by L. J. Martin
“We made a propitious exit, I'd guess.”
“I'd guess. You got anything in your crib that'll put us even more in the crosshairs?”
“What I've got will take the NSA a month to de-encrypt.”
“Cool,” I say. “Let's get our mil then we'll figure out the next play.”
“We've got over an hour before we're to show up at the club.” Ahead of us a garbage truck is moving from house to house. “Pull up behind that truck.”
I do as instructed and when the two guys riding on the back unload and head up a driveway, Pax jumps out and dumps the phones in the back of the truck. He returns to the van, laughing. “With luck, they'll chase that garbage eatin' monster all over town.”
“With luck,” I agree. Then add, “I think we ought to be early and fit right into the crowd before Roth and his boys arrive. There are two .380s and ankle holsters in the hideout side-panel. Let's go in as inconspicuous as possible. Since this is a snatch and grab, let's grab a couple of stun guns out of the back. No shooting in this very public place if we can help it.”
Pax laughs. “Yeah, not to speak of the fact half the guys in this joint are likely to be carrying and a shit storm could result should we pull iron. They are, after all, Italian.”
“Is Gilbert available?”
“Yeah, but let's not get him locked up. Things are going to be tough enough without Sol around for a while.”
“What the fuck do you care?” I ask with a guffaw. “You're likely to be my cell mate in some federal grunge hole for the next fifteen to twenty.”
“Bullshit. I'm headed to Malta as soon as we collect from Pointer.”
“Good idea. All I want is Gilbert's eyes.”
“Get him on the cell,” and I do. “And ask him to bring the pellet gun I know he has.”
We arrive and I park down the block, wanting to get a little smarter before we charge in where angels fear to tread. Google, the ignorant man's friend. The Italian American Social Club is a non-profit club formed to be the social center of those of Italian heritage, and has been so in Vegas for over fifty years. In addition to a bar—with a small stage for entertainment—and restaurant, there's a meeting room and, of course, bocce ball courts. The place is stark white with highlights of red and green, the colors of the Italian flag. You might feel a little like you're in Rome as a number of decent life-size and larger sculptures adorn the entry. Lot's of local and a few national celebrities enjoy attention and are welcomed by the gaze of hundreds more from old and recent autographed photographs that adorn the walls, past visitors from Sinatra to those most wouldn't recognize unless you are part of the Vegas entertainment community.
In addition, I'd guess that at one time or another every Sicilian-boy and Mafioso in the country has visited.
I wish I was making an appearance under more pleasant circumstances as the reviews of the food, and entertainment, are mostly five star.
Gilbert pulls up behind us in his Kia and I climb into the back of the van, recover a night vision monocular and handheld radio, and hustle back and fill him in on the gig.
Then Pax and I head for the Italian American Club to wow a few beautiful ladies—who'll likely run from me—and try and abscond with one of their best customers without anyone noticing.
We make our way in and a pretty receptionist seats us in the bar, where we can grab a drink and enjoy the entertainment. As I might have guessed, the place is all red leather and dark wood. The bar, which seats at least twenty, runs the length of the room from the entry to the stage, and is lined mostly with ladies. Most of them nicely coifed, and beautifully if flashily dressed in a rainbow of color. Those colors are nicely complimented by blue hair on the majority of them. The few men at the bar and in the crowd are also among the three plus and even fourscore bunch. However, a few beauties are among the crowd, but even most of them are with older gentlemen. The fellas must be out with their nieces? And a few of the younger boys in shiny suits and silk shirts look as if they might be hired help. And some of them look competent, but hardly fearful. And when I say hired help I don't mean bodyguards, more likely gigolos.
I get a text from Gilbert and give it a glance. Four lights out in the back parking lot. The pellet gun has done its work.
Having the recommendation of Tobias Roth, even though unknown to him, we order the sausage and peppers and enjoy songs of another era, sung by a lady in a flowing red gown with a deep plunging neckline right out of a Casablanca era film. And she's great, her rendition of Stardust and Over the Rainbow bring back fond memories of my grandmother.
