SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “Suit yourself,” she replied, tugging a shawl over her shoulder. Trent jotted down his hotel and room number. She took the note, glanced at it and closed the door. Trent turned, but was distracted by the click of a latch on a neighboring door.

  “Do you really want to find him?”

  “You already know that.”

  “Try the King’s Men Casino and don’t tell that bitch. She nags the poor guy to death. He just needs a little love and understanding.”

  “I’ll bet you’re ready to give it to him.”

  “Shove it, Buster,” she slammed the door.

  The San Francisco Giants game was finishing up on the TV behind the bar. The bartender, slowly wiping a glass, kept his eyes glued to the screen. Trent threw his leg over a barstool. He didn’t care about ninth inning rallies and got the bartender’s attention with a rap of his knuckles. He ordered a Budweiser Lite. The King’s Men Casino sat alone on the outskirts of the downtown. The area had been abandoned as the hot money, seeking richer rewards shifted across-town.

  “I’m looking for a friend.”

  “Lots of people are looking for a friend,” the bartender replied curtly as he drew on a cigarette and set it down.

  “Maxie Hirsch.”

  “You a cop?” Trent felt flattered.

  “Friend. We served in the Navy together. I’m passing through and wanted to look him up, share old times.” The bartender cracked a thin smile while admiring his brightly polished glass. Trent pushed a ten-dollar bill under his drink.

  “Try the crap table in the far corner under the archway.”

  Maxie stood braced at the far end of the table. A once long, thin youthful face was drawn and haggard, eyes darted nervously. Long, unkempt thin hair exaggerated his long piercing nose. His skin, the texture of tooled leather, was pale, greenish-white, pasty of color. Trent ventured Maxie was a sick man. Maxie was from New York and Trent decided New Yorkers didn’t age well in Nevada.

  As the table cooled, players drifted away, most likely with empty pockets. Trent stood off Maxie’s shoulder; Maxie paid him no heed. The dice stayed cold. Bets were light: Maxie’s were small and infrequent. Three players drifted over from a neighboring table, grumbling about bad shooting. The stickman shoved the dice to Trent. He held the dice for thirty-two rolls. The color of chips quickly changed from white to red to green; silver coin disappeared. Big money moved onto the hardways. Trent felt alive: he loved the game. Trent almost forgot about Maxie and then, as sure as water runs over Niagara Falls, he rolled a seven and out. The party was over.

  Congratulations,” the pit boss offered. “Thirty-two rolls. That’s high for the day.”

  The stickman passed the dice to Maxie who carefully selected two and rolled. One die skipped and careened off the table and out of play. The stickman pushed out a new selection. Maxie fidgeted, reaching into his vest pocket, he drew out a hundred-dollar black chip and placed it on the eleven. Haltingly, he chose two new dies. Drawing his hand back, he switched dice. Trent froze, not believing his eyes. A stickman, boxman and two dealers were watching play covered by overhead security eyes. Trent barely caught the switch – God, Maxie is committing suicide for fifteen hundred bucks. He shuddered. The meaning in Maxie’s wife’s’ remark, “whichever one will let him in,” hammered home.

  Maxie rolled an eleven: two more rolls, two more elevens. He picked up his winnings and let the black chip ride. The arithmetic was too much for Trent’s head at fifteen to one. The pit boss hovered over the table after hearing the boxman call for the dice. A cocktail waitress shouldered in with drinks, her slender arm moving over the table layout. Maxie pulled back to clear her movements. Trent read desperation in his eyes. Deliberately brushing the waitress with his elbow, he caused the drink to spill to the layout. Maxie snapped back – it was an instant, but enough to switch back.

  “The dice, please,” the boxman demanded, his hand extended. The stickman swept them up with his ash stick. The boxman smiled as he fingered and hefted each side, his face twisting in disbelief. The pit boss took his turn hefting the offending dice. After an awkward silence, he glanced scathingly at Maxie and ordered a new set in play. On his next roll, Maxie sevened, cashed his winnings, paused uncertainly and then headed out the casino. Trent found neither elation nor pride in what had happened. Maxie’s wild, desperate eyes froze in his mind.

