Chapter 1
The casino boss stops me as I’m about to leave the table and tells me that his boss, the billionaire, the CEO of the publicly traded casino/resort company, Ms. Tamblyn, wants to see me in her office about a private matter. I play Texas Hold 'Em poker for a living and it’s been a ho-hum session this morning, basically just breaking even this time around. I try not to blame the cards, typically, but the cards today have just not been falling.
Before I learned how to play poker (that is, learned how to play “correctly,” any idiot, of course, can play this game), I worked here in Las Vegas as a private eye and now and then I’m still asked if I could investigate this or that. Usually I just laugh and say “no, those days are over,” but Ms. Tamblyn is almost a mythical presence, rarely seen and never heard from, so I don’t just say no this time.
“You’re sure?” I say. He just looks at me and nods his head and when he’s stopped nodding his head once, continues to just look at me.. Charles and I go back, he’s been around town for years and years and I think we’ve even played poker together at the same table from time to time on a few of his non-boss hours. When he doesn’t explain or mouth words and simply nods his head silently, that means it’s serious and he wouldn’t be wasting my time. He’s wearing a suit and tie and holding onto a mobile phone and now he’s just looking at me, waiting for me to say yes as no other answer will be tolerated or something. He’s not just a floor manager, he’s the guy in charge of all of the casino gaming operations in the resort and is respected all around the city and paid handsomely. He’s practiced the whole silent-but-powerful “in charge” thing and it’s definitely working for him these days.
“It’s like that,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, let’s go. I’ll follow you.”
“I know.”
We walk across and out of the vast ridiculous casino floor, leaving behind the strange assortment of dippy slot device addicts, those dozens and dozens sitting riveted before the electronic masters that own them – then we’re past the roulette wheels, the craps tables and the keno runners in the semi-skimpy outfits and finally past the huge blinking video screens of the sportsbook, where we head back toward the famous lobby/entrance beyond which, across the driveway and the parked limousines and Teslas, fountains of water continuously blast upward as the tourists stand back and take mobile phone photos and videos of their big, expensive vacation in fabulous Las Vegas.
We stop in front of an elevator I’ve never seen before. Maybe I should say I've never noticed before. It's kind of hidden around a corner or 2 behind big green plants growing in these big white pots in a sort of mini-garden with cared-for poppies and daffodils grabbing attention. Maybe the architect designed it this way so that, if you weren’t actually looking for it, you wouldn’t notice the boring elevator doors. Charles presses a button, the thing opens quietly, we enter, Fleetwood Mac music is playing softly, Gold Dust Woman, I think, and we lift off slowly and I ask him how his daughter Claudia is doing.
“Second year at Smith. All A’s, says she might go to law school.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Yeah,” he says, looking over at me, as much of a grin as he can offer, “It would.”
It’s kind of funny because he knows that I know about his family and their old days in Las Vegas and he knows about some of the private eye stuff I used to do and none of it has any connection to “the law” unless you’re talking about being on the wrong side of it or maybe just barely on the right side, that fine American tradition that keeps lawyers so employed.
“Let’s play poker sometime,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, “Let’s do it.”
The doors open at the 3rd floor and a well-dressed young woman wearing what you would be required to describe as elegant, perfectly-shaped, horn-rimmed glasses greets us with exactly the correct amount of pleasantness, not too much and not too little. Or, I should say greets me because Charles is waiting inside the elevator and showing me with his hand that this is where I get off and I can see he’s not joining us on this occasion. As the doors close, the young woman with the amazing eyewear says “My name is Clarice, Mr. Dempsey, and I’m Ms. Tamblyn’s assistant and if you’ll come this way, I’ll introduce you.”
She’s smiling but it’s business-smiling, nothing else.
It’s a different world up here in the executive suite: no slot devices, lack of blinking lights, no table games, lack of keno running, no casino noise and, out the window, a wide view of the Red Rock National Recreation Area to the west and beyond that, nothing but desert and sky. I said no noise but now I’m hearing slight background music, oldies from the Seventies, very low volume, I think I’m hearing Fleetwood Mac again – could be mistaken, it’s so soft -- but then we’re in front of the big wooden doors to Ms. Tamblyn’s office which are open.
“Eleanor, this is Robert Dempsey, the private investigator you wanted to see.”
Eleanor Tamblyn rises from behind a desk and comes over to shake my hand. She’s wearing an expensive business suit definitely not made in Southern Nevada. More like Italy or France. Her heels are perfectly black and the earrings and the tiny silver necklace are matched and just slightly gleaming. Artwork of the modern variety (Jackson Pollock?) hangs from the office walls and a light green pot of fresh flowers sits on her desk. I am struck by the contrast and the oddness of actual taste versus the runnings of a casino in this town and the one in Macau, her latest acquisition or so I had seen photos of in the Review-Journal.
“Mr. Dempsey, how nice to meet you.”