King Con (1997)

by Stephen Cannell

The cops from the Bahamian Patrol now came running into the casino. Several of them were met by the Assistant Manager and led off to the tenth floor to find bags of pure heroin that were planted in Duffy's room.

  Duffy was convulsing terribly. A ring of people stood helplessly with their hands up to their mouths in horror.

  During all of this, Beano had managed to slip silently out of the casino with the bag full of money. He moved to the parking lot, and Victoria pulled up in the blue van. He jumped in the back. Roger-the-Dodger put his paws up on the seat and looked back at him.

  An ambulance arrived a few minutes later and the attendants ran inside. When they reached Duffy, he appeared to be unconscious. When they pried open his mouth, they found he had swallowed his tongue. They cleared it out to open the airway.

  "This man is in critical condition," a paramedic announced.

  "Where the fuck is the other guy?" Buzini said, finally realizing that Beano had disappeared with the cash. "The guy with the bag. Where's the guy with the bag?" Buzini said, in a panic.

  But Beano wasn't in the casino.

  The paramedics pushed Buzini out of the way. They got the roiling stretcher from the back of the ambulance and loaded Duffy aboard. They wheeled the unconscious man out and into the back of the yellow and white ambulance. Then, with red lights and sirens, they roared away, heading for the Community Hospital, ten miles to the west. Nobody noticed the van that followed.

  Fit-Throwing Duffy sat up in the back of the ambulance and looked at the startled paramedics.

  "I'm okay now. Feel much better. Thanks," he said. "I'll just get out here."

  "Lie down, mon," the startled attendants ordered. Duffy got off the rolling stretcher and moved to the back of the ambulance, but the door was locked. Duffy tried to open it but couldn't.

  "Get back on that stretcher," the young Bahamian paramedic commanded.

  "Go fuck yourself," Duffy shot back.

  They were now almost to the hospital. Beano could see that Duffy wasn't going to be able to get out unless they did something drastic. "Gotta stop the ambulance," Victoria said, picking up his exact thought. She gunned the van, shot around the ambulance, hit the brakes, and threw the van into a four-wheel drift right beside the ambulance. Once she was sideways in the lane next to the ambulance, she floored it; the tires caught hold, smoking and squealing on the pavement. She was now perpendicular to the ambulance, and as the Bahamian driver hit the brakes in panic, she T-boned the yellow and white ambulance, pinning it against the curb. The ambulance and van both smoked to a stop. Roger was thrown off the seat to the floor with a yelp. Beano jumped out and yanked open the back door of the ambulance. Duffy leaped out and ran for the van. Beano wasn't far behind. An ambulance attendant had jumped out and was running after them, but Victoria now had the van in reverse. She backed up and skidded the van around and cut the attendant off. The van engine was smoking, the radiator leaking water. Beano and Duffy jumped in the open door on the opposite side as the ambulance attendant banged on Victoria's locked door, trying to pull it open.

  "Come back here, that's our patient," the attendant screamed as Victoria floored it and squealed away, heading in the opposite direction.

  Beano looked over at her, surprised, as Roger-the-Dodger jumped back up on the seat between them.

  "You okay?" Victoria asked Duffy, who nodded.

  "Not my best fit but certainly in the top ten," Fit-Throwing Duffy grinned, as they roared away.

  They could hear sirens coming toward them. Beano knew that Buzini was heading toward them with the police. "Turn right, across the field!" he yelled.

  Victoria turned the blue van right and crashed through a fence and drove across the soft ground. She could barely control her progress in the soft dirt but managed to keep the van slip-sliding on course, heading southwest. The van fishtailed and threw up a plume of brown dirt that was visible from the road in the lightening sky. Through the back window, Beano could see the cop cars pull up and park next to the ambulance. Several of the police, plus a fuming Buzini, got out and looked at them across the field. They had gained distance, but now the police cars backed up and gave chase, roaring out through the broken fence, across the field after them.

  They arrived at the Deep Water Airfield at five past six; the morning sun was just over the rim of the hill.

  "If my cousin Lee isn't on time, we're all going to jail," Beano said as Victoria pulled the van onto the runway tarmac and came to a screeching stop. Parked at the end of the runway was a red and gray King Air twin-engine plane.

