by Ray Hoy
I got down on my knees next to Ripper and cradled his bandaged head in my arms. I hugged him close for a moment, then gently lowered his head to the rug. The cabin shook violently in the gathering wind, sending a shiver through me. I clutched my arrowhead necklace in one fist as I stroked his ears, listening to the low crying in his throat.
I’ll take the baby to Vi. She’ll know what to do.
– THE END –
This one is for Buckwheat
“Loner”
Dawn lanterns whisper
lost worlds
to each other,
as going home now,
with no fools
left to slaughter,
moon silver
million dollar lover,
his star change
scattered
down the sky.
From Joker’s Wild, a book of poetry
by Alan MacDougall (1935-1999).
Used by permission of his sister, Barbara G. Dan,
who owns all rights to her brother’s books.
Chapter 1
Las Vegas, August 15, 5:30 a.m.
I came thrashing out of a sound sleep and found myself staring into J.T. Ripper’s ugly black face, just inches from my nose. I groaned and stretched, then glanced at my watch. Five-thirty. God, how I hated morning. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I want to come back as a bat, or with a little luck, a vampire.
I got out of bed and padded naked into my rented RV’s kitchen. I rummaged through the cupboards until I found the tin of coffee. I popped the plastic lid and groaned. Empty. McDonald’s again.
I brushed my teeth, then pulled on an old pair of sweats. I shuddered at the thought of putting in five miles of roadwork. When I opened the door, I cowered for a few moments in the bright sunlight, my hands over my eyes. When the little sparklers finally went away, I said, “Okay Ripper, let’s go.”
Unlike me, Ripper loves to get out and run. A big, evil-tempered dog needs a lot of exercise. A bored Ripper is a pissed Ripper, so I work him every chance I get.
We went down the RV steps together. Ripper trotted on ahead, while I began a slow shuffle, a shuffle that gradually began to resemble jogging. As I plodded along, I looked around at the scrub desert and realized how much I missed my Lake Tahoe A-frame, and running on the beach in that clean, cool mountain air.
Summer temperatures make running in Vegas a real bitch. A lot of people love to run. I hate it, even though I’ve been running for twenty years. I run to stay in shape, nothing more. The first mile is the hardest, and this one was no exception. Then, as any runner will tell you, something magical happens. You feel the first wave of energy surge through your body, and all of a sudden you can run forever.
Three miles later I was still waiting for this magical state of euphoria to make its appearance. I chugged along in agony, cursing the sun, Ripper, the aging process, Nevada, jogging, and anything else that came to mind. Ripper, on the other hand, trotted beside me, in front of me, behind me, and between my feet, making himself a general nuisance. So I cursed him for the remaining mile while he smiled up at me, content that he was doing a fine job of making me miserable.
I squinted at a cloudless sky and a blazing sun that was doing its best to beat me into submission. My mind drifted back to Virginia City, four months earlier, back to where Felicia Martinez had lost her life and given the world Jonathan Flynn’s baby in exchange. Back to where she’d been murdered by a creep sent by Harry Varchetta, the CEO of one of the oldest, most respected casinos in Las Vegas. He was a man who needed killing.
The trial had been short enough to embarrass anyone who believed in due process. Varchetta appeared in court before the best judge money could buy, maintaining that Benny Florentine—the man who murdered Felicia Martinez—had worked for him for many years but had quit several weeks prior to her death. Benny had always lusted after Felicia, Varchetta testified, and whatever he had done, he had done on his own.
So here I was in Vegas, Varchetta’s town, with little going for me except a desire for revenge that burned deep in my gut. I lived the nightmare all over again as I jogged through the searing desert, the memory of that dreadful experience in the mine shaft raging in my mind.
We finally arrived back at the RV and coasted to a halt. I opened the door and Ripper pushed past me into the cool interior. I got out of my sweat-stained clothes and headed for the shower.
