Las Vegas, Nevada
April 14
Franco Jasic stood in the middle of the casino floor and breathed in the oxygenated air.
Home.
His debt with his bookie was settled; he had two bodyguards flanking him—courtesy of his employer—and a substantial chunk of change in his wallet just begging to come out and play. He had also arranged for a considerable line of credit, thanks again to said bookie, so things were looking up. Cocktail waitresses fluttered around him. Patrons eyed him, wondering who could he be? The only thing that needed to be attractive about him in Vegas was his wallet. He wore a well-tailored black suit he kept for just such occasions and diamond cuff links he’d won from a loudmouth fish years ago.
Standing here, in this moment, Franco was whoever he wanted to be—a rock star, a racketeer, a royal—anything but an errand-boy-gambling-addict with a bankroll burning a hole in his pocket. Sure, he had given himself a mysterious moniker, “The Courier,” but it didn’t change the fact that he was nothing more than a black market UPS man. But here and now, it didn’t matter what he was; it mattered what he looked like. And Franco Jasic looked like a whale.
He didn’t look around, didn’t signal for attention; he knew exactly how to play the game. In under a minute, a concierge and a pit boss were at his side.
“Mr. Jasic, welcome.” The concierge spoke first. “I wanted to let you know your suite has been comped and upgraded. I have your key.” He handed Franco a small envelope. “My card is in there as well. If you let me know of any dining or entertainment preferences, I’ll be happy to handle those.”
Franco had his own method of arranging his “entertainment preferences,” and food was of no interest, so he simply nodded and said, “Thank you…”
“Raymond.”
“Thank you, Raymond.”
“And this is Jim Pitts. He can keep you apprised of any games that may interest you.”
“A pit boss named Pitts?” Franco raised a brow.
“I guess I was born for it,” Pitts added with a practiced shrug.
“Well, it’s early yet. If you can arrange for a dealer in a high-limit room, I think I’ll start with a little one-deck blackjack.”
“Of course, sir. If you’ll follow me.”
Pitts led the way through the crowded floor, speaking into his earpiece as he escorted Franco into an elegantly appointed room. Leather couches and chairs surrounded low glass tables without a smudge or condensation ring in sight. The bar was an elaborate oak affair with rows of top-shelf liquor set before a distressed antique mirror. The bartender stood at attention, prepared to whip up a frothy sidecar or the perfect manhattan. The room was currently unoccupied, but that would change as the evening progressed.
Franco palmed a hundred dollar bill and thanked Pitts with a shake of his hand as he transferred the tip. From another doorway, a stunning Asian woman with a sleek, black ponytail that cascaded down to her lovely derriere entered the room. She took her place behind the blackjack table and broke the seal on a new deck.
Pitts thanked Franco. “Best of luck to you, sir.”
Franco barely heard the parting words, the siren song of the cards already snaring him. He purchased his chips and placed his first bet. She dealt the cards.
“Player has blackjack. Congratulations.”
Franco allowed himself a small smile and placed another bet. His penultimate day on earth was off to a very promising start.
Thirty hours later felt like minutes. The only way Franco would have known it was morning was by the eggs and pastry assortment that had replaced the dinner selections on the buffet in the dining room of the massive suite. Fuck food. Franco was up. Way up. He had gambled close to a million dollars and had a nice nut to show for his effort. Adderall and cocaine and American bourbon flowed through his system, but their effects were superfluous. The cards got him high, kept the adrenaline coursing through him.
He was currently sitting in the 8,000 square foot penthouse of John Vacarro; the people in the room who knew Vacarro called him “Johnny V.” Franco had never met the man before tonight, but like most people on his side of the law, he knew who Johnny V was. If they didn’t, one look would have said it all: slicked-back gray hair, tanned and battered skin, a well-worn cardigan covering an understated $300,000 Patek Phillipe watch that peeked out when he adjusted the dime store readers on the end of his nose or repositioned the unlit Cuban Cohiba at the corner of his mouth. Franco liked him on-sight.
Johnny V had come and gone from the table, and players had cycled through, but Franco couldn’t let himself miss a minute. The next hand could be the big score. He wasn’t going to be caught napping when that hand was dealt. He had left the table only a handful of times: to use the facilities, to get a blowjob from one of the prostitutes circling the room, and once to make a phone call to his employer to assure him everything was on schedule.
He had just folded his hand when the door to the suite burst open, and a larger-than-life man entered the room. He was visibly drunk and holding a wad of cash: a douche bag from his crocodile loafers to his diamond Rolex. Franco was glad Johnny Vacarro’s men had relieved him of the snub-nose .38 Special he kept in an ankle holster, or he may have shot this asshole in the face for the fun of it.
“Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely,” the man boomed. “What’s the buy-in?”
Three hours later, Franco was ready to blow. This Armani-wearing motherfucker had taken his entire nut. The guy could not lose. Franco wished he had left the table the minute this jackass and his bad juju had walked through the door. But this was gambling. Things turned on a dime. And they were about to turn his way. He could feel it. Franco popped another couple of antacids; his indigestion was brutal tonight. He shifted in his chair, trying to ease the fist between his shoulder blades. Pretending to blow his nose, he swiped at the cold beads of sweat dotting his brow. Jeez, he was going to need a break at some point, but not yet.
The game was Texas hold ‘em. Franco looked at the pair of jacks he’d been dealt and placed his bet without expression.
The Flop: three cards dealt face-up in the center of the table: four of spades, nine of hearts, four of clubs.