The Jack Frost Thrillers - Box Set

by Ray Hoy

She looked around. “Yeah, I gotta work somewhere, and this job keeps me in shape.”

  I looked her up and down. “Sure does,” I said admiringly.

  “Are you here to gamble?” she said as she slid in behind the wheel.

  “You could say that.” I handed her a fifty dollar bill. “Keep the car close will you? I might have to get out of here in a hurry.”

  She shoved the bill into the pocket of her polo shirt and gave me a dazzling smile. “I’ll do that, Frost.” And with that she lit the rear tires and roared away toward the parking garage. I crossed the valet lanes and headed toward the main entrance of the Jamaican.

  There was low chatter from a light crowd on the casino floor. The economy was ripping the heart out of the gaming business. Las Vegas had always boomed during hard times, but this recession wasn’t like the previous ones, not unless you went clear back to the great depression, which was well before my time.

  I walked across the casino floor, past blackjack tables that were half full, past craps tables with just two or three players leaning over the cool green felt. The place had an odd, empty feel to it that even I found unsettling.

  I walked up to the Security podium and gave a vivacious young uniformed woman my name and told her who I was there to see. She gave me an inquisitive look but said nothing. She just dialed a number and waited. She spoke quietly into the phone, then hung up and motioned for me to follow her. She opened a door directly behind the podium. I walked past her into a small room. She followed me in, and closed the door behind us. Then she gave me a thorough patting down. When she was satisfied she smiled and said, “Thank you, Mr. Frost.”

  She opened the door again and we walked out into the casino. She pointed down a long hallway leading off the main casino floor and started to give me instructions.

  “Thank you, but I know the way,” I said.

  Oh yes, indeed I did know the way. I’d been down that hallway several times in the past, and the last time I had Felicia Martinez in tow and we were getting the hell out of this place on a windy, rainy night.

  Halfway down the hallway, a very large uniformed security guard stood in front of the private penthouse elevator. He looked at my driver’s license, then patted me down. Satisfied, he called upstairs on his radio. He listened for a moment, then nodded and put his radio away. He turned his back to me to hide the numbers he was punching on a keypad.

  The door hissed open. He stepped aside and motioned me into the elevator, then followed me in. We didn’t speak as the elevator made its ascent to the top floor.

  When the elevator stopped and the door opened, I stepped out into the foyer. He walked behind me as I headed toward Varchetta’s office—now Giovanni’s—at the end of the hallway. When we arrived, the security guard knocked twice on the ornate office door.

  A swarthy wedge in a striped suit opened the door. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Sopranos episode. A prominent white scar on the right side of his face ran from his hairline to the corner of his mouth.

  He motioned me inside.

  I walked past him into the room. Giovanni’s bodyguard closed the door behind us. I looked around. Varchetta’s old office had been completely and tastefully refurbished.

  At the far end of the huge room, Giovanni sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. He did not look up as we approached. He was concentrating on a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, eating slowly, thoughtfully, now and then taking a sip of red wine.

  The wedge in the striped suit walked over to the window and stood looking down at the Strip, far below. He was out of earshot, but he could still keep an eye on me.

  I sat down in a chair across from Giovanni and waited. He never raised his eyes to look at me. He simply continued to eat his meal with obvious enjoyment.

  Giovanni wasn’t what I expected. He was younger than Jilly by maybe ten years, which would probably make him 60-something. He was dark-skinned and ruggedly handsome for a fellow his age.

  I sat for a few moments longer while he continued to eat. Frankly, I wasn’t in my seldom-used, “I’ll be patient” mode. I could feel my evil twin kicking in. I listened to the ticking of a huge clock behind his desk, then glanced at my watch. Five minutes after two. Well, time to go . . .

  I got to my feet. “I came to talk, but if you want to sit there and play Godfather, that’s up to you. You know where to find me.”

  I turned to go. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Giovanni’s bodyguard striding toward me. I turned to face him. “You’d better know what you’re doing,” I said quietly.

