Nevada Run

by David Robbins

  Hickok shook his head. “They didn’t. I did.”

  “You killed Franky?” Mousy queried, astounded the gunman would bluntly confess.

  “Yep,” Hickok said. “I was the one who plugged Franky. My pards shot Franky’s cronies.”

  Mousy glanced at his chums. “Did you hear this jerk?”

  “Enough small talk,” Hickok stated. “I want you to take me to Giorgio. Now.”

  Mousy snickered. “No way.”

  “Take me or die,” Hickok said softly.

  The spectators abruptly wanted to be somewhere else. They scrambled to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the imminent violence. All except for an elderly woman, who kept avidly sticking coins into her purse.

  “Do you really think you can take on all four of us by yourself?” Mousy asked sarcastically.

  “If you try and draw on me,” Hickok responded, “none of you will live long enough to touch your guns.”

  “You smug asshole!” Mousy declared. “You’re history!” He grabbed for the pistol in a concealed holster on his right hip.

  The other three mobsters also went for their guns. All three were experienced Enforcers, experts at their lethal craft. Each one considered himself fast and accurate. Each one had outdrawn opponents at one time or another. But not one had ever beheld the spectacular speed of the gunfighter in buckskins.

  One moment Hickok’s hands were draped at his sides. The next, in a literal blur of consummate swiftness, the Pythons were out and leveled and blasting.

  Mousy was hit high on the forehead by both slugs, the brutal impact catapulting him backwards into a blackjack table. He crashed onto his back, his arms outspread.

  Hickok swiveled to cover the remaining three hit men. They were imitating trees, frozen in place with their limbs at odd angles, having turned to ice in the process of reaching for their weapons. Not one had managed to move their gun hand more than an inch. “What’s it going to be, gents?” Hickok asked. “Do you want to die?”

  Each one shook his head.

  “Then unlimber your hardware, real easy like,” Hickok instructed them.

  “One wrong twitch and I’ll perforate your noggins.”

  The mobsters carefully eased their handguns from their holsters and ever-so-slowly set the guns on the floor.

  “Now back up three steps,” Hickok directed.

  They obeyed.

  Hickok heard a door slam and glanced at the far wall. A dozen mobsters were coming toward him, led by a tall man with a cleft chin, a beaked nose, dark eyes, and white hair, and wearing a gray suit. Many of the mobsters carried machine guns, and Hickok girded himself for a battle royal. He grinned, hoping he would acquit himself with honor.

  “Don’t shoot!” the man with the white hair shouted. “Don’t shoot! We want to talk!”

  The mobsters were over 40 yards off, but still advancing.

  “That’s close enough!” Hickok called out.

  The man with the white hair said something to his henchmen and they halted.

  “What do we have to talk about?” Hickok yelled.

  “We don’t want any more shooting!” the man with the white hair said.

  “Can I come closer?”

  “Come ahead,” Hickok replied.

  The man with the white hair cautiously came toward the Warrior. He stared at Mousy’s corpse for several seconds, then at the patrons ringing the lobby. “My name is Kenney,” he said when he was within speaking range.

  “You’re Giorgio’s right-hand man?” Hickok queried, recalling the comments Mousy made in the alley earlier.

  Kenney nodded. He stopped, scrutinizing the gunfighter. “Who are you?”

  “The handle is…” Hickok began, and paused. What name should he give? Blade had given a false name to that Enforcer because the Big Guy didn’t want Don Pucci to know the Warriors were in Las Vegas. Should he do the same? If he gave his real name, would Pucci find out? Did it even matter, since Blade and the others were in the Golden Crown rescuing Mindy? Maybe he should play it safe. “Earp. Wyatt Earp.”

  Kenney’s eyes narrowed and his forehead creased. “Mr. Earp, my boss would like to talk to you.”

  “Don Giorgio wants to see me?” Hickok responded skeptically.

  “Yes. He sent me down to invite you up to his suite,” Kenney said. “He’s been watching you since Security reported you were here.”

  “He has?” Hickok queried.

  “Yes,” Kenney confirmed. “The whole casino is under constant surveillance by hidden cameras.”

