“Maybe they don’t need a police force,” Blade speculated. “Maybe they don’t want one. Ma said Organized Crime controls the entire city, and I doubt the mob would allow a police force to exist.”
“But how do they keep the crowds under control?” Geronimo asked.
“With all the gambling, and the drinking, and the womanizing that goes on here, there must be problems with drunks and other rowdy types. How does the mob keep them in line?”
“I imagine we’ll find out,” Blade said.
They reached the first buildings, sleazy motels on both sides of the highway. A wide sidewalk bordered the front of the motel nearest them.
Blade gazed across the highway and noted another sidewalk on the opposite side. The motels were doing a thriving business; vehicles were pulling in and out of the motel parking lots every few seconds. He was puzzled by the heavy traffic until he saw one of the cars pull up to a door labeled FRONT OFFICE. A lean man in a green suit stood outside the Front Office door. Whenever a vehicle pulled up alongside him, the driver would hand the man money and the man would give the driver a small white packet.
“What is that all about?” Geronimo inquired, watching yet another transaction.
“I don’t know,” Blade said.
“Want me to find out, pard?” Hickok offered.
“No,” Blade replied. “I don’t want any of us making waves. We don’t want to do anything to get ourselves noticed. We have a better chance of finding Mindy if we don’t draw attention to us.”
They entered Las Vegas.
And three minutes later attracted exactly the attention Blade didn’t want.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Blade was extremely pleased.
None of the pedestrians paid any attention to the four Warriors. The hustling crowds flowed to and fro, from casino to motel or liquor store, a frenetic swirl of humanity composed of frontier types in buckskins, Las Vegas residents and tourists in shirts and slacks or shorts, and dapper sorts in three-piece suits. Machine guns, rifles, and handguns were in abundance.
The Warriors fit right in.
Blade did notice the stares Helen was receiving from many of the men.
But dozens of beautiful women were strolling along the sidewalk, each one the focus of masculine interest. The women wore skimpy tops and short, short skirts, and they flaunted their sexuality with a pronounced swaying of their hips and the suggestive contours of their breasts.
“Hey! Look!” Hickok said. “That sign.”
Blade halted in midstride in front of a liquor store. To the right of the entrance was a large white sign with black lettering. “Let’s read it,” he stated.
They crossed the parking lot and walked up to the sign.
WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS
The recreation capital of the Western Hemisphere! If we don’t have it, you don’t need it! All establishments are open twenty-four hours a day for your enjoyment and convenience. Precious metals and jewelry are accepted at any Exchange Center in every casino. Prewar currency is also acceptable at the current rate of exchange. Firearms are permitted, but the killing of unarmed tourists is strictly forbidden. Las Vegas thrives on its tourist trade. Any violations will be dealt with by the Enforcers. All questions will be courteously answered at any of the Information Booths. Thank you for vacationing in Las Vegas! We hope to see you again next year!
The Las Vegas Chamber
“Friendly folks hereabouts,” Hickok remarked.
“Who are the Enforcers?” Geronimo queried.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Blade responded. “Let’s keep moving.”
The four Warriors turned.
Just as the front door to the liquor store opened and five men walked out. All five wore suits and three wore hats. Two of them carried Uzi submachine guns. The apparent leader was a stocky man with a pockmarked face who was wearing a blue pin-striped suit and a white hat.
In his right hand was a bottle of whiskey. He started to take a swig as he headed toward a parked red sedan. His brown eyes alighted on the Warriors and he stopped. “Whoa! What have we here?”
“Uh-oh,” Geronimo mumbled. “We’ve got trouble.”
The man in the white hat cocked his head to one side, lustfully gazing at Helen. “Do you see what I see, Reggie?”
One of the men with an Uzi, a tall man in a tan suit, nodded. “I see her, Franky.”
Franky took a sip of whiskey and walked toward the Warriors, flanked by his four henchmen.
Blade was standing slightly ahead of his companions. He took a stride forward, the Commando held at waist height. “Do you want something?”