  "There," Duffy said, pointing.

  Victoria floored it. By now the police cars were in view, coming along the airport frontage road, their sirens braying. Victoria drove the van full-speed to the plane. Beano jumped out before Victoria had even brought it to a complete stop. He ran to the pilot leaning against the wing. "Lee, get this thing up right now!"

  Leland X. Bates looked off at the approaching squad cars and shook his head in dismay.

  "Usually you're a little smoother than this," Lee said, moving quickly into the plane. The squad cars were now on the runway and racing toward them.

  Duffy, Victoria, and Roger-the-Dodger, toting the blue canvas bag, were already out of the van and running to the King Air.

  Inside the plane, Leland was looking at the approaching police cars as he set the throttles and began to start the starboard engine. "It'll be tight but let's give it a go," he said as he revved the starboard engine, then immediately started the port. "If you don't mind, I'm gonna scrap the preflight," he said, as the second engine coughed to life. He throttled up. The squad cars were only three hundred yards away as Leland shouted, "Hold on. ..."

  The King Air roared down the runway directly at the police cars, which had come to a stop across the center of the tarmac to block him. But they had left too much runway and, just before the plane hit the nearest car, Leland pulled back the yoke and the plane lifted off. ... They heard one of the tires leave a patch of rubber on the roof of the nearest police car as they skimmed over.

  "Holy shit," Victoria said, her heart slamming in her chest as she clutched Roger-the-Dodger in her arms. Then she looked over at Beano, who was grinning.

  "Even more exciting than my first night in jail," he said.

  Duffy smiled. He was still out of breath and his chest hurt; he was pooped. Throwing a convincing epileptic fit was damn hard work.

  Then the little plane turned west and headed out over the inland cut toward Miami.

  Chapter Twenty.

  SINGING

  EVERYBODY WAS TRYING TO FIND TOMMY RINA. THE Host in the High-roller casino described Dakota to the Desk Clerk, who remembered her vividly, and at eight A.M. they got a second key to her room. They opened her door to the overpowering smell of vomit. They found Tommy sprawled on the bed, facedown and naked, except for his laced-up wing-tip shoes and socks. He looked like a partied-out conventioneer. When they woke him up, he groaned and rolled to a sitting position, squinting at Arnold Buzini and two Security cops. Then Tommy looked down at his crotch and his exposed howitzer.

  "Get the fuck out of here," he growled at them.

  "We been hit," Buzini said by way of explanation.

  "Get the fuck out of here! I gotta put on some clothes," Tommy said, pulling the bedspread up onto his lap. They backed out of the room and Tommy tried to get to his feet.

  "Goddamn ..." he said. His head felt like it was being opened from the side with a can opener. He stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then he got in and stood there, still in his shoes, and let it pour over him. He felt worse than afterbirth. He thought he was going to die right there, in the shower, with his wing-tips on.

  Then it all came back to him ... the Goddess, the trip to the High-roller casino ... the fuck on the bed, which he barely remembered. "Man, that bitch can hold her liquor," he said to his water-soaked shoes. Then he remembered what Buzini had said, and he opened the shower door and called out.

  "Hey,
Buz ... whatta you mean we got hit?"

  Twenty minutes later they were seated in Buzini's tiny office, and Tommy was on the phone with his little brother, Joe, in New Jersey. The doctored dice and the wheelchair were being examined in the next room. They had found where the dice had been drilled, and they knew they'd been hit by tat players. Joe was mad but his voice, as always, was cool.

  "Tommy, you're nothing but a wandering hard-on .... All you think about is pussy," his little brother said to him in cold anger. "Women and clipping guys, that's your whole routine."

  "Come on, Joe, it wasn't like that."

  "First, the jewelry store gets hit for a hundred grand. Okay, that's small stuff; it's stupid, but I can live with it. But now this ... this is over a million dollars, Tommy. You're down there and the Shift Manager can't even find you. You got that redheaded flute player stashed in my villa and you're up on eight with another hooker, while our place gets hummed for a million bucks. ... Nobody can find you."

  "Joe ... look ..."

  "What good are you to me if you do all your thinking with your dick? I got problems everywhere. All you do is make 'em worse."

  "I don't make things worse. In Jersey last month, wasn't for me, you'd be upstate, Joe."

