Chapter Twenty-Two – Nixon

It took everything inside me not to burst into the playroom when I saw my brother wrapped around Marcella as two separate rivers of tears flowed down to hit the carpet. Tears caused by me. But her wounds are raw. Hell, so are mine. And I knew my presence wouldn't be welcome or tolerated.

After some cajoling, I manage to get the truth out of Linc. She's leaving to go to school. The Nixon Caldwell scholarship plan's allowing her to get out of Vegas. That alone should make her happy. In spite of myself, I interfere and call the college, making an anonymous donation. Except it wasn't really anonymous. I tell them there's more where that came from if they'll add the amount to Marcella's grant and forget they ever heard the name Nixon Caldwell. She'll be taken care of, and that puts my mind at ease.

Without her, I'll be an even bigger shell of a man than I was before the day I saw her, and my whole world changed. It's going to take everything I have left in the tank just to power through each day. I can't condemn the most gorgeous, kind, independent, and intelligent woman I've ever met to a life with my dark shadows. She deserves so much more. She deserves everything. And damn it all to hell, I wish for the first time since I lost my dad that I could be a better man.

Now, I'm dreading the phone call I'm about to make. This is a man I don't like owing a favor to, especially not as big as the one I'm about to call in. He owes me, but that situation's soon to be reversed to my detriment. I pull out my iPhone and scroll through my contacts. I'm not even telling Troy about this because he's the fucking voice of reason and he'd only try and talk me down from the ledge. I don't need Troy in my face to know this is a risky move.

The man picks up on the first ring. "Argus Security." Expedient to the bitter end. I take a fortifying breath before jumping right in.

"Hey, Hawk, it's Nixon Caldwell."

He chuckles. "Well hell, Nix, what you been up to?"

I've known Hawk since the third grade when his parents moved to Vegas from Columbus, and he had the reek of naiveté all over him. Reagan and I exploited it until he begged for mercy. By high school, he'd gotten smart. And ripped. The guy spent more time at the gym than professional body builders. Now there isn't a man in Vegas not on a death wish that would fuck with Hawk for a variety of reasons.

"Not much," I say, not wanting to dive into anything while there's a chance I might be overheard. "How about a drink later."

"Sure thing. My place? Say eight?"

"That works for me," I say, confirming his plan. Hawk never does anything that might put him in a compromising position, and I've never seen him lose his cool. Probably why every single hothead in Vegas owes him. Anytime Hawk needs something, he has a multitude of people to collect from. It's why he's built the biggest security company in Nevada. Hell, his surveillance system is in my own damn casino. He's probably watching me as we speak.

"What am I wearing?" I ask, curious.

"Armani suit, Italian loafers, mask that looks like Quasimodo," he teases, fucking with me as usual. "And you should step outside more often. You're looking really pale."

"How can you know that, dipshit?" I fire back. "I'm in black and white."

"Touché'," he says with a chuckle. "I'll see you later, Nix."

"You will. And Hawk…it's about Dante."

I hear his rumbling growl. "When isn't it?"

Later that evening, I have Cruz drop me off at Hawk's mansion in a gated community and tell him to wait. Even though we're going to share a scotch, I doubt this will take more than an hour. At least I hope it won't. Hawk will have what I need. And if he doesn't, then I'm screwed like a whore in church.

I knock on the door and a housekeeper answers. He's got a huge office in this house, and I know it takes up several rooms. I've only been here once, but I remember seeing at least a hundred television screens and so much high end and complicated tech that my head spun in circles. I don't know how he keeps track of it all. He does security for every damn casino on the strip except for the Mona Lisa. He used to do it back in the day, but that was before he had a falling out with Dante. I have no idea why, except that the jackass seems to be unable to get along with anyone.

"Mr. James is in his office. This way, please," the grey-haired woman says, leading the way. I'm not surprised that Hawk hired an old lady to cook and clean. He's famous for saying that women are a distraction he doesn't need.

At the door to Hawk's home office, she turns and says goodbye, leaving me to stand hovering in the doorway. I hear random beeps and buzzes as the security equipment fires on all cylinders. After a few seconds, his head snaps up, and he sees me loitering.

"Get your ass in here, Caldwell. Only perverts and old men stand around with their hands in their pockets."

"You know what they say about geeks, Hawk?" I say, stepping deeper into the dark cave of tech. The only light is the illumination of his hundreds of screens reflecting the innards of all of the top casinos. Hawk knows what's going on at any time of the day or night. If anyone knows what's going on at the Armónico before even I do, it's Hawk.

"I'm sure you'll tell me," he says, cutting the feed to some drunken bachelor party throwing craps at the Mirage.

"The truth will set you free. If only you have the URL."

He chuckles and swivels in his leather chair to face me. "So, what's our favorite Italian douchebag done this time?"

I'm only here because Hawk has a beef with Dante, too. Although he's never divulged what it's about, I'm certain he hates the guy's guts as much as I do. I don't think Hawk's issue involves a parental corpse, so I've got him beat on the hatred scale.

"That's what I'm here to find out," I say, parking myself in the chair next to Hawk.