Franky halted, lowering the bottle and warily studying the giant. “This doesn’t concern you, buddy!”
“I think it does,” Blade stated.
Franky nodded toward Helen. “I want a few words with the fox.”
“About what?” Blade asked.
“That’s between the broad and me!” Franky declared testily.
“What do you want?” Helen spoke up.
Franky smirked. “I want to show you a good time, gorgeous. Why don’t you dump these assholes and come with me? You’ll see the sights in style.”
“No, thanks,” Helen said politely.
Franky’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“Nope,” Helen replied. “And I don’t care.”
Franky seemed insulted. He glanced at the one named Reggie. “Tell this bimbo who I am!”
“You don’t want to mess with Franky, lady,” Reggie warned. “He’s connected.”
“Connected to what? That bottle?” Helen retorted.
Franky hissed and angrily tossed the bottle to the pavement. The bottle shattered, spraying whiskey in all directions. “I’m a made man, bitch! Does the name Giorgio mean anything to you?”
“Should it?” Helen rejoined.
Blade suddenly recalled the matron at the diner mentioning Don Giorgio. What had she said? Something about Don Giorgio being the head of the second most powerful Family in Vegas.
“Do you know who my old man is?” Franky asked belligerently.
“I do,” Blade said. “And we don’t want any trouble with you.”
Franky grinned cockily. “Oh, really? Well, Jerkface, you’ll have more trouble than you can handle if Sweet-Cheeks doesn’t come for a ride with me.”
Hickok abruptly stepped to the right, slinging the Henry over his left shoulder.
The four men with Franky shifted their attention to the gunman.
Hickok’s hands dropped to his sides and he grinned.
“What’s so funny, Ugly?” Franky snapped.
Blade tried one more time to prevent bloodshed. “We don’t want any trouble with you. Just let us walk away in peace.”
Franky snorted contemptuously. “The only way you’ll leave is in pieces.”
Blade realized pedestrians had gathered on the sidewalk and were watching in fascination. He saw the two henchmen with Uzis fingering their weapons. The other three had swept their jackets aside to reveal pistols stuck under their belts. With a sinking feeling he knew there would be gunplay.
“So what’s it going to be?” Franky demanded. “Do you hand over the vixen or do we whack you?”
“How do you do it?” Hickok unexpectedly queried.
Franky stared at the man in buckskins. “Do what, hick?”
“I’ve never seen anyone with your talent,” Hickok mentioned.
Franky moved the right side of his jacket aside, his hand moving to within an inch of an automatic. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ve never met anyone who could fart out of their mouth before,” Hickok said. “How do you do it?”
Several seconds elapsed before Franky’s alcohol-benumbed mind perceived he had been insulted. With a snarl he grabbed for this gun.
Hickok was the first to fire. The Colts flashed from their holsters and boomed, the twin shots as one.
Franky took both shots in
the head, one in each eye, his cranium bursting outwards, his brains and blood gushing over the asphalt as he was flung backwards.
Hickok swiveled before Franky started to fall, planting two more shots into one of the henchmen.
Reggie swung his Uzi toward the gunfighter, but he died before he could squeeze the trigger. A burst from the giant’s machine gun ripped into his abdomen and nearly tore him in half. He crumpled to the ground, the Uzi slipping from his fingers, his consciousness slowly fading, agony wracking his body. Doubled over, on his knees, shock overwhelming his senses, he saw the fight end as swiftly as it began. The giant spun and took out Lou with another skillful burst to Lou’s chest, even as the Indian and the fox shot Berk and Clemens. Reggie sagged, blood spouting from his gaping mouth, his eyes glazing. A pair of moccasins appeared in his line of vision and he craned his neck upward.
“Howdy,” the man in the buckskin said. “Your pards are done for. Any last words before I put you out of your misery?”
Reggie used the last of his strength to spit out, “Get screwed!”
