Just ahead, the sidewalk was under construction, forcing the foot traffic to squeeze into a long tunnel with a plywood ceiling and wooden rails on each side. The pedestrians slowed to a stop, but Quinn elbowed his way ahead, drawing complaints and return shoves. One more glance over the shoulder and he started running, pushing his way through as fast as possible.
He squeezed out of the crowd at the other end, getting hip-checked by a stocky man who had turned to see Quinn coming. Quinn lost his balance but recovered and broke into a full-out run. He glanced behind him again, and the thugs were still coming, zigzagging around people like two linebackers bearing down on a thin and vulnerable wide receiver.
The sidewalk widened as Quinn entered the heart of downtown Vegas. Bally's was on the right, Bellagio across the street. Directly ahead was an enormous escalator, jammed with people, that rose to an elevated walkway crossing Las Vegas Boulevard. If Quinn had any advantage on his two pursuers, it might be speed and endurance. They would overpower him in a second if they caught him, but . . .
Quinn veered right and headed straight toward the escalator, shouting for people to get out of the way as his legs churned upward two steps at a time, climbing as fast as he could. The two thugs jumped on half a minute later and started climbing as well, surprising Quinn with their stamina.
At the top, Quinn frantically glanced left and right, trying to map out an escape route. He sprinted across the sidewalk overpass toward the New York-New York casino. "Call the police!" he shouted. "Stop those guys behind me!"
Just before he reached the other side of the overpass, he saw some women pushing their baby strollers out of an elevator. A few elderly couples climbed on the elevator, and the doors started to close. Quinn sprinted faster, spurred on by a quick glance over his shoulder.
"Hold that elevator!" he yelled, but the senior citizens pretended not to notice. Just before the doors closed, Quinn lunged and stuck his hand between them. They popped open, and Quinn quickly darted through them.
He started frantically pushing the Door Close button. "C'mon,
c'mon
. . ."
The thugs were sprinting toward them, and the others on the elevator backed into the corners, their eyes wide.
The doors locked closed a split second before Quinn's pursuers arrived.
Quinn looked around the elevator, now headed down to the street level. "Paparazzi," he gasped, shaking his head. "They never leave me alone."
The door opened, and Quinn bolted out, knowing that his pursuers were probably sprinting furiously down the long and crowded escalator that would bring them to street level as well. He raced through the doors of the New York-New York casino, wound through the casino floor and up an escalator, then ducked into the Coyote Ugly club.
Once inside, he stumbled to a dark corner of the club and bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
Who were those guys?
He assumed they'd been sent by Hofstetter. What surprised Quinn was their audacity. They had chased him down a crowded city sidewalk with half of Las Vegas watching them.
For what purpose?
If they really wanted to harm him, why not just accost him in some parking garage?
He thought about going to the police, but then he thought about Sierra. Quinn would have a hard enough time maintaining custody as it was. If he reported these men, Hofstetter would probably counter by reporting Quinn's illegal gambling exploits.
Quinn could probably beat those accusations, but he didn't need more legal complexities right now. He needed to maintain custody of Sierra.
Quinn caught his breath and then, glancing this way and that, worked his way up to the bar and ordered a drink. He took his drink back to a spot in the shadows next to a wall, watching as the undulating bodies crammed together on the dance floor. He finished the drink and checked around one more time.
On his way to the door, he felt somebody jam something that felt like a gun barrel into the small of his back.
"It's got a silencer," a man whispered. "I wouldn't recommend any sudden moves."
Another man approached from the opposite side and threw a meaty arm around Quinn as if he were an old buddy. "Let's go for a little walk," he said.
67
Too late, Quinn connected the dots. Hofstetter's thugs had probably used their connections with the security personnel at The Rogue, Hofstetter's casino, to convince the security guards at New York-New York to quickly review the digital security tapes of Quinn entering the casino. Ubiquitous digital cameras recorded every inch of the casino floor. In a matter of minutes, the security guards would have traced Quinn into the Coyote Ugly club.