  Trent pushed away and followed Maxie; although, he knew it was not smart, but necessary. Two men, dark suited, with large frames and thick necks, intercepted Trent at the door. Jammed from either side, powerful fingers clamped his arms and twisted. Trent winced in pain as he felt fingertips touch bone.

  “We catch your ass in here again and you’ll not live to regret it,” Trent shook loose or was let go: he couldn’t be sure which but both arms throbbed as he chased after Maxie vigorously rubbing them. He caught sight of him just as he entered the Brass Bull Bar. Maxie had flopped down at a table.

  “Order one for me, too, Maxie.”

  “What? Well, I’ll be. . , Tony. Christ! That was you who saved my ass.”

  “Don’t mention it, just thank me now that I’m crippled for life.” Rubbing didn’t make the sting go away.

  “They were on to me,” Maxie exclaimed. “Hey! I bet they thought you were in on it, too.”

  “Brilliant deduction. Why’d they rough up me and not you?”

  Maxie ignored the question. Trent let the question lie, but Maxie owed him an answer.

  Maxie Hirsch’s are everywhere. They are nondescript, common and meld in with the background. They are survivalists who take what they can and give no quarter. Maxie lived by that credo. It toughened him, but left him cynical and a loner. Trent and Maxie had enlisted together in the Navy; boyhood chums whose paths later separated –- Trent to the Naval Academy; Maxie to Machinist school. Distance parted them when Maxie mustered out. With Maxie, Trent laid it on the line. Maxie jumped at the chance, he could hardly restrain himself. Trent judged Reno to be closing in on him. They stayed and small-talked for hours. It beats notes on a Christmas card. When they weren’t reminiscing, they talked about machinery. Maxie loved machines: He loved machines more than anything else in the world, except Flo.

  * * *

  Locating Hank Graves was easy: he was in the Sparks phone book. Trent spotted him the moment he entered the tavern. The bar quieted instantly, heads turned as a bull of a man stood filling the doorway. Madden’s description was accurate: shaggy, black, thatched head carried on tremendously broad shoulders; dark, thick eyebrows shaded intense eyes that stared aside a thick nose and flared nostrils, a face pock-marked, a chin badly miss-aligned. Heavy thighs set beneath a small, pinched waist. Surprisingly, he moved with quickness, an animal like gait. Graves came towards him. Without shifting his weight or making an effort, he slid his bulk into Trent’s booth.

  “Trent, right?” Graves smacked his palms flat down on the table. The back of the booth shifted as he settled in. Yellow dust caked the backs of both his hands. Trent stared at them with fixed attention. Graves thrust them out and chortled, “Enough here to blow off your head. Blasted the side off a mountain this morning,” he said, scraping yellow from under stubby fingernails.

  Two bottles of heavy, dark beer were set on the table. Graves grabbed one and tasted it. “Warm piss,” he said making a face. “I like mine ice cold. Bring four more, Babe.” He slapped the waitress on the fanny and laughed. She slapped his hand and turned away. “You government? A cop?” Graves twisted his head and glared at Trent with one eye cocked as he held a bottle halfway frozen to his mouth. He took a long pull, finally appeared for a breath to wipe the foam away on his sleeve.

  “Neither. Madden said you might appreciate a change of scenery.”

  “I’ve knocked around a bit. Done some odd jobs that shocked some people, different, you could say, like blowing up things. Setting wrongs right. Get the drift?” There was a swagger in his manner as he polished off a second bottle. His face split into a slow leer. “So, what do
you want from me? Is someone giving you a hard time?” Graves didn’t try to disguise a thick veneer of toughness that barely covered a streak of cruelty: meanness lay beneath.

  “You act like Navy. Is that why Madden sent you?” Graves asked.

  “I was an officer.”

  “So! You’re the one…Madden and Newby’s buddy. The guy that got shafted. So, what’s the gig?”

  “Would you be interested in a quick five-million?”

  Graves whistled. “That’s mucho bucks. Do I have to kill somebody?”

  Trent explained.

  “Madden and Newby are ‘in’, yes?”

  “Yes. I’ll be at Fitzgerald’s. Think it over.” Trent got up and left. “I leave tomorrow.”

