driver remained in the car.

They
had apparently been parked there, waiting for me. The door to the car remained
open. The man walking toward me looked to be about thirty, with well-styled
dark hair and a firm, stony face. His charcoal gray topcoat probably set him
back at least a grand. I steeled myelf. Without changing his expression, he
said, "This is for you," and he handed me an envelope, Christmas
card-sized, with what felt like a card inside it.

"What
is it?"

"It's
for you." He quickly returned to the Bentley, jumping back inside. The
driver sparked the engine and the big sedan sped out of the parking lot, vanishing
around the corner into the night.

I
entered my apartment. I continued staring at the envelope as I headed for the
kitchen to pour myself a Dalmore. There was no writing on it, no return
address, nothing. I tore it open.

I
pulled out a fancy card on very thick, pricey stock, written in well-styled
calligraphy, with gold around the edges. It looked like a wedding invitation.
But instead it said:

Present
this certificate at any hotel / casino in Clark County, Nevada, and receive a
complimentary suite for four days and three nights for you and a companion,
inclusive of all room, food, and beverage charges. It also includes two VIP
tickets to the show of your choice anywhere in Las Vegas and a five thousand
dollar shopping spree in any of the stores on the premises of the hotel / casino
you have chosen. This certificate has no expiration date.

Also
in the envelope was a handwritten note on plain white note paper. It read:

Thank
you for your cooperation.

It was
signed, "Mr Black".

I
laughed out loud and slammed back my Scotch.

After thirty years as a
professional musician (piano), Mike Dennis left Key West  and moved to Las
Vegas to become a professional poker player. He turned to writing when his
first novel,
The Take
, was picked up by a publisher in 2009.

His next book,
Setup On Front Street,
was the first of
a set of noir novels called Key West Nocturnes. These books will lift the veil
on Key West and reveal it as a true noir city, on a par with Los Angeles, New
Orleans, or Miami.
The Ghosts Of Havana
is the second book in that set. The third,
Man-Slaughter
,
is now available. The fourth,
The Guns Of
Miami
, will be coming in late 2013.

In addition, Mike has begun the
Jack Barnett / Las Vegas series, centering around a reluctant ex-private
investigator in Sin City, USA. The first entry in that series, a novelette
called
Temptation Town
, is now
available, as is the second installment,
Hard
Cash
, also a novelette. The third in the series, a full novel called
The Downtown Deal
, is now available.

Mike also has a collection of
short stories,
Bloodstains On The Wall.
 In addition, his stories
have been published in A Twist Of Noir, Mysterical e, Powder Burn Flash, Slow
Trains, and
The Wizards Of Words 2009 Anthology
.

Two individual short stories in
the noir genre,
Between The Devil And The
Deep Blue Eyes
and
The Session,
are now available on Amazon Kindle.

Mike has an experimental
rockabilly novel,
Cadillac's Comin'
,
a hard tale of the chaotic early days of rock & roll, which is now
available.

In late 2010, Mike moved back to
Key West, where he enjoys year-round island living with his wife Yleana, whom
he married in December, 2012, on the rooftop of an apartment building on a warm
night in Havana, Cuba.

Contact Mike at
[email protected]

Please send me your email address so I can notify
you when my next book comes out. Note:
I
DO NOT SPAM!
You will receive only
ONE
email each time a new book is about to be published.

http://mikedennisnoir.com

Please
leave a review on
Amazon
.

The Key West Nocturnes Series

SETUP ON FRONT STREET

THE GHOSTS OF HAVANA

MAN-SLAUGHTER

THE GUNS OF MIAMI
(coming soon)

Available in digital and paperback

The Jack Barnett/Las Vegas Series

TEMPTATION TOWN

HARD CASH

THE DOWNTOWN DEAL

Available in digital and paperback

BLOODSTAINS ON THE WALL

Three
stories from the dark side

Available in digital and paperback

THE TAKE

A
novel of human desperation

Available in digital and paperback

CADILLAC'S COMIN'

A
rock & roll novel

Available in digital and paperback

BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND

THE DEEP BLUE EYES

A
Las Vegas noir short story

Available in digital only

THE SESSION

A
short story of broken dreams

Available in digital only

TEMPTATION TOWN

Copyright 2011 by Mike Dennis

I

N
obody is actually from Las Vegas. It's one of those towns
that eats its own. Needs a constant supply of fresh blood, like a vampire.

