Nevada Run

by David Robbins

  Don Anthony Pucci’s personal casino was an imposing, stately structure 15 stories in height. Ten glass doors faced the boulevard, each with its frame painted a metallic gold. The trim on the windows was also gold.

  While the exterior on the upper floors was an opaque black glass, the lowest floor was a clean, white stucco. Patrons were flocking in and out of the casino constantly.

  Blade walked up the three cement steps to the first door and gripped the handle. He paused long enough to glance across the boulevard at Johnny’s Palace.

  Hickok was just entering Giorgio’s casino.

  Blade opened the door and stepped inside, the Commando in his right hand.

  Geronimo and Helen followed.

  Blade walked several yards and stopped to get his bearings.

  The lobby of the Golden Crown was opulently, tastefully furnished with plush red carpet, subdued blue walls decorated with paintings, and chandeliers to provide the illumination. Customers were everywhere.

  Geronimo tapped Blade on the left arm and pointed at a sign on the nearby wall.

  WELCOME!

  The Golden Crown management welcomes you to the ultimate gambling experience! Exchange Centers are located throughout the casino. If you have any questions, our helpful Hostesses will gladly assist you. Enforcers are on the premises at all times to discourage disorderly behavior. The first drink is on the house. Thank you and come again!

  Blade surveyed the enormous lobby, scanning the hundreds of people engaged in a variety of activities; some were seated at tables, playing cards; some were seated around a large wheel; others were at tables where cards were pulled from wooden boxes; and over two hundred were yanking levers on odd machines with flashing lights and twirling fruit emblems.

  “How will we ever find Mindy in here?” Geronimo wondered aloud.

  A petite brunette in a red and black outfit, her red, ruffled skirt barely covering her thighs, approached the Warriors with a wide smile. A square blue plastic tag attached to her black blouse identified her as a HOSTESS.

  “Hello,” she greeted them. “My name is Leslie. Welcome to the Golden Crown.”

  “Hello,” Blade said.

  Leslie raked them with a critical eye. “My! You certainly are armed to the teeth! Expecting trouble?”

  “You can’t be too careful these days,” Blade commented, “May I help you in any way?” Leslie asked.

  “We’re looking for someone,” Blade told her. “A young woman named Mindy.”

  “Is she an employee of the Golden Crown?” Leslie asked.

  “We know she was brought here,” Blade replied. “I don’t think she would be an employee.”

  “Is she a guest?” Leslie inquired politely.

  “She’s my daughter,” Helen interjected brusquely.

  “I can check the casino register to see if she’s a guest.”

  Leslie offered. “What’s her last name?”

  “She doesn’t have one,” Helen said.

  Leslie grinned. “Everyone has a last name.”

  Helen leaned toward the hostess, her eyes flinty. “We don’t. Neither does Mindy. We know she’s here. Tell Don Pucci we want her!”

  The hostess blinked twice. “Don Pucci?”

  “Yes,” Blade stated courteously. “We’re here at Don Pucci’s invitation.

  Tell him the Warriors have arrived.”

  “The Warriors?” Leslie repeated quizzically.

  “Do it!” Helen snapped impatiently.

  Leslie’s eyes widened slightly. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, and walked off to the left.

  “Why’d you give us away?” Geronimo asked Blade.

  “I didn’t,” Blade said, glancing at Helen. “Blabbermouth here did.”

  “I’m sorry,” Helen said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m tired of pussyfooting around! It’s obvious we could search for weeks in a building this huge and never find Mindy. So I decided to try Hickok’s method, the direct approach.”

  “Now we’re in trouble,” Geronimo said.

  “Why?” Helen queried.

  Geronimo gazed around the casino. “Because Hickok’s method only works for Hickok. I call it the Blundering Idiot Principle.”

  “The harm is done,” Blade stated. “We’ll have to play it by ear from here on out and pray for the best.”

  “I’d like it better if Pucci didn’t know we’re here,” Geronimo observed.

