“I want Mindy,” Ozzi stated.
“What do you see in her?” Giorgio inquired.
“I don’t know how to describe my feelings,” Ozzi responded. “I’ve never felt like this before.”
Giorgio grinned. “Some call it love. I call it lust. If you want to marry her, she’s yours. But there are two conditions.”
“Name them,” Ozzi said eagerly.
“First, you wait until this Warrior business is resolved,” Giorgio directed.
“As you wish,” Ozzi stated dutifully.
“Second, you convince her the marriage is in her best interests,” Giorgio said. “She’s a little hellcat when she gets her temper up. I don’t want one of my lieutenants dragging his betrothed down the aisle the day of the wedding. Everyone would talk.”
“I’ll convince her she loves me,” Ozzi pledged. “Even if I must slap her around a bit. She’ll get the message.”
“You have the right attitude,” Giorgio said approvingly. “A woman needs to be slapped around now and then to keep her in line. Sock her in the gut. That usually works for me. They don’t like to be bruised, so you’ve got to be careful when you hit her in the face.”
“Can I go see her now?” Ozzi queried.
“Go ahead.”
“What about me, boss?” Sacks asked.
“I want you to go down to the casino,” Giorgio directed. “Keep an eye on Hickok. Send Kenney up to me.”
“Okay,” Sacks said.
“I’ll give the Warriors until tomorrow to off Don Pucci,” Giorgio remarked. “If they don’t, I can only assume they don’t intend to kill him. I’ll put out a contract on every Warrior in town.”
Ozzi and Sacks exited the room.
Don Giorgio stared at the doorway, reflecting. Ozzi was one of his best button men, but the kid was soft in the noodle. Imagine being dumb enough to fall for the skirt from the family! Mindy was a liability, incriminating evidence. The girl had to be snuffed, and Kenney was just the man to do it. An accident could be arranged. The poor bimbo would hang herself from a light fixture. All Kenney would need to do would be arrange a scheduling snafu so the girl’s room was unguarded for a while.
Ozzi would be heartbroken.
But those were the breaks!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The four hit men were closing in on Don Pucci’s party.
Blade did the only thing he could do; he suddenly crouched in front of the Don’s wheelchair, aimed the Commando barrel over Pucci’s right shoulder, and sighted on one of the trigger men with a pistol, the nearest one.
Startled, the Don’s eight men swung their machine guns at the giant.
Afraid of hitting the Don, they held their fire.
Blade cut loose, the Commando chattering loudly, the stock bucking against his shoulder.
The closest hit man took a burst in the chest and was flung to the carpet.
Mario swung in the direction Blade had fired.
Don Pucci’s hands were sliding under the red blanket in his lap. Several of his men started toward him.
The hit man with the sawed-off shotgun let fly into the back of one of the Don’s men at point-blank range, the buckshot blowing the man’s chest out and sending him sprawling. Pivoting, the hit man took a bead on the Don.
Blade squeezed the trigger, stitching the shotgun-wielding killer from the crotch to the forehead.
One of the two remaining hit men shot a pair of the Don’s guards and aimed at the Don.
The last hit man was barreling toward the wheelchair.
Caught unawares by the abrupt assassination attempt, with their attention focused on the Warriors, none of the Don’s men had fired a shot in the first three seconds of the attack. Now, as they realized the true danger was coming at them from the crowds, not the bar, they spun to confront the last two hit men. But they were too slow.
Geronimo and Helen fired simultaneously. Geronimo’s Browning struck the hit man on the right in the face and he crashed onto his back. Helen’s Armalite sent a half-dozen rounds into the last hit man, into the left side of his chest. He twisted and toppled over.
In the aftermath of the shooting, the casino was as quiet as a tomb.
Blade slowly stood.
Don Pucci turned his wheelchair and scrutinized the four dead hit men, then glanced at his own casualties. He gazed up at the giant. “Thanks. They nearly nailed me.”
“Do you know who they were?” Blade asked.