  "Hey, Tommy, this is an open phone line," Joe exploded. "I got people listening ... taps everywhere. Use your fucking head for once, will ya?"

  Joe almost never lost control, almost never swore. This was one of the few times Tommy could remember his little brother cursing. It sobered him. "Whatta you want me to do?"

  "You lost the million one. You either get it back or we make it up out of your end of things."

  "Jeezus, Joe, what the fuck kinda deal is that? You lose money on shit all the time, and you don't have to make it up outta your end."

  "When I lose money, Tommy, it's because something unforeseen went wrong, and then I study the mistake and never, never repeat it. You're losing money 'cause you can't keep your dick in your pants or your mind on business. You make the same mistake three times a week. So now, you get the money back or pay it back. Those are your two choices."

  And Joe hung up in his ear.

  Buzini had turned and moved to the far side of the office early in the conversation. He didn't want to witness even one end of this tongue lashing. He hated having to hear Tommy plead, because he knew Tommy would take it out on him. But he was stuck in the room.

  "What the fuck're you lookin' at?" Tommy said when Buzini looked over at him after the phone was hung up.

  "Nothin' ... I ..."

  "You want a piece of this trouble? I can deal you in, asshole. How'd you let these guys pull this on you? You took the table limit off, what kinda shit is that?" he screamed at the startled Shift Manager. "Didn't you even see him pulling the loadies outta that chair arm? Whatta you, blind?"

  "I ... I didn't ..."

  "You didn't think ... didn't do shit! You stood there and watched these sharpers pick our bones," Tommy yelled. His face was red and he was thinking he'd like to take a ballpeen hammer and club this greaseball casino Manager to death. "Okay, so where's the bitch, Dakota, who drugged me? Where is she?" Tommy yelled. But he figured she had to be in on it and was probably long gone.

  "I don't know, sir. ..."

  "You don't fucking know much of anything, do ya?" He looked at Buzini, seething with anger. Tommy's head was throbbing; his stomach was sour. He wanted to pay somebody back, hurt somebody. Sometimes that was the only thing that made him feel better. "I'm gonna go t'the villa and change. Send over something to eat. My stomach feels like piranhas're feeding in there. Send over some yogurt or something to settle it." Tommy turned to leave but spun back in the doorway and caught Buzini off guard. "You fuckin' guys can't keep your mind on business," he said with disgust. "You're supposed t'run this shift, but you keep makin' the same fuckin' mistakes. You're supposed t'make decisions, not all the time comin' runnin', looking for me to tell you what to do. What the fuck else do I pay you for?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Rina."

  "You're fuckin' sorry and you're fuckin' one step back from being a dead man. You better be thinkin' how t'make this up, and how not to make the same mistake ever again," Tommy growled and walked out of the office, picturing how nice it would be to beat that fucking self-satisfied Buzini's head flat with a ballpeen hammer.

  Tommy cut through the lanai on his way to the villa. He took the stone footpath that led below the pool next to the beach. He had his face turned away from the sun, because the bright sunlight needled through his eyes and into his brain like acupuncture. Then he saw something that amazed him. The fantasy Goddess from last night was climbing the ladder out of the pool. Dakota walked across the pavement to a chaise lounge. She was wearing a thong bikini bottom and no top. She arranged herself on a towel and closed her eyes, the water beading on her perfect skin and dripping off her wet hair. Tommy couldn't believe she was still there. She had come to the Sabre Bay Club with the old guy in the wheelchair and his nephew. He assumed she had gotten him drunk and fucked him to keep him out of the play. He was sure she was part of the tat, so what the hell was she still doing here, lying out by the pool? He hurried down the path, got to his brother's villa, picked up the phone, and dialed Buzini's office.

  "Arnold Buzini," the Shift Manager said, his voice tired.

  "Hey, cocksucker, here's something you can do t'start savin' your job. That whore I was with last night is down by the pool. You go down there with two of your plastic badges and you bring that lyin' cunt to Joe's villa."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And, dickhead, try not to start World War III in the process. I may end up wastin' this bitch, and I don't need you to start some slapdance tournament in front of all them geeks down there. You got me? Real easy, real smooth, bring her up here."

