Rossi's broad peasant face had taken on a comically aggrieved look. 'Hey. Come on, Mr. Scipio. You've been trying to frighten the shit out of us for weeks,' he tapped his left armpit, 'and this is the heaviest piece of artillery we're allowed. Believe me, it isn't called the Rolls Royce of Revolvers for nothing. Besides, my nephew wouldn't let me borrow his slingshot.' He had smirked back at Bari.
'Shut the fuck up,' Scipio had turned away, but Bari could imagine him chewing his lip and frowning like he always did when he was nervous.
Bari looked back out the window and saw the lights of Vegas. They were spread out like a galaxy of stars below the descending plane with the two supernovae of Downtown and The Strip dominating the view. Closer he could resolve the individual buildings into towers and domes and minarets bathed in false starshine.
The landing was smooth and without the stacking delays so common at larger airports. A stretch limo was waiting for them as the Lear taxied up to the private hangars. While Scipio and his adviser, the ancient but dapper Carlotti, boarded the limo, Rossi supervised the loading of the suitcases. Bari checked out the driver, inspecting the man's covering letter from Bonham. He looked up when he heard Rossi cursing.
'Jesus Christ. It's like a fucking oven.' This was Rossi's first time in the desert. 'It must be in the fucking 90's.'
Bari returned the driver's credentials and walked back round the car to Rossi, clapping him on the shoulder. 'You should try it at midday,' he said. 'The place has been cooling down for hours!'
Rossi shook his head and glanced across at the back seat of the limo to check the window was down. He looked back at Bari. 'I never seen Scipio so nervous. It worries me.'
Bari lightly touched the area round his armpit to check that the bulge of the gun wasn't too apparent. It was a natural gesture for him, like checking his zip after taking a leak. 'You're getting soft, soldier,' he patted Rossi's stomach and mimed finding soft yielding fat. 'Too much pasta.'
Rossi knocked his hand away and made an obscene gesture. Bari laughed, and they climbed into the limo's air-conditioned embrace.
The limo left the airport and took them the short distance to the first maelstrom of light. Rossi stared open-mouthed at the garish neon displays that were scarcely diminished by the limo's tinted glass. A couple of hundred yards after Caesar's Palace the limo took a right into Springs Drive, then after a few yards turned right again into the driveway of the Crusader.
Bari had heard a lot about The Crusader but hadn't visited it before. It was the sixtieth and most recent major casino to be built in Las Vegas, though it was not due to open to the public for another month. Rising ten storeys into the black night, its neon tapestry as yet unlit, it was made up of two hotel wings flanking the central gaming area which was built into the bullet-shape of a huge Crusader's helmet. The base of the helmet occupied an area the size of a baseball field.
In common with two of the other casinos it had been constructed with Australian racket money, and was owned by a character called Bonham. Bonham had taken it upon himself to act as the host and mediator at the forthcoming meeting. If necessary he had the resources to act as its policeman.
A makeshift security gate had been positioned across the drive and the guards took great care in checking out the four men, before waving them on to the entrance thirty yards further up. By the time they reached it Bonham was waiting to meet them.
The man was tall and slender with sun-bleached hair and a heavy tan. His dark suit was immaculately tailored, the face above it heavily lined but handsome. Bari thought he could have cut a distinguished figure but for his relaxed, almost slouching pose. To Bari it seemed too casual, too studied.
'Good to see you, Mr. Scipio, my name's Bonham,' he said as he shook Scipio's hand, his face breaking into a broad grin. 'Welcome to Nevada's newest and most splendid casino.' He nodded quickly at the others and took Scipio's arm, leading him into the helmet's mouth. The three men followed, leaving an army of uniformed flunkeys to unload and search their luggage.
