by Steve Fisher
Mai didn’t see her any more after that because the pug had him pinned to the floor, and was maneuvering to hold him there. Now the man in the tee shirt stooped over and helped. The pug locked Mai’s wrist in a grip that was like a vise and with his other hand caught hold of his forefinger, bent it, and then there was a sound like a walnut cracking—and pain rocketed through him; he kept blacking out, and coming to. His middle finger, now his ring finger, then his little finger—the bones in each of them breaking. He struggled wildly, but it was futile. They clutched his other hand. Dee began to scream again: sobbing and screaming both. He couldn’t see her very well because everything was a hazy awful red, but she was slashing the shoe at the pug this time. It didn’t seem to faze him. He didn’t even bother to look up, instead kept religiously to the grim work of cracking walnuts.
Johnny Sprig and Ochoa were leaving the casino when they heard the screams. They broke into a wild sprint, Ochoa drawing his gun. Others were being attracted by the commotion. Bungalow doors were opening, lights going on.
Sprig outran Ochoa, was ten feet ahead of him when the two men hurried from Mai’s room. The one in the tee shirt was holding a gun, ready to blast a way to escape, if necessary. He leveled the weapon at Sprig:
“Stay back!”
Whether it was that Sprig’s forward momentum was so great he couldn’t stop or that he had so much contempt for these two that the gun didn’t scare him, nobody will ever know. Ochoa saw it the most clearly: Sprig kept running—straight at the gun. There was a shot and Sprig fell forward, still running. Ochoa opened fire, his bullet going through tee shirt’s face. The pug threw up his hands. A crowd was hurrying over from the casino.
Ochoa knelt by Sprig, pulled him over on his back, and then began to cry, hot tears searing his cheeks. “Boss . . . boss!”
Sprig was dead.
Thirty-four
He lay face up in the grass, his eyes still open, and kneeling there over him, Joe tried to say goodbye, but couldn’t even think it silently, because he could not believe Sprig was really dead; Johnny Sprig, the indestructible! Finally he stood up, numbly, his whole body numb, his mind numb, and was looking at Ochoa. The Mexican was wet-eyed, full of rage and grief and burning with a great bitterness. When he spoke it was in a half whisper.
“He was right about Miss Guido.”
Joe didn’t hear at first, and Ochoa repeated it: “He was right about the girl. I just got back from San Francisco a few minutes ago. She was planted on you, just as he suspected.”
Rage was billowing into Joe. “What are you talking about?”
Ochoa was staring down at Sprig. “He was always right about things.”
Joe grabbed him. “What are you talking about?” Casino police were keeping the crowd several feet back. A sheriff’s car, its siren whining, moved into the street.
Ochoa looked up, then gazed out at the crowd. “Why don’t you ask her, Mr. Martin?”
Joe was still too dazed to comprehend. It was too incredible: too much was happening all at the same time. “Ask her what?”
“The things Mr. Sprig wanted to ask her.”
Now it was coming through to him. “Are you trying to tell me—”
“I talked to her father today. He thinks you killed one of his sons. She probably does, too.”
“Sunny—Sunny Guido was—”
Ochoa nodded.
Joe’s face contorted. He was so livid that for a moment he could not speak again, could not move. Then suddenly he was brushing past Ochoa, going into the crowd, searching for Sunny. When he found her he walked straight over and gripped her by the shoulders. But he still couldn’t talk and people were staring at them. Joe caught her by the arm, started walking her toward the parking lot. When they were alone, he backed her up against a car. “Now tell me.”
“Joe, I can explain—”
Those words shattered his last hope that it wasn’t true. “Just tell me! Tell me whether it’s true. Was Sprig right? Were you a plant? Sent here to—”
Tears streaming, she nodded.
It took him several more moments to absorb it.
“But I can—”
“Don’t talk, Sunny!”
She shrank from the look she saw on his face. “What are you—”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Joe—”
“I told you—don’t talk!”
