Nevada Run

by David Robbins

  Helen took the remaining chair, sitting with her back to the front door.

  She leaned toward Blade. “Is it my imagination, or are these people staring at me?”

  “It’s not your imagination,” Blade said. “They’re trying not to be obvious about it, but they can’t seem to take their eyes off you.”

  “When do you reckon they’ll make their play?” Hickok asked in a hushed tone.

  “What are you talking about?” Helen inquired.

  Hickok lowered his voice to a whisper. “Blade was right all along. This is a trap.”

  Helen glanced around the room. “Are you putting me on? There’s no danger here.”

  Blade gazed into Helen’s eyes. “This is no joke. Keep your hands on your Carbine.”

  “How do you know this is a trap?” Helen whispered.

  “Did you see the three men drinking coffee?” Blade asked.

  “Of course,” Helen replied.

  “Did you take a look at their cups?”

  “No,” Helen said, and began to turn toward the men.

  “Don’t look at them!” Blade said hastily. “We don’t want them to know we’re on to them.”

  Helen faced the giant. “What about the coffee cups?”

  “All three cups are filled to the brim, yet those men haven’t taken a sip since we came in the door,” Blade elaborated.

  “Maybe they’re not thirsty,” Helen said lamely. “Maybe they’ve already drunk some coffee and those are their second cups. Maybe they’re just waiting for their food.”

  “And maybe the cups are props they’re usin’ to try and con us,” Hickok stated. “The shifty varmints!”

  Helen studied the gunman for a few seconds. “I don’t get you. A couple of minutes ago you were positive this diner is legit. Now you say it’s a trap?”

  “I knew it was a trap when I walked in the door.” Hickok informed her.

  “You didn’t act like you thought it was a trap,” Helen noted.

  “Do you play cards?” Hickok queried.

  “Cards?” Helen said, mystified. “What do cards have to do with anything?”

  “A good card player never lets the other fella see his cards until it’s time to put them on the table,” Hickok declared.

  Blade idly scanned the room. “I don’t see any guns.”

  “They could have some stashed behind the counter,” Hickok said.

  Blade casually looked at the couple to the left of the door. The obese man and the woman in the red dress were simply sitting there, slight grins on their faces, their hands on top of their table, doing nothing in particular.

  “You are becoming as paranoid as Blade,” Helen told the gunman.

  “Better paranoid than dead,” Hickok retorted.

  “Why don’t we just walk out?” Helen proposed.

  “No,” Blade said. “They might let us go without any hassles, but what about the next innocent travelers who pass through Contact? What if they’re not as well armed as we are?”

  Helen frowned. “I don’t see where this is any of our business. If you really believe it’s a trap, I say we walk out and keep going. The sooner we reach Vegas, the sooner I find my daughter.”

  “I’m in charge,” Blade reminded her. “And we’re going to stay put and see what happens.”

  “Now what do you suppose that is all about?” Hickok asked, nodding toward the counter.

  Blade turned his head, perplexed at observing Ma and the tall man embroiled in an argument. They were huddled next to a grill, speaking softly but gesturing angrily.

  “Maybe they burned one of our steaks,” Hickok cracked.

  Blade leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room again. The “customers” were all watching the exchange between Ma and the tall man.

  He scrutinized their clothing, striving to detect telltale bulges that might indicate concealed firearms.

  They appeared to be clean.

  Ma walked to a white refrigerator and took out a pitcher of milk.

  Blade abruptly realized the music had ceased minutes ago. He glanced around and found an unusual apparatus positioned against the wall six yards from the front entrance. The bottom of the machine was square, the top a golden arch. A series of bright lights rimmed the arch, reflecting off a curved glass case between the arch and the square base.

  “Here we go!” Ma said happily, coming around the end of the counter with a large tray in her hands. The tray supported the pitcher and three glasses. “Here’s your milk. Your steaks will be a minute or two yet.”

  Blade pointed at the machine with the arch. “What is that?” he inquired.

