by Jack Du Brul
“Clubs and swords against pistols?”
“Desperate times,” he replied with a smirk.
Mercer’s hands were slick on the silver handle and he rubbed the sweat against his pants, leaving a damp smear. He kept the blade tucked behind his leg while Cali held the baton across her chest and under her suit jacket. They remained silent as they watched the indicator lights fall inexorably toward the lobby.
Before the doors opened, they could hear the chimes and bells from the slot machines, and the noise grew as the doors hissed apart. Mercer ducked his head around the door and spotted nothing out of the ordinary. No one was rushing for the elevators and it didn’t appear that anyone was listening to a radio or cell phone.
“Come on.” He led them out of the car.
The elevators were off-limits to non-guests, and a security guard checked to see that people approaching the banks of lifts had room keys. Mercer noticed that the paunchy guard had an automatic pistol belted around his ample waist. Just beyond the velvet rope was the casino floor, a dazzling display of lights and sounds unlike anything else in the world. Hundreds of people were clustered around the green baize tables or seated behind ranks of gleaming slot machines, their expressions rarely changing no matter how well or poorly they were doing. Waitresses in skimpy black outfits danced between the patrons, their trays laden with complimentary drinks while dealers and pit bosses watched the action with inscrutable eyes.
The atmosphere was designed to pump up the players and keep them gambling long after they should quit. For Mercer it was just a distraction. He scanned the crowds, watching for anyone not enthralled by the experience.
“See anything?” he asked.
Cali shook her head. “Not unless Poli’s guys are disguised as a bunch of widows bent on blowing their late husbands’ life insurance.”
Mercer glanced back at the elevators just as they reached the guard’s desk. One set of doors were opening.
“Shit!”
Poli raced from the car followed by his two henchmen. All of them carried their pistols in plain view. They shoved aside a couple waiting for the elevator, and the man shouted angrily, drawing attention. A woman saw the guns and screamed. The security guard tried to twist in his seat to see the commotion, but years of inactivity had tightened his muscles.
Mercer reached for the guard’s gun, snapped the thumb lock off the holster, and pulled the weapon free. The guard hadn’t even realized he’d been disarmed. Mercer racked the slide, noting that Cali had pushed Harry behind an ornate column.
Poli got the first shot off, and Mercer counterfired. Neither had aimed. Poli’s round blew the strobe light from a slot machine while Mercer’s embedded itself in an elevator door.
Before either could fire again, someone began shooting at Poli and his men from across the casino. They dove for cover. Mercer took the seconds-long distraction to grab Harry and Cali and begin running for the exit. He assumed the gunfire had come from casino guards, but as they raced toward the big steam locomotive near the Bar Americain he saw a pair of armed men dressed in dark suits, not uniforms. Their attention was focused solely on Poli and they barely gave Mercer a passing glance.
The crowds had quickly turned into a panicked mob. Shouts and screams had replaced the bells and the clanging of coins falling in hoppers. It was all Mercer could do to keep his grip on Harry and Cali. He bulled his way through the throng until they could flatten themselves against one of the locomotive’s massive drive wheels. Dry ice provided the faux steam that leaked from around the pistons and rocker arms.
“How are we doing?” he asked, his throat suddenly tight and dry. Cali nodded sharply. “Harry?”
“Fine,” the octogenarian wheezed. “Just get us the hell out of here.”
“Working on it,” Mercer replied.
Keeping their backs to the train and their eyes out for more assassins, they maneuvered their way down the length of the locomotive to the first car, a dining car that had been restored to its full glory. Normally a hostess stood at the bottom of the stairs to take reservations for what the Deco Palace Hotel touted as one of its most unique dining experiences. Mercer had read in the hotel brochure that the rail car was equipped with flat panel displays that were lowered over the windows, and hydraulics made the train feel like it was in motion. Each night a computer controlled what scenic trip the diners experienced as they ate. One night they traveled through the Rocky Mountains and on another they crossed the California desert and on yet another the passengers were made to feel they were crossing the Florida Keys on Henry Flagler’s famous Overseas Railway.