Hickok shrugged, extending both Pythons. “I figured you might want to make your peace with your Maker.” He cocked the Colts. “I reckon I was wrong.” He fired, the Pythons blasting, Reggie’s forehead caving inward as the two heavy slugs plowed through his brain.
Reggie toppled onto the asphalt.
Hickok glanced at his friends. “Anyone hit?”
“I’m fine,” Geronimo answered.
“Ditto,” Helen said.
Blade walked up to Franky’s corpse. “I hope we don’t run into more idiots like this one.”
There was a commotion in the crowd on the sidewalk.
Blade faced the pedestrians, ready to cut loose if they displayed any hostility. To his amazement, none of the people crowding the sidewalk showed any hint of anger or resentment. The commotion was being caused by several men striving to reach the liquor store parking lot.
Were these newcomers associates of Franky’s?
The three men finally pressed through the throng and stopped. All three wore dark-colored suits; each one was armed with a machine gun. One of them, a burly man with a black mustache and a hooked nose, walked toward the Warriors, his dark eyes surveying the five corpses gravely.
“Damn!” he exclaimed when he spied Franky’s body.
Hickok, Geronimo, and Helen were keeping the three men covered.
The man with the mustache looked up at Blade. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“They started it,” Blade said.
The man twisted toward the sidewalk. “How about it? Who saw this? Who started it?”
“Franky did,” a man called out.
“Yeah,” declared a woman in a red skirt. “We saw the whole thing. They told Franky they didn’t want no trouble. Franky wouldn’t listen.”
“He finally bit off more than he could chew!” someone quipped.
“Then it was a fair and square?” the man with the mustache questioned them.
A half dozen or so nodded. A few yelled out, “Yes!”
“My name is DePetrillo,” the man with the mustache stated. “I head one of the Enforcer squads. It’s my job to report every killing. If it’s a fair and square, there’s no problem. But if it’s done dirty, if unarmed civilians are shot, then a dozen Enforcers go after the guilty party.” He paused and gazed at Franky, then sighed. “This is trouble, mister. What’s your name?”
“George Smith,” Blade lied.
“Why are you in Vegas?” DePetrillo inquired.
“We came to see the sights,” Blade replied.
DePetrillo frowned. “Is this your first time in Vegas?”
“Yes,” Blade admitted.
“Then let me set you straight,” DePetrillo said. “Ordinarily, there’s no beef over a fair and square. But one of the men you killed was Franky Giorgio. I never liked Franky much myself. He was all mouth. But he was also the son of Johnny Giorgio, and Johnny is one of the most powerful men in Vegas. I’ll report this as a fair and square to Don Pucci, but even Don Pucci might not be able to keep Giorgio in line over the killing of his son. Giorgio may ask for a sanction to whack you. Do you understand me?”
“I think so,” Blade said. “You’re warning me that Giorgio may come after us.”
DePetrillo nodded. “If I were you, I’d haul ass out of Vegas right now.”
“We can’t,” Blade said.
“Suit yourself,” DePetrillo stated. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now get out of here before some of Giorgio’s boys show up.”
Blade motioned for his three fellow Warriors to follow. “Thanks,” he said as he passed DePetrillo.
The Enforcer scrutinized the giant. “Don’t thank me, mister. I’m just doing my job.”
The crowd parted to permit the Warriors access to the sidewalk.
Blade resumed their trek into the heart of the city. He replaced the clip in his Commando.
Hickok, busily reloading his Colts, reached Blade’s right side. “George Smith, huh? Now there’s an original name!”
“I couldn’t very well give my real name,” Blade said. “Pucci is expecting the Warriors to try and rescue Mindy. But he doesn’t know when. He gave us a month, remember? If I gave my real name to that Enforcer, Don Pucci would know we’re in Vegas now. I want to surprise him.”
“I’m partial to the direct approach,” Hickok mentioned.
“I know,” Blade agreed.
“So why don’t we find Don Pucci, shove a gun down his throat, and give him five seconds to turn Mindy over or else?” Hickok suggested.
