Attorney at Large
Thaddeus Murfee Series
John Ellsworth
Subjudica House
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
ABOUT JOHN ELLSWORTH
Dedication
Copyright
Also by John Ellsworth
Afterword
1
Lincoln Mascari knew everything about the young lawyer, and he knew about the kid. Sitting hunched at his desk in Skokie, reading the article twice more, Mascari pounded the paper and threw it violently across the room. The Chicago Tribune was reporting the Desert Riviera Casino was worth $750 million and Thaddeus Murfee owned it 100 percent. Mascari wanted it back.
Maybe he would trade for it. The idea hardened in his mind like cement.
There could be a trade, the kid for the casino.
First he needed to lay hands on the kid. So he did what all good hoodlums do, he hired someone to grab her.
He summoned Arnold Goldstine to his office. Arnold was from Joliet and his grandfather was Al Capone. In fact, family legend had it that it was his grandmother who gave Capone the dose of syphilis that later killed him in prison. But that was a story for another day.
“This guy has got a kid,” Mascari said.
“Then you got the wrong guy. I don’t do kids.”
Goldstine left.
So he sent out an invite to Dumas Lamoneti. Dumas was a made guy out of Miami. His resume had him the best torture guy in Florida. He was that good.
“This guy’s got this kid,” Mascari started in.
“I don’t do kids,” said Lamoneti. He spat on the cement floor of Mascari’s Skokie office and turned on his heel. He was in the air and headed back to Miami an hour later.
So Mascari called Johnnie Getti in New York.
“Yo, Johnnie. Mascari in Chicago. Who you got will do a kid?”
“That’s a tough one. But I’d say Ragman, out of LA.”
“Got his number?”
“Don’t got it to give out. But I’ll make a few calls. Make sure he gets in touch with you.”
“You do that.”
They talked and promised to meet for golf in Scottsdale when the hawk flew and the snow blew. They wintered in Scottsdale and their golf course homes were only four strokes apart.
Mascari’s operation was based out of an industrial park on the outskirts of Skokie, in a converted lube joint. Almost impossible to find. Three weeks later, a short, unremarkable man, clean shaven, three-piece suit, ambled into Mascari’s office. When he learned who the man actually was, Mascari had no idea how he got there.
“They call me Ragman.” He didn’t offer to shake.
Mask stood up from his desk. “Please. Have a seat.”
“Thank you. Now. How can I be of service?”
“This guy’s got this kid.”
“Okay.”
Long pause. “You ain’t gonna run out of here because I said it’s about a kid?”
“You pay cash?”
“Totally.”
“I’m not running. You found your man.”
* * *
Thaddeus Murfee had a kid. In fact, he had two—or so he had been told.
He also had a casino, another child of sorts. He had won the casino in a lawsuit. A lawsuit against the gangster who even now was hiring thugs to kidnap his daughter.
The casino was world class and was located on the Las Vegas Strip, smack in the middle of three hundred miles of sand. The deed said the name of the place was the Desert Riviera Casino and Hotel. He had kept the name because he was a pragmatic man and the word “desert” was spot on. The “riviera” part he was still looking for. That piece had him puzzled.
Thaddeus was prowling the gaming floor, watching for cheats. So far that night he had eighty-sixed four blackjack card counters and two cowboys with some sort of magnet they were using on the $100 slots. Idiots, he kicked them out. With the assistance of security, of course.
He was twenty-eight, single, and caught between two women. Two years ago he could hardly score a date. Now he had two women at once. So what had changed?
He decided he needed a drink. He needed to be still and think this through.
Luckily he didn’t have far to go, because in his Desert Riviera Casino over 1,200 gallons of liquor were dispensed every day. Truth be told, Thaddeus would rarely take a drink. And he would never take a drink while he was on duty at the casino.
But tonight was different.
It was 10 p.m. and his limbs were heavy and his walk around the casino floor had slowed to a crawl. In part, it was the rigors of the job. But more than physical tiredness, the exhaustion was emotional and mental. He needed to make up his mind about the two women.
And he needed to do it now.
As in yesterday.
He headed for Rudy’s serving station. He liked Rudy. Rudy liked him enough to let him drink a beer in peace.
The work problems never ended.
Thaddeus had just been handed a summons from some unlucky gambler out of Los Angeles who claimed that the Desert Riviera Casino had served him eleven White Russians while he was in a blackout and he had lost $500,000. He wanted the money returned, plus legal fees. Thaddeus and the casino could walk away from the mess for $625,099.45.
So far they hadn’t paid off because, as Thaddeus put it to his legal staff, “We’re a casino, not a slot machine. We don’t pay off—ever.”
