Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

year Gail hadn’t particularly minded the competition. She had been tied at a healthy second place. But now she was sliding into third place, and she had an expensive remodeling scheduled. That kind of outlay made stockholders nervous. Since she held only 45 percent of the Wildest Dream’s stock, she had to start turning a higher profit or look for another job.
    “Good evening, gentlemen,” Gail said as she closed the door behind her and looked at her four guests. “Or should I say good morning?”
    The men scattered around her plush office were in costume to the point that they wouldn’t have been recognized by their employees or closest enemies, which was the whole idea.
    French Henkle, manager of Say Paris!, was wearing the drab robes of a Franciscan monk. He had taken off his burlap mask and tossed the cowl back to reveal his thick blond hair. He was tapping the mask idly against the red Italian leather couch he was sitting on. At thirty-two he was the youngest man in the room and the only one with children. Shane Tannahill, along the way to becoming the most successful man in Vegas, had bankrupted French’s father. If French resented or applauded what had happened years ago, he hadn’t told anyone.
    The man sitting closest to French was John Firenze, who was dressed like a magician—or maybe he was supposed to be Zorro. It was hard to be certain of anything except that the costume hid everything relevant to his identity. John was Carl’s uncle, divorced, no children, and the CEO of Roman Circus, one of the first wave of huge resort casinos built in Vegas. Though the place had been revamped three times in the past thirty years, it never seemed to really click with the big money crowd. Roman Circus wasn’t a downscale grind joint by any means, but it wasn’t a primary destination for the national or international whales. Indelibly blue-collar, Roman Circus still made most of its money on slot machines and “feather shows” featuring women wearing nothing else.
    Sitting alone, Mickey Pinsky was dressed like a hooker in skyscraper heels, a high-necked purple silk shimmy dress, major breast and butt prostheses, and a platinum wig that added inches to his height. Minus the costume and makeup, he looked like the graying world-class jockey he had been before his horse rolled over on him just out of the starting gate. Three times divorced, rumored to be hung like a mule and just as sterile, he represented the owners of a handful of “family resorts” that had bet serious money that family entertainment à la Disney World would be the coming thing in Vegas.
    Pinsky and his backers had learned the painful way that you make more money on liquor, slots, and sophisticated big-city shows than you do on bubble gum, skateboard contests, and apple pie. At huge cost the entertainment complexes had resurrected themselves a few years ago as “destination resorts” for singles who were feeling lucky. Pinsky’s bottom line was showing small signs of life, but he was still swimming hard to keep his head above the swamp of his past mistakes. Anything that sent some of the Golden Fleece’s standing-room-only action in his direction would be fine with him.
    The most powerful man in the room was also the oldest. At fifty-eight, Richard (“call me Rich”) Morrison, had been on and off the marriage-go-round four times. His present wife was a rich Texas bitch with political credentials that Rich was putting to good use. Tonight he went against type and dressed like a hippie. He was almost trim enough to carry it off. The shoulder-length black rasta wig he wore wasn’t quite 1960s, but it covered his own short silver hair admirably. A full and fully fake beard did the same for the rest of his recognizable features.
    Rich was president and CEO of Shamrock, the resort casino that was currently tied for second in the Las Vegas profits race. He had tangled with Shane years ago on a business and a professional level. Rich had lost both ways. He hadn’t liked it then. He didn’t like it now. But tonight he was here for business. Nothing personal. If that same business chewed up Golden Boy and spit him out like a bad taste . . . well, sometimes you got lucky. Rich’s only concern was that Gail had been reluctant to play her part in setting up Tannahil. Tonight he would see if she was still dragging her feet.
    “Since you’re all still here,” Gail said, “I assume you decided that nothing is being recorded by me.”
    A