The Permit

by William B. Scott

  His shirt's top button was open, exposing a heavy gold chain and a tangle of graying chest fur. An elaborately coiffed silver mane, swept up and back in a dated pompadour, framed well-tanned features creased with wrinkles.

  As intended, Galocci exuded the aura of a back-East "made man," although softened by the more sophisticated touches of out-West Mob methods. Las Vegas had treated him well, and the fruits of success ranged from this elaborate penthouse to a Falcon 2000 business jet and a private golf course.

  That meticulously groomed expanse of grass and trees, protected by a fifteen-foot-high berm and electrified fence, was visible from his office, the headquarters of Mother Lode Holding Company.

  Soaring, floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the northeast corner of a well-appointed Sky Villa suite in the new ARIA resort and casino. Galocci's elegant quarters were a custom-designed combination of luxurious residence and Mother Lode command post, where billion-dollar deals were struck, political careers began and ended, and life-and-death orders were issued.

  Greel was acutely aware that Galocci's suite constituted the center of control for not only Las Vegas, but the entire state of Nevada. Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel's dream of the Mob owning both a city and a state had come to pass.

  Galocci settled into a leather armchair, crossed his legs and eyed Greel.

  "How's the Steele situation?" The smile and question were light and friendly, but black eyes conveyed a sinister demand.

  "It's under control, sir. We've identified key witnesses and have their statements on videotape. As I mentioned the other… "

  "Did you see old man Steele's interview on Channel Seven last night?" Galocci interrupted sharply.

  "Ahh… no. I don't watch much TV."

  Of course, he certainly had seen clips of Win Steele's interview. It had been aired on the station's evening and ten o'clock news segments. Greel also had watched the full sixteen-plus-minute interview on Channel 7's website.

  "You should have, Mikey. I tell ya, we got a problem here. Erik Steele's daddy scared the hell out of me. Know what I'm sayin'?"

  Greel cracked a half-smile. "Really? Nobody scares Antone Galocci.

  "Besides, old man Steele's all hot air. Don't worry about him!" Greel reclined and crossed his legs, the image of ultra-confidence. "Believe me, sir, everything's under control."

  Galocci's cold eyes bored into Greel's. "Mikey, the only false bravado I hear is outta your turd-brown uniform. I didn't get this old by underestimating enemies. Win Steele was cool and calm—and very measured. Too calm and too damned measured! He made one statement that should chill your arrogant bones, boy: 'This time, they killed the wrong guy.'

  "Mikey, that Steele interview upset one hell of a lot of folks—people of all colors and stripes. Shocked 'em wide awake!

  "Steele should have been a stark, raving lunatic. Any other father would be, if three stooges had shot and killed his son for absolutely no defensible reason."

  Galocci walked to his desk and returned with two books, one in each hand. He dropped them on a glass coffee table, in front of Greel.

  "I doubt if you bothered to check out the old man, so I did," Galocci growled. "You see these names?" He tapped the rear cover of Counterspace: The Next Hours of World War III.

  "Any of 'em get your attention?"

  Greel scanned the names of officials, who had written glowing comments about the novel.

  "A few big wheels in Washington saying flowery stuff about a book. So what?"

  Grimacing, Galocci shook his head in disbelief. "Boy, your ignorance is exceeded only by an inability to connect any dots. And you're supposed to be one of Metro's brightest homicide dicks?"

  Galocci jabbed an index finger at the book's cover, pointing at each name, in turn. "A former deputy secretary of defense. A retired four-star general and former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Another retired three-star, who was a deputy Secretary of the Air Force, and another general—the ex-chancellor of the National Security Space Institute.

  "See a pattern, boy?"

  Brow furrowed, Greel stammered, "I… Well… They're mostly retired military. A batch of 'former' something-or-others. Harmless has-beens… ."

  "Jesus, man! You really don't get it, do you?" Galocci stretched an arm across the table and repeatedly slapped the Counterspace book, yelling, "They're all high-ranking Pentagon officials! Do you have any appreciation for what that means?"

  Greel shrugged and flicked a nervous glance at the mobster.

  "I'll talk real slow, and let's see if Mikey's little dim flashlight flickers," Galocci said. "These are all smart, very influential people, who can literally call down bolts of classified lightning to zap your sorry ass, if they want to. Steele knows every one of them, and my bought-and-paid-for dumbshit senators and congressmen can no longer put the squeeze on these folks."

