Page 4

No Harm Done

While his wife had chatted with Sabrina Cuomo at the funeral reception on the third floor, Hank had leaned back in his office chair and wished it would all go away—his debts, their marriage troubles, Dave’s murder.

They were only a few weeks from the finish line. Saturday night was the happiest any of them had felt in the last five years. Dave had been joking and smiling—almost his old self. He might have even been getting laid again. Hank forgot to ask him about that when they were fishing, and now he’d never get the chance. What Hank would give to see those girly dimples sitting across from him right now. It had been good to see Dave smile again.

Then this had to happen.

Hank knew who killed Dave. Or more precisely, who ordered the hit. At least, he was pretty sure he did. His best-case scenario was they thought Dave had acted alone, they’d killed him quickly, and they were done. His worst-case scenario was they knew there were accomplices and they’d tortured Dave to get Hank, Larry, and Andre’s names out of him before they shot him and crushed his head under his garage door. The guys had held their breath and waited for two things to happen.

First, for the coroner to find the bullet and the subsequent police investigation to erupt. But that hadn’t happened. Then Hank realized—when you see a head that bashed in, you don’t look for another cause of death. And so far, it seemed he was right. After all, who would want to kill Dave Brand? As far as anyone knew he was merely a low-level casino tech and a lousy golfer.

And the other thing that had Hank popping Tylenol and chewing Tums was expecting a deadly knock on his door from the same guys who’d visited Dave. But that hadn’t happened either. At least not yet. But Hank knew they’d be coming.

If they knew about them.

Despite working at a casino all his adult life, Hank wasn’t much of a gambler. Right then he wasn’t rolling the dice on the probability of any particular scenario and instead was laser focused on keeping them all alive. Even if, by some twisted chance, fortune was smiling on him, and the casino thought Dave had acted alone, they’d still want their money back. So they’d be watching everyone at Dave’s funeral.

It wasn’t over because Dave was dead. It had just started.

Hank had leaned back in his chair, his feet on his desk, his eyes closed, working to control his breathing until Andre had said, “Oh, look. Pam’s talking to Padma.”

Hank had surged forward and scanned the bank of closed-circuit TVs on his office wall. He’d found the feed from the reception room, and there in the bottom corner, his wife had been gabbing away to his boss as though they were standing at a church garden party and not his best pal’s funeral following his violent death.

Hank had jumped up. His chair had flipped over. He’d pushed by Andre, leaning against the wall popping grapes into his mouth, and Larry, sitting in his guest chair scrolling through his phone. He’d flung open his office door, shot them a look, and their eyes had followed him, their jaws hanging open. Hank had raced down the corridor, past the elevators and straight for the stairs. Was he the only one who understood what was going on? Dave would have understood.

What if Andre hadn’t shown Hank the photos before the funeral?

Andre had been working on his laptop when he’d called Hank and Larry over. “Guys. Guys. Come here. You’ve got to see this.”

Hank had been checking on the setup of the casino’s reception room before they headed to the church for Dave’s service. Larry was doing what Larry did best, watching everyone else work. Andre had connected his laptop to the screens, to display the photo show of Dave’s life that his daughters had put together. He had tapped a button and up had flashed a shot of the four of them: Hank, Andre, Larry, and Dave. About twenty years younger, standing side by side on the dock next to Hank’s boat, sun bright on their cheeks, their hair tousled by the summer wind—Hank still had enough hair to tousle back then—each dangling a string of striped bass.

Hank could have almost tasted the light, butter-crisp coating Pam had fried them in. They’d sat around the table in Dave and Marlene’s backyard and as the sun had set, they’d devoured the fillets, cornbread, and salad made with tiny new potatoes, the red skins still on them, and washed it all down with icy beers and salty margaritas. Afterward he and Pam had walked home arm in arm through the quiet streets, under the canopy of the neighborhood’s oak trees. He’d nuzzled her neck and as soon as the babysitter had waved good night from her front steps, three doors down, he’d peeled off Pam’s sundress.

Hank had smiled at the memory. But then he’d remembered where they were. And why.

Hank had pushed down the bile collecting in his throat. “What are you doing, bud?”

Andre slid his bifocals up his nose, unwrapped a low-fat granola bar, took a bite, and pressed a few buttons on his laptop. “Just putting together a stellar photo show to honor our pal Dave.”

