by Pete Lister
“What if your net profit was only ten bucks a head, and you averaged forty people on the bus? That’s four hundred a day. If you could do that five days a week, that would be two grand a week. Take two weeks off a year, and that gives you the potential for a hundred grand a year.
“Of course, you won’t always run full, but the fact that I don’t know the cost of the bus off the top of my head doesn’t mean that you couldn’t turn a profit, especially if you ran five or six days a week, like some of the outfits do. Hell, you could run seven days a week and hire somebody to be your tour guide for the days you didn’t want to go.”
“How much would I have to pay someone to do it?”
“Not much. Most of the guides I know do it for the free ride and the free package, ‘cause they like to gamble themselves. The peanuts they earn just go into the slots, anyway.”
Ashley had grabbed the idea and run with it, and soon they were taking two-, three-, and four-day trips to casinos all over the Midwest. Every couple of months, they even did a week in Tupelo, Mississippi. She made a reasonable mark-up for the coach, she got a discount on each hotel room, and she figured out early on that you didn’t have to tip the driver if you were engaged to him. Between them, they were doing okay.
§ § §
Ashley, who at a statuesque five eight, looked like a young Michelle Pfeiffer, had no problem filling her buses. A very classy lady, the passengers loved the spunky blonde. She provided games and snacks, movies and magazines, and she kissed and hugged the old folks. She always requested Drew for her tours, and usually got him, and it was like living on vacation. When they took multi-day trips, which were her specialty, they shared his room, and life was good.
After doing his pre-trip inspection this morning, he’d opened up the two front luggage bays on the right side of 361, his MCI D4500 motor coach. That was the side facing the casino, and with only twenty-seven passengers, he didn’t really need to use the other side. If he did, he’d just push the bags in, since the bays ran all the way through the width of the coach.
He wouldn’t need the third bay, either, which was good. When he’d pre-tripped the coach yesterday morning before leaving Milwaukee, he’d seen the note warning him not to use Bay 3. Maintenance had told him that the lock was broken, they had some on order, and they’d replace it after the bus returned from this trip.
Drew looked over toward the front of the hotel, where a man was hurrying toward him from the lobby. The guy wasn’t carrying any luggage, so he thought it was one of his passengers. Drew had set a luggage dolly out by the lobby door with Ashley’s tour sign on it, so the passengers could just leave their bags in the lobby. He figured that’s what this guy had done.
As the man approached, though, Drew realized he wasn’t one of his, after all. The stranger walked to the Monte Carlo parked on the far side of the coach, by the lake, nodding at Drew as he passed. It was the universal sign between strangers that meant, “Hello, I don’t know you and I’m not going to speak to you but as long as I’m walking right past you I’ll do you the courtesy of acknowledging your presence even though you’re a stranger, don’t speak to me, goodbye.” Drew nodded back, climbed aboard, and started the big 285hp diesel engine. Seeing Ashley standing at the front door, Drew assumed that she was ready for him, and he pulled out to drive to the front door of the hotel.
As the coach approached the lobby entrance, two black Cadillac Escalades raced into the parking lot and cut Drew off as he was starting his turn to pull up to the curb. They slid to a stop in front of the lobby as he pulled alongside them. Four men jumped from each vehicle and ran into the hotel.
Since the two Escalades had taken the curb, with the hood of the front one just short of the front door, Drew pulled past them. He parallel parked in front of them, leaving space for other guests to walk between the vehicles to get to or from the parking lot.
Parallel parking a car is easy. Parallel parking a coach, now, that took skill. Drew drove a full bus length past the front Escalade, easing closer to the curb. As he pulled forward, he looked out the right side to make sure he wouldn’t hit anything while swinging the tail end of the coach over the sidewalk. When he was about a bus length ahead of where he wanted to end up, he swung his wheel to the right to bring the rear of the coach in to the curb.
