The A-List Collection. Victoria Fox
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A red jet of blood shot from his mouth.
‘You dumb motherfucker. You think we ain’t been watchin’ you since you walked into this joint?’ Another slam. ‘Think again, you dumb piece of shit.’ He took a strike himself.
Bernstein wiped his brow, signalled for the man to be brought to his feet. He was young, with sandy-blond hair and a drooping moustache. He wore a red and brown checked shirt and fringed boots, the toes of which were now spattered with crimson. Bernstein sat down opposite, pushing up his shirtsleeves like he was about to conduct a business meeting. The man hung limply between the two goons, a gurgling sound escaping from his throat.
Bernstein lit a cigar. ‘You want a smoke, wise guy?’
Over the past year a number of hotels on the Strip–the Parthenon and the Orient among the worst hit–had been the target of a slot scam, a clever operation involving a device that tricked machines into thinking they were receiving hundred-dollar bills. Bernstein’s surveillance had picked this guy up hours before. His partner–from their gaming pattern there were definitely two–was still at large.
The man heaved for breath.
‘Tryin’ to give it up, I gotta admire you.’ Bernstein lit his own and released a thick cloud.
‘Y’see,’ he said, sitting back, ‘I got a job to do. This is my casino. I got a family; I gotta make a living. You got a family, pal?’
Blood darkened the man’s lips. One eye was swelling, weeping like a piece of old fruit.
Most of the trouble they encountered in the casinos was with crude, low-stake hustlers–it was easy to spot a marker or a counter a mile off. But these days you had to know your way round a computer if you wanted the big money. This guy knew exactly what he was doing.
‘Sure you do. Sure you got a hot broad waitin’ back home, waitin’ on all that beautiful dirty money, ain’t that right? Except for one problem, you fuckin’ motherfucker: that money belongs to me. And guess what? As of right now, you belong to me. You and everything you fuckin’ have. Because if I ever see your ugly fuckin’ face—’
Bernstein was interrupted by his security. A thick-set man approached and bent to speak in his ear. Bernstein nodded. ‘Bring him in.’
He ground out the cigar, then, standing to deliver a final, crushing blow, said quietly, ‘If you ever set foot in my place again, I’ll tear both your balls off and send ‘em so far up your tight white ass you’ll have a sore throat for a week.’ He jerked his head towards the street door–the heavies would escort him, where they’d have a last go. ‘Now get outta my sight.’
The man gone, Robert appeared, looking put upon. He shrugged off his suit jacket. ‘Presentation ran over.’ He sat down. ‘Where is he? ‘
Bernstein smiled. ‘He took a walk out that way, kinda.’ He nodded to the far door. ‘I dealt with it myself.’
‘And?’
‘He ain’t comin’ back any time soon.’
Robert frowned. He looked around him, taking in the blood-spattered floor. Something caught his eye and he put a hand down to retrieve it. It was small and bone-hard.
‘What the hell …?’
Bernstein made a face. ‘Had a guy in here needs t’see a dentist.’
‘We agreed, Bernstein. No violence.’ He kept his voice low but menace channelled through it, a quiet, measured warning.
Bernstein laughed, his big belly rising and falling. ‘You’re funny, St Louis.’
Robert shook his head. ‘Get real, Frank. These guys are working a complex piece of kit, there’s things we needed to know. This wasn’t the right way to do it.’
Bernstein stopped laughing. ‘Thing is, son, your way takes a fuck of a lot longer.’
A silence hung between them.
Eventually Robert said, ‘What did you find out?’
‘That a big man cries like a girl.’
‘About the scam. Who else is in on it, who they’re working for. How they set it up.’
Bernstein shrugged. ‘Beats me.’
It was Robert’s turn to laugh. ‘Don’t you give a fuck?’
‘Course I give a fuck. I give a fuck about the next time they want to pull a stunt like this, and I’m tellin’ you now, it ain’t happenin’ again. Not to you, not to me. It’s over.’
Robert stood up, his eyes fixed on the older man. He could have Frank Bernstein in a second, knock out a whole fistful of teeth in one hit. Truth was he’d endured enough violence in his past. He was tired of it.
‘You gotta wake up, kid,’ Bernstein said. ‘This is a big boy’s game. There’s rules.’
Robert leaned across the table. ‘Those rules are mine. I run my own game.’
‘They was your father’s rules before you,’ Bernstein shouted as he turned to leave. ‘Don’t think for a second your shit don’t stink!’
Without looking back, Robert stepped out and closed the door firmly behind him. He ran into Elisabeth almost instantly.
‘Robert!’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide. ‘I thought you were at the Orient.’
He grimaced. ‘I had a meeting with your father.’
‘Oh, good, he’s here.’ The relief in her voice was considerable. She seemed to catch herself and rein it in. ‘I need to talk to him,’ she explained quickly.
‘He’s otherwise engaged,’ said Robert flatly, taking her arm.
She broke free. ‘It’s rather urgent.’
Robert frowned. ‘Surely I can help?’
‘No,’ she said abruptly. ‘I mean, it’s fine. I’ll catch him later.’
He looked unconvinced.
‘It’s nothing!’ Her voice was shrill.
‘Are you sure?’
Elisabeth looked hesitantly over his shoulder. ‘Of course.’ She forced a smile.
Robert checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to shoot, I’ve got a meeting with Bellini.’
Anxiety strangled her voice. ‘Alberto?’
‘I’m already running late.’
She gulped. ‘You’d better go.’
As Robert made his way across the Parthenon lobby, he tried to focus on the afternoon ahead. It couldn’t possibly mess with his head more than the morning.
Elisabeth knocked on the door to her father’s office. Silence.
She pushed it open. A musky smell enveloped her, like smoke and sweat. Papers were scattered on his desk, half-full cups of coffee and a smouldering cigar bent in half in one of his crystal ashtrays. Battle scenes adorned the walls. She remembered being frightened of them when she was a girl.
Deciding to wait, Elisabeth took a seat at his desk. She leaned back in the chair, put her feet up and crossed her arms behind her head. So this was what it felt like to be a man. This was what it felt like to be Frank Bernstein.
She poured herself a drink. The seconds dripped by on his shagreen desk clock.
Her confidence began to falter. After another sleepless night she’d decided this was her and Bellini’s only way out. Bernstein would be mad, he’d be crazy, but he’d stand by her. Once the blackmailers knew the big man was involved