“No,” Don Pucci said. “But I’ll find out. They were probably sent by Giorgio, but I’ll never be able to prove it. He’d hire outside talent for a job like this. He’d never use any of his own men.”
“Why does Giorgio want to kill you?” Blade queried.
“Why else?” Pucci responded. “He wants to take over Vegas. But I can’t do anything about him unless I can uncover some proof. I must justify my actions to the other Dons.”
“I thought you are running the show in Vegas,” Blade observed. “Why must you justify your actions to them?”
“Courtesy,” Don Pucci said. “If I don’t show them respect, they’re not about to show me any respect. All the Dons belong to the Council, our governing body. If any of us has a grievance against another Don, we bring it up in Council. If I was to hit Giorgio without a justifiable grievance and the agreement of the Council, an all-out war could result.” He glanced at Mario, then nodded toward the bodies. “Clean up this mess. Discover who they were. And send ten grand to the families of each of our boys who were whacked.”
Mario hurried off, barking orders to the Don’s men.
The casino came alive again, gradually, the customers mingling and conversing as the gambling resumed.
“You took this calmly,” Blade said, praising the Don.
Don Pucci sighed. “This has happened before. Why do you think I’m in this damn wheelchair?”
Blade stared at the body of the hit man with the shotgun. “What if they had gotten past your men?”
Don Pucci’s hands came out from under the red blanket. Clutched in his right was an Eagle 357 Magnum pistol. “I’m confined to a wheelchair, but I’m not helpless.”
Helen stepped up to the wheelchair. “Do you know where my daughter is?”
“I wish I did,” Don Pucci replied. “I owe you for saving my life. I’ll do anything I can to help.” He reached up and gingerly touched his right ear, smiling at Blade. “That piece of yours almost ruptured my eardrum. I can hardly hear for all the ringing.”
“Sorry,” Blade said.
“Don’t apologize,” Pucci remarked. “I’m alive, aren’t I?” He paused.
“Now, about this kidnapping business. I’m not involved, but if you give me time, I will try and find out who is behind it.”
Blade watched the Don’s men removing the corpses. Two men in jeans and T-shirt were approaching, bearing buckets and mops to soak up the puddles of blood. He saw eight or nine people playing a row of slot machines, and he wondered how they could callously disregard the bloodshed they’d just seen. How could they become so engrossed in the slot machines so soon after witnessing the Shootout? Why were the slot machines so fascinating? He recalled the token Mario had given him, the one in his left front pocket. If the opportunity arose, he intended to use the token and learn the secret of the slot machines firsthand. He…
The token!
Blade abruptly remembered the other token in his possession, the one in his back pocket, the one he had found on the corpse in Halma, the one from the man killed at the kidnapping scene. He reached into the pocket and fished out the blue token, then held it up to read the words printed on both sides: JOHNNY’S PALACE.
What a fool he’d been!
Blade suddenly perceived the reason for his previous ambiguous feelings of unease. The answer had been staring him in the face the whole time, figuratively speaking, and he’d been too dense to notice! Why would the man found dead near Halma have a token from Don Giorgio’s casino unless he frequented that casino!
He looked down at Don Pucci. “Would one of your men gamble in Giorgio’s casino?”
Don Pucci snorted. “None of my men would be caught dead in Giorgio’s joint. The games there are rigged.”
“What about Giorgio’s men?” Blade probed. “Would they gamble in your casino?”
Don Pucci shook his head. “Not likely. I don’t trust any of Pucci’s men.
They rarely come in here, because if they do I have one of my boys stick with them like glue. It makes them too uncomfortable.” He squinted at Blade for a moment. “Why are you asking all these questions?”
“There were three people with Helen’s daughter when she was abducted,” Blade detailed. “Two of them were murdered. We also found the body of a stranger. And on his body I found this.” He flipped the token to the Don.
Don Pucci deftly caught it and inspected the token. His lips compressed and his nostrils flared.
“One more thing,” Blade said, acting on his hunch. “What does Don Giorgio look like?”
“How should I describe him?” Don Pucci replied. “He has black hair and brown eyes. He’s a heartless bastard, the meanest-looking son of a bitch you’d ever want to meet.”
