Fortune of Fear

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Heller had his eye on a side door of the casino. Some armed guards with cash boxes had just entered. They carried their burdens to the cashiers’ cages. Money was evidently being brought in from the other casinos.

  He returned to watching the floor-show people circulating past Mamie, to the roulette tables and to the cages and around again. Tom-Tom was collecting everything but their retained ten percents. And here he came again with another huge sack of money. He went straight to Krak, gave it to her, gazed at her in awe and said “Jeez!” and rushed off again.

  The Countess Krak said into her radio, “The people seem nice. I wonder why Prince Caucalsia’s survivors couldn’t bring more civilization with them when they swam here.”

  “Actually,” said Heller, “it’s a very tough coast to land on. Stands your hair on end to read about it. Which reminds me that you’re sitting on four bags of money now and there will be more. My experience with these inhabitants tells me that somebody may try to rip us off. Look around and see if there’s anyplace there to hide the money. Just a tactical precaution.”

  It was more than that. Heller’s eye had singled out a couple of tough mugs, the same ones who had asked him for his ID. The “waiter,” now without his red coat, had come up to them and talked briefly, and the two mugs had looked up at the mezzanine at Heller.

  Another bustle occurred at the side door. Armed guards were bringing more money to the cashiers’ cages. Since the banks were closed, it must be coming only from the other casinos.

  The Countess Krak went wandering down the short corridor, poking at the walls, trying to open doors.

  Tom-Tom came racing up with another sack and she went to the mezzanine end and took it. He stared at her again and once more said “Jeez,” and rushed off.

  The Countess returned to her inspection. She found a large, square panel. It swung to the touch. She backed up. A small sign said Laundry Chute.

  She touched the section. It was actually a flap door, hinged at the top. She poked her head in.

  Straight down! At least sixty feet. It was a vertical duct, square, about four feet wide and as many deep. At the bottom was hard concrete, possibly a laundry room.

  She came back and sat on the bags.

  Heller was watching more armed guards at the door with moneyboxes. They were refilling the cashiers’ cages.

  The floor-show people were getting more efficient. Tom-Tom came racing up to the mezzanine, gave the Countess a sack, said his customary “Jeez,” and raced away.

  Heller had his eye on the clock. Gradually, it crept forward. More guards, bringing in money, more circulation of the floor-show-people lines. Round and round the little balls went on three tables, stopping exactly where predicted. Up came Tom-Tom time and again with more sacks and more exclamations of “Jeez.”

  The Countess Krak, as the clock crept on, was sitting on a higher and higher stack of bulging black bags. Heller was watching more mugs on the floor being joined by more mugs.

  An explosive situation was obviously building up.

  At length, some armed guards came in at the side door and talked to a man in a tuxedo. The guards were empty-handed and shaking their heads. Another group of guards came in and did the same thing and left. The man in the tuxedo went over to one of the cashiers’ cages and spoke to the cashier. They took some scraps of money, locked the cage and shifted the waiting line over to the next cage and combined the money left.

  The little balls rolled with their unmistakable ringing sort of whir. The man in the tuxedo closed another cashier’s cage, shunted the line. They were consolidating any remaining cash.

  It was 10:18. The man in the tuxedo went rapidly to the three croupiers. Each said something to his roulette players. Each table did just one more spin. Chips were paid just one more time. Then green covers were tossed over the tables and the wheel.

  It was 10:20!

  The last keno number was called over the PA. Then another voice came on.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the casino is closed!”

  PART THIRTY-EIGHT

  Chapter 8

  The sounds of all games and devices faded out. The crowd, quiet for a moment or two, then began to talk and move toward the remaining open cashier’s cage.

  The line was very long. People were standing there in it, holding their chips. The man in the tuxedo and two additional cashiers were working hard to shovel in chips, hand out cash. The cage computer was a stuttering blur of flashing lights.

  One more floor-show player was at the window. A cashier handed him all the bills he had left. Then he turned to the man in the tuxedo and said something. He turned back and began to write on a pad. He handed the floor-show player a slip of paper.

  The PA suddenly opened up: “Ladies and gentlemen, we regret we have to announce that your chips will be taken in, in return for IOUs. Please be orderly.”

  There was a hubbub. But all three cashiers there began to accept chips and issue IOUs. Tough mugs patrolled up and down the customer line, looking grim.

