Las Vegas
‘Let’s go, sweet-cheeks. I ain’t got all day, ya know.’
The woman at the craps table was a tired-looking specimen with thin fair hair and too much red lipstick. She volleyed a strike of insults at Robert’s dealer. The poor guy knew the boss was observing and his shoulders tensed.
Robert caught the boxman’s eye and nodded. The woman was wearing diamonds, real ones, but her clothes told a different story. She’d been hustling the tables all week. He gave an imperceptible signal to one of the overhead cameras–the eyes in the sky would pick her up.
It was a daily schedule: each afternoon Robert St Louis walked the labyrinth of his casinos, touched base with his managers for word on the take and warmly greeted the high rollers. Blackjack, roulette, baccarat, this was where the big money spun. The Orient’s chief casino was a grid of mazes, no natural light, no clocks; no indication of time passing.
Robert’s job was to get the players in and keep them there. Nobody did it better.
The St Louis name had been a commanding force in Vegas since Robert’s father founded the Desert Jewel in the early nineties. Vincent St Louis, real name Vince Lewis, a hotelier from Belleville, Ohio, had made his fortune through dedication and hard toil. Robert had joined him in his early twenties, shadowing his father and studying the business: everything he knew about hotels he’d learned from those eighteen months at the Desert Jewel. When Vincent had died, Robert had assumed his place at the helm. In that year alone takings had trebled–Vinny’s son had the killer knack, everybody said it; it was instinctive. Word got around and investors started to listen. That summer Robert began working up plans for his own baby, the Orient: the most extravagant, opulent hotel in the world.
Robert paused at the east slots. Even in all his years of gaming, these were the people he was most fascinated by. Players who stayed in the same place all day and all night, scooping tokens from a metal tray only to put the same straight back into the machine.
That was Vegas all over, he reflected as he summoned the elevator: a machine. You took money out of it; the money went back in. They were spinning. That was all they were doing.
On the thirtieth floor, his last appointment of the day was waiting: Elisabeth’s father. Frank Bernstein, proprietor of the Parthenon Hotel and Casino, was a cut-throat member of the Vegas power elite. He was short and stocky, just on the right side of fat, with a bush of grey hair and sharp, watchful eyes. You couldn’t get a thing past Bernstein–he had the eyes of a hawk.
‘St Louis, you an’ me have got some talkin’ to do.’ He slapped Robert on the back.
‘So I understand.’ Robert opened the door to his office. ‘Come on through.’
Robert’s office at the Orient was an imposing room, decked out in mahogany panelling and leather furniture. Contemporary art adorned the walls, bold, clean shapes and precise lines. A photograph of a smiling Elisabeth sat proud on his desk, next to a wooden box of Havana cigars. The magnificent Strip rolled out behind.
‘I got news for ya, kid,’ said Bernstein, helping himself to a smoke. That was Bernstein all over: what was Robert’s was also his. It took some getting used to.
Robert shrugged off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and took a seat. He was wary of Bernstein: the older man had been in the business thirty years, had known Vegas when it had been run by the mob. Even though the Chicago Outfit had long since been driven out of town, it was a badly kept secret that Bernstein still had connections. Back in the eighties he had acted as lawyer to some of the boys and as a result of that was a trusted asset, whether he liked it or not. And Bernstein did like it, even if Robert tried not to dwell on the implications.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
Bernstein lit the cigar and drew on it deeply, making a pa-pa-pa sound with his lips. ‘Take a look at this.’ He threw down a copy of People magazine.
Robert raised an eyebrow and picked it up.
It was her.
The face he knew so well; those green eyes, that smile. He had seen her before, of course, countless times–she was everywhere, on the front covers of magazines, on the TV, on billboards right across the country. He ought to be used to it by now, hated that he wasn’t; hated that still, even after all these years, she could make him feel this way.
Lana Falcon.
‘Pretty little thing, ain’t she?’ Bernstein rubbed his hands together in an excited way.
Robert did his best to look disinterested, though his heart stung. Belleville was a lifetime ago–he’d refused to think about it, battled it to the ground and buried it deep, and for a while he’d thought the memory was fading. But whenever he saw her.
‘What’s this about?’ he asked eventually.
Holding the cigar between his lips and taking a seat opposite his protégé, Bernstein gave a satisfied grin that exposed a wall of gleaming teeth.
‘Sam Lucas has got a movie in production–Eastern Sky. It’s gonna be big.’
‘And?’ Robert tried to control the snap in his voice. ‘What’s it got to do with Lana Falcon?’
Bernstein guffawed. ‘Are you kidding? She’s the freakin’ star of the movie—’
‘I don’t need a who’s who of Hollywood,’ said Robert abruptly. ‘Get to the point, Bernstein.’
‘OK, OK, don’t tie your balls in a knot. I got some money behind it, ya know, gotta keep the wheels turning.’
Robert nodded. He knew Bernstein was a keen investor in anything set to make money: he had eyes and ears in every city, including LA. If this movie was tipped to be hot property, it went without saying that Bernstein would somehow be involved.
The older man took a moment, savoured it before delivering the news. ‘It’s coming here, pal. Next summer. The Eastern Sky premiere’s coming straight to the Orient.’
Robert didn’t think he’d heard correctly. ‘You’re kidding.’
Bernstein grinned. ‘Nice little deal, huh? I knew you’d jump at it.’
There was a brief silence. ‘How? I mean—’
‘Me an’ Sam go back,’ Bernstein said, puffing away and looking satisfied with himself. ‘I got a vested interest in him; he’s got a vested interest in me. Y’know how it is.’
Robert stood, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, as the implications began to sink in, a grin broke across his face. ‘This is a major coup, Bernstein.’
‘Damn right it is.’ Bernstein ground out his cigar in a Lalique ashtray–he had an expensive habit of only ever smoking the very top. ‘I woulda taken it for the Parthenon but, ya know, the movie’s got a theme, ain’t it. Chinese an’ all that. The producers wanted the Orient.’ He shrugged. ‘What the hell–I did, too.’
Robert held his hands up. ‘What can I say? I’m grateful. Thank you.’
As the men shook hands, it crossed Robert’s mind that Bernstein had an ulterior motive–Bernstein always did. He wasn’t getting any younger, wanted his daughter married and fast. He wanted, Robert suspected, to bring him and Elisabeth in on whatever deal he had going with Chicago. Securing his future son-in-law the Sam Lucas premiere was a bold statement, and in doing so Bernstein was applying that necessary bit of pressure.
‘You just bring the money in, kid. An’ you can fix me a drink while you’re at it.’
Robert poured them both one–Scotch on the rocks with a twist of lemon. Thoughts of Lana Falcon threatened to surface, but he forced them down. If he kept focused on the business, he wouldn’t have to think about seeing her again.
Damn! They’d be reunited after ten years apart.