  "So what? An old ex-reporter knows a few ex-Defense Department types. How's that relevant to Erik Steele pulling a gun on one of my officers, sir?" Greel scoffed.

  "For one, Erik Steele did not pull a gun on Krupa. Skip the bullshit, Mikey! Two, it becomes relevant, when you put these names together with one important tidbit: Win Steele was an Air Force officer assigned to the National Security Agency. Before that, he was a crew member, flying on supersecret nuclear-related missions.

  "In short, Mikey, your dumbasses killed the son of a guy tightly wired into the national security intelligence community. He's part of a Defense Department 'Illuminati,' of sorts."

  Greel had no idea what that meant. "Okay… . How does that affect us?" he asked, desperately wanting to get the hell out of this office.

  "I'm not sure, but my gut says it's tremendously dangerous," Galocci said, reclining and throwing an arm over the chair's backrest. "Steele was too damned cool last night. That man has knowledge of highly classified weapons and methods—and a seriously dead son.

  "He may look calm on the outside, but he's raging on the inside. I believe he has a strategy, and you damn well better figure out what it is, before it's too late."

  Galocci carefully interlaced thick, stubby fingers. "Son, the Strip is losing millions of dollars every week. Las Vegas has one of the sorriest economies in the U.S. of A, and it's gonna get worse—a lot worse—when this Steele cock-up hits the national scene.

  "You really think marks are gonna come to Vegas and spend hard-earned bucks, if they're worried about being shot to death by Metro's half-wit killers? Especially after Sixty Minutes airs a show with Win Steele talkin' about his good-lookin' West Pointer kid being murdered by dolts like Krupa, Akaka and Malovic?"

  Galocci paused, then whispered, "Are we communicating yet, Mikey?"

  The abrupt shift and raspy question was unnerving. Greel nodded once, but kept his mouth shut. When Tony was on a roll, you did not interrupt.

  "We got ourselves a well-oiled system here, Mikey. It's served you, me and our Cleveland 'sponsors' quite well for a long time. Know what I'm talkin' about?"

  When he slipped into that gravely, barely whispered Hollywood-mobster tone, Antone Galocci was extremely dangerous.

  Again, Greel nodded.

  "Now, what about the Ho's videotape."

  "Not an issue, sir," Greel said, grateful for a change of topic. "All video is stored as digital data on a Ho's computer hard disk—a digital video recorder. We've taken measures to… well, destroy the data, to be blunt. The original video will be 'unrecoverable' and never seen by an outsider. Period."

  "Alright," Galocci said, apparently satisfied. "And the witnesses?"

  "We cherry-picked from customers my detectives snagged at the crime scene, then homed in on the most impressionable ones. Elderly women, some old guy who thinks he saw a 'gun rug' at the scene, and a cocky doofer who has a foot-long Metro record. He'll say anything to get it cleaned up."

  Galocci grunted, "How da hell do ya figure a witness is 'impressionable?' And won't go south on ya, when he's on the stand?"

  "Basic cop psychology," Greel grinned. "In the
first place, we pick the most shell-shocked ones. Wide-eyed, nervous, dazed. Most average joes go a lifetime without being exposed to real-world violence and death. Witnessing a shooting puts 'em in a mild state of shock. They're confused, numb; can't believe what they just experienced.

  "Our detectives sit 'em down and ask, 'Okay, what did you see?' We let 'em ramble on, but interject statements and emotion-laden terms, like: 'Did you see the suspect reach for his gun? Did the suspect have anything in his hand? Dark colored? How big? Could it have been a gun? Are you absolutely positive about that?'

  "Americans grow up trying to please authority figures. We simply leverage that predisposition," Greel explained. The homicide chief was in his element. This was his turf, and he was damned good at the art of cover-up.

  "We use body language and positive feedback, when we get the answers we want—nods, smiles, that sort of thing. We give 'em negative feedback—frowns, shaking the head, skeptical looks—when a witness insists that, in this case, the perp did not reach for his gun, that he only had a BlackBerry in his hand, that he never made a 'furtive move' that might have prompted Krupa to fire.

  "By the time we get done with a witness, he's convinced that the victim pulled a gun and pointed it at our officer."

  Greel paused and crossed his legs.

