Hide Me

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.’