The man in the suit flagrantly counted a large wad of cash. He flapped it into his friend's hand. The man who had bought me a drink folded the cash up neatly. He then strode up to the ring, nodded to the boxer in the red shorts and slipped the cash into his robe. I was the only one that noticed.
Or I'm the only one stupid enough to watch, I thought.
The two men were coming back out and there was nowhere for me to hide. I shuffled along the row I was in, but knew they would spot me soon.
"Here, you look cold," a nondescript man said. He tossed a tan sport coat over my shoulders.
I sat down, glad the plain sport coat concealed my dress and made me blend into the seats. "I recognize you. You've been following Fenton Morris," I said.
"Sure beats Iowa, eh, honey?" he asked.
I nodded lower into the tan sport coat as the two men strode past our row. Neither of them looked our way.
"Alright, Ms. Allen, they're gone."
"How do you know my name? Who are you?"
"You can call me Matt Smith," he said. "You're wrong. I'm not following Fenton Morris, I work for him."
"You're a private investigator," I said. That would explain the average looking man's ability to disappear so easily. It would also explain why I felt certain his name was a fake. Matt Smith was almost too carefully common to be true.
"Very astute. Now, what you'd think of the fight?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know. I wasn't really here to watch the fight," I said. "Did you notice those two men?"
"The ones you were following?"
"Yes. Wait. You changed the subject. Why does Fenton Morris need a private investigator?" I asked.
Matt Smith smirked. "Again, very astute. Mr. Morris no longer needs my services, but I have to admit, I saw him with the two gentlemen you mentioned and I was curious, too."
He swung the conversation so easily away from his private business with Fenton that I knew I could not pry. Instead, I concentrated on why I had come there in the first place. "I think they were threatening him somehow."
"And, did you notice anything strange about the boxing match?" Matt Smith asked.
I frowned. He seemed so average, so regular, that it was surprising how utterly he controlled the conversation.
"Yes, actually. I could have sworn the boxer in the red shorts noticed those two men, and then almost right after he spotted them, he lost the match," I said.
"And?"
"And then, I saw lots of money changing hands," I continued.
Matt Smith nodded and polished a pair of wire rim glasses I had not noticed before. He said nothing and waited.
"I think they might have fixed the fight and told that poor boxer to lose. That way they can place bets and win big," I said.
He slipped his glasses on and pushed them up his nose. "And now, they're trying the same thing with Mr. Morris?"
"Oh my God," I said. "That's awful. We have to call the police."
"What would the police do?" Matt asked. "There is no proof. The men will deny threatening Mr. Morris. It would be his word against theirs. And, I doubt things will get better for him after they learn he has talked to the police."
I stood up and handed back the plain, tan sport coat. "There has to be something we can do. I'll talk to Fenton right away. Maybe you can get photographs of them doing what they just did?"
"People carry cash in Las Vegas, that's no crime," Matt pointed out.
I thought about the large wad the tall m