  Fitzgerald’s Casino nestled beside the railroad tracks. Out front, a flashing, world-famous over-the-street sign proclaimed: Reno – The Greatest Little City in the World. It was long past midnight. A dozen freight trains had rumbled by, rattling the hotel. Trent struggled as he forced himself up from a sweat-soaked bed. Sheets clung to his naked body. As he peeled them off, he wrote off a last effort at a goodnight’s sleep. As his bare feet hit the floor, he grabbed a cigarette and lit it. Myrna still haunted his thoughts. As hard as he tried, he could never come to grips with her rejection, the divorce. A failed marriage: plans for the future, a family, all went up in a puff of smoke. He blamed only himself. She tolerated his violent mood swings, even tried to help. At flare-ups, she deftly calmed his obsession for revenge, a drive he could not intellectually reject. The Old Testament’s call for an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, took emotional possession of his soul. Without Myrna, pangs of loneliness would grip him, visions of desolation. He lurched for the shower, the hot spray to beat away the badness. Dried, he pulled on soft cotton trousers and a shirt, slipping into a pair of moccasins. Pocketing the room key, he headed down to the casino just as the phone jangled.

  “It’s me, Graves. Got to see you now.”

  “Come on over.”

  “No. There’s an all-night eatery on Center Street, the Black Ball. Be there at four.” Graves hung up. Trent arrived early and took a booth at the back. As he glanced at his watch, the nape of his neck tingled with unease. He noticed a metal-shielded door that stood off his left shoulder that opened to a back alley, a cold draft coil around his ankles. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and rancid grease hung uncut in the air. Two standing floor fans, one in each of the back corners were motionless. The eatery had all the markings of a local hangout, however unlikely at four in the morning. Two customers sat at the counter, probably late-hours casino employees. He caught a distant strain of dance music. The side booths stood empty. Graves was right on time. Trent valued that – dependable. The big man was shaking as he slid into the booth.

  “What happened to you?” Trent asked, guardedly. “Get hit by a truck?” Graves’ head was battered and badly swollen. An ugly discoloration seeped out from under a tightly wrapped bandage that shielded one eye and the left side of his head. Underneath, he had been shaven clean.

  “Forget it,” Graves shot back. “I want in.”

  “You could have told me that over the phone. Women trouble? Gambling debts? A job that didn’t work out?” Trent demanded. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “Nothing’ I can’t handle. What’s the guarantee on the payoff?”

  “None. We all ‘score’ or nobody scores.” Trent stared at him and wondered if he had moved too quickly.

  “Fair enough,” Graves cut him short, his face flushed and sweating, occasionally darting a glance over his shoulder.

  “You’ll need this.” Trent withdrew a folded sheet from his inside pocket and shoved it across the table. “Madden says you have contacts. The gunpowder is a must. Can you get it?” Graves unfolded the paper, read down the list and mumbled something like, “It won’t be easy.” He refolded the sheet and stuffed it into his shirt. Trent slid a brown, sealed envelope across the table. “Put this in your pocket.” Graves grabbed it and without looking, slipped it out of sight under his shirt.

  “When do I report in?”

  “I’ll call you, just be ready. Get the stuff. Arrange to be away for a couple of months. Fabricate some pretext.”

  “How soon?”

  “Trouble?” Trent watched him cautiously.

  “You got that wrong. You and some guy named Maxie Hirsch are in deep crap. Certain not-so-nice people are curious, asked questions. I told them I didn’t know anything: I paid the price.”

  “About us? What kind of questions?”

  “Who the hell is Hirsch?”

  “He’s your traveling companion. His address and phone number are in the packet plus you’ll find the money you’ll need for the powder and travel expenses to Seattle. Make sure Maxie gets nothing except travel expenses. Is that clear?” Graves nodded. “Keep your noses clean, travel together and follow the instructions in the packet.”

  “Where do I meet this guy Hirsch?”

  “He is expecting a call from you, but not until I call you: don’t be seen together. And, then get out of town fast.”

  “With pleasure, I can’t wait,” Graves got up, checked off the two at the counter and slipped quickly out the metal door. There was more to Graves than met the eye: Maxie, too, for that matter, Trent felt a twinge of irritation. Aside from the money advance, if they didn’t checkout, he would cut bait. He glanced at his watch: it read four-fifteen. He waited ten minutes, paid the tab, headed back to the Fitz, packed his bag and caught the next flight home.

