Dead Man's Hand

by Luke Murphy

  The devastating, career-ending knee injury wasn’t the quarterback’s fault for missing the audible, or the fullback’s fault for missing the key block. It was his and it had taken him some time to understand and accept responsibility for it. In the end, Calvin Watters, an unstoppable force, had been brought down by his own foolish pride.

  He splashed cold water on his face, took a step back and turned sideways, assessing his body, proud that he’d been able to maintain his well-sculpted physique through hard work, discipline and the right diet.

  Three months after his last surgery, when the doctors said they’d done all they could, he had set up a home gym in his apartment.

  “Everything okay, Calvin?”

  He looked at her in the mirror, her eyes barely open from the sudden light.

  “How long you been standing there?” he asked.

  “Only a minute.” Rachel approached him and wrapped her arms around his midsection, rubbing his abdomen. “How long have I known you?”

  He smiled. “A few years.”

  She pinched his minimal fat and squeezed his bulging pectorals. “In all that time, your body continues to get harder and more muscular. What a six-pack. A guy in your line of work, with everything you’ve been through, shouldn’t be able to keep up like this.”

  He turned and pulled her to him. Her hair smelled of sweet jasmine and her body felt warm and soft.

  “Go back to bed, Rachel. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Okay, but hurry up. I’m in the mood.” She winked and smiled as she closed the door.

  She was right. His abs were still smooth and rock solid and although his legs had lost some of their bulk, focusing his exercise around a permanently disabled knee had made them more lean and muscular.

  He grunted. I could keep up with any twenty-year-old on the field.

  He was now aerobically in the best shape of his life, even with the long hours and emotionally exhausting nature of his work.

  My work.

  After he spent three years building a reputation as the toughest collector in Vegas, no one even knew he’d been one of the greatest college running backs ever. To them, he was just “The Collector.”

  He knew Rachel would feel his misery and he didn’t want to bring her down. Not tonight. He shut off the light.

  When he tiptoed from the bathroom, he saw that Rachel had already fallen asleep.

  “So much for being in the mood,” he whispered, smiling to himself.

  He limped across the room and sat next to her, careful not to wake the sleeping beauty.

  When he’d run into her three years ago, just legal at eighteen, he’d wondered how she’d reached that point, how she’d fallen into a life on the streets. He didn’t know much about her back then, didn’t even know her name or even how prostitution worked. He’d seen a lot and learned not to be taken in by a sad story and a pretty face.

  A blonde, blue-eyed angel.

  He slid beneath the sheets, growing numb and weary as the Percocet kicked in and the pain began to subside. A strand of hair covered Rachel’s mouth and he inched it away from her face.

  He marveled at her. She’d survived years of abuse from her stepfather. How such a petite woman had escaped and recovered—for the most part—inspired Calvin. And he had taken it upon himself to pay her stepfather back, even though Rachel knew nothing about it. The man now knew what pain was all about.

  Calvin had to collect enough to take her with him when he got out.

  He was well paid for his gruesome work and he spent only the bare minimum to cover basic expenses and bills. And to cover those special purchases spread out over the last three years that were his investment for the future. His cheap, rundown apartment and dilapidated workshop, as sparsely furnished as a prison cell, were all ways to reduce costs.

  He stared at the ceiling and thought about how he’d had to force himself to do the job on Pierce. How much longer could he take it?

  He shook his head against the pillow. I just want a life.

  The Percocet sank in deeper and he drifted into unconsciousness. He fell asleep with his leg hanging over the edge of the bed, dreaming about one more chance.

  Chapter 2

  “Dale, we need to talk.”

  Dale Dayton bounded down the staircase still wet from his shower. He thought he knew what his wife wanted, but he’d give anything to avoid the discussion.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, kissing Betty on the cheek.

  He noticed the coffee pot half-filled and realized his wife must have been up early drinking coffee and waiting for him. He poured a cup and went outside to retrieve the morning paper, delaying facing her a moment more.

  “Dale,” she hollered from the doorway.

  He had thought a baby might help “the problem,” though he’d always known his job was the real issue.

  But Betty knew what she was getting into marrying a cop, didn’t she?

  Dale had always been a cop and always would be. And he was a damn good one at that. What he found more difficult was being a good husband and father.

  When he came back into the house, she was waiting. Without making eye contact with her, he picked up Sammie and gave him a hug and kiss before settling his son back into his highchair.

  Betty’s mouth turned down in a pout. “I’m serious. This is important.”

  “Okay, okay. What is it?”

  “I think that―”

  His beeper went off.

  “Don’t take it,” Betty said, her voice rising.

  Ignoring her, he checked the number. “I have to, honey.”

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number. He listened for a long moment and then hung up. Grabbing his jacket and holster, he threw Betty an apologetic look. “Sorry, I gotta go. Jimmy’s on his way. I promise we’ll talk tonight when I get home. Love you.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and ran down the hall.

  “I won’t be here when you get back.”

  His backbone stiffened. Her words stopped him, frozen, his hand still on the doorknob. His insides tightened. He turned around. Betty stood right behind him now, an intense gaze in her eyes. The ambush was premeditated and even though he was a gifted investigator, he had never seen it coming.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Dale. This isn’t coming out of the blue.”

