“No. I’m not prepared to do that.”
“Then it doesn’t matter,” David said. “Just drive. And get some windows open.”
Jerry backed out, exited the Lakes at Summerlin Greens, wound around the streets until he saw the on-ramp to the Summerlin Parkway, got on going south, exited on Rainbow, turned left, drove over to the Best in the West Shopping Center, parked in front of McDonald’s, which even at this time of night was bumping. The play area filled with kids. Tweaks and bartenders and working girls eating cheeseburgers and watching them fuck around. That was the thing about Summerlin. Middle of the week, the night owls still kept to their clocks even if they weren’t working, everything in this town open twenty-four hours, David wondering if these kids ever went to school and who watched them when their parents weren’t around. Whole generation of Las Vegas kids growing up behind gates, being raised by voice mails and Domino’s and Rachael Ray cooking meals in under thirty minutes.
“Is this okay?” Jerry asked.
“If you don’t mind looking like a blood-soaked pedophile.”
Jerry pulled behind the McDonalds, next to the dumpster, a homeless guy already decamped for the night. Fuck it. Anywhere outside the lights of Las Vegas was someone trying to get some sleep.
“Rabbi,” Jerry said, “I fucked up.”
“I see that,” David said.
Jerry swallowed, hard. “I don’t know . . . what you are, exactly. But I didn’t have anyone else I trusted.”
“I’m your rabbi,” David said. “So you’re right to trust me.”
“Rabbi,” Jerry said, “what the fuck is up with the gun?”
“You’re covered in blood, Jerry,” David said. “I figured this might be a situation where a gun would make us both more comfortable.”
“It is not making me comfortable. Do you even know how to handle that thing?”
“I’ve killed a hundred men,” David said. “Maybe more.”
“I don’t know what part of the Talmud you’re quoting.” Jerry popped open the glove box. “So, for my peace of mind, please, stash it in there. You’re going to end up accidentally killing us both.” David did so. He also had a nine on his ankle and of course the knife. Jerry watched him, then said. “You look . . . not the same.”
“I’ve had extensive plastic surgery,” David said. He turned the radio on, filling the Benz with Neil Diamond, again. Everyone in this fucking town playing Neil Diamond lately. He turned the volume up, just in case either the car or Jerry was bugged.
“Whose blood are you covered in?” David asked.
“With you away, I’ve had to take on new clients in the last couple months. I went to do a pickup tonight and ran into a situation.”
“Jerry, when I came to you, asking for help when Mr. Savone was arrested, did you ask any questions?”
“I’ve never asked any questions, Rabbi. Respectfully. I would never ask you any questions. What you do, who you are, whatever, that’s your show.”
“Good,” David said. “Speak in specifics.”
“I’ve got bodies melting through the floor of a dentist’s office into a swingers club that opens again in about ten hours.”
“And you think I can help you?”
“If this becomes public,” Jerry said, “they will eventually find me. Because the smell is . . . the smell is very bad, Rabbi. And the leaking is very bad. It is . . . in the ceiling tiles and walls and I am beyond my ability to cope with that alone. And that means the media will eventually see the work I do with the Temple, and that will eventually lead to a reporter showing up at your house. And you said, from the start, no media. So. I’ve played this scenario out as far as I can, and it always ends with a reporter talking to you. Cops, for sure. FBI will eventually become involved. I’ve done the math.”
Jerry was right about one thing. Bennie would kill him. Bennie would also kill Jerry’s wife. Might kill Jerry’s kids. Might invent a time machine, kill his fucking parents. David should kill him, right now, but he didn’t yet know where the bodies were.
“Where’s your wife?” David said.
“I sent her to our beach house in Pismo.”
“When?”
“About forty-five minutes ago.”
“She can’t come back here,” David said. “Not until I tell you it’s okay. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Who owns this dental office?”
“Russians.” Jerry squirmed in his seat. “I met some fellas playing poker. They run with Boris Dmitrov. He owns Odessa, the Russian place over on Paradise. You know him?”
“No.” He did, in fact, know exactly who he was. Ran the Russian mob in Las Vegas. Had influence across the entire country. He’d been one of the first Russians to operate on a national level. Not unlike Ronnie, he was so outwardly a gangster that it was now his cover. When travel shows did specials on the most mobbed-up places to get a meal in Las Vegas, it was always Odessa, Piero’s over by the Convention Center, and the Venetian restaurant on Sahara. Buses let out in front of those fucking places, letting tourists snap photos.
David looked at Jerry and asked, “Why aren’t you at Odessa explaining your problems?”
“He’s a nice guy,” Jerry said. “But his friends scare the shit out of me.”
“You’re scared of a dentist?”
“It’s not always a dental office,” Jerry said. “Like how Temple Beth Israel and the funeral home isn’t always . . .”
Before Jerry was done speaking, David had the tip of his knife inside Jerry’s right ear and one of his giant hands around Jerry’s throat. “Say one more word,” David said, “and I will shove this knife into your brain. But I’ll do it slow, so you have some time to reflect on how many mistakes have led you to this moment. If you understand what I’m saying, blink twice.”
Jerry blinked twice.