Thaddeus couldn’t believe the claim, but thankfully the casino had a comprehensive insurance policy that covered such outrageous jousts.
Another claim was being made by a twelve-year-old girl. The kid was claiming she was fondled by Klarice the Klown while reciting her Christmas list on Klarice’s lap. Klarice had taken a lie detector test which came back negative. The casino attorneys had offered the same lie box to the little girl. But her parents were balking. No, they said, she won’t submit to a lie detector exam. But she will accept $3,500 in damages to settle the case. Either cash or thirty-five black chips, thank you.
Then there was the cowboy who drove his new Chevy pickup into t
he water-park that surrounded the casino. He was intoxicated, of course, and the current had washed him off downstream. He had nearly drowned because he was too drunk to stand in the waist-deep water. EMTs had been called. They furiously jumped into the water and dragged him ashore.
The water was never more than four feet deep—Las Vegas City Code.
Plus, the water never moved faster than five miles per hour, thanks to the sophisticated pumps and tanks and computer-regulated valves buried underground.
While the cowboy nearly succumbed to the waters, he was further embarrassed by inner-tubing children who zigzagged past. They laughed while he flailed against the current and struggled to gain his footing.
According to his yellow-page attorney, the case was worth $25,000 plus lawyer fees. And, the cowboy hinted, he was connected, which could only mean he could call down some mob muscle if the Desert Riviera didn’t pony up the funds.
Thaddeus needed that beer in a bad way.
He worked his way through the casino mob and finally emerged at Rudy’s serving station.
The lounge reeked of alcohol, and with good reason. Anybody who didn’t understand the service setup would have been astonished to see what all went into serving one lousy beer in a Vegas super casino.
Rudy, behind the bar, slid a frosted mug to Thaddeus.
Thaddeus took a sip and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Nice,” he said to Rudy, and hoisted the glass.
Thaddeus had no sooner swallowed, than Tim Mineers, assistant beverage manager, screeched to a halt beside him. He took the next stool and said, “You smell that?”
Thaddeus inhaled. “Smells a lot like a party going on somewhere. Airborne alcohol esters.”
“My God that’s poetic.”
“I try,” Thaddeus smiled and took another drink.
The odor was particularly strong because the area was connected by HVAC ductwork to the room above.
The upper room was the casino’s pump room. Inside the dark room nearly 2,000 upside-down liquor bottles were standing at the ready on metal racks. They reminded Thaddeus of Russian troops amassed on the border of some luckless neighbor, ready to rush in at the slightest provocation—or, in this case, the touch of the tap by the bartender one floor below.
Liquids continuously fed into multiple mouths of a complex system of plastic tubes and spring pumps. When a bartender from one of the property’s fifty-three drink stations triggered the system to zip a shot to a waiting glass, it sounded like an airlock from Star Wars. Bottles burped with bubbles. Same system for the beers, wines, and specialty spirits.
“Guy could get loaded just sitting here breathing,” Tim said.
“Expect so. How’s tricks?”
“We’re taking in two semis of booze a day. There’s still barely enough to go around.”
“That’s your job, isn’t it?” Thaddeus asked.
“We haven’t actually run out. Not yet anyway.”
“Tim, do we have any good dark beers from local breweries?”
“Ask Rudy for the Desertmeister. Highly recommend.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re drinking alone tonight?”
Thaddeus shrugged. “Every chance I get.”
“Am I interrupting?”
“Yes. But glad for the company for a minute or two.”
“So how’s your love life, Thad?”
Thaddeus bore in on him with his dark blue eyes. There was no warmth there. “What, even the staff knows about my love life?”
“There’s a lot of talk.”
“Son of a— is nothing sacred around here?”
“When you’ve got kids with two women and unmarried, I’d say you’re beyond sacred,” Tim laughed. “I call it The Penis Chronicles.”
He slapped his knee, delighted with himself but somewhat careless because Thaddeus was so young he seemed harmless.
Only then did he notice his employer wasn’t laughing. Thaddeus shut his eyes and wished he were alone.
The so-called comedy was eating him alive and more and more he was using alcohol to take the lid off that pressure cooker.
For the umpteenth time that hour he kicked himself for creating his conundrum. Two women giving birth within a month of each other, fathered by him, and, as far as he could figure out, he was in love with them both. One more than the other, probably, but even that changed like the shifting winds across the Rockies over east.
He swore he would only have two drafts tonight, otherwise he would wind up drunk-dialing the women and creating an even bigger mess.
He pulled his cell from his shirt pocket and slid it across the bar. Rudy looked up.
