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“Stay that way,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.
Diesel had his thumbs hooked into his pockets. “I’m guessing that wasn’t your mother.”
“It was Ranger.”
“Doing a bed check?”
“He likes to know his family is safe.”
“And the boyfrien
d, Morelli?”
“I called him earlier.”
I’ve known Joe Morelli all my life. I know his family, his friends, his history. I know his sexual tastes, his favorite sports teams, his shoe size, his pizza preferences, his iPod playlist.
I’ve had to judge Ranger and Diesel on actions and attitude, and touch. Rangers touch is firm. He feels comfortable assuming authority. Diesel’s touch is surprisingly gentle. I think Diesel is afraid he’ll leave a bruise.
“Can you make a quarter of a million on this game?” I asked him.
Diesel shrugged. “Hard to predict how a game will go. I’d have preferred something with higher stakes, but this is what Snuggy found for me so I’ll do the best I can.”
The door behind the registration desk opened, and Briggs walked out with an envelope in his hand. He gave the envelope to Diesel and answered his cell phone.
“I’m on my way” Briggs said into his phone. He listened to something said on the other end, and he giggled. “Gotta go,” he told us. “Don’t wait up.”
Caesars Hotel and Casino was a couple blocks north. The Boardwalk was lit, but beyond it was black ocean and sky.
The surf surged onto the beach and whooshed away, sight unseen, and mist swirled around overhead lights. I found an elastic scrunchie in my bag and tied my hair back into a ponytail before it frizzed out of control.
“The game is in a high roller suite,” Diesel said. “The suite was occupied this afternoon, so I wasn’t able to get in, but it probably has a living room area where you can hang out. Stay away from the poker table and stay awake. I’ll be John Diesel, so remember to call me John.”
“I thought you were just Diesel?”
“Not everyone is comfortable playing cards with a guy who has only one name.”
The casino and shopping pier were in front of us. Professionally illuminated palaces of hope and recreation. Diesel steered me toward the shopping pier.
“We need to glam you up a little,” he said. “The jeans are okay. The sweatshirt and sweater have to go.”
“How about you? Are we going to glam you up?”
“No. I’m the hedge fund guy who’s so rich he can wear whatever the hell he wants.”
“And I’m...”
“You’re the bimbo.”
Fortunately, since I was born and raised in Trenton, I’m good at selecting bimbo clothes. I found a little white T-?shirt that had sweet thing written in sparkly pink glitter across the boobs. It was a size too small and was cut low on the top and sat an inch above my jeans to show maximum skin. I covered it with a black leather jacket that coordinated with my black-?and-?white Converse sneakers. I added some extra eyeliner and mascara, and I was ready to rock and roll.
Diesel smiled when I walked out of the dressing room. “If I didn’t have to save a horse, I’d marry you.”
“I’m not surprised. I always had you pegged for the bimbo type.”
“Saves time,” Diesel said.
We left the shops and crossed the Boardwalk to the casino. The gaming floor was similar to Daffy’s. Substitute statue of Caesar for Big Brass Dog. Even on a weekday in March, it was packed. Colored neon pulsed around the room. Slot machines clanged and dinged. We went directly to the bank of elevators.