  A man came in from the street, some gambler in a violet-hued suit. He yelled, “The other casinos on the Boardwalk are shut! Somebody has broke the banks!” The guards rushed him out.

  The PA said, “Ladies and gentlemen, be calm. Keep the line moving, please.”

  Tom-Tom raced up with his last bag of money, handed it to the Countess Krak, said “Jeez” one last time, and vanished.

  The line, impressed by the tough mugs, moved rapidly, taking IOUs for their chips.

  Heller was looking around a pillar and down the stairs. Two tough mugs were standing there. He looked up the long corridor that ran at right angles to the one the Countess Krak was sitting in. Two tough mugs were standing there. Heller looked along the mezzanine itself. At the far end, blocking any exit, were two more tough mugs. He had obviously waited too long. He was boxed!

  The line below dwindled at the cashier’s cage. Aside from tough mugs, the casino was more and more deserted. But the tough mugs were being added to, probably from other, now-closed casinos.

  There were a lot of eyes on Heller on the mezzanine. Several tough mugs moved toward the bottom of the stairs.

  “Dear,” said Heller as he touched his collar, “did you find a place to hide the money?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Well, I think you had better start working on it. I have a hunch certain people are not pleased.”

  There were just a few left at the cashier’s window. It was pretty obvious the management wanted all the public witnesses safely out of the building and away.

  I hugged myself. This was going to be juicy. I even began what kind of a surprised message I would have delivered to Heller and Krak in the hospital. And condolences. “Dear Jettero. I was amazed to discover that you were in the Atlantic City morgue. . . .”

  My attention was drawn to the Countess Krak. She was pitching bag after bag of money down the laundry chute! Oh, how obvious. That was the first place they would look! All the management had to do was go down to the laundry room and wheel it out!

  Heller was watching the final gambler getting his IOU. It was an elderly man and he was insisting it be stamped. His voice was very clear now in that silent casino even if it was huge and he was quite distant. He got his stamp. Two tough mugs escorted him to the door. Two more tough mugs closed and locked the entrance.

  The pair on the mezzanine began to walk forward toward the place Heller was sitting.

  “Dear,” said Heller into his lapel, “keep your head down and take care of the money. I think the natives have ceased to be friendly.”

  “Yes, dear,” said the Countess Krak. She boosted the last sack into the laundry chute.

  I thought she would duck into a nearby room. But she did something absolutely astonishing. She reached up, took hold of a molding and pushed her feet into the laundry chute!

  With a sort of angling twist, she let herself drop!

  With one foot out to the right and the other to the left and both of
them against the duct sides, she began to drop. Her fall was being braked by her feet!

  Down she went. Sixty feet!

  The slither of leather against the duct sides rose to a screech!

  The duct sections sped upward past her in a blur!

  She plummeted down out of the duct opening in the top of the laundry room. She landed on the money with a soft thud!

  The Countess Krak glanced around. It was a big laundry room flanked by machinery on all sides but one. Here lay a huge mound of laundry to be done.

  She jumped off the money. She found a stack of laundry bags. Working very fast, she began to stuff the black sacks into the clean white bags.

  Heller had moved back to the place where she had been sitting. He could see down the stairs, he could see along the mezzanine, he could see down the very long corridor which led into the hotel.

  Into his collar, he said, “Are you all right, dear?”

  The Countess said as she worked, “Just fine, Jettero.”

  “Well, you lay low, dear. I think somebody is going to try to celebrate the Fourth of July in January.”

  “What happened on the Fourth of July?” said Krak, stuffing more money sacks into more white laundry bags.

  “I think they objected to the English landing on the coast to collect taxes. They are very possessive of money, so take good care of it, dear.”

  “Yes, Jettero.”

  Heller turned around. Two men had appeared at the end of the corridor at his back!

  He spotted a big plastic-covered sofa further down the rail. It had two thick upholstered chairs flanking it.

  The two men moving toward him along the mezzanine were still about thirty feet away from the sofa.

  Heller dived out of the corridor cover and, in a rolling somersault, landed beside the sofa. He gave it a yank. He gave the two chairs a shove. He flattened himself on the sofa.

  He was protected now from all angles of possible fire.

  The two men coming up the mezzanine had halted. They drew guns. One of them said, “Step out in sight, sonny. You can’t get that money out of the building, anyway. You might as well give up.”