  "Then we really shake 'em up. We say, 'Aw, darn! The tape recorder was off! Let's run through that again, so we can get it on tape.'

  "By then, the witness is so damned confused he's convinced he really did see the suspect pull a gun, which warranted being shot and killed. Works every time."

  Galocci nodded slowly. "Yeah. 'Bout like being grilled by a New York detective, huh?"

  A cold sneer spoke volumes: Been there and endured it—and so have you, Mikey.

  "Very similar," Greel nodded, returning a faint grin.

  Long ago, Greel had been one of those NYPD cops, until he'd screwed up. It was Galocci who had stepped in and helped 'Mikey Boy' escape the Big Apple, and the Vegas power broker never missed a chance to underscore the notion that Greel owed his life and freedom to 'The Family.' Galocci owned Greel, as he did most government officials in Nevada. Vader was special, though.

  Galocci stood and extended a hand. "Keep me informed, Mikey. Stay on top of this Steele mess, ya hear?"

  Gripping Greel's fist a beat longer than convention warranted, Galocci rasped, "Steele was a bad shoot, and you know it. This one could blow up in our faces. Don't let that happen. Capisce?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Greel stared at his benefactor, turned and departed. Unsettled, he ignored the stunning executive assistant's come-on smile.

  * *

  LAS VEGAS

  "… Shots fired! Repeat. Shots fired!"

  Multiple patrol officers acknowledged, noting the address was in a tony section of Summerlin. Adrenaline surged as a half-dozen eager Metro cops raced to yet another encounter with danger and excitement.

  A few miles away, Captain Mikey Greel was well into his second scotch-and-water, flipping between channels to catch all the ten-o-clock news segments. Win Steele's mug was on three different stations, calmly raising pointed questions about the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department's shooting of his son.

  At least he didn't call it murder… yet.

  Greel suspected it was only a matter of time, before some raving cop-hater used the "M" word. Local right-wing radio commentators had already concluded Erik Steele had been "executed in cold blood."

  Greel's cell phone sounded off: Alex Uriah. At this time of day, that couldn't be good.

  "Captain Greel. What's up, chief?"

  "Mikey, we have a serious situation. Get over to my house on the double!"

  Greel blinked. "Sure… What's the problem? Break-in?"

  Greel's double-hatted responsibilities encompassed both robbery and homicide.

  A moment of silence, then a heavy sigh. "The wife showed up at… well, an inopportune time, ya see? She went berserk, grabbed my handgun and fired off a couple of rounds… ." Uriah's voice trailed off.

  "Anybody hurt?" Greel's mind was leaping ahead, painting a picture of unmitigated disaster: Uriah in the sack, banging another long-legged showgirl. Wife coming home and shooting the twit.

  Finally got caught. In your own home, no less! Stupid dickhead!

  "No, no. I recovered the firearm, but… . Shit, a neighbor called nine-one-one. Units are inbound; be here any minute. Mikey, this is serious… ."

  The desperate, unstated plea was clear.

  Greel grinned, nodding slowly. "On my way, boss. Don't say a damned thing to the officers. I'll take care of it."

  He punched the End key, grabbed a uniform shirt, slipped into his boots, and headed for the garage.

  * *

  Greel flashed a badge and was waved through the security gate of Caliente Estates, Uriah's upscale residential complex. A cream-colored two-seater Lexus braked sharply in the adjacent outbound lane, waiting for the steel exit gate to slide open. Its driver glanced up and made eye contact with Greel.

  The Homicide captain did a double take. Metro Deputy Chief Carly Singer stared back at him, eyes wide.

  In a flash, Greel had the whole picture: Sheriff Uriah had been in bed with none other than Greel's former spouse, Carly Singer, when Uriah's wife showed up.

  Singer had been married to four different Metro cops, including Greel, sleeping and wedding her way into the department's executive ranks. As one of several Metro deputy chiefs, she was on the senior staff, reporting directly to the sheriff.

  Singer's frightened countenance, accentuated by disheveled hair, screamed, Help!

  A half-smile and Greel's exaggerated wink conveyed the necessary assurance: I'll take care of it.

  Relieved, Carly smiled, mouthed an air kiss and shot through the open gate. Greel stomped the accelerator, leaving a rubber-coated divot in heat-softened pavement.