  “Why does Giorgio want to see me?” Hickok questioned.

  “You must ask him,” Kenney replied. “Will you come with me?”

  Hickok nodded toward the other mobsters. “What about those cow chips?”

  “They’ll stay down here, if such is your wish,” Kenney said.

  “It’d make me feel a mite more relaxed,” Hickok remarked. “My trigger fingers can become awful itchy.”

  “You won’t need your guns,” Kenney commented. “No harm will come to you.”

  “No one is takin’ my Colts,” Hickok vowed.

  “I simply meant you don’t need to keep your revolvers in your hands,” Kenney elaborated. “You can put them in your holsters.”

  “They’ll stay right where they are,” Hickok said. “You lead the way. And whatever you do, don’t trip. I might accidentally blow your spine out your bellybutton.”

  Kenney turned and walked toward the far wall. “There won’t be any trouble,” he said over his left shoulder.

  “For your sake, I hope not,” Hickok stated. He constantly shifted his gaze from gangster to gangster, ready to gun down the first one who made a hostile move. But they and stood still, eying him contemptuously. What was Giorgio up to? he wondered. Giorgio didn’t sound like the forgiving sort. So why did Giorgio want to palaver all of a sudden?

  And why, Hickok asked himself, did he have the feeling he was going from the frying pan into the fire?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Blade could feel his stomach muscles tightening into a compact knot as he stared at the machine guns trained on Helen, Geronimo, and himself.

  “Drop your weapons!” Mario commanded.

  “Never!” Helen snapped. “Hand over my daughter!”

  Mario adjusted his glasses on his nose. He gazed at the giant and spoke calmly. “I don’t want any needless bloodshed.”

  “Neither do we,” Blade assured him.

  “Then drop your weapons,” Mario directed. “You’ll be cut down if you try to resist.”

  Blade glanced at the man in the white suit, gauging the distance between them as four feet. “You won’t shoot if we put our weapons on the floor?” he asked.

  “No. You have my personal guarantee,” Mario stated.

  “Okay,” Blade said meekly. “We’ll do it.”

  “I won’t!” Helen objected. “No one is taking my weapons!”

  Blade looked at her. “You’ll do exactly as I say!” he ordered. “After I put my Commando down, you do the same with your carbine.” He deliberately accented the word “after.”

  Helen frowned. “If you insist!”

  Blade gazed at Geronimo. “Do you understand?”

  Geronimo nodded. “I understand perfectly.”

  Blade faced the man in white. “Here goes. Tell your men not to shoot.”

  “They won’t fire unless I give the signal,” Mario disclosed.

  Blade nodded. “I was hoping you would say that.” He bent over at the waist and deposited his Commando on the red carpet. Releasing the gun, he started to straighten, and as he did he made his move. His right hand whipped his corresponding Bowie free of its sheath, even as he bounded toward Mario, covering the four feet in an easy, quick stride. Before the mobsters in the corridor could fire, he had his left arm around Mario’s shoulders and the right Bowie pressed against the gangster’s neck.

  Several of the button men had swiveled, trying to bring their machine g
uns to bear on the giant, but he had moved too swiftly and was too close to Mario Pileggi to permit them to fire.

  “Freeze!” Blade barked, using Mario’s body as a shield. “If just one of you tries anything, this man is dead!”

  Mario appeared stunned by the unexpected reversal. “Don’t shoot!” he shouted at his men. “Do as he says!”

  “I want all of your guns on the floor! Now!” Blade instructed them.

  The hit men hesitated, collectively focused on Mario.

  “Do it!” Mario yelled. “Now!”

  Hesitantly, the mobsters slowly lowered their machine guns to the floor.

  “Now put your hands up and step away from your guns!” Blade declared.

  “Do it!” Mario added.

  The button men moved back.

  Geronimo hastily retrieved Blade’s Commando while keeping his Browning BAR trained on their foes.

  Blade dug the tip of the Bowie into Mario’s sweating neck. “Now I want to see Don Pucci.”

  “Never!” Mario said.

