Sharks - Matt Rogers (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📗

him toward a partitioned corridor that led to various supply closets and hallways — an access point to the labyrinth of behind-the-scenes rooms.

The cop nodded, picked up the bags, and followed.

King held back. Dipped behind the tall screen displaying the roulette numbers, touched a finger to his ear and mumbled, ‘I need a name. Now.’

In his ear, Slater’s voice said, ‘What’s your name?’

A distant voice said, ‘Fuck you.’

Then a scream, followed by, ‘Lenny D’Antoni. Stop.’

Slater said, ‘You got that?’

King stepped back out in the open and made a beeline for the partition. He was a couple of dozen feet behind the cop, who disappeared out of sight with the three duffel bags in his hands. King momentarily glanced down at himself. He was dressed in black jeans, a dark blue tee and a black leather jacket. Perfect for a stakeout, if a little dressy, but now it worked perfectly as mobster chic. At least it could be interpreted that way, and sometimes that’s all the prompting people need.

He was also big and wide and mean.

Which would help more.

He followed the lieutenant into the hallway, who didn’t glance over his shoulder once. A door labelled staff only crept open, and the cop came face to face with the older cashier. She ushered him in, sweeping him past her, then closed the door behind him.

King stepped up to it and knocked hard on the wood three seconds later.

Which didn’t even give her enough time to step away.

Hesitant, she inched the door back open, staring up at him. She was equally severe, equally no-nonsense, but she seemed to recognise the fact he could tear the door off its hinges if he really wanted to.

‘Can I help you?’ she said, tentative.

King said, ‘Lenny D’Antoni sent me to screen the new guy.’

Silence.

The cashier stared at him.

King gave a look like silence was the thing he hated most in the world and said, ‘Is that going to be a problem? Need me to get him in here to clear things up?’

He let a little flame show in his eyes. Demonstrating that everything would be a whole lot easier if none of this was questioned, if it all went smoothly instead of having to prove who he was and let his anger escape from deep within.

More silence.

Then a shake of the head, and a gesture to follow her.

Simple as that.

She didn’t want any trouble. It was bound to be a long shift for her, and human nature is inherently weak. We cave to the prospect of the easy path. She’d taken it without a word of protest.

King stepped through into the staff-only section of the casino.

8

Now King got a better look at the lieutenant.

He looked like your average middle-aged suburban dad.

Appearances are always deceiving.

The guy was clinging for his life to the hairline receding fast over his skull. He had tanned skin and green eyes and a small mouth. Conventionally attractive, and a little jumpy, like he hadn’t quite settled into his new role yet. But that was a joke, because anyone Keith Ray trusted to continue his operation had to be neck-deep in shit. So the nerves were a performance, either to disarm the staff or throw off anyone who might be tailing him. And the eyes never lie — his face and mannerisms were twitchy, but the green irises had steel in them.

The cop watched King step in behind him. He was tall, but King was taller — only by a couple of inches, but there’s an underlying power dynamic that comes along with that. The twitchiness subsided, replaced by the coolness the cop had felt all along. A display of dominance.

The lieutenant said, ‘Who are you?’

King didn’t even look at the cop. Just turned his attention to the cashier and said, ‘He’s new, isn’t he?’

She nodded, but didn’t smile.

The cop mirrored King’s actions — an attempt to show defiance. Like, Well, if you’re only talking to her, then so am I. He turned to her and said, ‘He’s not coming anywhere until he tells me who he is.’

The cashier said, ‘You ask him yourself. I’m not your messenger.’

Showing a little defiance to the lieutenant.

Which proved that the mob was a touch more important than a bent cop.

It rattled the guy, who turned to King and said, ‘Start talking, buddy. I’m the one who has what you need. Nothing gets done unless I’m in the know.’

He inched the duffel bags a little higher in his hands, highlighting their presence.

‘Is that right?’ King said, and stood up a little straighter.

Then he put a look in his eyes that basically said, I could snap you in half in front of this woman and she wouldn’t bat an eyelid. I could shove your head through that wall, break every bone in your body, and take those bags before you even knew what hit you. So shut your mouth and do your job like the obedient puppy dog you are.

The cop picked up on all of that, and almost wilted. But his pride consumed his common sense, and he turned to one final avenue. ‘You do realise I’m a Vegas PD lieutenant.’

King gestured to the uniform and said, ‘Thanks for the clarification. I thought you were playing dress-up.’

‘I won’t be spoken to like this.’

King sighed and thumbed two fingers into his closed eyes. When he opened them he said, ‘Okay. Take the bags and get the fuck out of here.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a dozen others we can use for this gig. So either stop flexing your non-existent power or run away with your precious bags and find out the consequences of your disobedience in your own time.’

The cop said nothing.

King had called him on his bluff before he could play his hand. Now he had nothing. Hence the quiet.

Finally he nodded and turned to the cashier and said, ‘After you.’

‘Good call,’ King said.

She led them wordlessly to a room at the end of the hallway.

9

Lenny D’Antoni was a broken man.

It hadn’t taken much. It never did. Slater sat next