clear his thoughts. He never could think straight when he had a migraine. Either that, or he was losing it entirely.
Kelly felt like his head was on an anvil that was being pounded with a very heavy mallet. He walked as fast as he could out to the main floor, then to a boutique at the end of the hall, where he bought a bottle of Aleve and swallowed two of them dry. Then he headed for the elevator that would take him to his apartment. He needed to think. Really think.
What the hell, he wondered, had just happened in the Tiki Bar?
Chapter 5
Kelly pressed the digits on his in-house cell that would connect him with his assistant, Pete Justice.
“Pete, I need you to take over for me for the next two hours. I have something I need to attend to.”
Assured that his orders would be followed, Kelly yanked at his tie with the perfect Windsor knot as he simultaneously tried to shrug out of his jacket. He tossed both on a chair as he kicked off his shoes, then flopped down on the couch, which was more comfortable than his bed. He took a second to set his internal clock for a ninety-minute nap, which hopefully would take the edge off his migraine. He’d promised Bert he would be on hand to greet his guests when they arrived. Knowing Bert, his ass would be grass if he didn’t follow through on that promise.
Dixson Kelly woke precisely eighty-eight minutes later and realized that his headache was gone. Maybe it wasn’t a migraine, after all, just a stress headache brought on by Bert Navarro’s orders. Nonetheless, he got up gingerly, just to be on the safe side. Yep. Gone.
Within minutes, he had shed his clothes and was standing under a steaming-hot shower. He almost swooned at how good the hot water felt as it rolled off his shoulders. Then he danced under a freezing, needle-sharp spray, followed by another round of steaming-hot water.
Fifteen minutes later, he was shaved, scented, and dressed in one of his favorite Hugo Boss suits and ties. He checked himself out in the mirror over the dresser as he fastened his watch on his wrist. His gaze dropped to the top of the dresser, where nine burner phones were lined up like soldiers. Nine small spiral notebooks were next to each of the burner phones. On the back of each phone was a name under a strip of Scotch tape, and these represented all the women who were currently in his life and whom he juggled with an expertise that amazed even him at times. He knew there were messages on each and every one of the phones, but right now, he didn’t have time to listen to them. He shrugged as he headed for the elevator that would take him to the main floor of the casino so he could relieve Pete Justice. His thoughts raced from one thing to another as he moved along.
As he walked around the floor, his gaze moving at the speed of light, he talked into his cell, relieving Pete Justice, then moved on to Sanders to see how he was doing with his housekeeping duties. He listened to the surly voice telling him about the complaints, the threats from the guests, and simply said, “I don’t want to hear it. Deal with it, Sanders. That’s what we pay you for. If you have a problem, Sanders, I’ll be happy to give you Bert’s number, and you can tell him what it is.”
Kelly blinked when he realized he was talking to dead air. Bastard. He blinked again when he realized he was already outside the Tiki Bar. It was busy now in the mid-afternoon, with guests seeking a little refreshment after a morning of some serious gambling. He looked around to see if the same bartender was on duty. He was. He waited until there was a lull, then motioned for Adam, the bartender, to come closer.
Adam took the initiative and said, “Your headache gone, Mr. Kelly? You were looking a little ragged when you were in here before.”
“Yeah, it’s better. Listen, that big guy who was in here when I was here, what do you know about him?”
“Mr. Needlemeyer? I know of him, but other than what I hear, nothing. Why? Is he a problem or something?”
“Does he come in here often?” Kelly asked.
Adam laughed. “Are you kidding, Mr. Kelly? I’ve been working the Tiki Bar for the last fifteen