  “Let me have him!” Helen interjected, incensed. “I’ll make him take us to Pucci!”

  “Never!” Mario reiterated. “None of us will betray our Don!”

  “How touching!” Helen said sarcastically. “He’s being loyal to the bastard who kidnapped my daughter!”

  Mario’s eyes narrowed as he intently studied Helen. “You’re serious!” he exclaimed.

  Helen took a menacing stride toward him. “Of course I’m serious, you dimwit! What have I been telling you! The Don abducted Mindy, and I want her back now!”

  Mario tried to twist his head so he could see the giant holding him, but the sharp point of the Bowie prevented him from turning. “You can release me,” he said.

  “Not on your life,” Blade stated. “You’re our ticket out of here, our insurance against interference.”

  “If you want to see Don Pucci, you’d better let me go,” Mario advised. “I promise you I’ll arrange a meeting.”

  “Why should we trust you?” Blade demanded.

  “Because I believe your story,” Mario said. “I believe this woman’s daughter was abducted, and I believe you think Don Pucci is responsible. I didn’t believe her before. I thought you were using the story as a ruse to get close to the Don so you could whack him.”

  “If he took my daughter,” Helen remarked bitterly, “he’s as good as dead!”

  Blade glanced at Geronimo. “Cover us. I’m going to release him.”

  Geronimo nodded, scrutinizing the hit men.

  Blade eased his Bowie away from Mario’s neck and straightened.

  “There. Now let’s see if your word is worth anything.”

  Mario gingerly rubbed his sore neck with his right hand, and when he withdrew his hand there was a trickle of blood on his fingers. “That’s some knife you’ve got there,” he mentioned.

  Blade wiped the Bowie on his pants leg. “I’m fond of it.”

  “I’ll escort you down to the casino,” Mario said. “You can wait there until Don Pucci comes down. And don’t worry. We’re not about to attack you in our own casino. Business would suffer.”

  “What do you mean?” Blade asked.

  “The casino is our drawing card, so to speak,” Mario elaborated. “Our rooms on the upper floors are always filled to capacity because our customers know they can gamble here in safety. They know Don Pucci runs an honest house, unlike some of the other Dons. Whenever you have a shooting in a casino, business suffers. The customers shy away for a while.

  We don’t want that.”

  Blade walked over to Geronimo and took the Commando. “We’ll wait for Don Pucci, and you have my word that we won’t start shooting unless you start something.”

  “We won’t,” Mario assured the giant. He moved to the wall and pressed a red button, then looked at Helen. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. But you must understand my position. There are a lot of people who would like to see Don Pucci dead, and I would give my life to protect him. So would everyone else in his Family.”

  “Why did Don Pucci kidnap my daughter?” Helen asked bluntly.

  “He didn’t,” Mario replied.

  “I know better,” Helen stated.

  “You can talk to the Don in person,” Mario said. “Then let’s see how you feel.”

  The inner door to the elevator slid open as the elevator arrived on the second floor.

  Mario entered.

  The Warriors backed into the elevator, their weapons aimed at the mobsters in the corridor.

  Blade breathed a slight sigh of relief when the door slid shut. He gazed down at the throngs of gamblers as the elevator descended, spying a long bar on the south side of the enormous room. Anyone approaching the bar from the gaming tables and the slot machines would need to cover 20 yards of open space. The bar was an ideal spot to await the Don.

  With a scarcely perceptible jolt, the elevator stopped.

  Mario exited first, standing to the right of the open doors.

  “We’ll be waiting at the bar,” Blade said as he emerged.

  “Give me ten minutes,” Mario said.

  “Five,” Blade amended as Geronimo and Helen joined him.

  Mario shook his head. “I need ten. You’ll understand the reason when you see the Don.”

  “Ten, then,” Blade said. “But one minute longer and we’ll tear your casino apart.”

  Mario stepped into the elevator, closed the doors, and nodded at the Warriors as it climbed.

  “I don’t trust him!” Helen opined. “Why did you agree to this nonsense?”

  “Sometimes a Warrior must rely on his or her intuition,” Blade answered. “My intuition tells me to trust Mario this time.”