Watching his mirrors, he started backing. He glanced occasionally at his left mirror, while watching his right rear tires in his right mirror. When the right rear tires approached the sidewalk, he swung the wheel left until the coach was parallel with the curb. He stopped a full car length in front of the SUV and turned to where Ashley stood waiting on the sidewalk. She was just outside the door as he opened it, a smug grin on his face.
“I still don’t know how you do that,” she said, laughing. “But I’m proud as punch that you can always do it on the first try without jockeying around, the way Sam always does. It takes him two or three maneuvers to get up to the curb.”
“It would have been easier if I could have just pulled up along the curb. That’s what I would have done if those goons hadn’t cut me off.”
“Yeah, what do you suppose that’s all about?” Ashley asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe the president’s coming. Are the high rollers ready?”
“They’re in the restaurant finishing their coffee. The bags are all on the cart.”
While Ashley went in to round up her herd, Drew began loading the bags into the luggage bays. Before the customers began to straggle out, he took up his station at the bottom of the steps, ready to help the older passengers climb in.
As Ashley and her charges came out and lined up, Drew saw the eight men from the Escalades come out and start eyeballing the parking lot. One of them met Drew’s eye and nodded, the universal sign, again. Drew nodded back at him. Gentlemen of the world, acknowledging each other in passing.
The customers worked their way down the aisle, Ashley beginning her morning briefing as they found their seats. Drew pushed the luggage dolly back into the lobby. ‘These Indian casinos all look alike,’ he thought, as he looked around. ‘All wood, with furniture and fixtures made from branches and antlers, and lots of feathers in the décor, accented with subtle lighting. I like the look, but you seen one, you really seen them all.’
With Ashley and the last of the passengers settled in, Drew slowly pulled out, making a U-turn through the parking lot while being careful not to hit any of the eight guys from the Escalades, now wandering among the cars. He rolled out onto Simpson, headed for Turtle Lake. As he rolled out of the casino parking lot, he noticed the gray Monte Carlo parked across the street, watching him. Again, they exchanged nods.
The passengers were animated, and Ashley was on the P.A. system, telling them about their next stop, the St. Croix Hotel Casino, and the Chippewa Indians who owned it. When you traveled with Ashley’s Casino Tours, you knew where you were going, the history of the place, and which tribe owned it.
Drew was driving carefully, because Ashley liked to stroll while she talked, so she could see all the passengers. She wasn’t supposed to do that while the bus was rolling, but a lot of the tours guides did it. One even did the chicken dance in the aisle when somebody hit a bingo. The drivers didn’t usually say anything, since it tended to affect their tips.
He had just turned right onto WI-70, about four miles south of the casino, when the gray Monte Carlo came careening around him. As it disappeared around the curve up ahead, the two black Escalades from the hotel passed him, accelerating through the speed limit. ‘Wonder what that’s all about.’ Drew thought to himself, before going back to listening to Ashley’s sultry voice setting up a bingo game to entertain the old folks.
§ § §
6
“Shiv, we lost him.” Jack Paustian, the senior man on the crew Shiv had sent to Wisconsin, was on his cell phone, riding shotgun in the lead SUV. Just shy of forty, with a receding hairline starting to show gray around the edges, Jack had grown up with Shiv. He currently wore two hats
, serving both as Shiv’s right-hand man and his best friend. He was also married to Shiv’s sister.
§ § §
Wayne and Wendy Thompson, tenth and ninth graders, respectively, were sitting on the curb in front of Wells High, talking quietly. After lunch, Wayne had rounded the corner of the building in time to see four other girls hitting his sister. It took him only a minute to slap the four of them to the ground, kick them, and send them scurrying. Wayne helped her up, helped her clean off some of the dirt, and held her until she stopped crying.
Now school was out for the day, and they were sitting on the curb in front of the school. Wayne listened as his sister poured out her grief at being bullied by the four girls, and Wayne had promised to help her put a stop to it.