We take advantage of a lull in the music to grab a table near the center of the room.
I'm a little too engrossed with both the songs and the dish, accompanied by a glass of great 2012 Ornellaia Bolgheri Superiore, from Tuscany—why not blow it out with a two hundred-buck bottle when it may be prison water for a long while—when Pax taps me on the arm. I glance back at the door and see a guy who's nearly as tall as the six-foot-eight-inch doorway. He's not bulky, but rather one of those dudes with long limbs and cord like muscles—obvious in his neck. I'd guess him six four and two hundred twenty-five pounds. Solid, not meaty, and likely about five percent body fat. Not the IAC's normal customer whose diet is vino, pasta, and tiramisu. He's noticeable, other than his size, by the way he's casing the room. And for the fact his suit is from Men’s Warehouse, not true designer, three grand and up as are most in the room. Moving to the side away from the bar he stands checking out every table. I laugh, a little too loudly, then as the singer finishes, stand to give her an ovation as she says she's taking a break.
I glance back and see what's clearly a tell. Slim's wearing an earpiece.
Slim returns to the entry and disappears into the foyer, then shortly reappears, followed by another muscle-fuck. They are escorted by the receptionist to a table behind us, with a row of tables separating.
The receptionist returns to the foyer and reappears followed by Tobias Roth, and six feet behind him another no-neck. Roth is escorted to a table for four, and takes it, alone. The bodyguard following joins the other two behind us. We're sandwiched between them.
A dapper fellow who's a double for a well-tanned and coifed George Hamilton, but twenty years younger, moves to Roth's table and pays his respects. Following closely is the waitress, with Roth's sausage and peppers and a glass of red.
The Hamilton look-alike excuses himself and Roth picks up a fork, but before he digs in, he turns and his eyes stop on me. He looks me up and down, and smiles. I think I've amused him...better than having him recognize me, which likely would not amuse.
He glances back and stares, as if he's trying to figure out where he's seen me, and I slap old Pax on the back and laugh a little too loudly again.
If he recognizes me, we're sunk.
46
But he glances at Pax, then back to me, shakes his head, smiles, then goes back to his sausage, peppers, and vino rosso.
I feel my phone vibrate again. And it's a text from Gilbert. Limo driver & 1 more. Waiting. Big guys.
Stay away, I reply. I glance at the time. It's nine forty-five. So I add to my return text. Pointer arrive?
No, comes right back. Roth has five guys with him. Talk about paranoid.
“What?” Pax asks, and I hand him the phone so he can read. He does, then cautions, in a very low tone, “Roth is a fast eater. Hope he doesn't eat and run before Pointer gets here.”
I get an idea, and text Vanessa. Just as Roth takes his last bite, the barmaid walks up to his table with a bottle of the same wine we're drinking.
“I didn't order that,” he says, seeming a little irritated.
She flashes a smile. “Some sexy sounding lady did, over the phone. Said she was an admirer of yours. Wouldn't give her name.”
He shrugs.
“It's a two-hundred-dollar bottle,” she says. “A great 2012 Ornellaia from Tuscany.”
“What the hell, pop it.” And she does, and pours it in a fresh glass.
If he drinks even half of it, it should buy us another twenty minutes. But then my phone vibrates again. Pointer here. In back. Black limo. 3 others with him.
Looks like the makings of a hell of a party.
“We're a go,” I say to Pax and he waves our waitress over as the torch singer takes up All of Me. I smile as she hits, “All of me, why not take all of me,” and I hope it's an invitation to take all of Roth.
We pay up and rise as if we're going to leave. The hallway to the restrooms is lined with celebrity photographs, most autographed, and we move ten feet down the hallway past the door to the men's room and pretend to be admiring the pics, but in fact are praying that Roth has to take a leak. He's likely in his sixties, probably older but has gone under the knife, so probably has to take more leaks than we young guys...I hope. Even if not, we’ll take him as soon as he exits the joint.
