Lucky the Hard Way Page 5

  “Yes, hard to prove, hard to track, but we have a big problem. The launderers have been working our property pretty hard. If some of the activity comes to light, we could lose our gaming concession. It’s hard enough to get the allocation of tables promised—the government has most of us over the barrel.”

  My brain ticked into corporate mode, strategizing a solution to the problem. “Okay. I can work on that.” I’d always worried about doing business, investing as much as we had, in a place where the law was malleable and readily bent to suit the local government’s whim. I hated betting on the largess of a bunch of officials, some of whom were corrupt, some not, but impossible to distinguish. So few understood that we’d had to invest hundreds of millions, paying folks off at every step of the construction process, with no guarantee of even getting a gaming concession, much less an allotment of tables that would give the property a chance of paying off the construction loans. High-stakes gambling at its most elemental. Yes, the potential profits were huge, but with the odds stacked against the foreign players.

  “There’s very little time.” My father’s fingers worked the delicate folds. “If you don’t figure out what is happening in Macau…” He stopped, shaking his head as he focused on his small work of art taking shape.

  With a hand on his shoulder, I made him look at me. “How bad is it? I need to know the truth.”

  He didn’t answer until he’d finished the crane. Taking my hand in his, he pressed it into my palm, closing my fingers over it.

  “Cho came here to tell me he had me over a barrel. I think he wanted me out of the way, thinking you would be easier to deal with.” He smiled at that idea as he touched his chest where the bullet had managed to miss everything vital. “He was so wrong.”

  I wasn’t so sure. My father pretty much had a lock on strong-arming. “Dad?” I leveled my sternest gaze, a parent quizzing a child. “How bad?”

  The first time I’d called him Dad—I saw the softening in his eyes as he met my gaze.

  Sadness lurked there. “I haven’t exactly been honest with you.”

  The thought clearly pained him, but I don’t think as much as it did me. “You lied to me?”

  He winced. “Not overtly.” He straightened his back then turned and looked me in the eye. “But by omission, yes.”

  I picked up his glass off the floor and headed to the bar. Fortification was clearly in order. A ruse to give me time to process.

  His voice followed me. “I thought I could handle it. I even believed I still had it under control when Cho showed up.”

  I didn’t say anything as I stood in front of the racks of bottles, all expensive, all with the anesthetizing power I was looking for. I chose my poison and refreshed his, adding one fresh cube of ice.

  I handed him a fresh drink, then took mine to my normal position in front of the window—a bit of distance in case I felt like doing something I’d regret. The Champagne hadn’t had enough octane for this conversation. This time I opted for a tumbler of Wild Turkey. Old habits died hard.

  My father had lied to me…about casino business. “Tell me about Cho. He’s not really a Chinese diplomat, is he? That’s why I wasn’t notified of his arrival.”

  “No. Not a diplomat. Only half Chinese.” My father shifted; I watched his reflection in the glass. One of his nervous tics. “He’s mostly Macanese. One of the power players.”

  I didn’t like the way my father said that. “Which strings does he pull?”

  “He’s a junket dealer. Runs a real shady operation called Panda 777. Has his fingers in a bunch of pies, all rotten. If there’s a bad angle to play, he’s in on it. He’s like somebody I knew back in the day.”

  “Not the time for a swing down memory lane.”

  “Maybe it is.” He took a sip of his drink, his thoughts parading across his face. “He’s like one of the wiseguys, throwing his weight around, intimidating everyone, killing those who don’t bow to the pressure. He’s got some game going on in Macau. In our property. We need to shut him down.”

  “But not get caught by the government looking like we are one of the players.”

  “Exactly.” My father looked defeated.

  I wasn’t feeling it. Maybe it was the Wild Turkey. Maybe it was being cut loose from the bonds of fair play—nothing like having nothing to lose to free one up to do what was necessary.

  Clearly, my father warred with himself. He glanced toward the hallway down which Mona had disappeared. Lowering his voice, he said, “You need help in Macau.”