  Blade cradled the Commando in his arms. The colossal casino would be impossible to search completely from top to bottom, so Helen’s blunder was logically justified. But he was peeved at her for taking the initiative without his approval. He intended to submit her to a refresher course in the necessity for Warrior obedience after they returned to the Home.

  If they returned.

  “Here comes the bimbo,” Helen declared.

  The hostess walked up to them, smiling sweetly. “I called the main office. They’re sending someone down to see you.”

  “Thanks,” Blade said.

  “Mind if I ask you a question?” Geronimo mentioned.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Leslie responded.

  “This is our first trip to Vegas,” Geronimo revealed. “And there are some things I don’t understand. For instance, why do the casinos accept prewar currency? Without the Government of the United States to back the money, isn’t it worthless?”

  “Prewar currency is not worthless because it’s backed by the casinos,” Leslie said. “Let me explain. I asked about this once, and this is what my supervisor told me. There is a lot of prewar currency floating around. Its face value is zero, but the Dons decided to use the prewar currency instead of printing their own money. All of the national mints stopped functioning during the war. No one has the capability to make money. So the Dons use the existing currency at an exchange rate of pennies on the dollar. It’s cheaper for them than manufacturing their own.”

  “But eventually all the prewar currency will wear out,” Geronimo noted.

  “What will they do then?”

  “I don’t know,” Leslie said. “But they have a process for partially restoring really old bills. It will be a long time before all the prewar currency is gone.”

  “I have a question,” Blade remarked. “How is it Las Vegas has so much gas and unlimited electricity?”

  “You can get anything on the black market if you have the price,” Leslie said enigmatically.

  “Are you married?” Helen unexpectedly inquired.

  “Yes, I am,” Leslie answered. “Why?”

  “How can you live in Las Vegas, you being a married woman and all?” Helen questioned.

  “I don’t understand,” Leslie said.

  “Look around you! All this gambling. Gangsters all over the place. Shootings on the streets,” Helen detailed. “How can you live in such an environment?”

  “What’s wrong with Vegas?” Leslie responded. “Life here is good. We never have shortages of food, or clothing, or gas. The Dons protect the city from the looters and the mutants. And if you don’t carry a gun, odds are you’ll never be involved in a shooting. The standard of living in Vegas is higher than in most other parts of the country. The schools are excellent—”

  “You have schools?” Blade interrupted.

  “Of course, silly,” Leslie said. “How else would we educate our children? The Dons funnel a large portion of their profits into the educational system.”

  “The Dons support the schools?” Blade asked in surprise.

  “And the hospitals, and the utilities, and the senior centers,” Leslie divulged. “Didn’t you know that?”

  “No,” Blade confessed, “I had no idea.”

  “The Dons care about their people,” Leslie stated affectionately.

  “Will wonders never cease!” Geronimo quipped.

  A lean man with black hair, a square jaw, and glasses, attired in a white suit, was walking toward the Warriors with a hurried tread. He smiled as he neared them. “Hello.
My name is Mario Pileggi. I’m Don Pucci’s Operations Manager.” He extended his right hand to Blade.

  Blade took the hand and shook, Pileggi’s firm handshake and clear blue eyes disconcerting him. “I’m Blade. This is Helen and Geronimo.” He perceived that Pileggi was an urbane, confident man.

  “I was told you want to see Don Pucci?” Mario said when Blade released his hand.

  “We’re here at his invitation,” Blade stated.

  Mario studied the three Warriors for a few seconds. “This is most mystifying. Perhaps you would be kind enough to accompany me to the main office. We can sort this out there.”

  “What’s to sort out?” Helen demanded. “I want my daughter.”

  “Where is your daughter?” Mario asked.

  “Don’t play games! You know she’s here. The Don took her!” Helen said angrily.

  “Hmmmm,” was all Mario replied.

  “We would like to get this sorted out as quickly as possible,” Blade commented.

  “Come with me,” Mario said, and turned and headed for the far side of the lobby.