She kept crying. “If you’d listen—”
“There’s nothing to listen to! Oh, you roped me in, all right. Roped me in good! Real professional job! The virgin schoolteacher from—”
“THAT’S ALL TRUE!”
“Sure. Everything’s true. Everything’s true. You slut! You miserable conniving doll-faced slut! Took me for a two million dollar sleigh ride. I’m up humping a Wop while Bello’s gouging out my life’s blood. Sure, everything’s true. Johnny Sprig is dead. That’s true, too.”
“If you’re going to kill me—do it!”
“Shut up! Shut up your whores mouth!”
“I said do it!”
He grabbed her violently, ripped at her dress. “No, I’ll make it ten thousand times worse. Trust me—I’ll make it worse than a quick, cheap, easy way out. Right now get your ass up to the penthouse and stay there. And don’t try to leave—the security police’ll have orders to stop you.” He gave her a shove. “Go on now, get going.”
Sobbing, she started for the casino.
Doc Hoffman had just finished bandaging Mai’s hands. They were in his bungalow office. He’d treated Dee, too, for minor injury, and then she’d gone to Bello’s bungalow. The suite was deserted, so she’d changed from her torn dress into slacks; and since there was no longer the great need to hurry, packed a bag with her own clothes after all—a white wool coat, cotton skirts and blouses—inexpensive things she had owned before she met Bello. The suitcase was standing on the sidewalk beside the white Cad convertible now and she was in here with Mai and Doc.
Mai felt better. The abrasions on his face were not serious—didn’t even need adhesive; he had two cracked ribs on the right side, but they were taped up so tightly he felt as if he were wearing a corset; and the eight broken fingers, four on each hand, were in splints.
“You won’t be playing piano for a while.”
“How long, Doc? I’ve saved asking you that because—I guess I’m afraid of the answer.”
“If they knit well, and there’s no reason why they shouldn’t, you’ll be able to use your fingers again in six or seven months.”
“I can play then?”
“Probably not as well as usual. But give them a year and you’ll be right back in your old form. They’re all clean breaks. Now if the fingers had been mashed, it’d be a different story. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I’ll say I’m lucky.”
Doc smiled at Dee. “Wish I’d been in the casino when he gave his version of Washington’s farewell to his troops.” She nodded thoughtfully. “The dice chant stopped for almost a full minute.”
“Yes, that was a big thing.”
“And Sprigs dead because of it,” Mai said bitterly. “Don’t think of it that way. He died doing his job. It could have happened a hundred different ways.”
Mai looked at Dee now, holding up his splinted fingers.
“Isn’t really bad as it seems. One of the big record companies wants me to make an album using voice only. I’ll do it now. And maybe I can even get some night club bookings with that bit. Sitting on a high stool, back-stopped with music, and just singing.”
Doc Hoffman smiled warmly. “The undespairing soul of man. Break the fingers he uses to earn his bread and he finds another way home.”
He walked them out to the car, put Dee’s white leather suitcase into the back seat. She slid behind the wheel and Mai lingered on the sidewalk a moment.
“Doc, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.” Then he suddenly remembered: “I haven’t paid you for fixing me up.”
“It’s on the house. Comes out of
my resident-physician s fee. It’s been a pleasure knowing you, too, Malcolm.”
A few minutes later, the white convertible was on the highway, driving along the Strip, passing the giant, sparkling signs of the Flamingo, The Sands, Sahara, Tropicana, Thunderbird, Riviera, Royal Nevada, Desert Inn, Stardust, El Rancho Vegas, and all the flamboyant neon monuments to the lavish motels that vied for space in this gaudy kaleidoscopic skyline.
“Here’s one town I’ll never see again,” Dee said softly. “Where to, Mai?”
“East. New York City—where else? And Diane, on the way, let s stop off and be married in every state we pass through, except this one. Even if some have a three-day waiting period. We’re in no big hurry—we’ll just sit there and wait.”