  He stopped a few feet from me, a surprised look on his face. I was easily a foot taller, but he probably outweighed me by fifty or sixty pounds.

  “Who the hell do you think . . .” he said. But he stopped when he heard his boss laugh.

  “Tino, it’s okay,” Giovanni said.

  Tino glared at me, then reluctantly turned away.

  I turned to face Giovanni, who was leaning back in his chair, an amused look on his face. He shoved his plate away.

  “C’mon, sit down, Frost,” he said, pointing toward the chair I had just vacated. “Glass of wine?”

  I took a seat and sat back in my chair. “Sure,” I said.

  Giovanni took a wine glass from a shelf. Then he picked up a clean white cloth and carefully polished the glass inside and out before he filled it halfway to the brim. He handed it to me.

  With genuine amusement, he chuckled as he sat down again. “Jilly said you had brass balls . . .”

  I decided to shut my mouth for a change and listen.

  Giovanni’s dark eyes were hard now. He leaned toward me, “Well, I’m listening.”

  I paused. “I used your daughter to get to Varchetta.”

  There was no way to sugarcoat the pill, because that’s what I did.

  I paused, waiting for a reaction. When I got nothing but a long, hard stare, I went on: “I never thought she’d get hurt, much less—”

  “—Jilly told me everything. I just wanted to hear you admit that you were the reason she died,” Giovanni said.

  I looked at him across the broad expanse of mahogany, mulling over what I could tell this man—and what I couldn’t. Do I tell him everything I know, which will make him realize that he is responsible for his daughter’s death? And if I do, how’s he going to react? Will he try to kill me then and there to shut me up?

  Giovanni stared at me. “Is that all you’ve got to say? I don’t hear you talking, Frost . . .”

  I made my decision, and got to my feet. “And you’re not going to.”

  He leaned back in his chair and looked up at me. “Then you are a dead man.”

  I stood looking down at him. I was aware of Tino drifting slowly toward me again. I turned and pointed a finger at him. “That’s far enough,” I said.

  Tino looked startled. He stopped in his tracks and looked at his boss for guidance.

  I turned to face Giovanni, too. He was clearly puzzled, almost amused. “You know what’s going to happen now . . .”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” I said.

  Giovanni got to his feet and stared at me with those deep black eyes. The bastard looked insanely rich and powerful. I nearly laughed aloud as I realized I was signing my own death warrant.

  But I’d made up my mind. “So here’s the deal,” I said. “Send your best, but you only get one try . . . if he fails, and you send another, I’m coming after you.”

  Giovanni’s eyebrows went up. A slow smile spread across his face. “Brass balls . . .” He shook his head slowly and laughed, then pointed toward the door. “Have a nice day, Frost. Sleep with one eye open.”

  “I always do,” I said, and I walked toward the door. Tino opened it and stood aside. I gave him a sideways glance as I passed by.

  The security guard waiting outside Giovanni’s office walked next to me as we headed down the hallway toward the elevator. “Don’t cause any problems, Mr. Frost, okay?”

  “Do I look like the kind of
guy who causes problems?”

  Chapter 10

  As I walked out of the hotel into the blinding glare of an obscene sun and blistering afternoon heat, I smiled when I saw my white Jag squatting in the valet parking lane. B.J. leaned casually against it; she had put the top down.

  She gave me a blinding smile. “Did you break the bank, Frost? Bring ’em to their knees?”

  “Not exactly. You could call today a ‘push’ I suppose.”

  B.J. laughed. “Hey, in Vegas a push is like winning!”

  “You are so right,” I said. I tipped her another fifty bucks, then settled into the bucket seat. She closed my driver’s side door gently and patted the window sill. “I like your car, Frost.” She smiled at me. “You’re okay, too. See you around.”

  I smiled at her and nodded, then pushed the Jag into first gear. As I slowly pulled away, she called out, “Hey, Frost!”