Chapter 2
I walked through the main entrance of Varchetta’s lavish casino resort and stood for a moment listening to the sing-song chant of stickmen, the babble of thousands of people trying their luck, and the ever-present soft female voice paging one guest after another. There were no clocks in this, or any other casino, to remind the customer of the real world that existed outside. This was a glittering Disneyland for shut-ins.
I knew I wouldn’t have to find Varchetta—he’d find me. There are few places in the world under more strict scrutiny than a casino. The electronic “eye in the sky,” hidden behind the one-way glass in the ceiling over each row of gaming tables, keeps tabs on employees and customers alike. No one trusts anyone in the gambling industry.
I’d been shooting craps for about thirty minutes when a player stepped next to me. I happened to be looking down at my chips when he placed his manicured fingers on the rail.
I instinctively knew Varchetta’s man had found me.
I turned and looked into the deep black eyes of a handsome, full-blooded Indian. He was about six-two, with a trim, muscular build and slick black hair. I doubt if he had two ounces of fat on his entire body. Under that tailored suit, I knew that I was looking at a very deadly athlete. The man radiated wealth and confidence. He wore the expensive clothes and gold jewelry comfortably, which told me he’d grown accustomed to those little luxuries long ago.
“Mr. Varchetta would like to see you, Mr. Frost,” he said in a soft, confident voice.
I gathered my chips and dropped them into my pocket. The Indian turned away and I followed him. We walked past long rows of blackjack and craps tables, and finally past the lounge where Felicia had once sung—so long ago now, it seemed. A few minutes later we left the main casino floor and started walking down a long, carpeted hallway.
“I believe you know the way,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I believe I do.”
Over a year ago, I had plucked Felicia out of this velvet prison right from under Varchetta’s nose.
We stopped in front of an elevator with no identifying markings. He stepped in front of me to block my view as he punched in a code.
I smiled. Varchetta had beefed up his security. Not like the last time, when I had easily gotten up to his thirtieth floor penthouse.
The door opened and we stepped into the elevator. As the door shut, I turned to the man and looked him over. “Navajo?” I said.
“Apache.” There was a hint of defiant pride.
I judged him to be in his early thirties. My instincts told me that this very smooth, very civilized-appearing fellow should be treated with great respect. He moved with the grace and power of the better male dancers. And I suspected he was well trained in the martial arts.
The Indian smiled. “Still have the ugly black dog?”
I nodded. “Ripper will make a feast of Varchetta’s ass one of these days.”
The Indian laughed. “I would pay to see that.”
“We haven’t met.”
“How rude of me, Mr. Frost.” he said. “James Red Sleeves.”
We did not shake hands.
We got off the elevator at the top floor and walked to the ornate door at the end of the carpeted hallway. Red Sleeves knocked, then opened it without waiting for a reply.
Varchetta stood with his back to us, peering through the window blinds at the Strip below. He turned and stared at me.
I’d forgotten how ugly the little bastard was, a thin, wiry, weasel of a man, perhaps fifty-five or so, with oversize ears, small yellow
teeth, and a narrow, pinched face. He had a long hook nose and tiny black eyes set close together under bushy eyebrows. He wore an expensive dark pin-striped suit that had been in style about thirty years ago.
Varchetta sank into a deep leather chair, behind a massive mahogany desk. “Just passing through, Frost?”
I settled into a chair across from him, amused at the look of exasperation on his face. “Actually, no,” I said. “I just fell in love with the place when I was here a year or so ago. You remember when I dropped by, don’t you? I live in Vegas, now, at least for the time being.”
Something passed behind his eyes.
I glanced at the Indian. “Get me a Bloody Mary, would you, James?” I said.
The Indian’s amused smile faded when Varchetta said, “Yeah, get him one, James.” Red Sleeves walked over to a bar at the far end of the room, his face cold.
“Good help is so damn hard to find these days,” I said, twisting the knife a little just to see what I’d get.