Ted’s word came back to Blade in a rush. “His hair was black, his eyes brown. His face was kind of mean looking.” He placed his right hand on his forehead and stared at the floor.
Geronimo nudged his friend’s right elbow. “What’s the matter?”
“Blade? What is it?” Helen added.
Blade removed his hand, his countenance set in a chiseled mask of suppressed indignation. “We were set up,” he said huskily.
“What are you talking about?” Helen asked, perplexed.
“Don Pucci didn’t take Mindy,” Blade elaborated. “Don Giorgio did. Giorgio is using us. He probably hoped we’d barge into this casino and confront Don Pucci. Why else was Ted told we could find Mindy at the Golden Crown Casino?”
“Then Mindy isn’t here?” Helen queried, distraught by the revelation.
Blade shook his head.
“Giorgio wanted us to kill Pucci for him,” Geronimo deduced.
“That’s my guess,” Blade concurred.
“If Mindy isn’t here, where is she?” Helen inquired.
“I can answer that,” Don Pucci interjected. “If Giorgio took your daughter to set you up to whack me, then she’s either in his joint or dead.”
“Oh, no!” Helen said mournfully.
“If you take him on, if you try to locate the girl in his casino, he’ll kill her for sure,” Don Pucci stated. “He’s not about to leave around any evidence connecting him to this caper.”
Helen looked at Blade. “What do we do?”
“We need to come up with a plan,” Blade replied.
“He’s right,” Don Pucci said. “You must play it cagey. If you rush over to the Palace, Mindy is as good as dead. If Giorgio spots any of you in his joint, he’ll snuff her.”
The three Warriors exchanged startled glances.
“Hickok!” Blade exclaimed.
“Who is this Hickok?” Don Pucci questioned.
“He’s a Warrior, like us,” Blade answered. “And he’s in Giorgio’s casino right this moment!”
“Then God help Mindy,” the Don stated grimly.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“How many cards do you want, hick?” the professional gambler asked. He was holding the deck in his left hand.
Hickok glanced at the ring of spectators watching the game. Over an hour ago they had started gathering, after word of his winning streak had circulated around the casino. Initially, six players had been in the game, but one by one Hickok had eliminated them. Now only the arrogant gambler remained, and it was his turn to deal.
“Come on, hick,” the gambler said, baiting the gunfighter. “I don’t have all day.”
Hickok deliberately stalled. How much longer, he wondered, did he need to stay in Giorgio’s casino? How much time did he need to buy Blade and the others? It would be dark soon. Surely they had found Mindy by now. But if so, why hadn’t one of them shown up to let him know? He glanced at the Henry, leaning against the table to his left.
“How many cards?” the gambler repeated.
Hickok gazed at his hand. Three kings, a four, and a nine. He discarded the four and the nine. “Two.”
The gambler dealt two cards to the gunman.
Hickok picked up the cards and almost laughed aloud. The two of spades and the two of diamonds! He had a full house!
“Dealer takes three,” the gambler said, and did so.
Hickok was beginning to worry about his friends. He had stayed in the Palace to insure he was the focus of Giorgio’s attention. Sure enough, he’d been under surveillance all day. He suspected they would shadow him if he departed the casino, and he didn’t want to lead Giorgio’s men to his fellow Warriors. But he was growing weary of waiting, and he was extremely concerned for Blade, Geronimo, and Helen. What if they were in trouble?
He decided to give them until nightfall, then go looking for them, shadows or no shadows.
“Are you playing or daydreaming?” the gambler snapped.
Hickok smiled sweetly. This varmint was going to get his, real soon!
“It’ll cost you to stay in the game, Big-Mouth. Five hundred.” He counted out the chips and added them to the pot.
The gambler studied the man in buckskins. He was convinced the blond man was a country bumpkin, and he was determined to show the upstart how the game of poker was played by a real pro. “You’re not bluffing me, mister. I’ll match your five hundred.”
Hickok watched the gambler slide five hundred to the center of the table.