Fresh blood to
keep coming with outlandish ideas that won't work anywhere else. Fresh blood to
keep bringing money in to dump on the tables, or pour down the slots, or drop
it on somebody else's questionable deals.

Las Vegas. A
grifter's heaven for sure, because there's always a new mark somewhere. They
flow through McCarran Airport and the Greyhound terminal every day by the
thousands, looking to throw money at someone or something, or even just the
promise of something. You can find them up in the ritzy suites at the Venetian,
in the desperate two-bit motels on the edge of downtown, and everywhere in
between.

Even people born
and raised here aren't from here. Not really. First of all, there aren't that
many of them to begin with. Then, their parents quite likely came from
somewhere else. In most cases, the kids leave as soon as they're old enough,
looking to connect with more sensible locations. Most of those who defy the
odds and stay eventually wish they hadn't, because what the city needs can't be
produced locally.

Halt the flow of
fresh blood into Las Vegas and you might as well halt the flow of water. The
whole place would dry right up.

≈≈≈

Take me, for instance. I moved up
here from LA about eight months ago, back in May of '01. An old buddy of mine
was a pit boss at the Desert Inn and told me he could get me on there in some
kind of job.

Moving seemed
like the right thing to do because things were starting to close in on me in
the City of Angels. I'd lost my private investigator's license for pushing a
guy around and doing some other stuff while trying to collect a debt for a
client. Problem was, the guy had big juice, so before I knew it, my license was
gone. He was threatening criminal action against me, too, so late one night, I
packed up and headed out while I still could.

Not long after I
got to Las Vegas, they announced they were going to blow the Desert Inn up. Then,
September 11th blew a hole in the country. So I stayed on, scuffling around in
the poker rooms for awhile until I could find something.

Well, it wasn't
long until something found me.

It started late
one winter night downtown at Binion's, two or three months after they imploded
the DI. I was sitting at a low-limit seven-card stud table. A hand tapped my
shoulder twice. It belonged to the swing shift supervisor.

"Jack,"
he said in a low tone. "Someone here to see you." He gestured toward
the cardroom entrance.

Glancing that
way, I saw an older guy in a camel hair topcoat over a suit and tie, way too
well-dressed for Binion's. I had no idea who he was, but I knew he couldn't be
LAPD. They never looked that good.

I peeked at my
holecards and at the upcards of the other players. I had no shot in this hand.
As I tossed my cards in toward the dealer, I rose from the table and made my
way to the entrance, eyeing him all the way and thinking about what he could
possibly want.

I found my best
smile as he held out a hand. "Jack Barnett?" he said.

"With two
t's," I replied, feeling his strong grip. This close, he appeared to be
very fit beneath his sharp topcoat.

"Jack, I'm
Robert Lansdorf. Could I speak with you a moment?"

I looked back at
the game. They'd started a new hand. I didn't like to miss hands.

"Well … what's
this about, Mr Lansdorf?"

He was the kind
of guy you would call "Mister", maybe twenty years older than I was,
around fifty-five or so, and not quite what you would call handsome. His hair
was dove-gray and well-styled. He looked like he might've had a Mercedes out in
the valet parking. Maybe with a chauffeur leaning against it, smoking a
cigarette, freezing his ass off in the January night, waiting for him to
return.

He modulated his
voice downward to a near-whisper. "I want to hire your services as a
private investigator."

A quick shot of
surprise lifted my eyebrows for a second. How did this guy know I was a PI?

I shook my head.
"Can't help you, Mr Lansdorf. I'm out of that business."