“Don’t push it, Frost,” Varchetta said. “I don’t know how you managed to take care of Benny, but Red Sleeves is a guy you don’t want to screw with!”
I ignored the remark. “So, how’ve you been?” I said. “I hear the economy has put a bit of a damper on business. Well, what the hell, things are tough all over, the price of gas and all.”
Varchetta picked up a pencil and began tapping the eraser end on the desk top while he tugged at his left ear.
Red Sleeves brought me the Bloody Mary. I thanked him, took a sip, then looked up at him. “Excellent,” I said.
“Of course,” he said with a wry smile. As hard as I tried, I found that I could not help but feel some strange liking for the man. Under different circumstances, I felt I could go bar-hopping with him and have a helluva good time. Somehow, I doubted it would ever come to that.
I took a long pull at the Bloody Mary, then got to my feet. I looked down at Varchetta. “Well, I have to run along. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
I turned and walked through the door, feeling their eyes on me all the way.
* * *
After Frost walked out of his office, Varchetta sighed heavily and leaned back in the chair. “Aw, hell, he’s probably nothing to worry about. I doubt if he’ll do a damn thing.”
James Red Sleeves gave a derisive laugh. “You’re amazing.” He stared at Varchetta for a moment. Then he said, “Mr. Giovanni is reluctant to leave his daughter in the care of a man who seems to have trouble hanging on to his woman. That is why I’m here.”
Varchetta’s face darkened. He sat upright in his chair and glared at the Indian, but his gaze soon withered under the steady stare from the Indian’s bottomless black eyes.
Red Sleeves went on. “Mr. Giovanni is appalled that you know so little about a foe as formidable as Jack Frost.”
Varchetta glanced at the Indian, a stricken look on his face. “What do you know about him?”
“Our dossier is quite thick. He is a fascinating fellow, indeed.”
Varchetta swallowed. “You have a dossier on Frost?”
Red Sleeves allowed a small smile. “We have a dossier on many people.” He watched Varchetta for a moment, noting the color draining from the man’s face. Then he continued: “Mr. Giovanni is under the impression that you think Jack Frost is simply a temporary thorn in your side, someone you can brush aside with the help of a prehistoric throwback such as Benny Florentine. You found out the hard way that you were mistaken about that, didn’t you.”
Varchetta said nothing, frozen in his chair.
“Did you know, for instance, that Mr. Frost is an expert in a strange, unorthodox form of unarmed combat; that he is highly skilled in electronics; that it is generally conceded that he is unbeatable in a knife fight; and that he has a touch of pure genius when it comes to explosives?”
Varchetta shook his head.
“Do you at least know what he does for a living?”
Varchetta sat motionless.
After a few moments Red Sleeves said, “I thought not. Mr. Frost holds several valuable patents on electronic surveillance devices, which he sold to the U.S. Government.” He paused to let his remark sink in. “Making a living is not one of his concerns.”
Varchetta stared off into a corner of the room, his stomach churning now.
“At the very least, I’m sure you know that Frost spent six years in the NFL as a wide receiver for the Minnesota Vikings. An amused smile appeared on the Indian’s face. “Mr. Frost is a fascinating fellow, indeed.”
* * *
Tina Giovanni lay on her stomach on a thick beach towel, sunning herself next to the huge free-form pool situated in the center of Varchetta’s sprawling resort complex. Her eyes were closed against the white glare of the sun. As a precaution, her body was liberally coated with tanning lotion, but her skin had long ago turned a deep brown.
She opened her eyes. A faint, amused smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Nearby, a bloated man lay on a chaise lounge, staring at her with open lust while his pasty white skin slowly turned red under the sun.
Tina had removed her bikini top. As she lay on her stomach, her compressed, enormous breasts swelled out from her sides. She reached up behind her and rearranged her long mane so that it fell forward, off her back. She squirmed on the towel, knowing the effect it was having on the fat man.