  Blade kept his finger on the trigger of the Commando as he crossed the spacious floor. If Mario was leading them into a trap, he wanted to be ready. They passed a row of those odd machines with the lights and rotating pictures of fruit. “What are those?” he inquired.

  Mario glanced over his right shoulder, his forehead creased. “You’ve never seen a slot machine before?”

  “No,” Blade said.

  Mario halted and reached into his left front pants pocket. He withdrew a circular red plastic piece and handed it to the giant.

  Blade took the piece. There was lettering on both sides.

  THE GOLDEN CROWN.

  “It’s a token,” Mario mentioned. “There’s a chronic shortage of coins, so we use tokens in some of the slots. This one’s on the house.”

  “Thank you,” Blade said, pocketing the token, puzzled.

  Mario continued toward the far wall.

  Blade was feeling uncharacteristically tense. Something was gnawing at his mind, troubling him. What was it? Why was he so certain he was overlooking an important factor in this mission?

  A glass-enclosed elevator appeared through the crowd. Mario was heading straight for it.

  Blade surveyed the patrons for any sign of Enforcers or button men, but none were in evidence.

  Mario indicated the elevator when they were ten feet away. “We’ll take this up to the second floor.”

  “Is Don Pucci’s office on the second floor?” Blade queried.

  “The main office is on the second floor,” Mario replied.

  The elevator was large enough to accommodate a dozen occupants. A sign was affixed to the glass in the middle. RESERVED. RESTRICTED USE. Two glass doors comprised the front of the elevator.

  “The public elevators are over there,” Mario said, pointing at four elevators 20 yards to the left.

  “I was surprised to find this casino so close to Don Giorgio’s,” Blade absently commented.

  Mario, about to reach for the gold handles in the center of the glass doors, froze and turned. “You know Don Giorgio?”

  “No,” Blade said.

  Mario’s mouth curled downwards. “Giorgio is an upstart. He deliberately built his casino across from Don Pucci’s.”

  “Why?” Blade asked. “To increase his business?”

  “Not hardly,” Mario answered. “He had ulterior motives.” He opened the elevator doors. “After you.”

  “After you,” Blade said.

  Mario shrugged and entered the elevator, standing next to a panel of buttons.

  The Warriors stepped into the elevator.

  Mario closed the doors and pushed a button marked with a 2. The elevator started upward.

  “Are Don Pucci and Don Giorgio friends?” Blade questioned.

  Mario laughed bitterly. “Friends isn’t the word I would use.”

  The elevator coasted to a stop on the second floor. Below, the lobby was a jumble of bustling movement.

  Mario turned. The rear of the elevator was a seemingly solid black plastic wall. He pressed a black button on the panel and the “wall” slid into a recessed slot on the right, revealing a lengthy corridor beyond.

  Blade realized the glass portion only faced the lobby. Access to the corridors was through this rear door.

  “Allow me,” Mario said, taking the lead and exiting. He took an abrupt right.

  Blade, Geronimo, and Helen stepped from the elevator.

  Mario had stopped and was facing them, grinning triumphantly. The rear door to the elevator hissed shut. “Would you care to tell me the real reason you want to see the Don?”

  “We’ve already told you,” Helen responded testily. “I want my daughter.”

  Mario sighed and raised his right hand. “I was hoping you would cooperate.” He snapped his fingers.

  Doors all along the corridor suddenly opened, disgorging over a dozen somber men in suits, each armed with a machine gun. They trained their weapons on the Warriors.

  “If you make a move,” Mario warned in a pleasant tone, “you’re dead.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hickok strolled into Johnny’s Palace with the Henry slung over his back and his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. He paused just inside one of the seven glass doors, studying the layout.

  Johnny’s Palace was ornate, garishly decorated with an ostentatious green carpet and gaudy orange and yellow walls. Oversized chandeliers hung from the arched ceiling. The gambling was in full swing and customers crammed the joint.