  I thought of Miss Minnie’s Sinjin. “I think I have a bead on that.”

  “There are all kinds of help, Lucky.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he stared out the window, the lights of the Strip painting his features. “In Macau, life is not as precious as it is here. It’s merely another commodity that, after it is gone, its absence can be repaid.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Some there kill without thought, knowing they can pay the price to the family.” He let me absorb that for a moment. “You will need someone you can trust to have your back. Many will see you as a problem to be eliminated.”

  All the juice I’d felt from the bolt of anger melted out of me. “Well, it won’t be the first time.”

  “Go see Vito Morgenstern.”

  “Vito? Morgenstern?” I would’ve laughed if he hadn’t looked so pained.

  “His mother was Jewish.” My father acted like that explained everything. “He crossed some lines. Had to leave Vegas.”

  “And how do you know him?”

  He licked his lips, a nervous habit. “We were partners.”

  My eyebrows shot upward. First I’d heard of a partner. “Really.”

  “Don’t believe everything he tells you.”

  Which of course meant it all was true. And it meant I’d be wading in where this Pollyanna didn’t want to go. “Sure.”

  My father did not look happy—he knew that monosyllabic response was my way of saying Hell no. “I know you’re angry,” he said. “Rightfully so. I’ve played this hand too far. Vegas was one thing, Macau a whole other ball game half a world away. I’m out of my depth.”

  “And resorting to my penchant for clichés.”

  “Apparently you’re rubbing off on me.”

  Not enough, but I didn’t say so. My father would always be a bit of a gunslinger. I liked to exact my revenge a bit more precisely—better odds that way. “What’s Cho’s angle? Laundering? Game on the side?”

  “He’s running a laundering operation out of the Panda junket room at the hotel. I know it’s true—our auditors found it.”

  “What exactly is he doing?”

  “The gamut, I suspect. We’re just digging into it now. But so far we’ve seen evidence of Politically Exposed Persons putting huge sums into play.”

  “I’m assuming they were never reported to the Macanese authorities.”

  My father shook his head. That alone was enough to put our gaming concession in jeopardy. “What else?”

  My father waved a hand as if swatting at a fly. “Allegations of wiring anomalies. Lots of cash flowing through the casino, but not much of it being put into play. All the stuff the Macanese government takes a dim view of.”

  “We’re still in business, so I’m assuming they don’t know about it.”

  “Not yet.”

  “And the auditors sniffing it out prompted a visit from Mr. Cho. You threatened his business, so he threatened yours.”

  “Pretty much.”

  My mind whirled. We couldn’t ask the authorities for help—Mr. Cho had seen to that. As my thoughts turned to other possibilities, I must’ve smiled.

  “When you smile like that, I don’t know whether to be happy or scared as hell.”

  “Me, either, but I do like a bit of revenge, don’t you?” I turned my back to the Strip. “We need to give Mr. Cho a taste of his own game.”

  “How?”

  “Not sure yet.” I took a slug of
bourbon, which brought tears to my eyes and a welcomed burn all the way to my stomach. It’d been a while. I felt a bit more like me. “But we do have one thing Mr. Cho wants.”

  “What’s that?”

  “His son, Frank.”

  My father pursed his lips. “I’ve got a few markers I can call in, maybe get him remanded to you. It’s a long shot.”

  “I’m already on it. Romeo is out at Indian Springs as we speak. I used my influence with the FBI.”

  My father looked impressed.

  “It’s a new world, Dad.”

  He seemed to wilt a bit. Nobody liked to have their waning relevance rubbed in their face. “Clever. But, you do understand if the play in Macau goes south, we could lose everything.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PAOLO waited for me out front, standing at attention by the rear passenger door of one of the Babylon’s limos. As usual, the Babylon’s machinery worked flawlessly and I felt insignificant, which was silly considering the anvil the Big Boss had dropped on my head.

  I longed for a mundane problem to solve, anything other than the ones I’d been given. And I wanted to go home.