Quinn shuffled along, led by his two thick captors, the gun still buried in the small of his back. They walked Quinn outside, shoved him into the backseat of a waiting limo, and blindfolded him.
They rode silently together for about ten minutes. When the engine stopped, the men hauled Quinn out of the car and led him into a musty-smelling building. When they removed the blindfold, Quinn glanced around at what appeared to be an abandoned retail store with empty shelf space and dusty counters.
The bigger of the two men--a white guy with bulging biceps, tattooed arms, and a skintight black T-shirt--had the gun in plain sight now, pointed at Quinn's midsection. He still had on shades and a ball cap, but Quinn tried to cement the contours of the man's blocky face and square jaw into his own memory.
"Our client thinks you're being a little hardheaded, Mr. Newberg," the man said. "He could have sworn your sister was going to take the plea bargain today."
"Tell your client to kiss my--"
Umph!
The other man sucker-punched Quinn in the kidney, buckling Quinn's legs as he crumpled to the ground. Quinn grimaced for a second as the pain subsided, then struggled slowly to his feet, more wary now and not quite as cocky.
"Don't make this hard on yourself," said the man with the gun. The Hispanic man who had punched Quinn just smiled, white teeth lighting up a hard countenance.
They shoved Quinn toward a counter, where they pulled out a laptop computer and turned it on. They took the first few minutes to show the same video evidence of Quinn cheating at poker that Hofstetter had shown a few weeks ago in his office. Next, the men pulled up a document entitled "Quinn Newberg Gambling Winnings," asking Quinn if he recalled reporting those earnings to the IRS.
After that, they showed him a picture of Sierra.
The bigger man turned from the computer and got in Quinn's face. "If our client wanted you dead, Mr. Newberg, that would have happened by now. But he doesn't. All he wants is for two gentlemen to work out a deal. All he wants is for this case to go away without further embarrassment to his family. Is that so hard to understand?"
"I understand," said Quinn, choosing his words carefully. "But it's not that easy. This is Annie's call, not mine."
The man clenched his jaw and turned back to the computer. He clicked the mouse a few more times, and pictures of some scantily clothed women popped on the screen.
Young
women. Women Quinn had never seen before.
"These girls, Mr. Newberg, are prepared to testify that you had sex with them when they were underage. This one--" he stopped on the photo of a particularly young-looking girl--"will say she was fifteen years old at the time. Surely, Mr. Newberg, this might impact your upcoming custody battle. No?"
Like a second kidney punch, the implications become painfully clear. "Tell your boss I don't scare easy," Quinn said, his words sounding braver than he felt. "Tell him I'll do what's best for my client."
"Of course," the thug replied, his words dripping with mock sincerity. "We wouldn't dream of asking you to do anything else."
Without warning, the Hispanic man punched Quinn again, this time in the gut, the wind fleeing Quinn's lungs as he doubled over. Before he could even process the blow, the man had locked on Quinn's right arm, some kind of martial arts hold next to the armpit, wrenching the arm up and back with such violence that Quinn felt like his arm had been yanked from the socket. The rotator cuff in Quinn's shoulder shredded with a nearly audible tearing of the ligament.
Quinn screamed. The pain seared his vision, and the arm went limp. Hot stabs of pain radiated from his shoulder as if he had been impaled by the knives of an errant magician.
"We find," said the first man, "that constant pain can serve as an effective reminder."
Later that night, Quinn put on a brave face for Sierra, explaining that he had torn a muscle when he slipped on the steps and grabbed the railing. His obvious pain brought out the nurse in his niece. She fixed up an ice pack and tried to convince Quinn to go to the hospital. But Quinn was stubborn, and eventually Sierra retreated to her bedroom and went to sleep.
Quinn raided his medicine cabinet for some muscle relaxers and painkillers. But every time he dozed off, the arm would fall into an uncomfortable position, and the pain would jerk him awake. At 6:00 a.m., Quinn left Sierra a note and headed to the emergency room.