  * * *

  “You weren’t serious, were you? Pulling off this caper with a bunch of oddballs?” Simons chided, smiling inwardly. By now the sun had set in the west and darkness descended over the cabin. “Harry came by and dropped off a salmon. How do you want it? Baked? Boiled? Or fried steaks.”

  “Whatever you do best.” Trent stoked the stove, tossing in another log. The cabin had grown colder. Simons dragged out a frying pan. “You can never tell about people. Some surprise you; others disappoint. Choirboys, they were not; but I was not exactly on a church mission.”

  Simons added, “When we learned their identities, I had Graves and Hirsch checked out by the Navy and Reno Police. In case Graves didn’t tell you, he did time for careless use of explosives. He trained at a Navy gunpowder arsenal and kept up his contacts. He worked for the Nevada Highway Department blowing up things, but that’s why you took him on, wasn’t it? He did dirty work for NARDO, a front for criminal elements in the Reno area with ties to Vegas and Atlantic City. He had a falling out with NARDO, we weren’t sure over what. But, I suspect you know all this.”

  “Not at first, but as you say, I had to make the best of talent available,” Trent said sharply.

  “Hirsch was a slot mechanic. Got caught rigging slot machines to produce large payoffs. His partners got paid off for lack of proof of rigging. Hirsch was persona non grata at casinos and had been denied re-employment. The Reno Transport Company picked him up as a part-time mechanic. The Casinos wanted their money back. They cut a deal with his two accomplices, but Hirsch cached his and balked. Maxie Hirsch was a compulsive gambler.”

  “Those two damn near blew the whole plan,” Trent controlled his irritation. “I had them checked out, found out pretty much what you did. Except the idiots bought a truck together and started hanging out against my explicit orders. They forced my hand: I had to get them out of Reno before I needed them.”

  “What about this Harper? He was no jewel, either,” Interjected Simons, flipping two cuts of sizzling salmon.

  “Time changes people. Harper wasn’t as Madden remembered him.”

  “Buried eight years up in Canada, I heard. No surprise. How did you find him?” Simons asked.

  “Being a Navy man, I figured he’d hang around Vancouver harbor. I tried the authorities, but they were no help. No interest in sailors evading the clutches of American justice. Just showed his picture around the waterfront bars and finally got a tip from a barte
nder.” I did the rounds until I hit on the right one, the Wee Willie Tavern.

  A black man, he sat alone at a small round table under a conical lampshade, his teeth sparkled white in the shadows. His lips were thick, his nose flat, eyes a very dark brown. His face was uncharacteristically thin.

  “Ben Harper?”

  “Aye, who wants to know?”

  “Tony Trent.” A foot stirred and a chair slid back. Harper’s hair was gray and cropped short. A dark blue sweater, pulled taut covered a muscular frame. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

  “What’ll it be, Bud?” the bartender asked, compulsively wiping his one-time white apron.

  “Whiskey and seven. I don’t know…” Trent nodded towards Harper. The bartender interrupted, “He’s a regular,” turned and walked away.

  “Do you remember me?” Trent asked.

  “Should I?” His eyes were dark and restless.

  “Peter Madden tells me you’re the best with big guns.”

  “That won’t buy me a cup of coffee.”

  “Got a job?”

  “Nope. Not much around for an ex-gunner. And, if I had a job, I wouldn’t hang around a dump like this.” Harper raised his voice just loud enough for the bartender to overhear. The bartender looked over, shrugged, and turned back to pouring drinks. Harper smirked as he stamped out his cigarette. The bartender set down two drinks. Harper swept his off the table.

  “Bring a bottle. I’ll open it myself,” Harper belched. “Charge it to my friend here with all the questions. Gotta watch this guy, he skims the booze, adds water and sticks you for full tariff.” The bartender returned. Harper grabbed the bottle, cracked it open, slopped whiskey into a glass and downed two in quick succession. “Now, that’s the real stuff. On this I could get drunk.” He laughed as he pulled at another cigarette. His hands quivered as he held the match. The flare revealed a taut face, a goatee and a pair of bloodshot eyes. As Harper realized Trent was staring at him, he blew out the flame. “I served as gunner’s mate on the cruisers Manchester, the Baltimore and ended my career on the Missouri. I should say the Navy ended my career. I’ve been picking up odd jobs ever since.”