Hank yanked the cable from the laptop, and the screen went black. He’d wound it tight around his fingers. Andre looked up, his mouth open, his bite of granola bar sitting unchewed on his tongue, and he eased his chair back a bit. Larry hurried over to join them. Hank looked around the room, made sure the catering staff hadn’t noticed, took a step closer, and kept his voice low. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Andre recoiled, pushed the food to his cheek, and asked, “What? What do you mean? It’s a great photo.”

Hank closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes, Andre. It is a great photo. It’s also great proof that I am a fucking good friend of Dave’s. Displayed, front and center, at the fucking casino, where Dave and I work, for the colleagues Dave and I work with—and Padma, my new boss, who probably ordered Dave’s hit—to see. Let me repeat: Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Andre froze. Larry put his hand on Andre’s shoulder. “Andre wasn’t thinking, Hank. Dave’s death has him rattled. It has us all rattled. He’s sorry. Aren’t you, Andre?”

Andre nodded while he chewed and swallowed, then carefully folded the foil around the rest of his granola bar and tucked it in his pocket.

“He’ll delete those photos right now. Won’t you, Andre? All the photos of Dave with any of us. Wives too.”

Larry looked at Hank. “No harm done.”

Hank’s eyes darted around the room before he leaned closer, his voice low.

“All right. No harm done. But we’ve got to be smart. We have to keep our heads on. Especially now. Padma or whoever did this is looking for Dave’s connections. One slipup, like this, and we’re done. You got it? I mean like garage-door-on-your-head done.”

* * *

Now Hank burst through the stairway door and trotted down the carpeted hall to Dave’s reception.

Hot summer sunlight streamed in through the wall of windows overlooking the ocean to his right, and he felt a trickle of sweat dripping down his back into his ass crack.

He slowed his steps to regain his breath.

He needed to put Dave’s murder behind him and get back to his A game.

When would it end? He’d put out the fire with Andre and the photos only to have this one with Padma and Pam pop up.

It was his fault.

He should have realized Pam would zero in on Padma and that he’d need to run interference.

That was one of the things that had drawn him to his wife all those years ago: the way she would become best pals with anyone in mere minutes.

But right now, he had to get Pam away from Padma before she spilled their life story.

Or specifically, the part of their life story where he was good friends with the dead guy.

Now was not the time to be connected to Dave Brand.

When Indo-USA Gaming Inc.

out of India had taken over the casino six months earlier, Hank and the guys had been worried this new ownership could disrupt the good thing they had going.

Hank had poked around the Indian company’s Wikipedia page, where it listed its principal investors in blue font.

Hank had clicked through to discover associations with Bollywood—which was great.

He had envisioned movie premieres and new entertainment in the lounges.

But then he’d clicked another blue word and his color had drained.

He’d landed on the page Organized Crime in India, with subcategories on extortion, smuggling, drug trafficking, kidnapping, and murder.

His heartbeat had raced.

He’d checked his old emails and found the corporate fiscal statement and randomly googled their listed global subsidiaries’ names.

And too often, he found those companies were linked to news alerts about missing persons.

Hank had googled those names too and clicked through to articles about middle managers who had mysteriously disappeared.

He’d poured himself a scotch as he read about the ones who were found alive days later, unable to recall precisely what had happened to them.

Then he’d refilled his glass with a shaky hand as he’d scrolled through accounts of others who had turned up dismembered and beheaded.

Some hanging from a bridge.

Goosebumps had rippled up his arms as he’d clicked on link after link.

And then he’d realized he was doing all this searching on a company-owned computer.

He’d slammed his laptop shut.

He knew all he needed to know.

He knew if they got caught now, they would upset some nasty people. The type of people who didn’t get mad. The type who got even.

So they couldn’t get caught.

They’d briefly suspended their operation while Hank was vigilant, looking for any change in casino procedure or protocol.

Anything that might alter the casino’s checks and balances and potentially expose them.

But everything remained status quo, and they’d voted to proceed cautiously with the plan, grateful they were almost finished.

When Padma arrived, Hank had watched her and finally determined that while she was ambitious, she wasn’t a threat—she was more concerned with the casino’s color palettes than its profits.

But now Hank realized he may have been wrong about that.

Or not.

That was the problem.

He didn’t know.

What he did know was, when Dave was killed, they were twelve weeks from their ten-million-dollar goal.

With Dave gone, they had to pull the plug.

Now they had to focus on staying alive while they assessed the threat.

Since it may have been Padma who unleashed the hounds on Dave, Hank had to keep her off his scent a while longer.

Which meant Padma couldn’t be talking to Pam.

Hank had wiped his forehead with his sleeve before he had rounded the corner into the reception room.

“There you are!”