The Cad moved a little faster now, and he didn’t look at the signs any more.
She laughed. “You want to really nail me down, don’t you?”
“You know it.”
“Goes vice versa,” she said.
Thirty-five
5:03 A.M.
When Joe at last returned to the gambling pit, an excited murmur passed through the room, and then, except for the dice chant, it was almost quiet. He took his place on the other side of the table from Bello, his eyes boring into the older man.
“I warned you not to pull anything in my casino.”
“I didn’t,” Bello said coldly.
“YOU’RE A LIAR!”
Bello stiffened. “If you want to use that accusation as an excuse to quit this game—”
“Who’s quitting?”
Bello stared at him. Joe motioned the pit boss over.
“This table is closed to everybody except Mr. Bello.”
“All right,” the pit boss said, “you heard him, folks. This table is shut down.”
The customers picked up their chips, moved back a little, impressed; no one complained. Bello was watching, wondering.
“We don’t need the crew,” Joe said.
The stickman, money man and others walked away as spectators now thronged around, six deep. In the background, a few people were even standing on the rungs of bar stools.
“We buck heads, that it?” Bello asked.
“Yeah, just the two of us. A back alley crap game.” There was fury in Joe’s voice and he made sure he could be heard by the onlookers. “I’ll fade you for any amount of money you want to name. The only stipulation is, you do the same for me.”
Bello hesitated.
“You’re not backing down, Mr. Bello?”
“No.”
“Good thing, Mr. Bello. If you ever back down from any gambling game, you’re through. You’re pretty much aware of that, aren’t you, Mr. Bello?”
Bello picked up a pair of dice. “Let’s get started.”
“No, I’ll shoot first,” Joe said. “You’ve been throwing those dice for three days and nights. Now it’s my turn.”
“We’ll roll high die for it.”
Joe threw out a single die. Five. Bello rolled out a die. Six.
“All right, you roll first,” Joe conceded.
Bello held two dice in his hand and called for the last tally.
“Million seven hundred thousand four hundred fifty—your plus,” the pit boss told him.
“I’m coming out for fifty thousand dollars.”
There was a gasp from the spectators as the chips were placed.
“You’re faded.”
Bello rolled a five, and then rolled several times more, trying to make another five, but Joe didn’t even watch; his temples were throbbing, his mouth felt dry; all he could think was Sunny, Sunny, Sunny, Sunny! And he was falling apart inside. He felt so much pain, such absolute despair that he wanted to yell out at the top of his voice.
“There it is,” Bello said.
Joe looked down and saw a three and a two. “Your point. Now you’re a million and three-quarters in. How much are you coming out for?”
“Hundred thousand.”
“Bet.”
Bello rolled a seven.
“Million, eight hundred and fifty thousand and odd cents,” Joe said.
Bello said: “A hundred and fifty G’s minus the odd dollars. If I make it, we’ll be at two million even.”
“You’re faded.”
Joe watched as Bello shook the big dice in his sweaty hand, then threw them hard against the far backboard. He saw the six and five.
“Eleven, winner,” Joe said, imitating a stickman. “Now what do you shoot?”
“You really want to go on this way?”
“Yeah—I really do.”
“Back to fifty.”
“Go.”
Bello rolled a six, got it right back.
“Two million, fifty thousand,” said Joe, his face set. The spectators were almost afraid to breathe.
“Fifty once more,” said Bello.
“Piker.”
“Isn’t enough for you?”
“Not nearly.”
“I’m happy,” Bello said.
He rolled an eight.
“Eight, easy eight,” he purred, rolling a four.
“No side bets?” Joe asked.
“No; we’re bucking heads.” Bello threw the dice. “Five and three,” he said.
They came up four and three.
He looked at Joe: “We’re back to two million even. Your dice.”
Joe picked up the same dice Bello had used and looked straight at him.
“I’m coming out for one million dollars.”
There was an uproar in the pit.
Bello looked as if someone had hit him in the face. “Wait a minute—”
“You agreed to fade any bet I made.”