“What do you have?” the gambler asked belligerently.
Hickok laid his cards on the table, face up. “Read ’em and weep, sucker.”
The gambler looked like he was choking. He turned crimson and sputtered, then dropped his hand on the table in disgust.
Hickok reached out and claimed the pot. “Stick around. I’ll give you some lessons on how to play this game.” He grinned at the recollection of the many hours he’d spent playing card games at the Home. Rummy. Gin.
Pinochle. Poop on Your Neighbor. Fish. Poker. Many others. The Family members never actually gambled; they played for the sheer fun of playing.
And as an avid student of the Old West, Hickok’s favorite game was poker.
“Damn you!” the gambler suddenly barked. He stood, shoving his chair backwards.
The spectators scurried away from the table.
“You shouldn’t gamble if you’re a poor loser,” Hickok remarked.
“You son of a bitch!” the gambler spat out. He swept the right flap of his coat aside, revealing a Charter Arms Bulldog revolver in a holster on his right hip. “On your feet!”
Hickok slowly rose, his hands resting on the table. “If you apologize, real nice like, you’ll live to play cards again some day.”
The gambler snorted contemptuously. “Apologize! You can kiss my ass first!”
“I wouldn’t touch your butt with a brandin’ iron,” Hickok retorted.
A new voice intruded on their dispute. “Hold it right there!” Giorgio’s right-hand man, Kenney, hurried up to the table. “Murphy, you’ve been warned about your temper before!” he admonished the gambler. “And you know the rules. No gunplay.”
“Hang the rules!” Murphy declared. “This is between him and me!”
“The Don will not appreciate this,” Kenney noted.
“I’m not backing down to this hick!” Murphy said angrily.
Hickok’s blue eyes became flinty. “Are you going to pull your iron, or are you aimin’ to insult me to death?”
Murphy went for his revolver, his right hand sweeping down and up in a practiced draw, a draw he’d employed on 14 occasions to kill a foe. He was leveling the barrel when he was shocked to see twin Colts materialize in the hick’s hands.
Hickok fired both Pythons, the Magnums thundering. T
he heavy slugs bored into the gambler’s face, making cavities of his cheeks, and blew out the rear of his cranium.
Murphy was hurled to the floor, his body landing spread-eagled.
Chunks of flesh and bits of hair dotted the carpet around him.
Kenney gazed at the dead gambler. “Murphy had quite a rep,” he commented, then looked at the Warrior. “And you beat him.”
Hickok twirled the Pythons into their holsters. “Piece of cake.”
“You have a knack for racking up a body count,” Kenney remarked.
“If some coyote is plannin’ to perforate me,” Hickok noted, “I don’t intend to oblige them.”
“We’ll clean up the mess,” Kenney offered. “How are you fixed? Do you want more chips?”
“No,” Hickok said, glancing at the stakes he had won. “I already have a heap.” He picked up the Henry and slung it over his back.
“Looks to me like you have over five thousand there,” Kenney said as he scrutinized the piles on the table. “Do you want me to cash them for you?”
Hickok shrugged. “Why not. I’ll mosey around the casino.” He ambled off, heading for the slot machines. What should he play next? He’d spent the afternoon at various card games, capped off by his three-hour poker match. Boredom was setting in. He couldn’t understand how folks could spend so much time gambling. Playing cards at the Home for the sheer fun of it was one thing, but gambling was entirely different. When a person played for money, when valuables were at stake, the game lost its entertaining, recreational quality. Instead, a simple, relaxing pastime became a serious business of winning at all costs. The gambler had epitomized such an attitude; to Murphy, winning was everything, even at the cost of his life.
A middle-aged couple was playing one of the slots.
Hickok stopped and watched them. He casually scanned the casino, searching for his tail.
Fifteen yards away a young mobster in a beige suit was gazing overhead at a chandelier as if the fixture was the most interesting item in the universe.
Hickok grinned and walked over to the hit man. “Howdy.”
The young mobster was clearly ruffled by this unexpected development.
Nevada Run Page 12