  Ma set the tray on the table. “It’s a jukebox. Haven’t you ever seen one before?”

  “No,” Blade admitted.

  The matron tittered. “You don’t know what a chorus girl is. You don’t know what a jukebox is. I’ve heard of pitiful, but you boys take the cake.”

  “You said you were born in Las Vegas,” Blade remarked. “What’s it like there?”

  “Vegas is a tough town,” Ma declared. “It’s not for chumps who don’t know how to take care of themselves.”

  “We can take care of ourselves,” Hickok said, speaking up.

  “You think so?” Ma rejoined.

  “I know so,” Hickok asserted. “Stick around. I may give you a demonstration.”

  “Why is Vegas a tough town?” Blade queried to get Ma back on the right track.

  “Because Vegas is mob-controlled, dummy,” Ma stated with a chuckle.

  “You mean they have riots in the streets a lot?” Hickok asked.

  Ma threw back her head and laughed. “Not that kind of a mob! I’m talking about the Families.”

  Blade glanced at Hickok and the gunman shrugged, signifying he didn’t understand either.

  The woman called Ma noticed their reaction. “Let me guess. You don’t have the foggiest idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “No,” Blade answered. He was startled to learn there were other groups with the same name as the Founder’s descendants.

  “How do I explain it?” Ma asked herself. She stared at the giant. “Have you ever heard of Organized Crime?”

  Blade reflected for a moment. The term did not ring a bell. “Never heard of it,” he confessed.

  Ma shook her head. “Then let me give you a refresher course. Way back when, back before the war, there were three classes of people in America.

  There were the ordinary slobs, rich and poor alike, who lived their lives according to the letter of the law. From cradle to grave they slaved away, basically honest jerks except for little things like cheating on their taxes and such. Oh, some of them went bad. They became drug dealers or robbed banks. But most of them were simple folks, if downright stupid.”

  She paused and snickered. “Then there were the government types, the politicians, the most dishonest bunch of all. They stole from the people to fatten their big bellies, but they made their stealing legal. They called their system taxation. Property taxes, sales taxes, income taxes. The people were taxed to the max, and hardly complained because they trusted the politicians who were robbing them silly.”

  “Hold on there,” Hickok interrupted. “I studied some history when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. And my teacher explained things differently. Not all politicians were crooked. There were some who cared about the people and wanted to help them. And how can you call the average folks stupid just because they obeyed the law?”

  “They were stupid because they let others run their lives!” Ma replied vehemently.

  Blade pursed his lips in contemplation. He had observed the woman closely as she talked. Ma wasn’t the bumpkin she pretended to be, and under her seemingly friendly exterior was a heart of stone. “You mentioned there were three classes,” he prompted her.

  Ma smiled. “The third class was the best. They didn’t pretend to be something they weren’t. They knew the score. They knew there are only three things in life that matter: m
oney, power, and loyalty. They were the organized-crime Families, and they controlled most of the action from coast to coast. The lousy politicians tried to rub the Families out, but couldn’t. The Families were too strong for the government and a hell of a lot smarter. The leaders, the Dons, saw the war coming months in advance. And they decided to do something about it.”

  “What did they do?” Blade inquired.

  “They already had a foothold in Vegas, so they decided to take the city over, lock, stock, and barrel,” Ma detailed. “They flocked to Vegas right before the war began, and they were in place and ready when the crap hit the fan. When the government collapsed, it was child’s play for the Families to take control. They had more soldiers in Vegas than all the law enforcement agencies combined.”

  “Soldiers?” Hickok said.

  “Yeah. Button men. Trigger men. Hit men. They’re all basically the same thing.” She grinned. “So the mob has been in control of Vegas ever since. There were some rough times at first, what with the Dons unable to agree on territories and percentages. For over ten years they fought it out.

  The Seven Families War it’s called. One Family came out on top, and their bloodline has ruled the city for seventy years. From father to son to grandson, they’ve passed the leadership on down the line. Their Don is the supreme Don.”