  “Airport, Miss Lucky?” Paolo, a small man, his black hair combed straight back, his normal megawatt smile turned to dim, his uniform impeccable, sensed my mood as he opened the door for me. A nod sufficed for the normal pleasantries. I handed him the tiny origami crane. His smile flashed as he pocketed it—he knew it was for his daughter. “Where to this time?”

  “Macau,” I sighed as I grappled with reality.

  The valet stowed my suitcase in the trunk, and Paolo stowed me in the back seat. The television was off—smart man, he remembered how much I hated being bombarded by bad news wherever I went. The fact that most people needed constant noise in their heads confused and alarmed me. Only in the quiet could I process my thoughts, make my plans, control my emotions, fit the pieces of life together.

  And, boy, did I need the quiet now. I’d made my father go through it all, each detail, while I made notes. Nothing leapt out at me, but I’d go through it all again on the flight over. Before engaging in battle it was always nice to have a plan. Strategies might change as the war commenced, but a starting point and a goal would help.

  My thoughts whirled, my emotions tumbled, I hadn’t even begun to make order out of them when I felt the car slow and Paolo turn in through the gate at the private jet service at the airport. Leaving the Babylon, the short drive, the sun peeking above the horizon, none of that had even registered.

  The sunlight radiated off the silver skin of the sleek Gulfstream 650, one of two in the Babylon’s fleet. A magic carpet, the Big Boss called it. The door was open, a set of stairs extending to the ground. The ground crew worked with quiet precision, fueling, loading, and provisioning the plane for the long flight ahead. The captain walked around the plane, running through his preflight checklist.

  Soon the lights would tick off as the sun broke above the horizon. A new day, a new set of problems. Problems I had no idea how to solve.

  I had one name: Sinjin. And a back-up, in Mr. Morgenstern…maybe. Taking my cues from my father, I had a feeling that messing with the likes of Vito Morgenstern would exact a price I wasn’t willing to pay.

  Detective Romeo waited at the bottom of the steps. Frank Cho, in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit, stood next to him. Both of them looked unhappy.

  That made three of us.

  “Thanks for getting Frank remanded to me,” I said, as I levered myself out of the car. “Although I appreciate it, I didn’t expect you to personally deliver him. Don’t you have transport services for that sort of thing?”

  “At this hour of the morning, they’re not exactly standing around waiting to be called. But…you’re not going to like this.” He paused, eyeing me as if wondering how bad my bite might be.

  “I don’t like any of this.” I watched the pilots stow my suitcase, then paused, one foot on the first step, a hand on the railing. “But what exactly am I not going to like?”

  “It’s not as simple as we’d hoped.” Romeo dug a toe into the tarmac, or tried to. As usual, he looked rumpled and no more than twelve. His raincoat hung off his thin frame. His suit had a sheen to it, the collar slightly frayed on the tip. His shirt, a bright white, looked new, but not his tie, dotted as it was with a few drips of mustard. His light brown hair was a bit longer than his normal Number Two scalping—probably Brandy’s influence. Damp, his hair showed evidence of a recent combing, but his cowlick had refused to be tamed, waving like a flag in the slight breeze.

  “It never is. What’s the catch?”

  “I’m going with you.” He raised a hand to stop the argument he knew would be forthcoming.

  He was wrong. I had no fight left. Besides, the Big Boss’s words were echoing in my empty head. I needed backup. And I had a feeling my father had arranged some. Romeo wouldn’t have been my first choice, but right now he was my only choice. “Okay.” I launched myself up the steps. “You have your passport?”

  “Of course.” Romeo put Frank in front of him, then prodded him up the stairs. “That’s it? Are you sick? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m assuming the sheriff didn’t see fit to hand over a convicted felon to an average citizen, so why argue?” I reached the cabin and turned around to help get Frank inside.

  “You are so not the average citizen,” Romeo muttered, looking like I’d stolen his thunder.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Shackled and handcuffed, Frank took a bit of maneuvering. His-jet black hair cut short, his face round and soft, his eyes dark but not angry, he gave me a smile. “Thanks again for the art stuff you got me. The warden gave it to me. You keep your word.”