Finally she tired of the sun, and the game. She sat up and pulled herself into a cross-legged position. Then she casually picked up the wispy bikini top and fitted it over her bare breasts. As she fastened it in the back, she looked at the fat tourist, who sat there staring, slack-jawed. His mouth snapped shut with an audible clicking sound, and he forced a small, sheepish smile.
Tina got to her feet and strolled off toward the double glass doors leading into the carpeted hotel hallway. As she pushed through the doors, she glanced to her right. Coming out of the elevator that led up to Varchetta’s penthouse was a tall, powerfully built man. He turned in the opposite direction without looking her way.
Disappointed, Tina padded barefoot toward the elevator. He would have made for an interesting afternoon’s entertainment, she thought.
Moments later Tina entered Varchetta’s penthouse without knocking. He sat behind his desk, a troubled look on his face, having a heated conversation with James Red Sleeves. They both looked up as she entered.
Varchetta fumed. “I don’t know why your father lets you run around like that! Get some clothes on!”
She sat down and hoisted one long, brown leg up over the arm of the chair. She patted her flat, hard belly and gave Red Sleeves a coy smile.
“Don’t sit that way! Dammit, that’s indecent!” Varchetta said. “Your father spent a fortune trying to make a lady out of you—a damn waste of time and money if I ever saw one!”
“I’m not interested in being a lady,” Tina said with a sneer. “Ladies don’t have any fun.”
“I’ll be one happy bastard when he gets back from Europe,” Varchetta fumed.
“I don’t give you any trouble, old man!”
“The hell you don’t! You keep me awake nights, worrying about you. Thank God, at least I don’t have to worry about you losing your virginity—you obviously lost that a long time ago.”
“When I was twelve, to be exact,” she replied with a sarcastic smile.
“Twelve! Christ! Does your father know that?”
“No, and for your sake, he’d better not find out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I lost my ‘virginity’ to Benny Florentine.”
Varchetta’s mouth dropped open. “Oh sweet Jesus!” he said. He leaned back in his chair and stared at her.
“Benny came over to the house one day on an errand for you. It didn’t take much to get him into bed.” Tina laughed at the memory. “He almost wet his pants every time he saw me after that, scared to death that you or my father would find out.”
Varchetta’s face twisted with rage. “If Frost hadn
’t already killed that sonofabitch, I’d have him killed again!”
Tina stared at him. “Wanna hear more?”
“No! Just get out of here and get some clothes on!”
Tina walked to the door with an exaggerated sway of her ample hips. She turned and faced the two men, her hand on the door knob. “Frost . . .” she mused. “Is he that big rugged looking guy who just left?”
Varchetta stared at her, alarm showing on his face. “No,” he said, too quickly. He stood. “Now dammit, Tina, don’t go near that guy, you hear me?” She turned without answering and walked through the door, not bothering to shut it behind her.
He looked at the Indian. “James . . . don’t let her near that bastard. Not even close!”
“For once you’ve come up with a good idea,” Red Sleeves said.
Chapter 3
I eased into the slow-moving traffic on the Las Vegas Strip while I thought about where I was going to grab a late lunch. But those thoughts vanished when a picture of a beautiful, familiar face suddenly flooded my mind. I pressed a speed-dial button on my cell. I found myself smiling as I leaned back in the Jag’s bucket seat, waiting for the sound of her voice.
“Harris’ Shop for Men, this is Susan.”
“Susan Harris, with the great legs? The one who laughs occasionally while making love?”
“Frost? Jack Frost? You mean it’s my turn again in your little black book—and so soon! Why, it’s only been a year or two, hasn’t it? How fortunate can I be!”
“Now, Susan, I—”
“Frost.”
“Yes?” I said, feeling somewhat deflated.
“Jack . . . I’m taking the rest of the day off. Just the sound of your voice makes me feel hungry inside.” Then, sounding slightly disgusted with herself, she said, “I think I hate you for that, but come and get me, anyway.”
