While Drowning in the Desert Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Don Winslow
Kitteredge.”
“Who do they know?”
“People in Providence,” I said. “People in New York.”
All kinds of people in both places. But in this case, “people” referred specifically to wise guys, mobbed-up guys, connected guys. See, Friends of the Family did all sorts of confidential things for its rich and influential clients, and if you’re going to do confidential things for anybody in New York and Providence, you’re bound to make some connections with the mob.
The same might be said of Las Vegas, which is what brought me to the Sands Hotel to talk with Mickey the C. I’d never met Mickey the C, but I’d heard about him since I was a kid.
The guy thought about it for a second and said, “Why don’t you sit down and have a drink?”
“Thanks.”
I found an empty barstool and ordered a beer. The bartender waved me off when I tried to pay for it.
The Sands Hotel was a big contrast to the Nugget. It was sleek, stylish, and looked like serious money. It was run by serious people, too, which is why I had come here after Hope said she had no idea where Nathan had gone after their matinee romance.
I sipped my beer and watched the high-rollers, Armani-clad guys escorted by skinny blondes in black sheath dresses, win and lose at blackjack. Mickey the C was probably watching me on a monitor and making the necessary calls.
A few minutes later the barrel-chested guy came back and said, “Neal Carey, Mickey would like to see you.”
I followed him upstairs to the security room, where somber men and women sat staring into monitors, watching the doors and the tables. The watchers could punch a few buttons and zoom in on a dealer’s hands or a player’s face or an individual coming through a door. The owners of serious casinos liked to know who came in and out of their places. They hired people like Mickey the C to know these things.
Mickey the C was in his early sixties but looked younger, which I attributed to a daily regimen of razor cuts, manicures, steam baths, and massages. Mickey was wearing a conservative gray suit that cost at least a thousand bucks, a monogrammed white shirt and an Italian print tie. His black Oxford shoes were polished to a high shine.
Mickey the C was serious people.
We shook hands.
“Neal,” he said. “It’s a late Sunday night on the East Coast so I didn’t make the phone calls I probably should make, so I hope you’re not screwing around.”
“I’m on the job, Mr. C.”
“I know who you are,” Mickey said. “You’re Joe Graham’s gofer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Well, it was accurate enough.
“You did a big favor for some people in Providence a while ago,” Mickey said.
“I was doing my job and it coincidentally worked out for them,” I answered, ever modest.
“Anyway you’re good people,” Mickey said. “Why are you reaching out?”
“I messed up.”
I told Mickey about Nathan Silverstein.
Mickey laughed and said, “Natty Silver gave you the slip?”
“That’s what it comes down to.”
Mickey the C chuckled, then said, “Why don’t you have another beer and relax. I’ll put a call out. Everyone in town knows Natty, we’ll have him in maybe half an hour.”
“That’s why I came to you, Mr. C.”
It wasn’t just shameless brownnosing, it was also true.
Mickey said, “That’s one smart thing you did today, anyway.”
“I knew there was something.”
“Take it easy, kid,” Mickey said. “Nice to meet to you.”
“Thanks for taking the time, sir.”
“You have good manners,” Mickey the C said. “Joe Graham did you okay.”
Yeah, he did.
It took two beers instead of one, but I had just drained the second one when the barrel-chested guy found me at the bar and said, “Mr. Silver is at the Flamingo, in the Palm Room. Their guy is watching him till you get there.”
I thanked him and left a tip for the bartender that was more than the beers would have been. Anything less would have been bad manners.
As I stepped down into
“Who do they know?”
“People in Providence,” I said. “People in New York.”
All kinds of people in both places. But in this case, “people” referred specifically to wise guys, mobbed-up guys, connected guys. See, Friends of the Family did all sorts of confidential things for its rich and influential clients, and if you’re going to do confidential things for anybody in New York and Providence, you’re bound to make some connections with the mob.
The same might be said of Las Vegas, which is what brought me to the Sands Hotel to talk with Mickey the C. I’d never met Mickey the C, but I’d heard about him since I was a kid.
The guy thought about it for a second and said, “Why don’t you sit down and have a drink?”
“Thanks.”
I found an empty barstool and ordered a beer. The bartender waved me off when I tried to pay for it.
The Sands Hotel was a big contrast to the Nugget. It was sleek, stylish, and looked like serious money. It was run by serious people, too, which is why I had come here after Hope said she had no idea where Nathan had gone after their matinee romance.
I sipped my beer and watched the high-rollers, Armani-clad guys escorted by skinny blondes in black sheath dresses, win and lose at blackjack. Mickey the C was probably watching me on a monitor and making the necessary calls.
A few minutes later the barrel-chested guy came back and said, “Neal Carey, Mickey would like to see you.”
I followed him upstairs to the security room, where somber men and women sat staring into monitors, watching the doors and the tables. The watchers could punch a few buttons and zoom in on a dealer’s hands or a player’s face or an individual coming through a door. The owners of serious casinos liked to know who came in and out of their places. They hired people like Mickey the C to know these things.
Mickey the C was in his early sixties but looked younger, which I attributed to a daily regimen of razor cuts, manicures, steam baths, and massages. Mickey was wearing a conservative gray suit that cost at least a thousand bucks, a monogrammed white shirt and an Italian print tie. His black Oxford shoes were polished to a high shine.
Mickey the C was serious people.
We shook hands.
“Neal,” he said. “It’s a late Sunday night on the East Coast so I didn’t make the phone calls I probably should make, so I hope you’re not screwing around.”
“I’m on the job, Mr. C.”
“I know who you are,” Mickey said. “You’re Joe Graham’s gofer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Well, it was accurate enough.
“You did a big favor for some people in Providence a while ago,” Mickey said.
“I was doing my job and it coincidentally worked out for them,” I answered, ever modest.
“Anyway you’re good people,” Mickey said. “Why are you reaching out?”
“I messed up.”
I told Mickey about Nathan Silverstein.
Mickey laughed and said, “Natty Silver gave you the slip?”
“That’s what it comes down to.”
Mickey the C chuckled, then said, “Why don’t you have another beer and relax. I’ll put a call out. Everyone in town knows Natty, we’ll have him in maybe half an hour.”
“That’s why I came to you, Mr. C.”
It wasn’t just shameless brownnosing, it was also true.
Mickey said, “That’s one smart thing you did today, anyway.”
“I knew there was something.”
“Take it easy, kid,” Mickey said. “Nice to meet to you.”
“Thanks for taking the time, sir.”
“You have good manners,” Mickey the C said. “Joe Graham did you okay.”
Yeah, he did.
It took two beers instead of one, but I had just drained the second one when the barrel-chested guy found me at the bar and said, “Mr. Silver is at the Flamingo, in the Palm Room. Their guy is watching him till you get there.”
I thanked him and left a tip for the bartender that was more than the beers would have been. Anything less would have been bad manners.
As I stepped down into