A golden portcullis marked the entrance to the casino and the start of the heat screen. Hidden blowers blasted the entrance with cold air and made Bari shiver as he crossed the abrupt boundary. The 'mouth' was a circular room about twenty yards across, with two exits at the rear separated by twenty feet. Guarding each exit were two twelve foot high Crusaders, immobile with hands resting on sword hilts. Covered in chain mail, they both wore white tunics decorated with the red cross and some heraldic symbols. Bari, smiling at such a prime example of Las Vegas kitsch, tugged at Rossi who had stopped to gawp.
Bonham had his arm round Scipio's shoulders like they were already pals. Seeing them from behind, the contrast was unsettling. Bonham, tight and neat, besides Scipio's dough-boy figure, the broad expanse of his light brown jacket a mess of creases from the flight. Bonham shepherded him towards the entrance to the main gaming room which was blocked off with sumptuous plum coloured drapes.
As Bonham and Scipio came within ten feet of the drapes the statue to the left drew its six-foot sword in one smooth motion and turned to look at the two men. Its mouth began to move.
'Nay gentlefolk, do not enter here. 'Tis a garden of filthy heathen delights, ripe with forbidden fruit.' The rich theatrical tones echoed in the sudden frozen silence.
The other statue waved a hand dismissively then said in a broad Texan accent: 'Don't you worry none about this old fuddy-duddy folks. You go right in and have yourselves a ball.' At this the first crusader sheathed his sword and the drapes parted. Scipio stood stock-still, and it took Bonham a second or two to get him back up to speed, but he finally got him through.
Bari stayed close enough to hear Bonham explain about the statues. Motion sensors, voice synthesisers, stuff like that. He said the Laurel and Hardy dialogue was the best, and perhaps they might catch it later.
The main gaming area was carpeted in a vast sea of yellow, and decorated in the Las Vegas conception of a Turkish harem motif. Amongst several warehouse loads of drapes and cushions, a series of animatronic grottos depicted lurid little scenes of wickedly grinning saracens and weeping slave girls. Bari could imagine when the floor would be full of bleak-eyed gamblers being served by comely wenches in filmy harem trousers and truncated shifts. And the waiters and croupiers, would they be dressed like eunuchs? How far would they let the illusion go?
Above, in the huge vaulted space below the crown of the helmet, was a child's version of the heavens. Thousands of five-pronged golden stars, like something straight off Marshall Dillon's chest, hung interspersed with a few larger rotating planets. Now and again a comet would streak across the sky, leaving behind a tail of smoke and flame.
Something wasn't quite right, but it took him a second or two before he realised the planets were a little too evenly distributed. He guessed these held the 'Eyes in the Sky' intended to monitor the gamblers.
Most of the ornamentation was on the peripheries, below the mammoth video screens, some of which had been turned on for the benefit of the present guests. They showed sporting events beamed live via satellite from all over the world. At the moment several screens showed horse races, one showed a Sumo bout, another a kick boxing event and another an Irish shinty game. Superimposed in the bottom left hand corner of the live ones were a list of odds and form data for each event. In the centre of the circular room was a raised dais with a hundred or so terminals where gamblers would insert their credit cards to place their bets.
Fanning out from this central island was one-and-a-half acres of gaming tables and slot machines, all of them unused. The video screens had their sound turned down and a heavy silence hung over the man-made cavern.
It reminded Bari uncomfortably of a cathedral.
'Have you ever seen anything like this before?' Rossi whispered in awe.
Bari smiled and nodded his head. 'This is par for Vegas. Check out Circus Circus or Caesar's Palace if you get a chance.'
Bonham kept Scipio at the top of the staircase and they talked
for a few more minutes, Scipio laughing occasionally. Then they turned to the others who had held back at a respectful distance. Scipio was smiling and appeared relaxed for the first time since Pittsburgh.
'Mr. Steiner will show you to your rooms now,' the flunky beside Bari bowed. 'Las Vegas is at your disposal but if you don't want to leave the hotel, room service will be glad to provide you with anything you wish.'
His smile broadened slightly. 'Now I'm sure your lieutenants will want to inspect the security arrangements at some stage. Just get reception to bleep Steiner when you're ready.'
'What about the Scumbo’s?' Rossi clearly hadn’t succumbed to Bonham's charm.