“Be serious,” Blade said. “Don Pucci will be guarded by his button men, as Ma called them. I doubt anyone can get close to Pucci without an appointment. And I can’t see him giving me an appointment.”
“I still don’t understand why Pucci took Mindy,” Hickok remarked.
“Why lure us all the way to Vegas? And why did Pucci ask for you by name?”
“I wish I knew,” Blade responded.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“We’re being followed,” Geronimo announced.
Blade knew better than to turn around and search for their tail.
“Where?” he casually inquired over his right shoulder.
“About forty yards behind us,” Geronimo said. “There are two of them.
They’ve been shadowing us for two or three minutes.”
“Are they armed?” Blade queried.
“I don’t see any rifles or machine guns,” Geronimo responded. “But they could have handguns concealed under their jackets. They’re both wearing dark suits.”
“What’s the plan, Big Guy?” Hickok asked.
Blade pondered their next move. He estimated they were over a mile from the liquor store. Ahead was a stretch of highway with casino after casino on both sides. Secondary streets periodically intersected the main thoroughfare. More people than ever before jammed the sidewalks, and the vehicle traffic was bumper to bumper.
“Want me to take care of them?” Hickok proposed.
“We’ll do it my way,” Blade said. “Come on.” He walked to the nearest intersection and waited at the curb with a crowd of pedestrians until the traffic light displayed a WALK sign.
The Warriors quickly crossed.
Blade was hoping his strategy would work. They had traversed six intersections since leaving the liquor store, and he had noticed the traffic lights never flashed the WALK sign for more than 30 seconds. Anyone wanting to cross was compelled to walk rapidly. The two men following the Warriors would be unable to catch up until the next light change. He hoped.
“They didn’t make it,” Geronimo confirmed, idly gazing to their rear.
Blade increased his pace, searching for the ideal spot.
Geronimo, faking an interest in the casinos, scanned the structures to the rear. “The light still hasn’t changed,” he mentioned.
An alley appeared to the right.
Blade slowed, noting the cra
tes stacked at the mouth of the alley, partially obscuring the entrance. “Where are they?”
“Still waiting for the light,” Geronimo said.
“Into this alley then,” Blade instructed them, and took a right when he reached it. The alley was littered with refuse and lined with metal trash cans.
“Yuck!” Hickok declared. “What a smell!”
“Reminds me of you before your annual bath,” Geronimo quipped.
Blade saw an open door 15 feet away. He cautiously advanced and peered inside, discovering a gloomy corridor with a closed door at the far end. “In here,” he ordered, then stood aside so they could file into the hallway.
“I don’t like being cooped up like this,” Hickok commented.
Blade stepped inside and drew the door shut until only a crack remained, enough visibility to afford him a view of the alley mouth and the stretch up to the door.
“Are you aimin’ to jump these clowns?” Hickok asked.
“I am,” Blade verified, peeking through the crack.
Hickok chuckled. “This is another thing I like about Las Vegas. There’s never a dull moment.”
Blade watched the mouth of the alley for their shadows. Seconds later two men in dark suits, with felt hats, reached the entrance and paused uncertainly. Blade knew they were perplexed. He doubted the pair had seen the Warriors enter the alley, so they must be wondering how the Warriors could have vanished into thin air.
The two men became embroiled in a heated exchange.
Blade grinned. One of the men, the skinniest, was gesturing along the main drag, indicating he wanted to stick to the highway. But the other one was jabbing his right thumb toward the alley, apparently arguing the alley should be checked before they proceeded.
The skinny one lost.
Both men walked into the alley.
Blade slung his Commando over his broad back and drew his right Bowie. “Geronimo,” he whispered. “Take the skinny one.”
Geronimo nodded, then handed the Browning to Helen. He slid his tomahawk from under his belt.
Blade tensed as the second man, a pale, mousy man not over five feet tall, approached the door. He waited until the last possible instant, until the mousy mobster was reaching for the doorknob, before he lunged, ramming his powerful right shoulder into the door and sending it flying wide.
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