  "Yes, sir," Buzini said, his voice shaking, and he hung up the phone. What did Tommy mean, he might end up wasting her? Buzini was a hotel casino manager, not a hood. He'd actually been to hotel school. Was he now about to become involved in a murder? How on earth did I get to this place? he wondered.

  Tommy paced in the luxurious villa. There was a white grand piano in the living room, and the villa had its own private beach off the bedroom porch. Joe had supervised the decorating and had fine oil paintings under glass, in hermetically sealed frames, so the ocean air and humidity wouldn't destroy them. There were also priceless Aztec art treasures that Joe collected and had placed out on the sideboards. Then Tommy's alcohol-soaked brain stopped slipping cogs, and he remembered Calliope. He had to get her out of there. He moved quickly into the bedroom and found her asleep on the king-size bed. He yanked her up by the hair.

  "Whatta you doin'? Whatta you ... leggo," she squeaked as he pulled her up and threw her dressing gown at her.

  "Where the hell were you, Tommy?" she said in a sleep-filled voice, and Tommy hit her in the mouth with his fist. She flew backwards. Tommy loved hitting.

  She rolled and she landed on the pillows. Blood was flowing out of her mouth.

  "Don't ..." Tommy said softly. "Ask ..." and he walked around the bed, leaned down, and pushed his face into hers. "Questions," he finished.

  "I'm sorry," she said, looking into eyes filled with hate and anger.

  "Just get the fuck out of here. You come back before afternoon, you're gonna look worse than a Bosnian housewife."

  Calliope scrambled off the bed and ran from the room, out onto the patio, and up to the hotel.

  Now Tommy paced back and forth, waiting. A few minutes later, he could hear talking on the porch.

  "No ... no. It's for our best customers, a complimentary gift from the hotel; I keep the bottles cold in the refrigerator here," he could hear Buzini saying as the door opened and Dakota moved into the room. She was wearing only her bikini bottom and a coverup. She was barefoot and her hair was still wet.

  "Hi," Tommy said from the living room. "Remember me?"

  "Tommy," she said, smiling, "I thought you were still asleep."

&n
bsp; "Come here, doll face," he said, grinning his ghastly, ax murderer's smile.

  She moved toward him, and when she was only a few feet away, he swung from his heels. It was his Sunday punch. Tommy had always been a great puncher and he hit her high on the cheekbone, snapping her head around and driving her back against the wall. He charged her like a mountain gorilla as Arnold Buzini gasped in horror. Then Tommy grabbed Dakota's hair and, with a fist full of her tresses, he yanked her up and hit four more times: two chilling shots to her midsection, where he actually felt something break, then he moved upstairs for two ringing head shots. Some of her teeth were knocked out and hit the carpet. She went down, her back slamming the floor. She was quiet for a moment, then Dakota slowly struggled to prop her elbows under her. She smiled up at him weakly through bloody gums. "Is that the best you can do?" she finally whispered.

  Tommy grabbed Dakota's wrist and yanked her up. Her legs were jelly, but once she was up, she tried for his groin with her knee. But he was too fast and kicked her in the stomach with his still-wet wing-tip. She went down again and curled up on the carpet.

  "You're gonna kill her!" Buzini said, with pain in his voice.

  "If she's lucky, she'll die. Now get the fuck outta here," he said. And when Buzini didn't move, Tommy grabbed one of Joe's priceless Aztec treasures off the sideboard and hurled it at the Shift Manager. It shattered against the wall. Arnold fled in terror.

  Then Tommy grabbed Dakota up off the floor and pushed her backwards. She stumbled into the living room, leaving a trail of blood on the white carpet. But remarkably, she was standing her ground, weaving slightly, both of her fists clenched, ready to defend herself as Tommy moved toward her and stood a few feet away. It was a good punching distance for him, a distance he'd measured from the time he started fighting as a kid. "Okay, we need some answers, doll face," he said.

  "About the worst piece of ass I ever had," she answered.

  "That wasn't the question," he sneered. "Who are they?"

  "Who are who?" she said, buying time, trying to clear her head. Without warning, he hit her again. This time she went down immediately. She had lost most of the strength in her legs. She was on the edge of going into shock, but she turned her face to him, glaring defiantly. "Better, but I'm still conscious. You can't even take out a girl, Tommy."