Jacks Are Wild: An Out of Time Novel (Saving Time, Book 1)

by Martin, Monique

  “I don’t suppose you can bring a steak dinner out here, can you?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “That’s a shame,” he said with a mock serious frown and made a show of squinting and reading her name tag, “Charlene. Ever since I got off the plane, I’ve been craving a steak dinner. You know, baked potato, the works.”

  “Well, they serve a pretty good steak over at the Shangri-La.” She tossed her head to the side to indicate the entrance on the other side of the lobby.

  He scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes in a show of consideration, but tinged with doubt. “Pretty good?”

  She looked at him for a moment, then quickly over her shoulder before leaning in. She smelled like mint. “Not half as good as the ones over at the Golden Steer, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

  She leaned back and he nodded seriously.

  “Thank you. That leaves just one problem,” he said with a sigh.

  She lifted her chin. “Yeah?”

  “Doctor says it’s best if I don’t eat alone.”

  She fought down a smile. “Oh, he does, does he?”

  Jack grinned.

  “Well,” she said and glanced again over her shoulder. “I work a double tonight, but I’m off—”

  “Hey,” the sweaty man said, “You gonna get my drink or what?”

  Charlene took a deep breath and smiled at him. “Right away.”

  She looked at Jack apologetically and tilted her head toward the casino floor. “I gotta.”

  Jack nodded. “Tomorrow?”

  Her eyes brightened. “I get off at ten.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Me, too, toots!” the other man yelled out after her as she walked away.

  Jack glared at him and the man gave him a big gap-toothed smile.

  As tempting as it was to widen that gap, Jack pocketed his change and left. The steak might have been a line, but he was actually hungry, so he headed for the Shangri-La.

  He had to cross through the lobby to get there, and just as he was midway through, a couple walked through the front doors of the hotel. He felt the Santos before he even saw them. There was an unmistakable shift in the air, as every employee stood a little taller, looked a little sharper. The way people did when royalty appeared. And in Vegas, the owners were royalty.

  An obsequious little man hurried to their side.

  Tony Santo strode into the place like he owned it, which he did. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his black hair. His gold pinky ring glistened as he tamed his hair back into place. He was tall, dark, and handsome and knew it. Mid-thirties and in the prime of his life.

  His suit was expensive, and even from here Jack could see the buff on his manicured fingernails. Everything about him, from the way he held himself to the way he scanned his kingdom, made it clear he was the top dog. Judging from the way the people around him scurried about, righting a sign that was slightly askew and standing at attention, he was used to getting his way and there was hell to pay if he didn’t.

  He gave the little man an indifferent smile along with his hat. The man started to say something, but Santo turned away, apparently not interested. His attention was on something else and as he held out his hand to beckon his wife forward, Jack understood why.

  He’d seen photographs of Susan Santo in the dossier, but they didn’t do her justice. Not by a mile. There were some women who were so beautiful it almost hurt. Susan Santo was one of those.

  As she took off her headscarf, her blond hair fell in a perfect wave and even more perfect curls at the ends just above her shoulders. One side of her hair was tucked behind a delicate ear that had a pearl the size of a small car dangling from it. Her skin was a lighter shade of the same gold that her hair had been spun from.

  She had that cool look about her, that sophisticated upper-class, two-martini lunch look, but there was also a little speck of vulnerability, the kind that made a man’s heart tighten in his chest.

  Jack let out a low whistle. This assignment had just gotten a lot more interesting. Not that he’d try anything with her. Hell, he wasn’t crazy and he had rules about married women, but that didn’t mean he was immune from her charms, and dammit, if she wasn’t … gifted in that department.

  She kissed her husband’s cheek. He smiled and then stepped back as he admired her the same way he had the hotel. He brushed something from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Pride in ownership.

  The little man who held Santo’s hat tried to speak to him again, but Santo dismissed him with a wave of his hand as he and his wife started through the lobby and into the casino.

