“Of course you will, sir,” the concierge says at once, with a flick of the wrist. A bellboy materializes next to us and loads our bags onto his trolley.
My nerves return in the elevator on the way up. I don't know what's waiting for us in this hotel room. It could be champagne and a fruit basket or it could be a goon with a gun. I take out my own just in case. The concierge pretends not to notice.
On the walk down the hallway towards the room, he chats non-stop about what a nice view we have and how he thinks it's one of the nicest in the hotel. Finch has noticed my gun and also says nothing, but does walk a step behind me. When we arrived at the door, we let the concierge and bellboy go in before us, which they do with alacrity as though there’s nothing to fear.
The bellboy leaves as soon as he unloads our bags, without even waiting for a tip. Good service, or good sense?
I make Finch stay in the hallway and take my time checking behind corners, doors, and in the bathroom to the right of the entrance in the room.
The concierge waits patiently for me to conduct my audit and Finch waits just as patiently outside. But the room is clear and, as the concierge said, the view is spectacular. I call Finch in, who takes a running leap at the bed, “To check the bounce,” he explains, smirking.
The concierge gives me a second tour of the room, pointing out its amenities, and then very quickly makes himself scarce.
I'm not sure, and a knock at the door puts me right back on edge. I look through the peephole, but this is it. I have to take a chance, either way, because Sonny Vegas himself is standing out there, a blinding white grin on his face and no bodyguards to speak of.
I open the door, gun pointed straight at him, and Sonny puts his hands in the air.
“Hey, now, that's no way to treat a friend.” He strolls into the room like he owns the place.
Well, I suppose he does.
“And this must be the lovely little husband,” Sonny continues, catching sight of Finch peeking out of the bedroom.
“I'm neither lovely nor little,” Finch sniffs, coming into the room.
He hates it when I mention it, but to me? Finch is both. He only comes up to my chin.
“Oh, you're a scary beast of a man,” Sonny laughs, holding out his hand for Finch to shake. Finch does, warily, and then cuddles up next to me, daring Sonny to say something about it.
Sonny doesn’t even seem to notice.
“So you arrived okay,” he says, and walks over to the floor to ceiling windows to look out over the Las Vegas Strip. “Nice view, am I right?”
The view over the city reminds me a little of the Donovan suite at the Grand in New York. The first time I saw that view, I really considered the possibilities of what I might achieve in my lifetime. And Finch was the one who opened my eyes to it, offering me the city as though it were his to give.
“Thanks for accommodating us,” I say, putting my gun back in its holster. “You can understand we’re still a little jumpy, given the situation in New York.”
“I don't want to know anything about the situation in New York,” Sonny says, giving his shark grin again. “The less I know, the better. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. and Mr. Black are here on a second honeymoon. And I'm honored to be able to offer you all the delights of my hotel and casino. Make sure you spend up big at the tables. Although I'd avoid the slot machines if I were you; not much return there.”
“Who’s playing here at the moment?” Finch asks, wandering over to the fruit basket, and selecting a piece of cantaloupe to munch on.
“Ariana Grande opens next Saturday night. I can get you front-row tickets.”
“Appreciate it,” Finch says around the fruit in his mouth.
“I’d like a chat when you have time,” I say to Sonny.
“Of course,” he says. “Any time you like.”
I look him over, really taking him in. He's wearing a silk lizard-print shirt tucked into brown leather pants and knee-high suede boots. He's young, cocky, and uninterested in my East Coast problems—or appears to be, anyway.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I say, “after Finch and I have had a chance to settle in.”
“Sounds good to me. Just let Fernando know. The concierge,” he adds, as I look at him blankly.
With that, he heads out with a farewell called over his shoulder. “Oh,” he says, pausing in the doorway. “There are no cameras or mikes in this room. Professional courtesy. I know you’ll check anyway, but I wanted you to hear it from me.”
Of course I check. But as Sonny Vegas says, my surveillance equipment picks up none of his. We’re as safe as we can be under the circumstances.