Bonham’s smile was tighter this time. 'Our Hispanic friends are staying in the East Wing, you and the other participants in the West. There are secure entrances in each block. You won't see a sign of them until you all meet tomorrow at ten.'
He shook Scipio's hand. 'Pleased to meet you, Frank. I hope your stay here is enjoyable and fruitful, but if there are any problems don't hesitate to contact me.'
The drapes parted again as Bonham led the way back into the lobby.
Scipio and his entourage had two corridors on the fifth floor to themselves. His suite was central with a suite for Carlotti on one side and one for the bodyguards on the other. After they had swept the rooms for bugs and explosive devices, Bari left Rossi to take the first watch while he went to check the security arrangements in the rest of the complex.
Each wing was well guarded and strictly isolated from the other. The floors of the wings consisted of four corridors but all the fire doors at two opposed corners had been welded shut, effectively splitting each floor into two separate compartments. The doors to the fire stairs on each level were electronically monitored and alarm bells would alert the bodyguards on all the floors if any were opened. There was a bank of three elevators in each of the compartments and an additional electronic display had been hard-wired into the elevators control panel. Now a bodyguard, stationed where the two corridors met, could tell from a distance of thirty yards the positions of all three elevator cars. By turning his head he could check the corridor where his charge was residing as well as getting a clear view of the exit to the fire stairs.
There was a second reason for the elaborate security, other than to keep the two sides apart. It was to minimise the chances of old scores being settled within each camp. After all, the heads of the ten major families would all be staying under the same roof: some carried more than three generations of bad blood with them.
Steiner had shown Bari the arrangements for the next day’s conference. It was to be held in the antechamber to the casino's strongroom, which lay directly beneath the dais in the centre of the main gaming floor. This would be where the money was counted when the casino was up and running. It had only one entrance.
Bari was allowed to inspect the conference room. Tomorrow morning, one of the bodyguards would be allowed to accompany his boss and would take up residence in the approach corridor while his boss went into the conference room with his consilieri. All would be searched. Only the bodyguards would be allowed a single non-automatic weapon. Once the conference room door was closed, the bodyguards would stay in the entrance corridor. Four TV cameras monitored the room and displayed the scenes without sound to the corridor. Nobody knew how long the conference would last, but few expected it to take less than a week to agree even on the basis of a deal. Breaks would occur every four hours to allow the bodyguards to change over and the bosses to have private consultations and get something to eat.
The security arrangements were about as good as they could be in the circumstances. Bari at last nodded his reluctant approval and returned to his room.
The next morning Bari stared blearily at his reflection in the mirror. Scipio had insisted they stay in the hotel and had not allowed them any company — much to their displeasure. Instead of a pliable Vegas hostess, Rossi had drawn the back shift and had spent the night on guard at the corridor junction.
Despite the sumptuous bed, Bari had not slept well. He brushed back his thick black hair and applied aftershave to his cheeks. He narrowed his dark brown eyes and checked out a lop-sided grin and a few other slightly vulnerable expressions that seemed to turn the chicks to putty. Not bad! He was about six foot two and weighed just under one hundred and eighty pounds. He moved slightly, getting a better perspective: broad shoulders, narrow hips, hard little ass. Women had never been a problem.
There was a single rap at the door and Scipio entered without waiting for a reply. He waddled over to one of the Arab motif divans and flopped down on the thick lilac cushions. His bulk sent two tsunamis rolling out across the surface of the divan. Bari looked at him in the mirror and Scipio stared right back. Bari continued his ablutions.
Scipio grimaced. 'Boy, you love that fuckin' mirror, don't you?'
Bari cast a weary eye over at him. 'Only thing worth looking at around here.' He started to put on his tie.
Scipio smiled indulgently. The man had always been his godfather and uncle. But when Bari was ten, their relationship had changed.