  A car horn honked.

  He glanced toward the door and then back to his wife. “Damn it. Let’s talk about this tonight.”

  She slid a white envelope out of her housecoat pocket. “Here. Like usual, I knew you wouldn’t have time to talk. So I took the liberty of writing it all down.” She handed him the letter.

  “Don’t do this, Betty.”

  “This is a long time coming. We both know it. It’s all there.” She pointed to the letter in his hand. “Read it whenever you want. But you’re not changing my mind.”

  “What about Sammie?”

  “He’s coming with me.”

  A gloomy silence ensued. He hoped the silence would tempt her to say more, but she didn’t. His throat was dry, as if he’d just drunk a glass of desert sand. Unsure of his next move, he knew what he should do, but didn’t have the words.

  Betty’s anger was warranted, but he was caught off guard nonetheless. She was right. This was overdue.

  He took her hand. “Please, Betty. Just stay. I’ll make it right.” His voice lacked conviction and he knew it.

  The horn honked again.

  Betty sighed. “Just go. I know that’s where you’d rather be anyway.”

  He moved in a trance-like state.

  “What the hell took so long?” his long-time partner asked as Dale slid into the passenger seat. “Did Betty want to have one of her talks again?”

  Dale still didn’t say anything. Grief consumed him. He felt the bulge in his inside breast pocket, where Betty’s note was lodged.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Just
drive, Jimmy.”

  His partner pulled the car out of the driveway.

  “What do we have?” Dale asked, still dazed.

  “David called it in—a possible match to the Black Orchid case. The boys have him in a silver-and-black ‘69 Camaro on Highway 15.”

  Dale felt the adrenaline start pumping. A high-speed chase. Just what I need.

  The Black Orchid case involved six prostitutes killed within a three-week span. The killer had brutalized and sexually assaulted his victims. As of now, the only real lead was a local tattoo parlor owner.

  Dale unholstered his weapon and checked the clip.

  “How do you like your new Kimber Custom Stainless?” Jimmy asked.

  “I love it. Better than that old revolver you still carry.”

  Jimmy smiled. “Smith & Wesson, baby. But that’s my alternate duty weapon. I have a semi-automatic for my primary handgun, just like the department says we have to. But the S&W is the gun I chose as a recruit over thirty years ago. I trust that gun with my life, literally. It hasn’t let me down yet.”

  “That’s true of everything until the first time it lets you down.” Dale thought of the talk he’d just had with Betty. “This isn’t the Wild West, Jimmy. I know they allow us to choose our own firearm, as long as they’re standard factory production, but you need to upgrade, man. An allowance is issued each year to replace our equipment.”

  “Hey, it’s been approved by the Firearms Training and Tactical Unit and qualified quarterly.”

  Dale laughed at his old-school partner.

  “There they are,” Jimmy said, pointing to a row of black and whites following a Camaro. “Hang on.”

  With the red-and-blue dome lights rotating on top of the cruiser, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor and they edged to the front of the pack, avoiding the dense morning traffic. Dale saw that the sheriff and FBI had vehicles in the chase too.

  Without warning the Camaro veered off the Las Vegas freeway, taking West Flamingo Avenue and heading toward Spring Valley.

  Jimmy cursed. “Where’s he going?”

  “Turn here. We can cut him off at Palms Casino.”

  They took a sharp left and sped down Hotel Rio Drive, breaking off from the pack, the sound of sirens fading.

  Dale rubbed his face, trying to recall the shortcut. “Go here.” He pointed.

  “Got it!”

  Dale picked up the car radio. “Angela, I need the 592 blocked off at South Valley Boulevard heading east.”

  As the hotel came into view, Jimmy had the accelerator to the floor. “Come on, you bastard,” he muttered.

  Dale grabbed the dashboard. “Let’s not play chicken with this guy.”

  The Camaro came to a screeching halt.

  Jimmy braked and brought the cruiser face-to-face with the Camaro. The three black and whites had parked behind it, barricading the highway.

  Dale let out a grunt. “We got him. Let’s go.”

  The smell of burnt rubber filled the dry Nevada air.

  Dale drew his gun and aimed at the Camaro’s driver-side window as he approached with caution. He could see the shadow of a man through the tinted windshield.

  The engine revved.

  “Get out of the car,” he ordered. “We have you surrounded.”

  Without warning, the Camaro took off, heading straight toward them.

  Dale and Jimmy opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off the grill and shattered the windshield. Dale aimed low, taking out the front passenger tire. The car flipped into a tailspin, end-over-end. They hit the ground as the car continued to roll, landing roof-to-roof on top of their own cruiser.

  Dale clambered to his feet and dusted off his pants. With his gun still aimed at the car, he advanced with ease, his partner right behind him. “Cover me, Jimmy.”

  He holstered his weapon and pried open the car door, now upside down. The killer hung from the seatbelt, his face bloodied, a deep gash across the top of his head.

  Dale bent down and checked for a pulse.

  “I’ll call the EMTs,” Jimmy said.

