Half an hour after they’d finished loading the last ATM in the casino, Gask savored the air conditioning and decided to take a leak before he and Perez started for the main entrance to meet Scout.
“You’re taking part in Las Vegas history, Gil, did you know that?” Gask said at the urinal while relieving himself.
Perez was bent over a sink, running cold water over his face.
“No.”
“When I punch out at the end of the week, I’ll be leaving with a spotless loss sheet, one nobody in this town can touch.”
“Didn’t Roger Maddison retire from Titan Federal, a few months back. He put in twenty-seven years without a loss.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“It was in the newsletter. Your record would be second to his. Third actually. Pike Radeaux at Titan packed in it last year. Twenty-five loss-free years.”
“No. You’re wrong.”
“I’ve still got the newsletter somewhere. I’ll show you.”
“That newsletter’s bullshit,” Gask flushed. “What the hell do you know, Re-fried? Let’s go. Jesus. Why do I waste my breath on you?”
The wheels of the empty dolly cart sank in the lobby's carpet as Perez pushed it to the main entrance. Amid the eternal clanking of the slots, Gask strained in vain to locate the familiar colors of the Forged armored car through the glass doors. No truck. No Scout.
“That damned squaw better have an explanation!” Gask's fingers clasped his radio, knowing the instant he called for Scout on the air, a fuck-up attributed to him was exposed fleet-wide.
He held off.
“Perez, quick. Check the back. Maybe she had a breakdown. I’ll search the front lot. Meet me back here. Hurry.”
Gask shivered as the sun worked on him, his keys chiming as he trotted. No trace of the truck out front.
Perez returned, breathless. “She’s gone, Elmer,” he doubled over gasping. “Maybe it was the last drop? Those guys touching the truck?”
Gask’s stomach tightened. Four days from retirement. Twenty-two years. His twenty-two thousand dollar bonus was melting here in a casino parking lot because of that stupid goddammed squaw.
“Better call it in, right Elmer?”
Gask couldn’t believe he was being screwed like this. Why?
“Elmer, she could have been taken hostage. Jesus! Call it in!”
Gask scanned the lot, willing the truck to appear. Goddammit. It was a hit. Had to be. On his goddamn watch. His twenty-two grand.
“Elmer! Call it in!” Perez’s hand shook as he ran the back of it across his dried lips. “They could kill Jessie!”
Gask put his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “65. 65. This is three. Radio check?”