It came back to him in his dreams, regularly, inexorably. Sent back to fetch a toy for his baby sister, the car exploding, tumbling him, his back hard against the sun and melting in the heat. Scipio, always there in the weeks that followed, holding his hand, caring and cajoling in turn, until the burns and his other agonies began to heal. The dream always reminded him of the unspoken vow of loyalty he had made on the day his adoption became official.
The bombing had been a long time ago and the people who had been responsible had been his own kind. Matters had been sorted out internally, privately. Not like this.
Scipio shifted his bulk and picked at a nail. 'You reckon the arrangements are O.K?' he asked for the fourth time since they had arrived. Bari didn't mind. He adjusted the knot of his tie.
'Ordinarily, no. We're not in control of this and that makes me very nervous. But I just can't see how it could have been arranged otherwise. All of us packed into that room and corridor…it’s like a grenade with the pin pulled out, one uncool move and it'll be a bloodbath but ...' he didn't bother to finish as he pulled on his jacket.
' But,' Scipio finished for him, ' we have our hostages so nobody's gonna do anything.'
Scipio would be thinking of Frank Junior, at present under guard in God knows what dive in Pittsburgh, while Cartago's kid languished under the care of Bernie and his men in a lonely cabin ten miles out of Williamsport. Scipio hadn't liked it at all, but there had been too much pressure from the other families.
Scipio's and Cartago's people had been blowing each other away for a decade now. There had been uneasy truces for brief periods, but always disputes about territory would brew up another shitstorm. Bari had often been in the thick of it, carrying out a couple of hits on Cartago's key people, planning others. Helping Scipio when one of his other sons was lost in reciprocal action.
Bari knew this kind of thing had been mirrored in big cities throughout the States. The Mafia had had a virtual monopoly over organised crime for more than a century, apart from the first small incursions from the blacks and hispanics back in the sixties. These had been more or less tolerated because they were insignificant, and strictly confined to their own ghettos.
The Columbians had started to become a force in the Seventies but had not seriously infringed on Mob territory until the Eighties. Even that business in Columbia, when half the world had sent in troops to clear out the bandits, even that hadn't worked. Most of the coca had had to be imported into Columbia anyway. The Scumbo’s had just switched their operations to the surrounding countries. Columbia had once been theirs and it had made life too easy for them. Then, when it had been taken away they had had to become smarter and that had made life difficult for the Families. The war between them had been relentless, weakening both sides and losing them ground to the Triads and the newer Hispanic and West Indian groups.
The ruthlessness of the Colum
bians was legendary but the Mob had nonetheless been unprepared for the response to an altercation over supply rights to the barrios of East LA. In one fierce, long night, three generations of LA's top Family had been wiped out. Only one granddaughter, a seven year old, had survived as a paraplegic after surgeons removed a .38 calibre bullet from her shattered spine. Twenty-two men, women and children met their deaths in four heavily guarded houses spread around the Greater LA area.
The heat generated had been immense, initiating a massive law enforcement initiative against the Columbian gangs. It seemed to have brought them to their senses. They had sued for peace. At the Vegas meeting, the Columbians and the Mafia were to settle territories and coordinate actions against the other groups.
Bari finished dressing and checked his watch. They were due at the conference room in ten minutes. Arrival times had been staggered over thirty minutes to minimise contact between protagonists from the same city.
Scipio looked up at Bari and sighed. Cartago and his men had become a solid force in Pittsburgh and it was likely that Scipio would be pressured into surrendering both territory and scope of operations for the sake of a greater peace. Scipio might hold his own against the Mob or the Colombians, but not both together.
Bari took one last look check for lint on his dark blue sports jacket and black cotton trousers. He made one final adjustment to his tie and opened the door, waving to Rossi who returned the sign for OK. Carlotti blue veins visible under the greying flesh of his temple, joined them as they walked towards Rossi. Bari tried to smile encouragingly at Scipio.
By the time they reached the strongroom area almost half the delegates had arrived. Bari watching from the doorway saw Scipio take his seat with Carlotti standing in attendance behind him. Then he turned to find his own seat amongst the other capos.
Judgement Page 4