“Get aboard,” Mercer said, pushing Harry and then Cali up the steep steps. He was just about to follow her when a gunman broke out of the crowd. He cradled a silenced machine pistol, and as soon as he spotted Mercer he sprayed a deadly stream of rounds. Mercer dove up the stairs, feeling the searing heat of a bullet passing through the loose folds of his pants.
“Go!”
Harry slid open a beveled glass door and Cali and he began hobbling down the length of the dining car. Mercer fired two rounds to keep the gunman from charging and went off after his friends. The dining car’s leather booths were set with elegant crystal and special Deco Palace Railways china. The silverware was sterling.
Outside the train, the gunman saw the figures through the windows and hosed the car with the remainder of his magazine.
Cali had glimpsed the assassin a moment before he fired, and she’d shouted a warning. They hunched down but didn’t slow as glass exploded all around them and the air came alive with ricochets and copper-jacket rounds. The hand-carved paneling was splintered and the sophisticated electronics that controlled the liquid crystal screens began to spark. The car filled with the smell of burned plastic, ozone, and smoke.
As soon as the firing stopped, Mercer shoved aside one of the tables, sending the dinner service to the floor in an expensive cascade. The gunman had a fresh magazine in his weapon and was in the process of ratcheting the bolt when Mercer double tapped him in the chest. Out on the casino floor a pitched battle was under way, with at least a dozen men firing at one another. While one group seemed intent on minimizing civilian casualties, Poli’s men fired indiscriminately. With just a quick scan Mercer saw a half dozen hotel guests either wounded or dead.
Harry and Cali waited for him at the end of the railcar and together they raced through the next. It was the restaurant’s gleaming kitchen, disguised in a Deco-era Pullman car. A few waiters and cooks cowered behind the stainless steel appliances. One door at the end of the car opened out onto the lobby but there was a second door in the side of the train for bulky food deliveries.
Mercer led Cali and Harry through this second door and across a commercial loading dock. Unfortunately there were no trucks unloading goods for the hotel. One of the dock doors was open and the smell of the nearby Atlantic mingled with diesel fumes and the stench of old garbage.
“Why not hide around here?” Cali suggested, swiping blood from her cheek where she’d been hit by flying glass.
“Because it will take them about thirty seconds to realize where we’ve gone.”
“Hate to admit,” Harry panted, “but I’m about done in. One of the straps on my peg leg has shifted so my stump’s killing me.”
Though Mercer had known Harry had lost his leg decades earlier, he rarely walked with a limp and usually used his cane for ornamentation, so Mercer had forgotten the pain his old friend was going through. Mercer slowly turned in place, tapping into the mental map he’d created of the casino in the twenty-four hours he’d been there. It was an unconscious skill honed over his years working in the labyrinthine world of hard rock mines. He could discern the layout of almost any building after a brief tour and knew intuitively where he was at any time.
“Don’t worry,” he said once he had his plan. “The main entrance is outside the loading dock and around the corner. It’s no more than seventy-five feet. At this time of the evening there’s got
to be a lot of people checking in.”
Cali picked up on his idea. “Which means a lot of cars waiting for the valets to park them.”
“Precisely.” Mercer handed Cali his gun and caught Harry’s eye. “Firemen’s or piggyback?”
“Aw shit, Mercer, I can make it.”
Mercer didn’t ask him again. He bent low and flipped Harry over his shoulder. He was already running even as he settled the weight, Cali at his side. “If you fart, Harry, I’m going to drop you.”
“I’d worry more about my occasional incontinence.” Harry cackled.
Outside the loading dock was a dark parking lot, but once they rounded the corner they saw the neon glow of the Deco Palace’s porte cochere. Liveried valets bustled between the ranks of cars. Most of the automobiles were ordinary sedans and SUVs, but there were a number of stretch limos and a Ferrari parked so that people driving to the casino would be sure to see it. It didn’t appear that the pandemonium on the casino floor had spilled outside, but it was only a matter of time.