  The human seas parted before them. A small but noticeable entourage followed close behind. Two of them looked like businessmen, but the third was in a different sort of business; he was a slab of meat in a suit. His hands were thick, knuckles permanently swollen like his cauliflower ear. He had that hulking presence of a boxer who got paid for taking as much punishment as he gave: big and slow and brutal.

  He scanned the crowd as he walked with the Santos. Jack picked up a newspaper that had been discarded on a coffee table in the small seating area near him and dipped his head down to read it.

  Out of the corner of his eye Jack saw the five of them stop near the entrance to the casino floor. The two businessmen shook Santo’s hand and continued on.

  Jack tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked right toward them, and then past them to the cigarette machine along the wall.

  He searched his pockets for change as he eavesdropped.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come to the dedication tomorrow?” Susan asked.

  Her husband didn’t answer, but her sigh spoke for him.

  “All right,” she continued, clearly disappointed, but resigned to it. “He’d be happy to have you there, you know. He told me so.”

  Tony snorted. “That’d be the day.”

  “He’s not that bad.”

  “Then why is he yanking my chain, hmm?”

  Susan put a hand on her husband’s chest and smoothed down his lapel. “You know he doesn’t talk to me about that sort of thing.”

  Tony grunted. “Yeah, doesn’t want his precious daughter caught up in all that dirty business.”

  “Tony—”

  “Just tell him we’ve got to get this thing squared away, all right? This week.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “I’m serious,” Tony said, and from the tone of his voice, he was. Dead serious.

  Jack pulled the nickels he’d won from his pocket and put them into the machine. Not that he intended to light up; Elizabeth would kill him if he started smoking again, but he needed a reason to linger. He ran his finger over the rows of knobs and pulled the one for Lucky Strikes. The pack slid off its shelf and dropped into the collection bin. Jack bent down to get it and risked a quick look at the Santos.

  Susan caressed her husband’s cheek. “It’ll be all right.”

  Tony’s eyes softened for a moment, but it didn’t last long, and he squared his shoulders to reassert himself.

  Jack stood up and pocketed a pack of matches from a bowl on top of the machine. He tapped the pack a few times against the palm of his hand.

  A well-dressed couple stopped by to shake Tony’s hand and to thank him for the tickets to the show he’d given them. He smiled amiably, the generous host.

  Susan smiled politely and stood by quietly until they’d gone.

  “Those two men from Sports Illustrated will be here tomorrow,” she said. “Do you want to meet them for dinner or—”

  Tony frowned and shook his head, distracted by something. “I don’t have time for that. You handle it.”

  Susan and Jack followed his gaze. A pair of men lingered in the lobby, clearly waiting for him.

  Tony turned back to Susan. He smiled at her. “Come on, baby, you know I’ve got things to do. We’ve got the big anniversary coming up.”

  “Which I’m
also handling.”

  “And you’re doing a beautiful job.” He kissed her cheek. “You know me. I’ll just put my foot in it with a reporter. You? You can just smile and he’ll forget why he’s here.”

  Susan rolled her eyes, but from the smile she was fighting, it was clear she was pleased with the compliment.

  Tony took her by the elbow and kissed her cheek again. “I gotta …” He nodded his head toward the men. “But I’ll see you for dinner, right? Nobody else. Just us.”

  Before Susan could say anything he’d already left.

  She watched him go and let out another sigh.

  The bodyguard took a step to follow his boss, but turned back. “You want I should walk you to the apartment, Mrs. Santo?”

  Susan shook her head. “No. It’s all right, Frank. You go with him.”

  Frank nodded and hurried to catch up with his boss.

  Susan stood there alone for a long moment watching them both before turning toward Jack. Not wanting to be seen yet, he turned away at the same time. He opened his pack and lit a cigarette. He took a few steps away and tossed his spent match into the sand of a nearby floor ashtray.

