Stiletto by Harold Robbins

minute,” Jordan said.
    “He won’t when we get back into court,” Baker promised.
    “My boy is giving twenty to one that he never gets into that courtroom,” Jordan said.
    Baker’s voice was incredulous. “You mean to say he really believes that he’ll be killed? And he’s still going out to the casinos?”
    “Yeah,” Jordan answered laconically. “He says there’s nothing anybody can do about it so he might as well live it up while he can.”
    Baker put down the telephone and picked up the container of coffee again. There was the one thing he could never understand about them. They were cowards, pimps and murderers but there was still something in them that gave them a fatalistic approach to life. Or was it death? He just didn’t know.
    ***
    The Twister sat at the roulette table, his gaze concentrated on the wheel. It stopped and the ball bounced into the red twenty. He made another note on the small sheet of paper. Quickly he added up the columns. He was right. The wheel was running toward the black tonight. Time for him to make his move. He pushed a small pile of chips onto the black.
    He heard Jordan come up behind him. He didn’t turn around. The bodyguard behind him spoke. “Could you spell me for a few minutes, Ted? I gotta get to the john before I bust.”
    He didn’t hear Jordan’s reply. The ball bounced into the red. He lost. He looked down and pushed another pile of chips on the black.
    ***
    Cesare turned around and looked at the Twister while Barbara concentrated on the spinning wheel. Matteo’s note had been very specific. For almost three days now, Cesare had been watching the Twister.
    The bodyguards were there. They were always there. One on each side of him and one standing back to back with him, his eyes constantly alert. Now the last one went away but another took his place. Cesare turned away just as the man’s gaze began to sweep toward him. He had seen enough. With a little bit of luck— He smiled to himself as the phrase jumped through his mind. Everybody used it out here. With a little bit of luck he would complete his business here tonight.
    He tapped Barbara on the shoulder. “I’ll get you a drink,” he said.
    She looked up at him and smiled and then turned back, absorbed in the game. He began to walk toward the lounge. He walked around the Twister’s table and glanced back.
    He could see the Twister’s face now, a look of concentration on it. Opposite the Twister sat a big blond girl. Cesare stared for a moment. The girl leaned forward and he could see her full breasts pull against the two thin straps that held up her dress. Suddenly he began to smile. He knew how he would do it now. It was all because of a joke. A very old joke that was told to everyone who came to Las Vegas.
    ***
    Jordan looked around him wearily. He wished the job was over. When he came to the F.B.I. fresh from law school and filled with the propaganda, he envisioned an exciting life filled with chasing criminals and spies. He never thought he would spend three months playing chief nursemaid to a cheap hood.
    He looked at the table opposite him. That couple was there again. A good-looking couple. He remembered noticing them the first night. There was something familiar about them. As if he had seen them before. With his usual thoroughness he had checked on them.
    The girl was one of the best-known models in America. Barbara Lang, the “Smoke and Flame” girl whose face he had seen in a thousand cosmetic ads and the man was Cesare Cardinali. Count Cardinali, the society racing-car driver.
    He saw Cesare say something to the girl and begin to walk away. Some of the things he had read about the man came to mind. There was a guy who really lived. Leave it to those rich Europeans. They didn’t give a damn for anybody. They had a ball everywhere they went. Here he was with one of the most beautiful dames in America and just as cool as you could be. He looked at the girl again. All the promise the