  At the end of a cul-de-sac, several Metro cruisers, lights flashing, were angled into a driveway. Sheriff Uriah's hacienda.

  Greel parked and joined a cluster of officers under the elegant arched entryway of a spacious, sand-colored stucco home. Professional xeriscaping assured visitors that the Uriahs were politically correct water conservationists.

  Alex Uriah, casually dressed in a baggy, dark-blue athletic suit and buckskin moccasins, was standing in an open doorway, away from the officers. He was sweating like a prize fighter in the ninth round. Greel quickly assessed the gathering and decided the cops were as uncomfortable as Uriah.

  Nobody knew what to do.

  "Hey, chief," Greel said in a breezy, upbeat tone. He glanced at a bulked-up, bald sergeant. "You boys stay out here and keep the lookie-loos away."

  Greel steered Uriah through the front door. Inside, the sheriff recounted the evening's events, pointedly avoiding mention of his paramour's identity.

  "Christ, what a goat-rope," he concluded, massaging the back of his neck. Deep furrows between the man's eyebrows and gray streaks in a thin mustache bespoke chronic stress. Las Vegas Metro's top-cop was aging rapidly.

  Greel had never seen the sheriff so rattled. In his oversized jogging outfit, Uriah appeared old, shrunken and beaten, as he shuffled to the bedroom's double doors.

  Surveying the master suite, Greel quickly absorbed the pertinent details: Two widely spaced bullet holes in the wall, above a heavy, mahogany headboard.

  Loving bride wasn't aiming to kill.

  Satin sheets in disarray, and a thin blanket on the floor. A patio door was open.

  Carly left in a hurry.

  A well-dressed, furious Mrs. Uriah was parked on an overstuffed, rust-colored sofa. The lady's arms were wrapped tightly around long legs.

  Slender and petite, she was dressed in a stylish yellow blouse and dark slacks. A delicate, pointed chin rested on her knees, as she fired eye-daggers at both men.

  "Sir, could you give me a minute?" Greel whispered. A head-tip toward the sheriff's mate signaled, I'll handle this.

 
The most powerful elected official in Clark County meekly slipped from the bedroom, easing the door closed.

  For a solid half hour, Captain Mikey Greel explained the facts of Nevada life to Mrs. Alex Uriah. Initially compassionate, Greel expressed deep understanding, concern and sympathy for the woman's plight.

  Yes, her husband had cheated on her. But it wasn't the first time, correct? Right. Greel's tone gradually hardened, as he stepped through the harsh realities of her current situation.

  Life is good, isn't it? For an attractive, but aging, lady from Pahrump, Nevada, with no marketable skills, what were the options? Denounce her husband in the media?

  Result: A messy, very public divorce and a sizable, but hardly record-setting, settlement. After all, half of Clark County's judges owed the sheriff, and would side with him.

  Was she ready to trade a moment of righteous indignation before the cameras for years of relaxing days at the country club, where gushy matrons and envious brides of wannabe power brokers fluttered around the powerful sheriff's wife? Was she prepared to give up that silver Mercedes SLK 350 roadster? A steady stream of front-row tickets to the most stunning shows on the Strip? Invitations to the Governor's Ball, endless cocktail parties and charity-board positions, plus other perks that most Vegas women could scarcely imagine?

  "Ma'am, you may not appreciate what critical times we're in now," Greel concluded, looking deep into mascara-smeared, dark eyes. "Your husband is under unbelievable stress. He's fighting for his political life in the current election, and there's more at stake here than just being sheriff of Clark County. Terrorists are threatening our community, and the Las Vegas economy is extremely fragile.

  "Your husband is exactly what our fellow citizens want and need. He's the image of stability. If you go public, you'll not only destroy your own life, but the career of a dedicated law-enforcement professional, and the hopes and dreams of an entire community that's suffering a financial meltdown."

  Yeah, there was no relationship between Sheriff Alex Uriah's iron-fisted, vindictive, dictatorial rule of Las Vegas Metro and the "hopes and dreams of an entire community," but it sounded good. Fortunately, the onetime Pahrump homecoming queen wasn't exactly a Mensa candidate. She cried, bitched and shouted obscenities, then reluctantly accepted Greel's hard-nosed implied ultimatum: Keep your mouth shut and play the loving, forgiving, supportive wife. Or else.