  “I pray you’re right,” Helen said. She scanned the patrons at the nearby tables, her features downcast. “All I want is to find Mindy and return safely to the Home. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No,” Blade stated. He headed in the direction of the bar, alert for an assault.

  “If it’s any consolation,” Geronimo commented, staying abreast of Blade on the right, “I agree with you.”

  The Warriors skirted the gaming tables and the slot machines, winding toward the south side of the casino. The laughter, the tinkle of glasses filled with liquor, and the smiling customers were an odd contrast to the deadly mobsters running the establishment. Blade observed the patrons heartily enjoying themselves, and he remembered the words of the woman at the diner. The Organized Crime Families had controlled Las Vegas for over a century, and the citizens and tourists all seemed content with the status quo. Why? How could they allow their lives to be run by the Dons?

  Was it because life under the Dons was better, in a materialistic sense, than life elsewhere in the country? Was it because the Dons were no more oppressive than the government which they had supplanted? Or was it because the Dons and Las Vegas were made for each other? They both flourished in an atmosphere of permissiveness and they naturally attracted others of a similar persuasion.

  The bar appeared ahead.

  Blade ceased his reflection and walked up to the middle of the bar.

  “I wonder how Hickok is doing,” Geronimo commented.

  “As soon as we finish our business here,” Blade said, “we’ll go get him.”

  “If anything happens to him,” Geronimo pledged, “I won’t leave Las Vegas until I settle accounts with Don Giorgio.”

  “Look!” Helen declared. “The elevator.”

  The glass elevator was descending.

  “Here they come!” Helen said excitedly. “Now we’ll learn where Mindy is!”

  A party of men left the elevator and moved through the customers, coming toward the Warriors.

  Blade’s superior height enabled him to see the party clearly, and his forehead furrowed in confusion when he spotted the head of the group.

  “Don Pucci better turn Mindy over to us!” Helen was saying.

  Blade stared at the floor, deep in thought.r />
  “What is it?” Geronimo inquired.

  “You’ll see in a moment,” Blade responded.

  The party of mobsters came even closer. There were ten men, eight of whom were armed with machine guns. The ninth was Mario. And the tenth was a man with gray hair, a man with a thin face and a pale complexion, a man in a beige suit with a red blanket covering his lap because he was seated in a wheelchair!

  “What the hell is this?” Helen snapped.

  The eight men with machine guns fanned out around Mario and the man in the wheelchair, forming a protective semicircle.

  Mario pushed the wheelchair up to the Warriors. “Allow me the honor of introducing Don Anthony Pucci.”

  “Hello,” Blade said.

  “This is the Don?” Helen inquired in shocked disbelief.

  Don Pucci’s piercing blue eyes belied his physical condition. He critically inspected each of the Warriors, then focused on Blade. “Mario has been telling me about you,” he stated in a deep, vibrant voice. “I don’t often leave my private quarters anymore, but I decided to make an exception in your case.” He looked at Helen. “What is this bull about my kidnapping your daughter?”

  Helen was completely confounded. “You can’t be the Don!” she blurted out.

  Don Pucci grinned. “I assure you I am. Ask anyone.” He caught sight of one of the bartenders behind the bar, busily tending to a customer. “Hey! Arthur!”

  The bartender glanced up, saw the man in the wheelchair, and instantly hastened down the bar. “Yes, sir! What would you like?”

  “Arthur, would you tell this woman who I am?” Don Pucci requested.

  Arthur gazed at Helen. “He’s Don Pucci. Everybody knows that.”

  “Thank you, Arthur,” the Don said. “How’s the family?”

  Arthur, a hefty man with a mustache, smiled. “They’re fine, sir. Bobby has a birthday in a week. He’ll be ten.”

  “Expect a little gift for him,” Don Pucci stated.

  Arthur beamed. “Thank you, sir! He’ll really appreciate a present from you!”

  “That will be all for now,” Don Pucci said.

  Arthur returned to his customer.

  Don Pucci glanced at Mario. “Make a note. Send a gift to the kid. He’ll be ten, so make it a toy fire engine. The biggest you can buy.”