Free Trust Me by Peter Leonard Page A

borrowed money and can't pay it back."
        "How do you know his name?"
        "He's downstairs," Moran said. "I wanted to detain him, see what was going on till I talked to you."
        "He's up to sixty grand," O'Clair said.
        "They never learn, do they?" Moran said. "Well he cashed out with $7,500. That's a start. Come in the other room let's see what we can find out." Moran took him in the surveillance room. There was a wall of monitors showing different parts of the casino and a team of security techs sitting at a long desk under the monitors, zooming and tilting and panning the hidden cameras. O'Clair saw Bobby mouthing off at a blackjack table in one of the screens, Bobby standing in front of a cashier's cage in another one, and Bobby flirting with a cute little blond cashier in the third one.
        "What're you doing after your shift?" Bobby said to the blonde.
        "Sir, we're not allowed to fraternize with casino guests," she said giving him the company line.
        "Is that what you think I want to do," Bobby said, "fraternize?" He winked and the girl smiled.
        "Who is she?" O'Clair said.
        "Megan Freels, "Moran said. "Been with us since we opened. Good worker, reliable, dependable."
        To O'Clair it seemed like there was something there, something going on between them.
        One of the techs glanced at Frank and said, "Mr. Moran, I found this too."
        There were shots of Bobby from previous visits, Bobby playing blackjack and craps and roulette.
        "He's something of a regular," Moran said. "Been here seven times in two months."
        "When are you going to let him go?" O'Clair said.
        Moran said, "You tell me."
        
        
        He hung back on the expressway, following Bobby, but giving him plenty of room. It was ten to four and the highway already packed with shift workers on their way home. Bobby got off at Eight Mile, the road that separated Detroit from the suburbs, and pulled into a gas station. There was a party store next door. It had bars over the windows and a big neon LOTTO sign. Bobby got out went inside. O'Clair parked in the alley behind the place and waited for him.
        
        
        K-nine was walking past the Robin Hood Bar. Dude with a bow, string pulled back ready to shoot an arrow on the back door, green paint faded now. He saw the old Seville parked up ahead at the gas station. K-nine considered it a blessing from God the way his feets hurt from walking. He'd just been thinking about jackin' something, ride downtown to the Ethnic Festival, rip off some Grosse Point chickenhead wore those outfits all pink and green and yellow, look like tropical birds come to the inner city, sample exotic African favorites like spare ribs.
        Pac and Skinny were trailing behind him carrying quarts of Mickey's, niggas going at it about who was the baddest rapper on the street, Lil Wayne or 50 Cent.
        Pac Man said, "Wayne's the man. You hear his new one Tha Carter IIP Sixteen cuts, they all good. Not one of 'em bootsy."
        Skinny Pimp said, "Fifty's the bigga nigga. Boy got some knock. Check out 'Fat Bitch.' That motherfucker's bumpin'."
        Pac said, "Who done 'Perfect Bitch'? Know that one?"
        "Ain't no such thing," Skinny said.
        "You missin' it, dawg," Pac said. "She not real. Perfect bitch got Janet's titties, booty of Tyra—like that."
        "Should call it 'Impossible Dream Bitch,'" Skinny said.
        There was a big white dude standing next to the Seville parked in the alley, leaning against it now. What the fuck he doin'? Chickenhead motherfucker look lost or something.
        
        
        O'Clair saw a black dude with cornrows coming toward him and two more dudes behind him. One wore a sweatshirt with a hood, reminding O'Clair of a guy he'd fought twenty years before in Golden Gloves. It was the city championship, light heavyweight division. The third one