Ghost Canyon (The John Decker Supernatural Thriller Series Book 7) by Anthony Strong (ebooks that read to you .TXT) 📕

He stepped out of the elevator, a towel slung over one shoulder, and headed toward the gym. He encountered no one in the hallway. The hotel was currently closed and would remain that way for at least the next two months. He had toyed with the idea of getting rid of the gymnasium, an amenity added in the 90s at the expense of one of the guest rooms. But the economics that drove his old man—who still ran the hotel back then—to provide the seldom used facility was still valid. Tour operators and hotel booking sites handed out star ratings by the number of creature comforts afforded the guest. Having a gymnasium might make the difference between being a two-star property or getting three stars. There was no standard across booking sites, and you could never tell what would or wouldn’t move you into a higher category, but if an empty gymnasium meant he could charge a couple of dollars more for a room, and get five percent more bookings, so be it.

Harlan stepped into the gymnasium and dropped his towel on the elliptical. He hated exercise, but he also loved good food and better scotch, two habits he’d picked up from the senior Harlan Biggs. If thirty minutes of exercise each day kept him from following his father to an early grave, Harlan figured it was time well spent. At least he didn’t smoke cigars one after the other like his old man. That was one vice that never interested him. In fact, the smell of those big fat stogies had made him want to wretch. Even now he hated the odor of cigar smoke, which was a problem when you ran a Vegas casino.

Harlan eyed the treadmill, willing himself to step onto it and get his morning torture session over with. Below him, on the partially gutted ground floor, he could hear the workers starting their day. The lobby was an empty shell ripped back to the studs. The casino and its adjacent restaurants, which occupied most of the remaining floor space, were further along, and the results were better than he’d expected. After his workout, he would change into more suitable attire, and head down to oversee the work. Or more accurately, check in with his general manager, Wagner Mitchell, whom Harlan had entrusted with the day-to-day supervision of the various contractors.

Except that he didn’t need to check in with Wagner. His GM came barging through the door, red-faced and panting.

“Harlan, you might want to make yourself scarce.” He bent over, hands on his knees, and sucked air. “Oscar Rossi just pulled up out front with two of his goons. He doesn’t look happy.”

“Shit.” Harlan felt his stomach clench. “Go down to the casino and see what he wants. Tell him I’m not here.”

“He’s not going to fall for that,” Wagner said. “I’m sure he wants what he always wants. Money.”

“He’ll buy it if you sound convincing enough. Tell him I went over to Henderson to pick out the new slots for the casino.”

“What if he checks and discovers we lied to him? He’ll just come back in an even worse mood.”

“It’s not a lie. I do have to go there today. All we’re doing is fudging the time.”

Wagner shrugged. “It’s your kneecaps.” He turned to leave, but he hadn’t even made two steps when a figure appeared in the doorway.

Oscar Rossi, who looked a good decade younger than his sixty-eight years, was dark-skinned even for a man of Italian heritage who lived in a place with over three hundred days of sunshine each year. Harlan had often wondered if he was just naturally swarthy or if he achieved his well-done complexion via a sunbed in one of the dozen massage parlors he operated around the city, mainly to launder dirty money.

“Harlan,” Oscar said in a sing-song tone that still managed to sound menacing. “I hope I’m not interrupting your morning exercise routine.”

“Not at all. Always a pleasure to see you, Oscar,” replied Harlan. It was not, in fact, a pleasure to see Oscar Rossi. Ever. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Don’t play coy, Harlan. You know why I’m here.” Oscar glanced at Wagner and hitched his thumb toward the door. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Wagner hesitated, casting a furtive glance toward Harlan. Then, deciding he was better off out of it, the GM scurried toward the door.

Oscar stepped aside to let him through, and Harlan glimpsed two burly men loitering in the hallway outside. The closer of the pair, a musclebound slab of flesh with tattoos covering both arms, leaned in and pulled the door closed, blocking Harlan’s view, and leaving him alone with Oscar.

“Shall we get down to business?” Oscar asked.

“Doesn’t look like I have much choice,” Harlan replied. He wished he’d brought the gun he kept in his nightstand drawer down with him. A Glock 48. He felt vulnerable, alone and unarmed in a room with Oscar Rossi, who surely had at least one weapon stashed about his person. Although even as he harbored the thought, Harlan realized that being armed would be of little use. If Rossi wanted him dead, the goons would be in here, not the boss. And they wouldn’t engage in polite conversation or give him time to draw his own gun. Upon reflection, a chatty Oscar Rossi was better than a couple of tight-lipped enforcers.

“Now then, how about you tell me why I’m here.” Oscar said, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets, which pulled his jacket open just enough for Harlan to confirm what he already suspected. Oscar was wearing a shoulder holster. “I want to hear it from you.”

Harlan’s throat was dry. He swallowed, hoping the meager amount of spittle would provide enough lubrication to prevent his voice cracking. “Your interest payment.”

“That’s right. It should have been on my desk three days ago.” Oscar nodded. He glanced toward the closed door,