Bitch

Chapter One: Nico Constantine rose from the blackjack table, smiled all around, threw thepretty croupier a fifty-dollar tip, and pocketed twelve shiny goldfive-hundred-dollar chips. A nice round six thousand dollars. Not bad for afast half hour's work. Not good for someone who was already down two hundredthousand.Nico surveyed the crowded Las Vegas casino. His intense dark eyes flicked backand forth among the assembled company. Little old ladies in floral dressesexhibiting surprising strength as their skinny arms pulled firmly on the slotmachines. Florid couples -- weak with excitement and too much sun -- picking upa fast eighty or ninety dollars at the roulette tables. Strolling hookers --blank eyes alert for the big spenders. The big spenders themselves, inpolyester leisure suits, screeching away in middle-American accents at the craptables.Nico smiled. Las Vegas always amused him. The hustle and the bustle. The winand the lose. The total unreality.A carousel town set in the middle of arid desert. A blazing set of neon signshousing all the vices known to man. And a few unknown ones. In Las Vegas -- ifyou could pay for it -- you could get it. Just name it.He lit a long narrow Havana cigar with a wafer-thin gold Dunhill lighter, andsmiled and nodded at the people who went out of their way to catch his eye. Apit boss here, a cigarette girl there, a security guard on his rounds. NicoConstantine was a well-known man in Vegas. More important -- Nico Constantinewas a gentleman -- and how many of those were there left in the world?He looked good. For forty-nine years of age he looked exceptionally good. Blackhair-thick, curly, with slight traces of gray that only enhanced the jet. Blackeyes -- unfairly surrounded with thick black lashes. A strong nose. Dark oliveskin beautifully tanned. A wide-shouldered, thin-hipped body that would makemany a younger man envious.However, the most attractive thing about Nico was his style -- his aura -- hischarisma.Hand-finished, tailor-made three-piece suits in the very finest cloth. Silkshirts of exquisite quality. Italian-made shoes in glove-soft leather. Nothingbut the best for Nico Constantine. It had been his motto since he was twentyyears of age."Can I get you a drink, Mr. Constantine?" A cocktail waitress was at his side,long legs in black cobweb stockings, a wide mouth smiling and full of Las Vegaspromise.He grinned. Naturally he had wonderful teeth, and all his own, with just onevagabond gypsy cap. "Why not? I think vodka, on the rocks, be sure it's 90proof." His black eyes flirted with her outrageously, and she loved everyminute of it. Women always did. Women positively adored Nico Constantine -- andhe, in his turn, was certainly not averse to them. From a cocktail waitress toa princess, he treated them all the same. Flowers (always red roses); champagne(always Krug); presents (small gold charms from Tiffany in New York, or, ifthey lasted more than a few weeks, little diamond trinkets from Cartier).The cocktail waitress went off to get his drink.Nico consulted his Patek Phillipe digital gold watch. It was eight o'clock. Theevening was ahead of him. He would sip his drink, watch the action, and then hewould step once again into the fray, and fate would decide his future.Nico Constantine was born in 1930 in a poor suburb of Athens. He was the firstbrother to three sisters, and his childhood had been that of a small boy caughtup in a sea of femininity. His sisters fussed, bullied and smothered him. Hismother spoiled him, and various female relatives kissed, cuddled and catered tohim at all times.His father was away a lot, being a crewman on one of the fabulous Onassisyachts -- so Nico became the little man of the family. He was a beautiful baby,a cute little toddler, a devastating young boy, aCollins, Jackie is the author of 'Bitch' with ISBN 9780671737856 and ISBN 0671737856.