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D’Allessando snorted. He arranged the chips in the rack and stood up. He was a short man whose barrel chest and upper arms strained his shirt.
“Cashier’s over there,” D’Allessando said, indicating the direction with a nod of his head.
On his retirement from twenty-four years of service—twenty-two of it in Special Forces—CWO5 Victor D’Allessando had gone to work for the Special Operations Command as a Department of the Army civilian. Theoretically, he was a technical advisor to the commanding general of the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. What he actually did for the Special Operations Command was classified.
At the cashier’s window, a peroxide blonde in her fifties counted the chips, then asked if D’Allessando wanted his winnings as a check.
“Cash will do nicely, thank you,” D’Allessando said.
Th
e peroxide blonde began to lay crisp new one-hundred-dollar bills in stacks, ten bills to a stack. There were four stacks. Then she started a fifth stack with fifties, twenties, a ten, and, finally, a five.
“Jesus Christ, Vic!” Castillo said. “You had a good night.”
D’Allessando grunted again, stuffed the money in the inside pocket of his lemon-colored sports coat, and started for the door. Castillo followed him.
D’Allessando made a Give it to me gesture to the host, who had refused to let Bradley into the casino. The host unlocked a small drawer in the stand-up desk and tried to discreetly hand D’Allessando a Colt General Officers model .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol. The discretion failed. D’Allessando hoisted the skirt of his sports coat and slipped the pistol into a skeleton holster over his right hip pocket.
“They won’t let you carry a weapon in there,” D’Allessando said. “I guess losers have been known to pop the dealers.”
Castillo chuckled. The host was not amused.
“Elevator’s over there,” D’Allessando said, again nodding to show the direction.
“I know.”
“Oh, yeah. Masterson said you’d been here.”
“You get to talk to him?” Castillo asked as they walked and Bradley followed.
“He’ll be here at eight for breakfast.”
When they reached the bank of elevators, D’Allessando took a plastic card key from his jacket pocket and swiped it through a reader. The elevator door opened. D’Allessando waved Castillo into it. Bradley started to get on.
“Sorry, my friend,” D’Allessando said, “this elevator is reserved for big-time losers.”
“He’s with me,” Castillo said.
D’Allessando shrugged and stepped out of the way.
When the door closed, Castillo said, “Bradley, this is Mr. D’Allessando. Vic, this is Corporal Lester Bradley. He’s a Marine.”
“You’re in bad company, kid,” D’Allessando said. “Watch yourself.”
“He’s a friend of mine, Vic.”
“Even worse.”
The elevator stopped and D’Allessando swiped the plastic key again. The door opened.
“Welcome to Penthouse C,” D’Allessando said.
“Wow!” Bradley exclaimed.
They were in an elegantly furnished suite of rooms. Two walls of the main room were plate glass, offering a view of what was now an intermittent stream of red lights going west on U.S. 90, white lights going east. In the daylight, the view would be of the sugar white sand beaches and emerald salt water of the Mississippi Gulf Coast.
“My sentiments exactly, Bradley,” Castillo said.
