John was onto how well she was doing, and that was not a good thing. It was best to be forgettable to certain people. The only way to escape their hold was by never getting into it in the first place.
That was the truth I didn’t want to admit to myself. No matter what the plan had been when I first got involved with John Valentine, the end date to my tenure here had long since passed, and I was in it for the long haul.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted him studying the slightly blurry photo of Amelia.
Maybe he’d decide it wasn’t her.
“Cop’s moving over to the poker tables,” I said, trying to draw his focus away.
“Good. The girls will make sure he loses enough money to not come back.” John handed the phone to Al. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the door?” There was a growing edge to his voice that diminished my hope that he’d forget about Amelia.
Al scrambled out of the security room like his ass was on fire as John braced one hand on the desk and one hand on the back of my chair and studied the screen. Al had just appeared on the video feed when someone else caught my attention.
Amelia walked across the screen in that little black dress she wore the first night, when she’d pretended to be a jilted bride. The expression she wore today—it wasn’t fake.
She wasn’t here to play pretend.
She was here to beat the house.
“Cop’s chatting up the dealer,” I said, trying to draw John’s attention away from the blonde in a dress that caressed her ass the way I wanted to. “Doesn’t look like he plans on playing tonight. Probably just scouting the place.” He headed to a blackjack table with two open seats. “Moving on to twenty-one.”
“I’ve got fucking eyes. I can see what the goddamn cop is doing,” John barked, then stuck his finger directly onto the screen. Right over Amelia.
Ihatedwhen people touched the computer screen. It left prints and someone had always misplaced the screen cloth.
“Find out who she is.”
I cleared my throat. “Angela?—”
“Not what name she gave at the door.” His voice turned sinister. “Find outwho she is. Not what her fucking name is.”
Usually, this was when John would waltz out. I’d come up with a plausible story with weak but present evidence and peddle it to him while he was busy entertaining people. He always bought it.
But this time . . . this time, he didn’t budge.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Do what you do best and get me what I want,” John snipped like I was a fucking bellhop.
I cleared my throat and keyed in my earpiece to talk to the guy who was watching the exterior of the Four Horsemen. “Jacob, circle the block and get the plates and registration on every silver sedan.”
These were the days when I wished the casino was close to a fucking parking garage. But no. We were a tiny blip on the outskirts of Atlantic City, forcing people to street park, find the occasional space in a lot, or walk blocks away from the bustling heart of the city. It was that way by design. John Valentine didn’t want this to be a hot spot that was easy to access.
There was a pause before he responded, “What am I looking for?”
If Jacob had to search a parking deck it would have taken him all night, but he could case the block in ten minutes. That wasn’t enough time for Valentine to lose interest.
“Just trying to verify an ID,” I said as I watched Amelia go from her usual spot at the bar to the open spot right beside the cop. I pulled up the audio from their table and listened as they made polite, bland chit-chat as the dealer opened the game.
Amelia went big with her first bet, and it paid off in no time. Behind me, John was silent, but I could feel his rage radiating in the matchbox room.
In my ear, Jacob started rattling off names and plate numbers. I knew Amelia’s by heart. Thankfully, he hadn’t found hers yet. Maybe the street was packed and she had left her car farther away than usual.
At least we didn’t have designated parking or a valet. That would have been like shooting fish in a barrel.
As I started running all the names and plate numbers through the bootlegged DMV database, John began to pace.
“This one’s a Connecticut plate,” Jacob said as he rattled off the number. “Give me a second to get inside and see if the registration’s there. It’ll give you a name.”
I didn’t need to know the name to know that it was Amelia’s car. “Say the plate number again,” I asked as I intentionally typed it into the system incorrectly while silently hoping Amelia’s car had some kind of sophisticated anti-theft protection that would keep him from getting inside and finding her registration papers.