  He took a drag from it, unfiltered, and felt the nicotine go straight to his head. He tilted his head back slightly and blinked a few times, surprised at how light-headed it made him feel. Slowly, he blew the smoke out and then turned to walk past Susan, but she was already gone.

  Chapter Five

  “HOWDY, PARDNER!”

  JACK SQUINTED up at the forty-foot tall neon cowboy waving his giant mechanical arm, puffing on his cigarette and welcoming all and sundry to downtown Las Vegas. Perched just above the Frontier at the mouth of Fremont Street, Vegas Vic set the tone. Big, loud and flashy. That was Vegas, although downtown was a different animal from the Strip.

  Compared to the big sprawling resorts that dotted the Strip and lured people with topnotch entertainment and accommodations, downtown spoke a rougher and more direct language. The clubs downtown were about gambling. And drinking, but mostly gambling. They didn’t conjure up images of a dreamy escape like the Stardust, the Flamingo or the Paradise. They weren’t selling a vacation, they were selling something else. Many of them still had the Western themes that shaped this part of the country: the Golden Nugget, the Pioneer, and the La Fortuna. It was Glitter Gulch. People still came west in search of gold. Only now, instead of using pans and pickaxes, they did it with dice and cards.

  Odds were about the same, too, Jack thought as he crossed Main Street and headed into the heart of downtown.

  He had the cab drop him off at the train station. There was always something telling about how a city met a person just off the train. In this case, every disembarking passenger was greeted by big old Vic, literally luring them into this larger than life town.

  Jack walked a few blocks down casino row. He passed the Mint, the Lucky Strike, and a half dozen other hotels and casinos. This was closer to the Las Vegas he’d visited nearly thirty years ago, but it was still a far cry from the mining town he’d seen then.

  Although they were still bright and colorful, the big marquees looked a little out of place in the daylight. They felt awkward somehow when you weren’t blinded by the bright lights, when you could see the bulbs. However, that didn’t stop the throngs of people moving from casino to casino, stepping out into the daylight only to hurry back inside into the dark.

  He walked a few more blocks, and even though it was barely noon, he could already feel the heat from the pavement through the soles of his shoes.

  It hadn’t been hard to find out just what dedication Susan Santo had been talking about yesterday. There was even a small article in the local newspaper about it.

  It was for a local community center, the Carson J. Whitmore Community Center to be more accurate. Carson Whitmore was, apparently, a pillar of the community and not coincidentally the owner of one of the oldest casinos downtown, the La Fortuna. He also happened to be Susan Santo’s father.

  He was an old school Texas oilman who found a second fortune in the Nevada desert. He was one of the early entrepreneurs who saw what the little whistle stop in the desert could become. According to the file the Council had given Jack, Whitmore built the La Fortuna in 1941 just before the war. Shortly after that, the government set up the Army Gunnery School just a few miles away. Whitmore made a mint from the thousands of men who trained there, learning how to shoot guns during the day and how to shoot craps at night.

  He’d bought up several other large tracts of land, but didn’t develop them. He’d leased some to the government and one to his then-new son-in-law, Tony Santo.

  As Jack rounded a corner, he heard a small brass band playing the last few bars of The Yellow Rose of Texas and knew he was close. A few other curious people were drawn to the sound and he filtered in with them as they joined the crowd in a large parking lot.

  There was a small raised stage with red, white, and blue bunting draped across the front of it and hanging over it in patriotic waves. Jack inched his way through the crowd to get closer to the stage.

  Carson Whitmore was hard to miss. He looked to be about six foot two and big in every sense of the word. Big features, big barrel chest, and a big Stetson hat on top of it all. But it wasn’t just the imposing figure he cut, it was the way he stood astride the stage, boots planted firmly apart, chest out. This was a powerful man.

  Standing next to him was Susan, looking as beautiful as ever, and next to her stood a man in his late thirties, probably her brother Ronnie. As naturally poised as Susan was, Ronnie was the opposite—fidgety, nervous, a sheen of sweat making his forehead shine. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin.

