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I shake my head. “I’ll stretch my legs and get something to eat. I’m not going anywhere until you call.”
She nods. “Wish me luck.”
“Luck,” I say.
I watch her walk off, a swagger in her stride, toward the hotel entrance. I wait a couple of minutes, then I start through the doors into the casino.
Inside I inhale the familiar smell of stale cigarillos and whisky. The machines sing and clank. Coins clatter in the distance. People hunker over the slots, big plastic cups in one hand and tokens in the other. Some of them look like they’ve been there a long time.
Two security guys peel away from the wall and start in my direction.
“Hey, kid,” one of them calls. “Wait a sec.” They probably figure I’m underage.
“Just leaving,” I say, and push through the back door. The sea air stings my face.
I stalk down the worn gray planks, hands in my pockets, thinking of Lila upstairs with her father. When I was a kid, Zacharov was a shadowy figure, a legend, the boogeyman. I met him maybe three times, and one of those times was while I was being thrown out of his daughter’s birthday party.
He laughed, I remember that.
At the back of the Taj Mahal a few old women lean over a railing, throwing something onto the sand. Some guys in tracksuits smoke near the entrance, calling to women as they pass. And a man in a long cashmere coat and silvery white hair looks out at the sea.
I touch my pocket with my phone in it. I should call Grandad, but I’m not ready to make excuses.
The white-haired man turns toward me. Glancing around, I notice two huge guys trying to look inconspicuous near a taffy shop window.
“Cassel Sharpe,” Mr. Zacharov says, slight accent making my name sound exotic. Even though it’s already dark, sunglasses cover his eyes. A fat, pale red stone glitters in the pin on his tie. “I believe a phone call was made to me from your cell phone.”
Turns out Mom was right about landlines after all.
“Okay,” I say, trying to act casual.
He looks around as if he’ll be able to pick her out of the crowd. “Where is she?”
“Up in the room,” I tell him. “Where she said she was going to be.”
There’s a deep-throated yowl, and I turn suddenly, my body jerking. My muscles hurt. I forgot how sore they already were.
Mr. Zacharov laughs. “Cats,” he says. “Dozens of feral cats under the boardwalk. Lila always loved cats. You remember.”
I don’t say anything.
“If she was in the room, my people would have called.” He tilts his head and slips a gloved hand into his pocket. “I think you are playing a game. Who did you get to pretend to be my daughter on the phone? Were you going to ask me for money? This seems like a very stupid game.”
“She said to meet her alone.” I lean toward him, and he holds out a gloved hand to stop me from getting too close. One of his goons heads toward us. I lower my voice. “She probably saw one of your people and split.”
He laughs. “You are a pathetic villain, Cassel Sharpe. A real disappointment.”
“No,” I say. “She really is—” The big guy jerks my arms back and up, hard.
“Please,” I gasp. “My ribs.”
“Thanks for telling me where to hit,” the guy says. His nose is permanently bent to one side.
Mr. Zacharov pats my cheek. I can smell the leather of his glove. “I thought you might turn out more like your grandfather, but your mother spoiled all you boys.”
That makes me laugh.
The guy jerks my arms up again. They make a sound like they’re popping out of their sockets, and I make a different kind of sound.
