The Sands Hotel was a big contrast to the Nugget. It was sleek, stylish, and looked like serious money. It was run by serious people, too, which is why I had come here after Hope said she had no idea where Nathan had gone after their matinee romance.

I sipped my beer and watched the high-rollers, Armani-clad guys escorted by skinny blondes in black sheath dresses, win and lose at blackjack. Mickey the C was probably watching me on a monitor and making the necessary calls.

A few minutes later the barrel-chested guy came back and said, “Neal Carey, Mickey would like to see you.”

I followed him upstairs to the security room, where somber men and women sat staring into monitors, watching the doors and the tables. The watchers could punch a few buttons and zoom in on a dealer’s hands or a player’s face or an individual coming through a door. The owners of serious casinos liked to know who came in and out of their places. They hired people like Mickey the C to know these things.

Mickey the C was in his early sixties but looked younger, which I attributed to a daily regimen of razor cuts, manicures, steam baths, and massages. Mickey was wearing a conservative gray suit that cost at least a thousand bucks, a monogrammed white shirt and an Italian print tie. His black Oxford shoes were polished to a high shine.

Mickey the C was serious people.

We shook hands.

“Neal,” he said. “It’s a late Sunday night on the East Coast so I didn’t make the phone calls I probably should make, so I hope you’re not screwing around.”

“I’m on the job, Mr. C.”

“I know who you are,” Mickey said. “You’re Joe Graham’s gofer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, it was accurate enough.

“You did a big favor for some people in Providence a while ago,” Mickey said.

“I was doing my job and it coincidentally worked out for them,” I answered, ever modest.

“Anyway you’re good people,” Mickey said. “Why are you reaching out?”