  “I try.” I’d traded art supplies for information. I wondered how that was going to play for Frank on his home turf. He’d given up his own brother and Gittings. I’d been one step too late, but that hadn’t been Frank’s fault. But squealing on family, that had been his choice.

  While perhaps not as luxe as Sheldon Adelson’s two personal 747s, the G-650 was about as nice a way to travel across the Pacific as I could handle—anything more would be considered gauche, by my way of thinking. Configured with two bedrooms in the back and a lounge/meeting area up front, the plane had all the comforts of home—a bar, soft couches, satellite connectivity to several flat screens that arose when summoned from clever hiding places. Stocked with all the best elixirs and, if my nose could be trusted, a hot meal or two from the Babylon’s kitchens, it was home away from home. My stomach growled—even though used to the normal liquid sustenance, it didn’t necessarily like it.

  The best part about the plane? I could stand up straight in the center aisle. I tossed my handbag in one of the club seats facing aft. I felt Romeo behind me.

  “This is amazing.” His gaze trailed over the leather and wood. “The last time I was in here was when that dead guy got stuck in the lav. I don’t remember it like this.”

  “Different plane. We traded that dog in.” I shot him what I hoped would be a grin. The dead guy Romeo referred to had been one of the Big Boss’s best friends and I was glad this wasn’t that plane. “Why don’t you put Frank in the last row over there.” I motioned to where I wanted him—close enough to keep an eye on but far enough away he wouldn’t be in my face.

  I stepped to the side to let Romeo and Frank pass.

  Frank Cho. I needed to think about him. His brother, Sam, had been bad business. A lousy shot, which was odd for an assassin, but everything about this whole business stunk. By all appearances, Frank was the good son—good being relative, since he was incarcerated and all.

  Miss Minnie wanted him back.

  I needed to think about that, too.

  And Mr. Cho, he wanted him, too.

  Yes, another thing to think about.

  After checking with the pilots to make sure all our passports and paperwork were in order, I confirmed Hong Kong as our destination—the FBI thought it best t
o ride in to Macau under the radar in a commercial hydrofoil, not that I had much choice—the airport in Macau was less than ideal. I grabbed two bags of Peanut M&Ms on my way back to my seat.

  Romeo dropped into the seat across from mine and we buckled in.

  I tossed him the bag of candy. “Have you booked your return flight?”

  He ran his hands on the smooth leather of the armrest. “What do you mean? I’m riding back with you, whenever that is.”

  “No.” My voice was as sharp as an icepick.

  Romeo’s attention snapped to me. “No?” An angry cloud passed over the light of his smile, dimming it.

  Choosing a different approach, I stepped back from my demand. “Look, this is my problem. And it’s going to get hairy.”

  “How?”

  “Like the gunmen running around Vegas recently, except more of them and nobody to help us.”

  Romeo seemed to weigh that for a moment. “When I chose to go to the Academy, that’s what I signed up for. And there is no way I’m going to leave my best friend without backup.”

  Touched, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to be responsible for Romeo. I looked at his eager face, lines bracketing his eyes and mouth, a world-weary truth in his eyes, and it dawned on me: I wasn’t responsible for him. He’d grown up on me. And now he was responsible for himself and his choices.

  As hard as it would be, I had to honor that. And I had to be prepared to live with the consequences. Although I spent a lot of time and effort trying, nobody could protect him or herself from loss—not even me.

  I could admit that, but that didn’t mean I liked it. Somehow I’d figure out a way to send him home.

  Only vaguely aware of the crew buttoning up the doors and then settling themselves, I tried to stop the whirling in my mind.

  I could lose Romeo.

  My family could lose everything.

  And I could lose myself.

  Determined to get over myself, I pulled in a deep breath, cleared my thoughts, then hit the M&Ms. “Eat up, Grasshopper,” I said to Romeo, as I poured the candy into my hand and started eating one color at a time. “One of the perks.”