  “Does this Don have a name?” Blade casually asked.

  Ma nodded. “The Don who runs the whole show is Don Pucci. Don Anthony Pucci.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Helen’s fingers gripped her Carbine until her hands started to tremble.

  She gritted her teeth and released the Armalite, composing her features with an effort. “Did you say Pucci?”

  “Yes,” Ma said. “Have you heard of him?”

  Helen nodded.

  Ma chuckled. “I guess everybody has heard of Don Pucci.”

  “What happened to the other Families?” Blade asked.

  “They’re still around,” Ma replied. “But their Dons must take orders from Don Pucci. He makes sure they all toe the line, that they all stick to their territories and don’t start any trouble.”

  “So the Families have divided up Vegas among them,” Blade commented, pondering the implications for the mission.

  Ma gazed from one Warrior to the next. “Hey! I hope nothing I’ve said will stop you from going to Vegas. You’ll have a great time.”

  “We will?” Blade questioned.

  “Sure,” Ma stated with conviction. “Vegas is more fun than it ever was.

  Thousands of people go there every year. The casinos are open around the clock. There’s gambling and booze and floor shows, just like in the old days. You’ll love it.”

  “People go there all the time?” Blade inquired.

  “Thousands,” Ma reiterated. “They come from Arizona, California, the Civilized Zone, everywhere. We even had some Russian officers not too long ago.”

  Blade straightened. “Russians in Vegas?”

  “Sounds weird, doesn’t it?” Ma said. “But I guess the Commies like a good time as much as the next person.” She leaned over the table.

  “Confidentially, I heard the real reason they were in Vegas was to conduct business with Don Pucci.”

  “What kind of business?” Blade asked.

  Ma shrugged. “Beats me. The Don doesn’t fill me in on his private deals.”

  Blade was trying to analyze all of this new information. There were so many unanswered questions. How was it he had never heard about Vegas before? Were there really patrons coming from as far away as California and the Civilized Zone, two allies of the Family? If so, why hadn’t one of their many friends told them what was happening? Surely the leaders of the Civilized Zone and California must be aware of the situation.

  “You sure know a lot about Vegas,” Hickok mentioned.

  “I should,” Ma said. “Like I told you, I was born there. I spent most of my life in Vegas, and I’ve been around for a long time. I’m fifty-four years old.”

  Blade saw the tall cook loading a tray with plates of food: steaks, potatoes, corn, and bread. He began to wonder if his suspicions were groundless. The three men at the table to the right of the door were sipping at their coffee, and the obese man and the woman in red were talking and laughing. He decided to sit tight, finish the meal, and if they weren’t attacked, to leave without provoking an incident.

  But one of his companions wasn’t so inclined.

  Helen locked her green eyes on Ma. “How long ago did the jeeps come through here?” she unexpectedly demanded.

  Ma blinked her eyes rapidly several times. “Jeeps?”

  “Yeah,” Helen stated harshly. “You heard me. Two jeeps passed this way. I want to know how many people were in them.”

  Ma’s lips curled downward. “I haven’t seen any jeeps come by here in weeks, dearie.”

  Helen suddenly stood, her Carbine aimed at Ma’s stomach. “Don’t lie to me, bitch! I don’t know what your scam is, but I know you’re a liar. Those jeeps stopped here. I need to know if there was a young woman with them.”

  Blade picked up the Commando. All of the customers had swiveled at the sound of the dispute and were watching with intent expressions. The tall man was standing behind the counter, his hands resting on the top.

  “Really, dearie,” Ma said soothingly. “I don’t have the faintest notion what you’re talking about.”

  Helen’s eyes flashed, her voice lowering. “I’m going to count to three. If you don’t tell me what I need to know by then, I’ll blow you apart.”

  Ma glanced at the tall man, then at Helen. “Are you nuts?”

  “One,” Helen said, beginning her count.