  I stopped. She jogged up to my car, a mischievous look on her beautiful young face. Somehow I knew what was coming.

  “Y’know, I just realized that I owe you Big Time for saving my ass,” she said. “How about dinner tonight? I’ll buy!”

  I thought that over for a nanosecond then smiled back at her. “What time do you want me to come by?

  “I get off here in a couple hours. Say . . . six o’clock?”

  “See you then,” I said. She stepped back from the car and gave me a huge smile.

  When I pulled away, I was smiling, too.

  * * *

  The traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard—the famous “Las Vegas Strip”—was of the stop-and-go variety. That was fine with me; suddenly I was in no hurry. I soaked up the sun as I watched people walk along the sidewalks, heading from one Strip hotel to another.

  Just one day in Las Vegas would provide even the most avid “people watcher” with enough material to last several lifetimes. I watched the parade of the rich and the poor, the senior citizens, the wide-eyed tourists and the cynical Las Vegas street hustlers—they were all there, mingling together, a river of humanity flowing along from one casino to another.

  After fifteen or twenty minutes, I finally managed to turn on to Sahara Avenue, and I headed west toward the mountains. Finding a bit of open road ahead, I ran the Jag up through the gears, enjoying the throaty sound of the six-cylinder double overhead cam engine as it powered quickly into the higher rpm range. Then I backed off to the legal speed limit and sat back and thought about what had just transpired.

  I felt better now that the meeting with Giovanni was behind me. And right then and there, on Sahara Avenue, cruising through the hot Nevada afternoon air, I came to the conclusion that it was time to pull the plug on Las Vegas and get back to the cool, clear air of Lake Tahoe, and my lakeside A-frame.

  I’ll have dinner with B.J. tonight, then take the RV back to the rental place tomorrow and get the hell out of here. If Giovanni’s man wants me, he’ll have to look for me in my own backyard.

  And then I realized, perverted soul that I am, that I was looking forward to the whole thing.

  Chapter 11

  I knocked on B.J.’s door promptly at six o’clock. When she opened it, she took my breath away. I gave her a slow, appreciative look from head to toe.

  “You . . . are . . . stunning!” I said.

  “I clean up pretty good, don’t you think, Frost?”

  “That is an understatement.”

  Standing there in a short, bright red party dress that showed off her long, beautiful legs, and a daring neckline that she got away with because she was small-breasted, she was a huggable, no doubt about it. In her high heels she was damn near looking me in the eye.

  She was also a totally different woman than the Zulu princess I’d picked up the last time we had dinner.

  This kid was a chameleon.

  As we stepped into the hallway, she pulled the door shut behind her and checked to make sure it was locked. Then she turned to me and slipped her arm into mine. She pressed against me as we walked down the hallway toward the elevator.

  “Where are we having dinner, Frost? Someplace special, I hope.”

  “Of course it’s somewhere special—it will have to be to match the way you look tonight.”

  She beamed and hugged my arm. It was very school-girlish, but it worked on me just the same. “I like you Frost,” she said.

  “Even if I am kinda old, right?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, even if you are.”

  As we waited for the elevator to arrive, she slipped her arms around my waist and gave me a big hug.

  “What did I do to deserve that?” I said.

  “You saved my life, and that’s just beginning to really sink in. I’d have burned to death, wouldn’t I . . .”

  I saw a brief flash of fear in those beautiful dark eyes.

  “Naw,” I said quickly. “You’re a tough one; you’d have managed to get out somehow.”

  The elevator door slid open. B.J. looked up at me for a moment, blinking back tears. Then she just nodded and hugged me again, and we stepped into the elevator.

  * * *

  B.J. had a bawdy sense of humor that kept us laughing for the full two hours that we dawdled over dinner. She also had a quick mind that didn’t miss a thing, and she was remarkably well-read and up to date with world affairs.