68
After an hour in the emergency room and an MRI, Quinn learned that he had indeed torn his rotator cuff. A deep tear, in the words of the pessimistic little orthopedic surgeon, a man who made it clear he didn't particularly care for lawyers.
"Will it require surgery?" Quinn asked.
"With rotator cuffs, I don't tell the patient when it's time for surgery. The patient tells me. When you can't sleep at night or live with the pain during the day, it's time." The doctor latched on to Quinn's elbow and twisted the arm around a little, eliciting a yelp.
"Do you do that for non-lawyers too?" Quinn asked.
"Rotator cuff surgery is one of the most painful surgeries imaginable," the doctor said, not bothering to smile. "The recovery period can be up to two months. If you think
I
like pain, you should meet the rehab specialists."
Quinn left the hospital with his arm in a sling and a new prescription for painkillers in his pocket. Catherine O'Rourke's case was only two months away. Massive amounts of pretrial work awaited. Quinn didn't have time for surgery. He barely had time for the bathroom.
On the way back to the condo, Quinn considered his options. One part of him wanted to just walk into Carla Duncan's office and launch a preemptive strike against his tormentors. He could tell her about last night's assault and file charges. With any luck, Carla could tie the whole thing back to Richard Hofstetter Sr.
But the fallout would damage Quinn as well. There would be allegations of sex with underage girls, illegal gambling, and tax evasion. Plus, members of gangs and organized crime rings would know that Quinn had cheated them at the high-stakes table.
Quinn's legal problems might impact his ability to maintain custody of Sierra against a challenge by Claude Tanner. The last thing Sierra needed right now was to be put in the custody of a person she didn't even know.
But even if Quinn could keep custody, he worried about Sierra's safety. The men last night had shown Quinn her picture as a not-so-subtle hint. They knew Quinn's Achilles' heel--he would do anything to protect his niece.
Quinn would have to handle this one without going to the police. The first step would be to neutralize the threat of Claude Tanner winning custody of Sierra. For that, Quinn had a plan. It was so high risk that the very thought of it made his palms sweat even now.
It would take a few days to put the plan together. Perhaps in forty-eight hours his luck would begin to change.
69
Sierra shocked Quinn that night by announcing that she wanted to go to the movies with some friends. Quinn saw this as a hopeful sign that Sierra was on the road back to normalcy. Teenagers so often leaned on friends.
Still, it made him nervous. "What do you want to see?"
"Young Love,"
she said. It sounded suspicious to Quinn, and Sierra must have read the look on his face. "It's kind of like a modern
Romeo and Juliet
," she added.
"What time does it start?"
"We were thinking about going to the one at 9:05."
"Whom are you going with?"
Man, I sound like a dad.
"Some friends."
"'Friends' as in girls or 'friends' as in boys?"
Sierra grunted her disapproval, as if all the boys her age were below her standards. It made Quinn smile inside.
"Ashley and Jennifer," she said.
After a thorough cross-examination, Quinn agreed to let Sierra go. He had his reservations about it, especially with Hofstetter's goons prowling about, but he couldn't tell Sierra no. He was starting to understand why dads spoiled their daughters.
In Quinn's opinion, Sierra's cotton stretch top was entirely too tight, hugging her bony torso. He kept that opinion to himself but couldn't shake the feeling that he suddenly felt about ten years older than he had a week ago.
What was it with young girls and the way they dressed today, anyway?
Unfortunately, Quinn knew all too well what went through the minds of junior high boys.
He drove Sierra to the theater where she was supposed to meet her friends. He dropped her off, circled around the parking lot once, and found a spot in a distant corner. He waited at least fifteen minutes, pulled on a baseball cap, and headed inside. He wasn't being paranoid, he told himself. Hofstetter's thugs were real, and he had a constant source of pain in his right shoulder to prove it.