Stiletto by Harold Robbins Read Free Book Online Page B

return from the door. A moment later Gio was back. He held an envelope in his hand.
    “It was the postmaster from the village. He said he had this special letter to deliver to you.”
    Cesare took it from him and ripped it open. It was two pages of closely typewritten instructions. He read it quickly, then read it again. Slowly he put the letter down on the table and reached for the espresso.
    Twelve years had passed. And Don Emilio had presented his note for payment. With interest.

6
    Las Vegas is a night town. Outside the hotels are the pools, clear, filtered and aquamarine, but no one sits around them except the tourists and the hustlers who work the hotels and keep their tans as a kind of pancake makeup of their trade. Inside the lobbies it is always night.
    Someone once said never let them see the daylight. There is something about the harsh white light of day that interferes with the gambler’s sense of reality. The reality of the spinning roulette wheel, the dull thumping of dice on hard felt-covered tables, the reality of the fever to win, the reality of the shifting desert sands on which the town was built.
    Here is the prize, the great adventure, the promise of all the tomorrows. Free money. And everything else runs second to it. Sex, business, laughter. Free money. Pull the handle on the slot machines. It may be your turn at the jackpot.
    They came out of the dining-room-theater, still laughing at the comedy of one of the world’s greatest entertainers. They paused, looking down into the lobby of the gambling casino.
    It was ten o’clock at night and the tables at the Maharajah were crowded with the people who had come from the dinner show. Cesare’s eyes searched the room.
    “You didn’t hear what I asked,” Barbara said.
    Cesare turned and looked down at her. His eyes were glowing with a strange excitement. “No, I didn’t, my dear. What was it?”
    Barbara looked up at him. Another man would have apologized or protested that he had heard. He merely said that he hadn’t. “Dice or roulette, I asked.”
    He smiled suddenly. “Roulette. I have given enough to those crazy little cubes of ivory. I will never understand them.”
    They began to walk down toward the roulette tables. “Too bad they don’t play baccarat here. Now there is a game for the civilized human being. For that some skill is needed, merely having luck is not enough.”
    Barbara turned toward a table. He held her arm. “Not this one. It is too crowded. Over here.”
    It was the table opposite the one she had been going to but he had been right: it was less crowded. He pulled out a stool for her and she sat down. She smiled up at him. “Feel lucky tonight?”
    He nodded his head and smiled back at her. “Very lucky,” he said, placing a pile of chips in front of her.
    ***
    In New York the telephone on Baker’s desk began to ring. He put down the container of coffee and picked it up.
    “Jordan calling from Las Vegas,” the operator said.
    “Put him on,” he answered.
    Ted Jordan came on the wire. “Hello, George, how we doin’?”
    “No good,” Baker answered wearily. “We’re up the creek. We still can’t figure out how Dinky Adams was killed. How’s your boy holding up?”
    Jordan laughed. “Just great. Right now he’s out at the roulette wheel betting like there’s no tomorrow.”
    “Is he covered?” Baker asked anxiously.
    “I got a man on each side of him and one standing right behind him. Nobody can get anywhere near him.”
    “I’m still nervous. We thought we had Adams covered too and look what happened.”
    “If you’re that worried, George,” Jordan said, “why don’t we just lock him up. We can keep him away from everybody in there.”
    “You know the deal,” Baker replied. “If we do that, the defense will know who the witnesses are before we get them into court. And if they know, the witnesses won’t talk and there goes our case.”
    “Matteo must be laughing like hell right this