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to him on the kerb round the side of the Lagoon complex, both of them staring out instead of looking at the other. Slater did it to encourage D’Antoni to spill his guts, and D’Antoni did it because he couldn’t bear the humiliation of facing the man who’d broken him.

Slater had slapped him three times, full in the face. The first one to get his name, and the next two to demonstrate his might. Open-handed, fingers splayed, but Slater had enough kinetic power in his frame to scare the guy into submission with a simple flick behind the ear. Now one side of D’Antoni’s face was red and puffy, the skin inflamed. He had a faraway vacant look in his eyes as he stared off into the distance, eyes wandering over the quiet suburban street. Everyone was tucked up in bed — there’d been no one around to witness what was technically a kidnapping on Slater’s part.

Now they sat side by side, looking like two buddies shooting the shit after a few hours inside Lagoon, one party a little dejected, perhaps from gambling losses. To see the inflammation and damage on D’Antoni’s face, a passerby would have to get awfully close, with twenty-twenty vision to pierce through the shadows, and nobody was doing that at this time of night.

D’Antoni’s piece was an old school Colt Python revolver in an appendix holster, now tucked firmly inside Slater’s own jacket. It was a cumbersome weapon, inefficient in modern times, but it carried vintage appeal, and Slater guessed that’s what the mob goon was going for. He doubted D’Antoni used the gun often. If he ever pulled it, it’d be to scare someone, not to kill them as efficiently as possible. If he wanted efficiency, he’d have a semi-automatic pistol, at least.

Now Slater said, ‘You know what I’ll do to you if you try to run, right?’

D’Antoni scoffed as he wiped a drop of blood from his split lip. His gaze drifted down between his feet. ‘I’m not going anywhere, champ.’

‘You’d better not.’

‘You’d get me in about three seconds. Just a dumb mook, that’s what I am.’

‘Not your fault,’ Slater said. ‘I’ve seen worse performances.’

‘I didn’t do shit. You slapped me around like I’m your bitch. And that’s what I am.’

Slater let the man wallow in his self-pity.

Finally D’Antoni said, ‘So what do you want from me?’

‘What makes you think I want anything?’

Get him talking on his own. Don’t seem too interested. Make it look like you don’t care one way or the other, and he’ll open the floodgates.

D’Antoni said, ‘Because now you’ve got two guns and you haven’t used either one of them.’

‘I don’t have a gun. That’s what I took yours for.’

He did have one, but he wanted the guy to feel even more worthless, make him believe an unarmed man had stripped him of his piece as effortlessly as breathing.

D’Antoni stewed. Feeling like a real moron.

Good.

Slater said, ‘Tell me what you do for Lagoon and I’ll send you on your way.’

A pause.

‘That’s it?’ D’Antoni said.

‘You hold something back, I’ll slap you again.’

‘You want it in simple terms?’

‘Start there.’

‘The big fuck-you casinos on the Strip have their illegal business streamlined because there’s a lot of money at stake and that goes hand-in-hand with a lot of scrutiny. They don’t need guys like me — they have mob connections, sure, but it’s a different ball game over there under the bright lights. There’s not a lot of room for new hirings, and I’m new to Vegas. I came over from New York — Pleasant Avenue was my turf. Anyway, blue-collar places like these do more business than anyone realises — they’re never as small as their small-timer branding portrays — so obviously they’re wanting in on the action, too. That’s where a guy like me comes in. There’s bent cops and there’s bent casinos but they’re all shy about it. They don’t want to cold call each other, just in case the other party isn’t bent. So I set up the meetings, screen them in advance, cop the awkward look if I accidentally try to bribe someone who isn’t for sale. I make sure it all goes smoothly.’

‘Smooth like tonight?’

‘Fuck you, man.’

‘Who’s the cop?’

‘His name’s Dean Cohen. He’s a lieutenant.’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘Not a lot, and that’s the God-honest truth. I’m not nosey. His business is his business.’

‘You must have an idea.’

‘You read the papers?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Whole lotta madness went down with that old sheriff, Keith Ray. I think Dean’s inherited what Keith left behind. It’s his job to keep the cash flowing to Lagoon, and Lagoon makes it flow out.’

‘Cash from where?’ Slater said. ‘And where’s it going?’

‘I don’t know where it’s from,’ D’Antoni said. ‘But it’s going offshore. Not America. That’s what the casinos are for, and that’s all I know. I told you — none of my damn business what they’re up to. It’s my business to make sure it goes well.’

‘Then they’re not going to be happy about tonight, are they?’

‘You’re ruining a good thing I got going on, man.’

Slater rolled his eyes. Touched a finger to his earpiece and said, ‘Lieutenant Dean Cohen. It’s cash from one of Ray’s income streams — unsure which — but we knew that already. You get the rest.’

King replied with a soft grunt of affirmation, covering it up by clearing his throat afterwards.

Slater killed the connection.

D’Antoni said, ‘You working with others on this?’

‘Yeah.’

‘They in there right now? Sorting it all out?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then I should skip town.’

Slater looked over. ‘What makes you think I’ll let you?’

‘If you were gonna kill me you’d have done it by now. I’d be a dead goombah on this here sidewalk.’

Slater pulled his own piece — a SIG Sauer P226, sleek and black and modern — and touched the barrel to D’Antoni’s forehead. All the colour drained from the mob man’s face.

D’Antoni said, ‘Christ, man.’

‘Pop quiz,’ Slater said. ‘One wrong answer or one hesitation and you’re a dead goombah, just like you said.’

The man gulped.

Slater said, ‘Are you