They hustled up the access road. Because the entrance was so congested, they needed to reach the head of the line of automobiles if they were to make their escape. Few paid them any attention as they danced through the throng.
“Mercer!” Harry shouted. “Behind us.”
Cali reacted faster than Mercer, whirling around but keeping her weapon out of sight. Mercer saw them too. Poli and two of his men had just emerged from the loading dock. They paused, studying the parking lot, trying to spot movement. Mercer ducked as much as his knees allowed and still keep Harry’s weight centered. He danced between cars and people, ignoring the few grumbles from guests he shouldered aside.
“They’re on to us,” Cali announced as they reached the head of the line.
The first car wasn’t what Mercer expected or hoped for but it was their only option. The car was a work of art, a 1954 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith with Hooper coachwork. It was painted in dove gray with dark blue fenders that swept gracefully over the wheels. With a wheelbase over ten feet long, the car was the epitome of stateliness and class. Although powered by a four-liter in-line six-cylinder engine, the vehicle was hopelessly underpowered because of its weight. Mercer could only hope they could vanish before Poli and his men reached their own car, because there was no way the British automobile would win any races.
“Cali, you drive,” Mercer said as they approached. A distinguished man with the look of a television news anchor had just stepped from the passenger door. Mercer bulled past him so he could unceremoniously dump Harry inside. “And give me the gun.”
She tossed it over the roof as she ducked into the driver’s seat. The passenger’s protest at what was happening died on his lips when Mercer caught the automatic pistol one-handed and pegged him with a flat stare. Just then a crush of people burst through the hotel’s multiple doors. Many of them were screaming and all wore masks of fear. Like a tidal wave they crashed into the lines of cars, surging around the vehicles and shoving anyone who got in their way.
Mercer jumped into the back of the Rolls.
The rear bench seat was covered in soft Connolly leather and the burled woodwork gleamed in the light cast by the Deco Palace’s marquee. Cut crystal highball glasses were laid out on a folding tray and the decanter next to it held a rich amber liqueur. He knelt against the seat and peered out the rear window. One of Poli’s men was limping but they were coming on fast.
“Mercer?”
“Not now, Harry,” he snapped without turning. “Cali, go!”
“I can’t,” she cried. “The car’s right-hand drive!”
Mercer twisted around and saw that Harry sat behind the wheel. Rather than an export model modified for the American market, the classic Rolls had been built for the roads of England, so the driver sat on the right. Poli and his men were seconds away. They kept their guns from view, but as soon as they were in range Mercer had no doubt they’d open fire.
Atlantic City,
New Jersey
“No time to switch seats,” Mercer shouted. “Punch it, Harry.”
Harry mashed the clutch and forced the car into first gear, laying on the horn, which sounded a majestic, almost apologetic tone. The Rolls didn’t exactly shoot from its mark, but in seconds they were outpacing Poli and his men. Mercer watched as the gunmen reached the head of the queue of waiting cars. Poli snatched a young woman out of the seat of her Geo Metro, the next car in line to pull away from the hotel. The gunman with a limp lowered himself into the passenger seat, waving his pistol at the second tattooed young woman who had been about to settle in for their drive home. Poli mouthed an order to his third man and gunned the little car. The three-cylinder engine screamed and the front wheels squealed as Poli took off after the Silver Wraith.
“He’s following us,” Mercer said and smashed out the rear window with the butt of the automatic. He checked the magazine, and was startled to find only two rounds.
Harry glanced into the rearview mirror. His eyes widened slightly when he realized the tiny blue car was what Poli had stolen. “He’s driving that thing? Braver than I thought.”
“Just for the record I’ve got two shots left, so if I don’t get lucky you’re going to have to outdrive him.”
“No problem,” Harry said breezily as he turned onto Atlantic Avenue. “You forget Tiny and I come up here whenever you’re out of town.”
“And take my car,” Mercer added.