As they talked, Wayne spotted half a dozen older boys rounding the corner. The boys saw the Thompson kids immediately, and started running. Wayne stood up, pulled Wendy to her feet, and backed up to the school’s front door. As the boys stopped in front of them, Wayne pulled out a switchblade and opened it, daring them to come closer.
“Hey man, we gonna kick yo ass, and when we done kicking it, we gonna kick yo baby sister’s ass, too.” The biggest and oldest boy was puffing out his chest as he tried to intimidate Wayne.
“Bring it on, nancy-boy. Your pussy sisters can’t do any better than four on one against a freshman, and you think you’re gonna cover for them? Who’s first? C’mon you pussies, who wants to taste this first?” The boys were still trying to break bad, but none of them wanted to be the first one in on the kid with the switchblade.
“C’mon y’all, if we all jump him at the same time, he can’t do nothin’.” The big one was still trying to get his friends riled up enough to help him get this kid. Out of the corner of his eye, Wayne spotted another kid walking down the street whistling. The newcomer had a baseball bat on his shoulder, with a catcher’s mitt hanging from the end of it.
“How y’all doing?” he asked as he walked past.
“Piss off, pansy,” the oldest boy snarled. There was no warning before the bat caught him in the kidney. As he crumpled, the boy standing next to him caught the bat across his arm and everyone heard it snap. Two of the boys turned on the kid with the bat, but Wayne stepped in and stuck his knife into the arm of one of the pair. As the injured boy screamed, his partner caught the bat in the side of his head and went down like a sack of wheat. The last two boys broke and ran for the corner.
The Thompsons and the new kid were standing over the four boys. All four were on the ground, either unconscious or injured and moaning. Wayne, Wendy, and their new friend walked calmly away from the front of the school.
“You’re pretty handy with that shiv,” the ball player pointed out.
“You’re not bad with that bat, either,” Wayne told him. “I’m Wayne Thompson. This here’s my sister, Wendy. Thanks for the help. You come along just in time.”
“Not really. That big bastard beat up my kid brother yesterday. I’ve been looking all over the neighborhood for him. I don’t know if we’re through with them, though. We may have to do this, again.”
“Works for me,” Wayne told him. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Jack. Jack Paustian. We just moved into your building. I saw you leave for school this morning.”
“Well, Jack Paustian, you just made a friend for life.” Wayne told him.
“Well, Shiv Thompson, that’s good. I can probably use one of those.”
Wayne became Shiv, and Jack and Shiv became best friends. Jack and Wendy were married right after high school. When Shiv took over Nadolinski’s heroin operation, Jack immediately became his number two.
§ § §
“Jack, how the hell do eight professionals in two of the fastest wagons in the state lose a goddam fourteen-year old Chevy? Explain that to me, willya?”
“There was a casino bus in the lot at the hotel, Shiv. Lawrence was already in the parking lot when we got there, parked behind this bus, so we didn’t see him. We went into the hotel to look for him, and this bus pulls up right next to us, to load passengers, y’know? Anyway, while he’s maneuvering the bus around us, bastard pulls out of the lot on the other side of the bus. The bus pulls out, and we spotted him following it down the road.
“We went after him, but he saw us and he lights out on this highway. We went around the bus and spotted him up ahead going around a curve. When we got there, he was gone.
“Anyway, we’re cruising the highway now, looking for where he might have got off. We turned around and now we’re checking the sides of the road. Okay, there’s that bus, again. Same one. WAIT A MINUTE! Shiv! There he is! Following that bus, again! What the hell’s that about? Shiv, I gotta call you back!”
The two Escalades cut left from the right lane, almost running a new Peterbilt cattle-hauler off the road, and sprinted across the median, wheels spinning, dirt and grass spitting out behind them, as the big rig driver laid on his horn. By the time they cleared the median and were headed back west, Lawrence had spotted them and taken off, again. First the Monte Carlo, and minutes later, the Escalades, passed the bus, again, and were racing down the highway.