“What’s this?”
“My cell. Don’t let me have it back tonight.”
A knowing look crossed Rudy’s face. “Want me to have the front desk disable the lines in your apartment too?”
“Guess not. Then I couldn’t be reached at three a.m. when the drunks can’t find their cars and the reports of grand theft auto start pouring in.”
“Where’s Mickey Herkemier, isn’t he supposed to be managing all that?”
Thaddeus grimaced. “He keeps hours. Unlike me, all employees have hours around here. I only wish.”
“So unplug the frickin’ thing. Don’t let it get to you.”
“You’re right.”
Back to resolving his family problems.
He had three options.
One, he could do nothing and let the present miasma continue with him living with neither woman, neither child. That wasn’t good for anyone, so that was out.
Two, he could marry Ilene and repay Katy by paying her way through med school. And he would support Sarai, their daughter—that went without saying. That created even more problems because he probably loved Katy more than Ilene.
Three, he could marry Katy, support Andromeda with Ilene, and get the two children together as often as possible. That had possibilities, because he was sure Ilene would be very liberal with visitation. There would be joint custody, primary custodian Ilene. Thaddeus could visit every other weekend.
He mused about the possibilities, turning them over in his head, while trying to ignore the chaos around him. It was Las Vegas insanity filling the air and swirling around his head. It was pure chaos created by the gambling arcade, an area about the size of two football fields wired with strobes and sirens.
Casino life was intense, and maybe it was more than he actually wanted.
Thaddeus had downed about half the beer when he felt a heavy sweat break out on his forehead.
For a moment the room was spinning, then stopped.
“Shit,” he muttered and stood up. “Thanks, Rudy.”
He slid the mug back across the bar. Then he felt as if a light had flashed on and off inside his head.
He suddenly had the desire to start running, to leave the service area, leave the casino, and run out into the night, away from all the bells, the clamor, the excitement, the winners and losers, and the problems that were overwhelming.
But instead of running he braced himself for several minutes. He leaned his back against the bar. He took deep breaths.
He watched the people pass by, some in a hurry, some casually strolling, taking it all in. Most had determined looks and seemed focused on one game or slot or roulette wheel. In fact, it occurred to him that he had never seen a more determined looking group of people.
He had to smile.
Whatever his own intense feeling was, it slowly loosened up inside.
Eventually a sense of calm returned and he pulled another napkin from the dispenser and used it to wipe his forehead.
Then he knew.
It was the two women and two kids in his life.
He had to have some kind of resolution. He was being forced to make a choice and get on with one woman or the other, and let the other go on with her life.
But no matter which way he turned, he realized he would have one child with him every day and would be missing the other child eve
ry day.
He cursed himself again and grew angry with the mess he had created. “You and your misguided dick,” he muttered, and the woman passing in front of him turned her head and stared right into his eyes.
He shook his head and said, “Just talking to myself, sorry.”
“I’d kill anyone talked to me like that,” she tossed over her shoulder and disappeared down a long army of slot machines.
Every square inch of the casino was designed to rip money away from people who damn sure couldn’t afford to lose it. You’re involved in one of the dirtiest schemes in the world, he told himself. Second maybe only to narcotics trafficking or human trafficking.
Suddenly he missed Chicago and missed Albert.
He missed the practice of law and missed Ilene and Andromeda.
Almost as quickly came the second flood of feelings and he found himself missing and desiring Katy Landers. And missing their daughter, Sarai.
Tears flowed, hot tears. He shut his eyes hard and thought about praying but he didn’t know what to say. He dabbed his eyes with the napkin.
“Whew,” he sighed, and tossed the balled up napkin over the bar and into the trash at the near end.
“Two points,” said Rudy.
With a huge sigh he pushed away from the bar and headed upstairs to his apartment. Truth be told, he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he had ever felt as lonely as he did right then.
He’d get some sleep and take the plane back to Chicago tomorrow or the next day, latest. Or maybe head up to San Francisco and catch up with Katy.
Whatever.
Then he froze in his tracks. He returned to the bar and held out his hand to Rudy. “Knew you’d want it back,” the bartender laughed.
With the cell phone safely back inside his shirt pocket, he headed upstairs. This time, for real.
He had a kid, all right. Fact was, he had two.
And it was driving him crazy.
2
Two years ago Thaddeus was a nobody lawyer in small town Illinois, chasing cases. One day he fell into a murder case that resulted in a Not Guilty verdict. After that he sued the State of Illinois for the malicious prosecution of his client. He proved that the Governor and the Attorney General had conspired against her.
Attorney at Large (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 1
