Читать книгу Hide Me - Ava McCarthy - Страница 6

Chapter 2

‘You will come with me, señor.’

Marty froze. The hand on his shoulder was heavier than a sandbag. He swallowed. Made himself smile. Then he looked up at the plain-clothes security agent.

‘Be with you in a sec, pal.’ He gestured at the roulette table. ‘I’ve a bet riding here.’

Fingers crushed the tendons in his shoulder. ‘You just lost, señor.’

Sweat trickled down Marty’s back. The ball was still spinning. He tried to shrug, but the hand was cramping his style.

‘Hey, what the hell,’ he said. ‘Wheel’s been against me all night, anyway.’

He winked at the redhead beside him and got to his feet, still craning his neck to look the agent in the face. The guy must’ve been six-seven, six-eight at least. Marty could see his own blond hair and stupid grin reflected in the agent’s mirrored shades. What kind of jackass wore those things inside? Maybe he should mention it. You’re a jackass, you know that? The agent grabbed his arm and Marty kept his mouth shut.

The guy’s grip was like a tourniquet. He hustled Marty through a herd of Japanese tourists, then propelled him across the room. Balls plink-plinked, playing hopscotch on their wheels. The agent shoved him through an unmarked door and into a deserted hallway, and when he locked the door behind them, the skin on Marty’s arms puckered. He’d been back-roomed before, but never in one of Riva’s casinos.

He flashed on the image of her leaning against the balcony. The sight of her had jolted him, he didn’t mind admitting it. She looked good. The cheekbones were still high, the body still well put together. It was the first time he’d seen her in nearly twenty years.

The agent’s fingers dug hard into his biceps, jerking him towards a door near the end of the passageway. Marty read the nameplate:

V. Toledo, Director de Seguridad.

His gut tightened. Jesus, not that prick again.

The agent opened the door and shoved him into the middle of the room. Marty squinted against the harsh fluorescent light. The place was whiter than a dentist’s surgery, with the dead-air quality of soundproofed walls.

‘Sit down.’

Marty’s stomach relaxed a little. The bald guy behind the desk wasn’t Victor Toledo.

Marty shoved his hands in his pockets and stayed standing. Keep your mouth shut. That was the rule of survival in situations like these. On the other hand, an innocent person might have said something by now. He cleared his throat.

‘Look, what the hell’s going on here?’

The bald guy glared. His features were large and blunt, as though thickened by a punch in the mouth. Marty jutted out his chin.

‘I’m a paying customer. That goon of yours—’

The agent’s boot sideswiped the back of Marty’s knees. He felt the crack, the dead legs, then crumpled into the chair behind him. For a moment, he lay sprawled, his chest thumping. Then he eased himself upright, not looking at the agent, and straightened his jacket and tie. The bald guy glanced down at a file on his desk.

‘Name?’

‘Roselli. Who the hell’re you?’

‘Age?’

‘I’m not talking till I see some identification. How do I know you’re not just a coupla hoods?’

The bald guy’s head jerked up. Marty’s armpits prickled with sweat. Then the guy pushed a casino ID across the desk. Alberto Delgado, Seguridad de Gran Casino.

Marty shoved it back. ‘That’s not what it says on the door.’

‘You will answer my questions, Señor Roselli.’ His Spanish accent was thick, making much of the rolling ‘r’ in Marty’s name. ‘Your age?’

‘Thirty-eight. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Address?’

‘Hotel Plaza.’

That wasn’t strictly true. He was renting a room in a cramped house on the other side of the river. It had been recommended to him by the barman in the Hotel Plaza, whose sister-in-law ran the place. The room she’d given him was old and musty, and he shared a bath with six other tenants. It was cheap, but already he was behind on the rent.

‘Empty your pockets.’

‘What?’

‘Everything on the desk. Now.’

Marty sensed the agent’s bulk shifting behind him. He took the hint and fumbled in his pockets, tossing items onto the table: a scuffed wallet with forty euros in cash; a fake driver’s licence; six red casino chips, worth five euros each; and a stick of gum with pocket-fluff on the wrapper.

Delgado’s lip curled. ‘This is all you have? No credit cards? No traveller’s cheques?’ He leaned forward. ‘No high-stakes chips?’

Marty shifted in his seat. As his sum of worldly goods, the pile didn’t amount to much, but if he was careful it could last out the week. Then again, careful wasn’t his style. He shrugged.

‘I don’t carry all that stuff around. Everything else is back at the Plaza.’

The plain-clothes agent snorted. Marty tugged at his threadbare cuffs, surprised to find his fingers so steady. Suddenly, a pair of hands thrust his head forward and the desk slammed up into his face.

Pain crunched through Marty’s nose. He tried to yell, but his tongue felt thick. The hands pinned him down, crushing his mouth and eyes. Then they wrenched his head back and Delgado’s face filled his vision.

‘Maybe you should look again,’ Delgado said.

Marty coughed, aware of something warm trickling from his nose. He slipped a trembling hand into his pocket, extracting the black chip he’d stolen earlier. It was worth five hundred euros.

Delgado snatched it, nodding towards the agent. ‘Luis here saw you lift it from a customer’s rack.’ He sneered, then stowed the chip in his pocket. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see the owner gets it back.’