Three miles farther down the highway, the Escalades caught up with Lawrence. Mike Santini moved in ahead of him while Jack, riding shotgun, talked to Pat Mead on the phone. Pat was riding shotgun in the second SUV, trying to coordinate the traffic stop they were attempting without any cooperation from Lawrence John.
Mike advanced half a car length in front of the Monte Carlo, easing right to force Lawrence onto the shoulder. The second car was just behind the big Chevy, so that Lawrence couldn’t brake to avoid Mike. They were just beginning to slow him down by brushing his fender when the road curved sharply to the left.
The guard rail started just short of the curve, and began right at ground level, getting taller as the curve progressed. Lawrence was watching the Escalades instead of the road, and his car took the guard rail just inside his left front tire at seventy miles an hour. The Monte Carlo hung there for half a second, the front end coming up off the ground as the steel guard rail got higher, then flipped over in the air before hitting on the edge of the roof.
The car rolled three times, ejecting parts, dust, smoke and steam into the air around it before coming to rest, rocking on its top. Lawrence, wearing his seat belt and shoulder harness, flopped around like a rag doll, bouncing off his driver’s window until it shattered. Steam poured out of the bottom of the radiator and rose from the engine compartment, which had been forced out of shape by the rolling. All four tires were still spinning.
The Escalades pulled to a stop along the guard rail and backed up, stopping at the spot closest to the Chevy, and all eight of Shiv’s men rushed to the car. The first two approached the vehicle’s side and had just pulled the driver’s door open when they were greeted with gunfire.
Tommy Santini, Mike’s younger brother, was hit and dropped silently, his feet flipping up as his body was thrown back from the impact. He lay still on the gravel, his right arm outstretched, a scarlet stain, just to the left of the center of his chest, spreading down across his shirt. Shots continued to pour out the window, and through the windshield, which had shattered and flown out on the car’s first rotation.
Lawrence continued firing at them and, with nowhere to hide, Shiv’s men dropped and returned fire. Seeing his brother hit, Mike Santini bellowed and stepped in front of the Monte Carlo, firing through the hole where the windshield had been. Lawrence slumped, hanging from his seat belt and shoulder harness, blood running from his mouth and the numerous holes in his body, his eyes glazing. Another of Shiv’s men had gone down with a slug in his shoulder.
Two of the men then returned to the driver’s door, releasing Lawrence’s seat belt, while two more were trying to pull him out through the windshield, when the coach rolled past them.
§ § §
Coming down the road, Drew and his passengers could see the Monte Carlo that had passed them, lying on its top,
smoke and steam rising from the wreck. The two black Escalades had stopped to help. There were two men working on the side of the car, and two more trying to extricate the driver through the missing windshield, which had obviously popped out while the car was rolling.
“Drew! There’s an accident! Shouldn’t we stop and help?” Half a dozen blue-haired matrons lined the right side of the coach, their faces pressed against the windows like kids on a school bus. The oldest of the group, a brassy spring chicken of seventy-eight, was waving her arms to get Drew’s attention, while yelling for him to stop.
“I’m sorry, Lucy,” Drew said to her, using the coach’s PA system. “But there are already two vehicles on the scene, with at least half a dozen men there helping. Ashley’s calling 911 now, but if we stop, all we’ll do is complicate the situation and become a traffic hazard. Unless one of you is a doctor or a nurse, we don’t really have anything to contribute, and the State Patrol has asked us not to stop a coach alongside the highway unless we have an emergency.”
Ashley was already on the phone with 911, describing the scene and giving them the mile marker so an emergency response team could find the accident. The situation handled, Drew drove on to Turtle Lake.
§ § §
Drew had pulled up in front of the lobby door at the St. Croix Casino Hotel, and was pulling bags for the passengers when Ashley slipped up behind him. “I hope that guy’s okay from that accident. Did you see him?” she asked
“I don’t know, honey. He looked like he was unconscious and pretty bloody when we went past. They were trying to pull him out and he didn’t look like he was responsive, at all.”
“Should we have stopped?”
