Private Vegas (Private 9)

Del Rio said: “This could be the last fresh air I breathe for ten years.”

Cruz, half joking, half exasperated, said, “Look. I’ll rent your house, Rick, okay? You’ll make money, and you’ll only be how old when you get out? Fifty-five?”

Del Rio looked at Cruz like he’d just said that he was having sex with Del Rio’s mother.

“What did you say, you son-of-a-bitch? You think this is funny?”

Del Rio leaped from the webbed aluminum chair, grabbed Cruz by the neck, squeezed his throat with both hands, then pushed the chair over and managed to straddle Cruz while pressing his thumbs into Cruz’s throat.

Del Rio was yelling, “You prick. You stupid prick. You want to do ten years? Huh? You couldn’t do ten days before you’d be crying like a girl.”

Cruz had a muscular neck along with the muscular rest of his body, and his arms were free. He gave Del Rio a shot to the jaw that sent Del Rio backward. It was enough to break the choke hold, but Del Rio wasn’t done. He scrambled to his feet, and as Cruz got up, Del Rio hurled himself at Cruz, who stiff-armed him.

Del Rio stumbled back, recovered his footing, threw a punch that connected with Cruz’s solar plexus. Cruz grunted, then lowered his head and ran at Del Rio; the force lifted Rick off his feet and sent him off the deck and into the canal.

Ducks flew up, squawking.

Del Rio sank, disappeared into the dark water, then bobbed up, sputtering.

Cruz shouted down at him, “Cooled off yet, Ricky? Are we done?”

“Shit,” Del Rio said. He reached for the rope ladder.

Cruz’s phone rang. He grabbed it out of his shirt pocket, flipped it open with his thumb, gave Del Rio a hand up to the deck.

The caller was Jack and he had an assignment for him: surveillance of those scumbag Sumaris, who had just checked into Shutters.

“I’m taking Del Rio with me,” Cruz said.

“Fine,” Jack said.

“He needs something to do. The waiting is killing him.”

“I said, ‘Fine.’”

Cruz stood back as Del Rio sluiced the water off his clothes with his hands. Cruz said, “I’m sorry, asshole. Your jaw is going to be purple tomorrow.”

Del Rio rubbed his jaw and said to Cruz, “So where are we going?”

Chapter 35

THEIR CORNER SUITE at the fabulous Shutters on the Beach hotel had a wide view of the ocean and the endless sandy beach tinted by the setting sun at the horizon.

Gozan relaxed in a chaise and perused the room-service menu. He wanted a cocktail before dinner and maybe fresh oysters.

Behind him, Khezir angrily thumbed the television’s remote control, speeding through the channels.

“Khezzy, your father would have loved to see the ocean. I wish he could be here with us.”

“Those stupid bitches,” Khezir said in Sumarin. “What a waste of our time. All day working on them and then, ‘Sorry, we are not feeling well. Thank you anyway.’”

“There will be other women. This hotel is full of them.”

“Don’t speak to me of women.”

“Okay, Khezzy.”

No one understood Khezir the way Gozan did. He had been like a father to Khezzy since the day his brother-in-law, Khezzy’s father, had been murdered, stabbed through the heart by his disgruntled mistress while he was asleep.