Tall Slim is the first guy out the door, again they’re moving in waves. He walks over and eyes us both up and down, and Pax, being the great actor he's proving to be, laughs drunkenly and points at a picture. Slim studies us but just for a moment, then enters the men's room, but only for a recon as he’s quickly back. He disappears back into the foyer. Roth appears and goes into the head, not giving us even a glance, while the first two bodyguards take up a position on either side of the john doorway.
“Stun,” I whisper to Pax, and he flashes me a smile.
We head for the foyer, laughing and jabbering, which will take us past the two big dudes. We're doing our best gay-boy imitation. I take the lead by four feet, pass the first guy who's leaning on the wall eyeing us coldly like he'd like to slap us silly. I stop in front of my guy, and say in my best skippy imitation. “My, my, aren't you the big one...” I'm eyeing him up and down.
“Take a hike, sweetheart,” he says, with a laugh, not pissed but amused. Pax is in front of the other big dude and I glance over as he gives his guy a wink, but his guy is way less than amused.
Mine speaks through a crooked grin. “You two go on before you get in bad fucking trouble.”
I reach out and put a hand on his chest. “Don't be so grumpy,” I say, and pout a lip, removing the stun gun from my pocket with the other hand. At the same time I'm glancing back at the foyer to make sure no one's watching. I feint moving away, then drive the stun gun into his plexes. He quakes like 1906 San Francisco, then collapses to his knees. I glance over and Pax has done the same. Both big guys are on the floor mimicking a fish out of water. We slip up our pant-legs and recover the .380s from the ankle holsters.
As quickly as we can we drag the two Ram defensive tackle sized guys into the john, all the time looking over our shoulder to see if Roth is waiting with a semi-auto in hand.
He's not, he's in a stall, if the legs and dropped pants showing beneath the door are an indication. I, hands under his armpits, drop my guy, whose head bounces off the tile floor. I give the metal stall door a karate kick, but only dent it.
“What the fuck,” rings out from inside the stall. I kick the hell out of the door, and to my surprise a hole appears high-center and a shot whistles beside my ear, way too close for comfort, and way, way too loud in the confined space. Two inches left and I'd be looking up at grass roots and worms.
Both Pax and I drop to a knee, .380s in hand, and firing up-angle so we don't hit him, pull off two shots fast, venting the stall door and walls.
“Okay! Okay!” Screams come from inside.
“Slide the piece out under the stall,” I shout.
And it spins past me on the tile floor.
“We gotta move,” Pax says.
I kick the door again, and this time it knocks the latch off and smashes back against the stall sidewall, making Roth collapse back on the toilet.
“Move it,” I command, and he rises and steps out, hitching his pants and buckling up his belt.
“You fuckers are dead meat,” he says, snarling. But coming from a five-feet- eight-inch guy who’s over sixty and whose bodyguards are flat on their backs trying to get a breath, it’s not overly impressive.
I shove him out in front of us, and there in the doorway to the foyer stands big Slim, a large caliber revolver leveled on us. Fortunately, I have Roth by the collar and he's our cover...not big enough to be much, but some cover.
“Throw it down or I’ll shoot your dumb ass…through him,” I say, shoving my little .380 against Roth’s spine.
Slim looks dubious and doesn't mind well, until Roth screams at him.
“Throw it down and get the hell out of the way!”
He throws the piece back over his shoulder, spins, and runs for the dining room like a Los Alamitos quarter horse out of the gate. A dozen people have already crowded the doorway, wondering what's going on, and he shoves them aside. A dozen not-so-smart people, running toward gunfire.
Pax and I flank Roth, who's about six inches shorter than either of us and I'd guess fifty pounds lighter. We've got him on tiptoes, one on either side, as we bust out the door.
We're twenty feet short of the parking lot when we spot the black limo and the two big dudes see us coming and, knowing something’s coming down, fill their hands as they round it to take cover behind the hood.
Trying to keep Roth between us and the limo, which is impossible, we hit the parking lot and turn toward the rear.
