Eager to make an exit, Jill managed to reach Teddy, her ten-year-old son, and Edda Mae, her former boss and mentor. They inched their way through the throng. Edda Mae tapped a woman’s shoulder with a sun-mottled, wrinkled hand and asked if they could squeeze past her. They were halfway up the side aisle and still had the rear of the room to cross.
“I would’ve liked to hear what Arnie’s man had to say,” Edna Mae said.
“Not me,” Teddy piped up. “Grown-up speeches are boring, especially Mom’s integer speech.”
“That’s integrity,” Jill corrected, edging around a particularly large gentleman engrossed in a heated discussion about the merits of a casino versus a vacation subdivision. “Don’t knock it. That’s what got me elected.”
“You were the only one who ran,” Edda Mae said.
“That doesn’t mean no one else cares,” Jill grumbled, bumped from behind by someone.
There was a commotion at the exit doors.
“Either Arnie’s man finally arrived,” Edda Mae said, “or the Staitin brothers picked a fight again.”
Jill wasn’t sure which was worse.
ALDO PATRIZIO wasn’t listening. The conference room at the Sicilian in Las Vegas was full of pompous men in designer suits who thought their college degrees made them more qualified to run a luxury casino than the man in his eighties who’d founded it in the first place. At least when his grandson, Vince, sat at this table, there had been some interesting ideas and a man with backbone to present them.
Che peccato. It was a shame that after Vince returned from Iraq they’d shouted themselves into a corner neither was willing to back out of.
Aldo snorted and the suit currently babbling in front of a projection screen froze in midsentence. When the man resumed, he spoke louder, as if Aldo had trouble hearing him. Aldo could hear just fine. He just didn’t want to listen to people who’d barely cut their teeth in the gambling business try to tell him what to do. What he did want was to pass the reins of the Sicilian to his grandson and spend more time with his beloved Rosalie.
Instead, Vince was off trying to prove himself by brokering a deal—a deal that had seemed important to both of them ten months ago—while Aldo had to sit and suffer through meetings with MBAs (Masters of Baloney, Advanced).
“In conclusion—”
Good, they were almost done.
“Our analysis has shown that independent casinos fail over time if not infused with a good deal of capital.”
Aldo narrowed his eyes at the audacity of the speaker, who cleared his throat and continued, “Therefore, we recommend that the Sicilian formulate exit strategies from current partnerships, such as the ones with the Tatums, that we cease efforts to enter the Native American gaming segment, and that we seriously reconsider recent buyout offers from two different casino magnates.”
“Enough!” Aldo slapped his palm on the mahogany table and glared at his chief financial officer. “What is our occupancy rate?”
The man rotated his chin as if his tie was too tight. “Over ninety-eight percent.”
“How do our room rates compare to others along The Strip?”
“We charge five percent more on average.”
“And our restaurants. Do we still have five-star ratings at all of them?”
Heads bobbed silently around the room. A bigger collection of jamooks he’d never seen.
“And our casino profits, are they also above average?”
More nodding heads.
“Then why would I want to sell?” Aldo slapped the table again for good measure.
When no one answered, Aldo stood, willing his old knees to hold up as he nailed each traitor with his glare. “I pay you to bring my vision to life, not to create a new one.”
Next thing you knew they’d be declaring him incompetent and trying to take over the control of his casino!
“IT’S HIM.”
“He’s here.”
Vince stood in the open doorway only a moment before arms pulled him into the packed community center like fans welcoming a rock star.
This is good. This is better than good.
“Let him through,” a man bellowed from the front of the large, ancient hall.
“The town council meeting is over,” said someone from the far side of the room. It was impossible to see who it was in the sea of faces or, over the noise, make out more than that the speaker was a woman.
“Then we’ll call a meeting of the Amador Tribal Council. I hereby call this meeting to order.” A man with distinguished gray in the dark hair at his temples took up a position behind the front table. With the strong features and bronze skin, he had to be the tribal chairman, Arnie Eagle. Vince had spoken with him several times about providing the bulk of the financing for a casino.
Chairs scraped and banged as people fought for a seat. A few men hurried to fill the spots at the table while others moved to stand behind them.
Pausing only to tug his starched cuffs farther down his wrists, Vince pasted on his warmest smile and walked to the podium.
“Good evening. I apologize for being late. My name is Vince Patrizio.”
Someone in the crowd made a strangled noise. Chairs creaked and he heard his last name muttered throughout the room.
A nugget of his prior conversation with Arnie returned.
“Are you related to—”
“Yes.” Vince hurriedly cut off the chairman’s question during their initial phone call, assuming that Arnie wanted to know if he was related to Aldo Patrizio, the self-made tycoon.
Vince needed to find out if his grandfather’s name was an advantage or a deal breaker. Meanwhile, his smile never faltered. “I may have been invited here at the request of the tribal council, but I hope that when I’m through most of you will see the benefits of a casino in Railroad Stop. Indulge me for a moment as I recap the advantages of having such a facility in your area.”
Off to his right, someone scoffed, someone Vince would have to deal with soon, just not in front of such a large audience.
Vince spoke briefly of job opportunities, the tax dollars that would go to improving roads and schools, as well as the fact that Railroad Stop could control how big the casino would be. Vince hoped for big. “Raising a family, paying the bills and building a community all take hard work and vision. I encourage you to talk amongst yourselves, to foster healthy debates like this one.”
“You haven’t invited us to debate you. Big companies don’t usually care about small facilities.” A woman’s voice. From the right wall. Heckler Central.
There were several murmurs of assent.
Who was this woman? Vince couldn’t tell. And he wouldn’t validate her remarks by acknowledging them. It didn’t matter. The time for discussion would come later, after he’d created a platform of enthusiasm and support.
Vince continued as if uninterrupted. “If you feel a casino built to represent the character and heritage of the area will help bring to life the vision you have for Railroad Stop’s future, I’ll be happy to help you achieve that.”
His