I came out of the back hallway in time to see Fenton disappear out the exit the two men had used. He was going after them. By the time I reached the same exit, I saw him catch up to the men in the middle of the roulette tables. James Cort's gambling advice to always bet on black rang hollowly in my head. There was something menacing about the man in the black pants and tight black t-shirt. His brown eyes might have had a hint of something else, but he was clearly built to enforce whatever business he was in.
He loomed over Fenton. The muscles across Fenton's shoulders rippled as he flexed and faced off with the taller man. The man in the suit stood back, a sharp smile on his face. He was the only one talking, but I could not hear what he was saying.
I sidled along a row of video poker machines and hoped I could get closer before a fight broke out.
"The deal is simple, Mr. Morris. Just do as we say and your luck will stay intact," the man in the suit said.
I did not understand the threat, but nothing more was said. With one last sharp smile, the man called off his hard-muscled companion. He gave Fenton one last tense-jawed look, then turned and left. I ducked as Fenton turned back towards the party and was glad he did not see me interfering again.
I followed Fenton back towards the bar, but stopped when I saw him rejoin Bethany and Alice. It was useless for me to reappear. Anything I did now would only drive him further away.
Unless… I thought and spun around. Unless I figured out why the men were threatening him and then got him out of a bind. It was one way I could prove I had his best interests in mind.
I rushed out of the casino and caught sight of the two men on the Strip. They were heading across the street to the MGM Grand, and I dodged through traffic to follow. Two horns honked and the tall man glanced around. I dove into a gaggle of young men and could not extract myself until we reached the arena doors. They begged me to join them for Blackjack, but I pretended I had prepaid tickets for whatever was happening inside.
It turned out the event was free, a featherweight preview boxing match. I went into the nearly empty arena and stuck to the back rows, hoping the two men would not see I followed them. It was strange to be in the cavernous space where only days ago cheering crowds had watched Fenton step into the ring.
The two boxers dodged around each other, on their toes, with heavy punches coming in sporadic bursts. I was transfixed for a moment by the differences between classic boxing and the exciting flurry of mixed martial arts. There was an art to both, but what Fenton did with his whole body was truly amazing. I could appreciate the skill and power as the boxers clashed, but without the kicks, spins, and lethal combinations, it just did not get my heart pounding. Not like Fenton did.
I slumped down in the nearest seat when I spotted the men I was following. They marched right up close and did not bother to sit down. The boxer in the red shorts noticed them and took a kidney punch. Within a minute, he lost his focus completely and was taken out by a whirlwind of jabs straight to his chest and chin. The fight was over and though it was discreet, I saw lots of money change hands.
The man in the suit flagrantly counted a large wad of cash. He flapped it into his friend's hand. The man who had bought me a drink folded the cash up neatly. He then strode up to the ring, nodded to the boxer in the red
shorts and slipped the cash into his robe. I was the only one that noticed.
Or I'm the only one stupid enough to watch, I thought.
The two men were coming back out and there was nowhere for me to hide. I shuffled along the row I was in, but knew they would spot me soon.
"Here, you look cold," a nondescript man said. He tossed a tan sport coat over my shoulders.
I sat down, glad the plain sport coat concealed my dress and made me blend into the seats. "I recognize you. You've been following Fenton Morris," I said.
"Sure beats Iowa, eh, honey?" he asked.
I nodded lower into the tan sport coat as the two men strode past our row. Neither of them looked our way.
"Alright, Ms. Allen, they're gone."
"How do you know my name? Who are you?"
"You can call me Matt Smith," he said. "You're wrong. I'm not following Fenton Morris, I work for him."
"You're a private investigator," I said. That would explain the average looking man's ability to disappear so easily. It would also explain why I felt certain his name was a fake. Matt Smith was almost too carefully common to be true.
"Very astute. Now, what you'd think of the fight?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know. I wasn't really here to watch the fight," I said. "Did you notice those two men?"
"The ones you were following?"
"Yes. Wait. You changed the subject. Why does Fenton Morris need a private investigator?" I asked.
Matt Smith smirked. "Again, very astute. Mr. Morris no longer needs my services, but I have to admit, I saw him with the two gentlemen you mentioned and I was curious, too."
He swung the conversation so easily away from his private business with Fenton that I knew I could not pry. Instead, I concentrated on why I had come there in the first place. "I think they were threatening him somehow."
"And, did you notice anything strange about the boxing match?" Matt Smith asked.