I glance back and see that Slim has recovered his revolver and is filling the door, nicely backlit by the foyer's bright lights. I lay down on him with the little .380, but don't fire as I realize the foyer behind him is filling with diners. Friggin' Italians don't have a clue, or more likely have had too much vino.
We crowd Roth, not wanting to give any of the three a shot at us. To add insult to injury, another of the guys we'd used the stun guns on joins Slim behind us.
Backing up, we keep Roth between us and what is now four guys gathered and moving forward as we back along the side of the club, toward the rear parking area. Thanks to Gilbert and his pellet gun, it's getting darker as we go.
Suddenly the area behind us lights up with muzzle flashes and the hammering rattle of gunfire deafens me. Automatic fire…we’re way outgunned.
From habit, I drop prone and level the gun on those in front, as does Pax. And I think Roth must be a survivor as well, as he drops too, but he drops all the way flat to his belly, and I see blood blossoming on his back. He’s gone down like a box of rocks, and his eyes are open and unmoving.
Both in front, behind, and to the side of us semi and automatic gunfire lights the night and I get visions of Falluja, but I've yet to fire a shot. I’m a fair judge and if there’s not at least a thousand rounds filling the air from all sides, I’m way off.
It seems minutes, but is actually only seconds, when all goes quiet.
“You hit?” I yell at Pax.
“Grazed, creased maybe, and my fucking bad leg too. You?”
“I don't think—” Then I realize my side feels like I've been branded with a hot iron. And I'm bleeding enough it's pushing through the fingers I’ve clasped over the wound.
47
“Let’s move,” I say, through clenched teeth.
“Roth?” Pax asks as we crab back to where we hope Pointer waits with our money.
“Took two in the chest. He’s not even bubbling.”
“That should be delivery enough,” Pax says. He’s the money guy, and proving again to be. I’m concerned about living to collect.
But Pointer and three of his guys are spread out like cordwood, and just as chopped up. And there's no bag of hundreds in sight.
“Fuck,” Pax yells. “Where's the bag?”
I glance back and two LVPD squad cars are wheeling into the parking lot, lights and sirens blazing.
“Let's go,” and with me holding my side, trying to stop the bleeding, and Pax limping more than usual, we duck between cars and head to a fence at the back of the parking lot. To my surprise, Gilbert's head pokes up over the fence. “Hey, this way,” he yells, and we scramble to the wall.
I boost Pax over the concrete block, and both he and Gilbert haul me over. To both our credit neither of us yells in pain, as the adrenalin must be wearing off as I’m hurting like hell.
But we’re clear and in an alley, as is Gilbert's Kia. We pile in, and he floors it.
“Slow down, drive the speed limit,” I chastise him, gasping a little.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says, obviously wired. “I can't believe you guys are alive.”
“Thankfully, they were shooting at each other far more than us,” Pax says.
And I repeat, “Thankfully. Let's find a doc before we fucking bleed out. I feel like a weasel has crawled in this hole in my side and is gnawing away.”
“Vanessa,” Gilbert says.
“Vanessa?” I ask.
“She was a nurse before she took up the computer. She hates blood, which is the main reason she quit, but she's got all the gear.”
“Then Vanessa it is,” I say, and lay back, trying to keep pressure on the through and through hole in my left side, just below the rib line. I’ll be fine, presuming the bullet didn’t clip a bowel.
I ask Seri to dial Vanessa as Gilbert drives, and luckily, she's home, and equally lucky home is only fifteen blocks or so.
She meets us on the street and, as Pax leans on her and I lean on Gilbert, we leave his Kia double parked and make our way into her condo. Her kitchen table looks like the trays in an operating room.
“Jesus,” I manage as she lays me back across the table, picks up a hypodermic, sucks some Lidocaine from a little bottle, and injects it front and back...but it hardly touches the pain when she runs a swab, soaked in some antiseptic, repeatedly through and through the wound. I thought I'd stopped tearing up when my mother died. Stitching up both the entry and much larger exit wound is a lark compared to the swab. She does the same to Pax, and watching him wince is the only laugh I’ve had in a while. I get an extended middle finger from him in response.