  Blade was tempted to intervene, but held his tongue. Helen had started this gambit; he would do what he could to back her play.

  Hickok was grinning from ear to ear, his arms draped over the back of his chair.

  “Two,” Helen said.

  Ma looked at Blade. “Aren’t you going to do anything? Are you just going to sit there and let her shoot me?”

  “If I were you,” Blade advised, “I’d tell her what she wants to know.”

  Ma clenched her fists and glared at Helen. “There’s only one thing I’ve got to say to you!” she snapped. “Go to hell!”

  “Three,” Helen stated somberly.

  Ma abruptly performed a remarkable maneuver. She executed a dive for the floor while bawling at the top of her lungs, “Get them!”

  Blade saw the tall man behind the counter bringing a shotgun up, and he threw himself backward so Hickok wouldn’t be in his line of fire. He squeezed the trigger as he fell, and the Commando thundered and bucked in his brawny hands.

  The tall man was caught in the chest and flung from sight.

  Blade landed on his back and swiveled to find the customers producing handguns with astonishing swiftness, as if from thin air. But fast as they were, the Family’s preeminent gunfighter was faster.

  Hickok came up off his chair with his arms a blurred streak, drawing his Pythons with ambidextrous precision. The Colts boomed three times in succession, the shots spaced so close together they sounded as one, and the three men to the right of the front door went down, each one struck in the head, each dying soundlessly, one of them sprawling over the table while the other two toppled to the floor.

  The obese man and the woman in red were taking a bead on the Warriors when Helen cut loose. Her carbine chattered, the slugs ripping into the heavyset man and doubling him over. The woman in red got off a solitary harmless round, and then she was propelled backwards by a burst to her face. She crashed onto a chair and slumped down. The obese man, gurgling and wheezing, staggered a few steps, then pitched forward.

  Silence momentarily descended.

  Blade leaped to his feet, scrutinizing the bodies to insure none of their foes were moving.

  “A piece of cake!” Hickok declared, grinning.

  “Check them,” Blade ordered.

  The gunman walk
ed toward the nearest corpse to verify the man was dead.

  Ma was on her hands and knees, gawking at her dead comrades in amazement.

  Helen walked around the table and grabbed Ma by the right shoulder.

  “On your feet!” she commanded, hauling the matron erect.

  Ma glanced toward the counter. “Poor Harry! He was right! I should have listened to him.”

  “Right about what?” Blade demanded.

  Ma looked at the giant. “He said we shouldn’t mess with you. He said you were trouble. He was right.”

  Helen jabbed her carbine barrel to within an inch of Ma’s nose. “I want some answers, woman, and I want them now!”

  Ma gulped. “Whatever you want, dearie.”

  “I want to know about the two jeeps,” Helen stated.

  Ma began fidgeting with her apron. “The two jeeps?”

  Helen’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “Don’t play games with me! Two jeeps came by here recently. When?”

  “Yesterday morning,” Ma answered.

  “Was there a young woman in one of them?” Helen queried anxiously.

  “Let me see,” Ma said reflectively, pursing her lips. “I seem to recall about six or seven men. They pulled in and ordered some food to go.”

  Helen placed the tip of the carbine barrel against Ma’s forehead. “You’d better remember more than that.”

  Ma was wringing her hands in the apron. “Yes! I do! Now that I think about it, there was a woman with them. She used the facilities.”

  “Describe her!” Helen directed.

  “Well, I didn’t pay all that much attention,” Ma said. “But I think she had red hair and was wearing a green blouse. I don’t remember the color of her pants.”

  “Did you talk to her?” Helen inquired, lowering the carbine.

  Ma shook her head. “Like I said, they pulled in and ordered some food to go. I saw them through the window, standing next to the jeeps and stretching their legs. Two of them came in and ordered the food. And two of them went with the young lady and waited outside the door while she did her business.”

  Hickok strolled over, his Pythons in his hands. “They’re all fit for the vultures,” he said.