My friend scrubs a hand down his heavy black beard. I'm starting to wonder if anyone really lives behind it or if he's just emulating a caveman. I read somewhere that the average man with facial hair touches it over seven hundred times a day. It's gross, and I'd tell him to shave it, but I know he doesn't give a shit. Girls went crazy for him back in the day, but he's gone over to the dark side of working from home. Now, he never sees the light of day like some kind of MENSA card carrying hermit.

"You think I know?" he asks. "You better start talking, Caldwell. I'm checking out Jennifer Lopez's ass while she sings her encore tonight at Planet Hollywood. I want you out of here by then. What can I say? I'm a sucker for an older woman in a bedazzled leotard. With fringe."

"There's this woman—"

Before I can continue, Hawk slams his hand down on the desk and almost snorts his Glen Livet up his nose. He slaps his knee and belly laughs, then grabs another cut crystal rocks glass from beside the bottle and pours a few fingers into it, handing it over to me. "It's always about a woman," he says, continuing to laugh. “But usually not any woman that’s with you.”

I lift the glass to my lips and shoot some liquid refreshment down the back of my throat. It almost makes me feel human. "Damn straight, in my case, it usually isn't about a woman. But this one…well, it got serious fast. I even think she might be the one. You know, the mother of all the future little Caldwell's and all that."

"You think you're going to get some chick to marry you and bear your little Caldwell spawn with a name like Nixon? That's bad luck dude. Your namesake ran around saying 'I am not a crook' but the thing is, he was a crook. And just as big of an asshole. Maybe you should get that high-class legal eagle Reagan to come back home from banging Big Apple pussy and change it for you. If you're going to be named after a president, pick someone a little more bad-ass. Like Roosevelt."

"Roosevelt Caldwell? Are you fucking kidding me? You remember how bad I got teased back in grade school for the name my mama gave me. No way am I going to become the next Roosevelt." I tossed back another drink. We were way off track. "Anyway, Dante told this girl some shit about me. I know he's involved with her family in some way, but I just can't make a solid and verified connection. I think it might have something to do with his Mexican human trafficking ring and the indentured servitude shit going on at the Mona Lisa."

Hawk purses his lips and frowns. "That could be anyone or anything. Like the old needle in a haystack. What's her name?"

"Marcella Castillo. Her folks died in a car accident. Juan and Leticia Castillo. They worked at Champagne Wishes at the time of their tragic death. She's got some gambling addicted piece of shit older brother. Instead of taking care of her, all he does is rack up debt around town and get goons riding his back for their money. She waived a full ride scholarship to a top college out East to take care of his sorry ass, and I don't like it. I want to help."

Hawk punches the names into his database, and after a few minutes pass, he gets a hit. I can't see over his shoulder, but after he views the surveillance tape, his eyes widen.

"That's some radical shit," he says, the surprise of what he's just seen rocking him back in his seat. He shakes his head. "Tell you what, Caldwell. I'll play you for it. One hand, winner takes all. If you win, you get this scandalous zip file. If I win, you owe me a favor. One never knows when I might want to collect."

"You're on," I say, even though I'm not the best at poker. But I am good at bluffing. Sometimes it's not a bad thing to be emotionally dead inside.

Hawk produces a deck of shiny gold playing cards from his desk drawer. I send up a little prayer to the heavens that the cards fall my way. Even though I don't really believe in God, I'll take all the help I can get. Marcella's quickly become my whole world, and I can't even imagine my life without her in it. If I can help her by dredging up the ghosts of the past, I'll do it.

Hawk deals my cards, and once he's done, I lift the corners to see what I've been blessed with right out of the gate. I keep my face neutral, and Hawk does the same. He's done well in the World Series of Poker, so of course, I'm playing against someone who knows his stuff. I've never really played myself. I just know the game because it's played inside my casino twenty-four hours a day.

After burning the top card, Hawk deals the flop. "Want to fold right now, Caldwell?"

I scoff and flare my nostrils, letting him think I'm too big for my britches. This kind of bullshit will help me on down the line if and when I need to bluff. "Not a chance. I've got a royal brewing."

He smiles and blows me a kiss. "The only royal you'll ever see is Princess Kitty at Centerfolds."

"Shut up. Remember when you prepare my flash drive that CAPS LOCK has been preventing logons since before you were born."

"Cut the comedy, Tricky Dicky. This ain't Watergate. This here's Hawk-o-mania running wild and I can't lose."

"Hawk-o-mania?" I ask as he burns another card and then deals the river. It's a deuce. My heart starts pounding. "Is that some kind of WWE SmackDown wannabe shit?"

"It's what the ladies call me when we're in bed together. Everything's more fun in groups. You feelin' lucky, Caldwell? Show your hand, buddy."

I reveal my hand extra slow to draw out my enjoyment of the surprised look on his face. "Three deuces," I say, turning my last card over. "Read 'em and weep."

After Hawk reveals his hand, I laugh because he doesn't have anything but a king high. It's a piece of shit hand that any betting man would have folded. But he didn't. He'd taken the risk and lost. It only takes him a few minutes to queue up the footage and hand me my flash drive.

"What's this going to show me?" I ask. I'm almost salivating at the opportunity to take Dante down and get Marcella back at the same time. Like killing two birds with one stone.

His look is as serious as death.

"Giovanetti murdered the Castillos."