  “Forget the EMTs. This guy’s gone.” Dale sprung up and took a deep breath in and out. “Now that’s the way to start a day.”

  For a brief moment, he almost forgot his whole world was crumbling around him.

  Chapter 3

  Doug Grant sat in his private office and rubbed his temples. He hadn’t expected everything to come to a head. He just wanted to be happy, free from the constraints, able to live a normal life. But what would be the consequences?

  He went through the usual morning paperwork, feeling older and more alone than he had in years. He was proud of being thorough, a trait learned from his father. At sixty-three, Doug was still very much a working boss. His son, Shawn, now thirty-five and Vice President of Operations, was learning the business from him.

  He marveled at how far he’d come: the Greek Hotel and Casino—the second largest and most profitable casino in Las Vegas. He had taken it over when his father, Sherman, had passed away eight years ago. Doug had turned the casino into a multibillion-dollar business and he looked forward to turning over full control to Shawn at the right time. Recent events had moved up his planned date for semi-retirement by years.

  He heard the front door to the suite swing open, but he was sure he’d locked it so he wouldn’t be disturbed. He wasn’t expecting visitors and his first appointment downtown wasn’t until this afternoon. He rose to investigate, but before he could, Ace Sanders strode into his office.

  The rival casino owner wore a fake tan and cocky grin. Sanders owned and operated two casinos, the Golden Horseshoe and the Midas. Neither was as successful as Doug’s.

  Doug frowned. “How did you get in here? That door was locked.”

  “Magic.”

  Sanders offered his hand, but Doug ignored it.

  The man sat on the leather sofa and put his feet up. He had a languid smile. “You know, I really wish you would use your home or casino offices more. It’s a bitch to get down here.”

  “That’s the point. Privacy. No interruptions. Obviously it isn’t working.”

  Sanders said nothing.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Doug asked with malevolence in his voice.

  Sanders studied the office before answering. “I just stopped by for a chat. I think you should listen this time and consider what I have to say.”

  Doug stayed seated in his desk chair. Not again! “How did you get up here without an appointment?”

  Sanders’ chuckle was thick with sarcasm. “Same way I got through the front door. Please, Douglas. I’m Ace Sanders. I can do whatever I want in this city. Enough small talk. I want your casino and I’m willing to up my price.”

  “We’ve been over this before—too many times. I won’t have this discussion with you again. I’ll never sell this casino. Ever! Most of all not to you. This place was my father’s, now it’s mine and it will be Shawn’s. And I hope that when he has children, one of them will want to be a fourth-generation owner.”

  “$250 million!” Sanders shouted the number as if it were a revelation. “Which is $50 million more than my last offer.”

  “No.”

  “You’re making a mistake, old man. At least think about the offer.” Sanders’ voice remained even and calm.

  Doug looked at him through tired eyes. Sanders kept increasing the offer and was wearing him down.

  “No!” Doug’s heart was beginning to race. “Listen to me. Don’t ever come back here again. You hear me? Now get out.”

  “This is a mistake.” Sanders got up. He reached inside his coat and pulled something out.

  Doug froze for an instant. But it wasn’t a gun.

  Sanders had pulled out a round plastic piece and he flipped it onto Doug’s desk. The coin spun on edge before falling. Doug picked up the poker chip and studied it.

  “That is a ten-thousand-dollar Golden Horseshoe betting chip,” Sanders said. “A token of my kindness. Come by some time and
have some fun. On me, of course. What do you have to lose?”

  Sanders headed for the door, shaking his head and grinning the whole way. Before exiting, he turned. “And Douglas, this is far from over.”

  Doug rose and pointed a crooked finger. “Get out. Now!”

  As Sanders left, Doug felt a sharp pain in his chest. He sat down, clutching his left pectoral. He took a few deep breaths and regained his composure as the pain subsided.

  Studying the casino chip, he thought he might just take Sanders up on his offer. But that would be another time. He slipped the chip into his desk drawer and went back to his usual routine. He was not going to let Sanders ruin his day.

  Chapter 4

  The dream woke him again. Why was it tormenting him?

  He opened his eyes and a dim light across the room caught his attention. He saw Rachel seated at the little table, writing vigorously in a notebook, her face a mask of concentration. Books, pens and paper were scattered across the tabletop.

  “What are you doing?”

  She jumped at his voice. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry.” He slid off the bed and crossed the room, his eyes still adjusting to the light.

  With the speed of a high-school student hearing the bell, Rachel threw a few items into her knapsack and closed it.

  “What are those?”

  “Nothing.”

  Calvin grabbed the bag. “What are you hiding from me?”

  He opened the knapsack and removed a stack of textbooks. “What are these?” He picked up the top one. “Understanding Human Behavior. Where’d these come from?”

  “They’re for school.” Her face reddened. She pulled the books from his hands and shoved them in the bag.

  “School?”

  “Yeah, school. That big brick building where you gain knowledge. Ever hear of it?”

  “Why are you getting so defensive?”

  “I didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

  “About what?”

  She exhaled out loud. “I’m taking online courses at CSN. Okay?”