“I didn’t agree to gamble with a madman.”
The babble of voices died and silence hung in the air; the excitement in the crowd was at a terrible surging pitch. All eyes were on the table.
“Am I faded or not?”
Bello gazed around the room, then back at Joe. Sweat was coming on his neck. “Look—”
“Faded or not?”
“Shoot!”
Joe rolled an eleven.
Three days, three nights, endless hours making complicated bets, going without sleep, sometimes without food—and in one throw of the dice he had wiped out a million dollars’ worth of that suffering!
“Coming out again,” Joe said, “same bet. One million dollars.”
Bello started to open his mouth, but no words came out. The big red dice hit the table, bounced against the backboard. Four. One of the two hardest numbers to make.
Bello was able to breathe again.
Joe rolled a five, then a six, then an eight, then eight again. On the next roll, the dice flipped off the backboard, landed on the green felt table and lay there, motionless, showing a pair of twos.
Joe looked into Bello’s unbelieving eyes. “We’re even now. But once more for one million dollars.”
Bello shook his head violently. “No, I’m through!”
“If you’re out of money, I’ll take a note.”
“No,” Bello said harshly, “I’ve had enough!”
“I haven’t,” Joe said flatly.
“What do you mean?”
“You weren’t playing for yourself.”
“Did I ever say I was?”
“How much did they bankroll you?”
“Four hundred thousand.”
“Cashier’s check—local bank?”
Bello nodded.
Joe said: “Put it on the table.”
Bello reached for his wallet. “You want to roll for it?”
“No. The boys who backed you are buying a very expensive tombstone for a man named Sprig.”
Bello hesitated, then read death in Joe’s eyes; and saw the faces of security men in the crowd. It wasn’t his money anyway. He put the check for four hundred thousand dollars on the green felt of the dice table. He started to go, but someone blocked his way.
“One thing more,” Joe said.
Bello looked up.
“What syndicate? What city?”
“They didn’t tell me.”
Joe stared straight into his eyes.
“My contact was a Mr. Wily.”
“Now dead.”
“Is he?” said Bello, “I didn’t know. I’ve been busy playing craps. But he’s the only one who could have told you. Now I guess nobody’ll ever know what syndicate it was, in what city—or the names of any of the men running it. But there’s something to remember, Mr. Martin—it can start again tomorrow, or next week, or next month, or next year—whenever they or some other group feel up to it. Maybe they’ll be smarter next time, or stronger—and maybe you’ll be weaker. Without Mr. Sprig you’re bound to be weaker. He was your strength. He was the backbone of Rainbow’s End. My play is over for now—but yours’ll never end.”
Bello turned and walked away.
Joe stood absolutely motionless for a moment, then looked over at his pit boss.
“Open this table up again.”
He headed for the penthouse.
When he opened the door, Sunny was there. She had changed to a traveling suit and was trying to close down the lid of a hastily crammed suitcase. He shut the door, moved toward her.
“I told you—you’re not going anywhere!”
She faced him. “Joe, will you listen? Now will you listen?”
He moved away from her. “The big game is over.”
“A Mr. Wily came to our house in San Francisco . . . ”
“I beat him.”
“He told my family that my brother Al—that you murdered my brother Al three years ago.
“Beat him—and all of them—the unknowns—with their tricks and stunts.”
“He said all I had to do was be nice to you.” His back was to her, and she moved up to it. “I didn’t have to report to anybody, to spy—anything like that. Just be nice to you. And the thing is, when I realized it had all been a trick—”
He swung around, facing her. “I hit Sprig because of you!” Now he moved past her again. “God, I’m tired! I’ve never been this tired.” He stretched out in a leather lounge chair, lit a cigarette and gazed at the orange flame of the match in his shaky hand. “So you got conned, is that it? You got conned by Wily. Well, you wouldn’t be hard to con. I conned you, didn’t I? I conned you all the way.”