While Mercer hadn’t been impressed by Atlantic City’s boardwalk, with its T-shirt shops, psychic readers, and saltwater taffy stands, it was infinitely better than the rest of the city. Just a block from the glitzy multimillion-dollar hotel-casinos the neighborhoods were some of the poorest in the nation. Abandoned houses were covered in graffiti, yards were choked with weeds, and teens loitered in hunting packs like wild animals. Smashed bottles littered the gutters and few of the streetlights still worked. The pall of apathy and despair was overwhelming.
“Cali, honey,” Harry said as they flashed through an intersection. “I need you to focus on the road about a hundred yards ahead. My night vision isn’t what it used to be.”
She nodded grimly and tightened her seat belt.
They had enough of a head start that Harry could keep one turn ahead, but the Rolls was so slow on acceleration that he couldn’t shake the little Metro. He broke out onto a long street and revved the engine, winding out the old six-cylinder until it shrieked and managed to gain a few precious yards.
Mercer watched the Metro wheel around the corner, side-swiping an abandoned sedan. The range was too much for him to waste one of his precious bullets, but Poli’s man had no such shortage. He steadied his pistol out the passenger window and cycled through the magazine. Most of the rounds went wild thanks to the potholed macadam, but two hit the Rolls. One blew off Cali’s side mirror and the other slammed into the trunk, burying itself in a pair of matching Louis Vuitton suitcases that the valet hadn’t had the time to remove.
There was a convenience store on the next corner. Many of the lights in the metal canopy above the gas pumps were out but the place was still open. Neon signs hung in the store’s windows and a tricked-out Honda Del Sol was pulled up to the curb.
Though Mercer had never smoked, he had developed the habit of always carrying a couple of disposable lighters in his pocket. It was the old Boy Scout training, and having them with him had saved his life more than once.
“Harry, get ready to cut through that gas station.”
Mercer pulled the stopper from the decanter of liquor, and stuffed one of the linen napkins that the highball glasses were sitting on into the mouth.
“Hey, I smell booze,” Harry said. “Save me some.”
“Sorry, old boy.” Mercer upended the bottle, soaking the napkin in what smelled like a very good single-malt Scotch. “When we drive through the gas station, I want you to take out one of the pumps.”
“Are you crazy?” Cali shouted.
“Like a fox,” H
arry said with delight. He had supreme confidence in Mercer, so he was actually enjoying himself.
Harry slowed slightly to lure the Metro, and then jerked the wheel to the right. The big car bottomed out as it shot over the crosswalk, kicking up a shower of sparks. Cali screamed as he nearly ran over a homeless man sitting on the curb drinking from a large bottle of malt liquor. Like a juggernaut the Rolls raced across the lot, Harry aiming unerringly at the second pump in line. Mercer lit his improvised Molotov cocktail. The alcohol-soaked linen caught fire instantly.
In a maneuver that taxed both his strength and dexterity Harry tweaked the wheel to miss one of the steel columns holding up the canopy, drove the car up onto the island curb, and sent the front fender crashing through one of the old pumps.
The deceleration was brutal. Cali snapped forward, her head missing the dash by inches. The pump was sheared off at its base, tumbling end over end while the gasoline still in the lines splashed to the ground in a dark stain. Mercer pulled himself from the floor where he’d sprawled, the Molotov cocktail held high as if he were an outfielder clutching a ball he’d dived for.
The Metro was twenty yards back and coming on hard. He could see Poli’s one eye shining with hatred. His partner had reloaded and was just reaching out to open fire again. Harry regained control of the car and brought it off the curb, aiming for the next cross street. Mercer shoved himself half out the side window, took aim, and heaved the fiery bottle back toward the pump. It hit just in front of the hole in the concrete island where gas was fed to the pump from a huge underground tank. The cut crystal shattered and for a sickening moment he thought the Scotch hadn’t caught fire. But it had, burning with a clear flame that quickly reached the flash point of the pulsing waves of gasoline fumes spewing from the tank.