  As the music ended, a white-haired man stepped up to the front of the stage and held up his hands to silence the applause.

  “Thank you! Thank you for coming. As mayor of Las Vegas I have a great many privileges. Not the least among them is that I can call Carson Whitmore my friend.”

  He glanced over at Whitmore, who smiled humbly and tipped his hat. Susan wound her arm through her father’s and smiled up at him with genuine affection. He patted her hand and his chest puffed out a little more.

  “And a better friend you will not find,” the mayor continued. “To a man or to a city. Without his generosity, we wouldn’t have the park over on Fifth or the Addie May Whitmore Memorial wing of our local hospital. And today we can add this fine place to the list of his many gifts to our city, the Carson J. Whitmore Community Center. We are lucky to have it and have him among us. Come on up here, Carson, say a few words.”

  The crowd applauded again and the mayor turned back to Whitmore who smiled and waved to the crowd. He kissed Susan’s cheek before stepping forward and shaking the mayor’s hand.

  “Thank you. As you know, I’m not a man prone to make long speeches,” he said with a Texas drawl, “If I were I’d be a politician.”

  He glanced over at the mayor as the crowd laughed.

  “But we have enough of those,” he continued. “I’m just a businessman. Trying to give a little bit back to the city that’s given me and my family so much. Now,” he said, as he took off his hat and squinted up at the sun, “seein’ as how it’s hotter than blue blazes out here, what say we all go inside and enjoy the shade?”

  The crowd laughed and clapped again. Whitmore shook the mayor’s hand.

  “D-don’t forget the free ice cream and soda,” Ronnie called out to the dispersing crowd. “Courtesy of La Fortuna.”

  Whitmore glowered at him and his son’s smile withered. Whitmore took Susan’s arm and helped her down the steps by the side of the stage. He quickly turned his frown into a gracious smile as he shook hands with people who came up to say hello.

  Jack lingered near the stage as people made their way to personally thank Whitmore.

  “You have a good time,” Whitmore said to one couple before he turned back to Ronnie. “What did I tell you about that? This isn’t—”

  Before he could finish, anoth
er man stepped up and interrupted.

  “Whitmore.”

  Whitmore paused, but didn’t immediately turn around. He let out a sigh and slowly turned to face the man. The distaste in his expression was clear.

  “What do you want?”

  The man took a staggering step forward and hitched up his pants. He swayed a little, clearly drunk. He jabbed a finger toward Whitmore. “You’re gonna be sorry.”

  Whitmore shoved his hand away. “You do that again and you’re going to be the one that’s sorry.”

  “Daddy?” Susan asked anxiously at his side.

  Another fan and his wife reached out to shake Whitmore’s hand. He smiled at them and tipped his hat to the lady. But the drunken man stood his ground, or at least swayed on it.

  Jack edged around the back of the small crowd gathered around Whitmore. He kept his eye on the drunk as he did and his heart sped up a little when, as the man was jostled, the edge of his jacket was pushed back and Jack saw the butt of a revolver sticking out of his waistband.

  He started to move toward Whitmore.

  “Excuse me,” Jack said as he shouldered through the crowd in his way.

  The man leaned in close. “You think you can just treat Joey Falco like that? Just toss him out?”

  Whitmore’s jaw clenched, but he kept his face cold and hard. His eyes glittered as he stared at Falco. “Ronnie, take your sister inside.”

  But Ronnie was already slinking away toward the community center, abandoning Susan with their father.

  “Ronnie?”

  When Whitmore turned to see where his son had gone, Falco made his move. He reached for the gun at his hip.

  Someone—Susan, Whitmore or an innocent bystander, was going to get shot if Jack didn’t move quickly.

  “Falco!” he called out.

  The man turned in confusion and that split second bought Jack the time he needed. He got to Falco’s side just as he gripped his gun. Jack grabbed his wrist and twisted. The barrel of the gun dug into Falco’s side.

  Jack clapped his other hand around Falco’s shoulder and held him in place.