  A pretty blonde in a transparent, skimpy yellow dress walked up to the gunman.

  “Hi there, handsome,” she declared, smiling broadly. “Looking for a good time?”

  Hickok noticed an orange tag imprinted with the word ESCORT pinned below her left shoulder. “Howdy, ma’am,” he replied. “I’m lookin’ for Don Giorgio.”

  The escort lost her smile. “Why do you want to see him?”

  “That’s personal,” Hickok said.

  “No one can see Don Giorgio without an appointment.” the escort stated.

  “Where would I find him?” Hickok asked.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” the escort responded. “You can’t see him without an appointment.”

  Hickok lowered his voice. “Ma’am, if you don’t spill the beans, right this moment, I’m afraid I’ll be obliged to shoot you in the foot.”

  The escort did a double take. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  Hickok’s mouth creased in a lopsided grin. “Try me.”

  She scrutinized him from head to toe, then stared into his blue eyes for a moment. “I just bet you’d do it too!”

  “Where can I find Giorgio?” Hickok queried again.

  “You’re making a big mistake, mister,” the escort said.

  “I make ’em all the time,” Hickok noted. “So what’s one more? Now where is Giorgio?”

  The escort turned and pointed at a wall on the opposite side of the lobby. “Do you see those doors there?”

  Hickok looked. There were three wooden doors spaced about 20 yards apart visible through the crowd. “Yep.”

  “The middle door is Don Giorgio’s office,” she said.

  “Is that a fact?” Hickok commented. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Nope,” Hickok stated. “The Don isn’t likely to have his office right out in the open, where anyone can mosey in anytime they feel like it. I’d imagine the Don is one cautious hombre. So where is his real office?”

  The escort frowned. “Third floor. He has a suite at the end of the hall.

  The elevators and the stairs are to the left of those doors.”

  Hickok reached up and patted her on the left cheek. “Thank you, ma’am. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “If the Don discovers I told you,” she said fearfully, “he’ll kill me!”

  “Don’t yo
u worry,” Hickok assured her. “He’ll never know.” He motioned at the wall to his right. “I want you to stand right there, where I can keep an eye on you, until I get across the lobby. You might be tempted to warn the Don, and I can’t let you do that.”

  The escort walked over to the wall and stood there meekly.

  “Thanks again,” Hickok said cheerfully, and started toward the far side of the room. He scanned the packed patrons, noting the various games they were playing.

  Out of the corner of his right eye, Hickok saw the blonde escort edging toward a wooden door 15 feet from the front entrance. He grinned, but otherwise pretended not to notice. Another minute or so and he’d have the welcoming committee he wanted.

  The throng of spectators and gamblers shifted, and Hickok caught sight of three men in suits, men with countenances hardened like granite. None held weapons, but their jackets were open and each man had one hand near his waist.

  “Excuse me!” a voice commanded, and Mousy appeared, shoving his way through the spectators.

  Hickok grinned. “Well, if it isn’t Wart-Nose,” he addressed the diminutive mobster. “Long time no see!”

  Mousy’s beady eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me Wart-Nose!”

  “How about Poop-for-Brains?” Hickok quipped.

  “Funny man!” Mousy snapped. “But you made the biggest mistake of your life when you waltzed into here!”

  “I didn’t waltz,” Hickok corrected him. “I walked.”

  “Did you really think Don Giorgio would see you?” Mousy demanded.

  “It’d be the smart thing to do,” Hickok remarked.

  “What do you know about smarts?” Mousy declared. “You’re so dumb, it’s pathetic.”

  “Are you going to take me to Don Giorgio?” Hickok inquired.

  “Dream on!” Mousy said.

  “He doesn’t want to talk to me?”

  Mousy snorted. “He wants to snuff you, jerk! You and all of your friends are to blame for his son’s death!”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Wart-Nose,” Hickok baited the button man.

  “No, I don’t!” Mousy snapped. “The big geek with the knives told me that you guys whacked Franky!”