Luis sniggered, then released his grip. Marty’s skin felt clammy. He touched his nose and winced. Shit. All this for a lousy five hundred euros. He closed his eyes for a moment. Lousy or not, it would have paid the rent he owed and set him up for another few weeks.

He opened his eyes, backhanding the blood from his lip. Delgado picked up the red chips and rattled them idly through his fingers. Then he slipped them into his pocket. Marty’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. He watched Delgado strip the cash from his wallet and pocket that too.

‘Hey!’ Marty half-stood from the chair. ‘Those’re mine!’

Delgado raised his eyebrows. ‘You are a thief. We just proved it. I am confiscating stolen goods.’

He flipped the battered wallet onto the desk. Marty felt his fists curl.

‘You can’t prove I stole anything. It’s just your word against mine.’

‘You think so? Maybe we caught you on camera.’

‘Bullshit.’

Marty traded glares with Delgado. He guessed they ran quite a sideline, shaking down two-bit grifters. But sometimes it paid to call a bluff. The Gran Casino had hundreds of cameras, but even so, not every angle was covered. Sometimes, surveillance had to spot a move first before knowing to pan after it with the lens.

The reality was, on a floor this crowded, Marty might just have got away with it.

Delgado’s lip curled into another sneer. ‘You really think you can fool the cameras?’

‘Hey, I’m just saying, maybe your pal Luis here made a mistake.’

‘You would like to see yourself in action?’ Delgado gave a humourless laugh, then clicked his fingers at Luis. ‘¿Qué mesa?’

‘Mesa cinco.’ Table five.

Delgado snatched up the phone and barked orders to someone on the other end. Marty’s Spanish wasn’t up to much, but he was hoping this was the first time they’d bothered to check surveillance.

Delgado ended the call. Then he pointed a remote control at a TV screen on the wall, and the casino floor snapped into view. He sat back, swivelling in his chair.

‘Now we will see how a lowlife operates.’

Marty slid a finger under his collar, his gaze fixed to the screen. Without sound, the roulette floor looked static and dull; just a bunch of well-dressed dummies tossing chips onto the baize. And there he was, hovering near table five.

His blond hair looked tousled, his skin nut-brown from the sun. Marty watched himself flirt with the curvy redhead, re-living the buzz as she responded to his cheesy lines.

Then he saw the mark: short, thickset; mouth as wide as a toad’s. Luis pointed at the screen.

‘Esta es.’ That’s him.

They watched as the toady guy shoved the redhead aside, thrusting a chip down the front of her dress to keep her quiet. Even seeing it for the second time, Marty felt his temper climb. He knew what had happened next, though you couldn’t tell from the screen. He’d opened his mouth to intervene, but the girl had stopped him with a pleading look. Marty had got the message. They were some kind of couple. Step in, and maybe she’d pay for it later. So he’d bitten back his temper and taken revenge the only way he knew how.

Marty peered at himself on the screen. In a minute, he’d move closer to the toady guy, waiting for him to lean across the layout, leaving his rack of chips exposed. Easy pickings for a chip-thief with deft hands. A party of Japanese tourists drifted into view, heading towards the table. Marty spotted Luis, tree-trunk solid, watching from the other side.

Something tapped at Marty’s brain. His eyes shot back to the tourists, and he recalled how they’d blocked his exit from the table. He stared as they flocked across the floor. Soon, he’d be completely hemmed in. With that kind of coverage, the camera was going to miss his sleight of hand.

He leaned back and let out a long breath. Then his pulse jolted as he realized something else.

This was Franco’s table.

Shit.

Marty’s gut clenched. In another thirty seconds, they’d catch Franco’s move. Marty scanned the players, spotting Fat-Boy in position. There was Cowboy, placing his €500 bet.

Marty dragged a hand over his mouth. He’d been following that sonofabitch Franco for weeks and had nicknames for all his crew. Then he noticed again the pretty, dark-haired girl standing on the sidelines. He’d seen her clock Fat-Boy’s eye-rub and his swift exit signal, but she didn’t seem part of their play. Surveillance, maybe? But who’d be dumb enough to tangle with Franco?

He slid a glance at Delgado. The asshole had him cornered, but not in the way that he thought. If Marty let the tape run, he’d probably be in the clear. On the other hand, they’d hit on Franco.

He watched the roulette wheel and his breathing speeded up. Where there was gambling, there was cheating. And where there was cheating, there was money up for grabs. Marty had been down on his luck for ten years, and for a while now he’d figured that coat-tailing on Franco was his only way out.

He held up his hands. ‘Okay, forget it, you’re right.’

Delgado narrowed his eyes. Marty licked his lips and went on:

‘I stole his stupid chip. You can stop the damn tape.’

Delgado’s face turned crimson. Slowly, he got to his feet and made his way round the desk, his gaze pinned on Marty.

‘You think you can make fools of us? Waste our time?’ He snapped his fingers at Luis. ‘Maybe you should see what happens to thieves in this casino.’

Luis snatched Marty’s arms and wrenched them behind his back. Marty’s shoulder muscles screamed. Delgado strode towards him, rolling up his shirtsleeves, and Marty tensed his gut.

Somewhere on the screen, that bastard Franco was making his move and Marty was going to pay for protecting him. Sweat slid down his face.

But hey, what the hell?

After all, once upon a time they’d been friends.