  I found it damn refreshing. Some of the ladies I’ve hung with in the past turned out to be so totally absorbed in themselves that conversation was all but impossible. Not this one. She was a delightful dinner companion, and the fact that she was beautiful was just a bonus.

  B.J. reached across the table and took my hand. She squeezed it. “Frost . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Her face grew serious. She leaned closer. “I lied about buying dinner.”

  I stared at her. “Dammit,” I said, “I don’t have a penny on me!”

  She looked alarmed for a moment, then realized I was kidding. We sat there and laughed over the moment.

  “You didn’t think I’d let you buy anyway, now did you?”

  “Naw, you’re an old-fashioned kinda guy, and that’s sweet, Frost . . . it really is.”

  “I’m just a sweet guy,” I said. I looked around and caught our waiter’s eye. When he walked over with the check, I dropped three one-hundred dollar bills on the table and thanked him. His eyes widened slightly and he smiled appreciatively as he gathered the check and the cash, then thanked me and walked away.

  B.J. looked across the table at me, shaking her head slightly. “You are a big tipper, Frost!” she said.

  I stood and walked around to her side of the table. I took her hand as she got to her feet. She stood very close, looking up at me.

  “That’s me, a sweet old guy who’s a big tipper,” I said. “C’mon, let’s go have an after-dinner drink somewhere.”

  She reached up and gently touched my face with her right hand. “You’re growing on me, Frost.”

  * * *

  We spent another two hours over drinks at an intimate little bar overlooking the Strip.

  B.J. gazed out at the river of headlights moving slowly past the huge casino properties. “Vegas is beautiful at night, isn’t it . . .”

  It wasn’t a question. I nodded. “Yes it is—at night.”

  That wasn’t lost on her, and she laughed. “She kinda loses her charm when the sun’s beating down on her, doesn’t it.”

  I paused for a moment. Then I said, “B.J. . . . I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Leaving?” she said, disappointment evident in her voice. “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Lake Tahoe. I have a little cabin on the South Shore. There’s nothing keeping me here now, and Ripper’s getting more agitated with this place every day.”

  B.J. didn’t say anything for a few moments. Finally she said very softly, “I’m gonna hate to see you go, Frost. I really am.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. We didn’t have anything g
oing on between us, yet it suddenly felt like we were going through a painful separation. We looked at each other over that small table for a few moments.

  “Well, Frost, I hope this doesn’t shock you, but I want you to spend your last night in Las Vegas with me.”

  “I am spending my last night with you—”

  “—No, Frost,” she said, hushing me with a finger pressed to my lips. “ I mean, I want you to spend all night with me.” She had an almost pleading look in those big eyes that were suddenly tinged with tears.

  I sat back in my chair and looked at this lovely woman. Then I quietly said, “I would love that, B.J.”

  Chapter 12

  Ripper gave B.J. a disinterested look when we entered the RV. Her eyes got big as he got slowly to his feet and sauntered toward us. I must admit that he looked like a hound from hell, even to me.

  B.J. turned to me and said, “Frost, will he . . .”

  “He won’t hurt you,” I said.

  We both stepped aside and the big brute slowly, regally walked past us and down the steps, where he lifted his leg and took a long, satisfying piss. When he finished, he looked around for a moment. Finally, satisfied that all was well in his zip code, he walked back up the steps and past us. He settled down again on his blanket in the corner of the living room and immediately started to snore.

  “Jesus!” B.J. said. “He is one intimidating dog, and I’m not afraid of dogs!”

  “He’s not exactly a ‘people dog’ I suppose. Hell, he doesn’t like anything except Scotch.”

  “Scotch? As in booze?”

  I nodded. “He picked up that habit in some miserable jungle, somewhere—I can’t remember exactly where, to tell you the truth—when we were on patrol. We ran across a few of my fellow ‘advisors’ who’d gotten careless and paid dearly for it. I lifted a bottle of Scotch from one of the bodies and we cleared out of there. A little later I poured a shooter for him and he lapped it up like it was pure spring water.”

  B.J. laughed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”