  “And if I don’t?” called Heller.

  “Then things could get rough,” said one of the men. “We know you got a gun. Throw it out here so we don’t have to shoot you.”

  “You want the bullets, too?” said Heller.

  “Of course,” said the first man.

  “Then have one,” said Heller. He leveled the Taurus revolver he had taken off the waiter. He fired!

  The bullet tore a furrow down the rug.

  “Jesus!” yelped one of the men. He raised his gun to shoot.

  Heller fired into the wall and the ricochet went through the casino with a howl!

  He fired again and a light fixture over their heads exploded, showering them with glass.

  “Sangue di Cristo!” one of them yelped.

  Heller was still shooting!

  The two dived over the mezzanine rail and hit a roulette table!

  They scrambled off of it and were gone!

  Heller ducked back.

  The pair who had been coming up the corridor where the money had been were out of Heller’s view. He was watching the corner where it came into the mezzanine.

  A head appeared there and a gun below it.

  The Taurus revolver clicked empty. Heller dropped it. He palmed his Llama .45. He came up suddenly and snapped a shot at the wall in front of the head. The bellow of the big caliber went booming through the casino.

  Heller bobbed up to take a look. The head was not there. But voices were.

  “Here’s a laundry chute.”

  “Well, look in it, dummy.”

  “Jesus. It’s straight down a hunnert feet. There’s nothin’ at the bottom of it.”

  “Well, look in the god (bleeped) rooms, you idiot.”

  Slamming doors.

  Some Italian chatter was sounding up the long corridor. Some guys up there were trying to persuade one of their number to walk down it. He was protesting.

  Heller could see up that corridor all the way. He sighted carefully along the top of the Llama. He was centering on a huge glass fixture nearly a hundred and fifty feet away. He allowed for the drop of the relatively slow .45 bullet by placing the rear fixed sight quite low. He fired!

  The crash of the .45 was followed by the smashing crash of breaking glass. Showers of it cascaded down.

  A yelp came from that end of the corridor.

  A slug thumped into the top of the sofa, instantly followed by the sound of the shot from the corridor.

  An Italian voice in the side corridor yelled, “Tell the capo the money isn’t here!”

  Somebody up the long corridor yelled back, “You look everyplace? He coulda thrown it down a laundry chute. Did you look in the laundry room?”

  “Ignacio went down there, too. Nobody there. We looked everyplace. It’s gone.”

  Silence reigned for a long space. It was pretty obvious that nobody could get into a point of vantage from which they could shoot Heller. The only way they could reach him was by a frontal charge.

  Suddenly the PA system opened up. It said, “Look, kid. We may not be able to get at you. But at the same time, you can’t get out of where you are and even if you could, you’d never be able to leave this building with that dough and arrive anyplace else. The capo wants to see you.”

  PART THIRTY-EIGHT

  Chapter 9

  Heller touched his collar. “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Everything is fine, Jettero.”

  Heller raised his voice but not his head. He shouted down the long corridor in passable Italian, “You give me a hostage and let me keep my gun and we’ll talk about it.”

  Up at the other end of the corridor, voices were arguing.

  “You go.”

  “Why me?”

  “Listen, as the son of Capo Gobbo Piegare, I command you in my father’s name, go down that corridor, Jimmy Coniglio, and give yourself up as a hostage!”

  A squeal. “Not me! If you’re so anxious to have a hostage, go yourself, Don Julio!”

  Heller called out, “I’ll take the son of the capo, if you please.”

  A loud outburst of arguing. Then finally, “Mother of the Virgin, why can’t somebody else be his god (bleeped) son?”

  “You’re the son. We ain’t.”

  A body thrust into the corridor. Then, seeing there was no shot forthcoming, the person crept timidly down the wall toward the mezzanine and the sofa fortress. He stopped and yelled back, “Now, none of your god (bleeped) parlor games! Don’t go shooting me or anybody else in the back!” That attended to, the person came closer.

  Heller let him get within two feet. The fellow was about thirty, dressed in a silk tuxedo with a lace shirt front and a very Sicilian face. It was the same man who had been directing the shift of money from cage to cage down on the floor.

  Heller, the Llama .45 held close to his chest, sat erect. He plucked a Beretta from the shoulder holster under the tuxedo and put it in his pocket.

  “I think we will get along fine, Don Julio,” he said. “Nobody has gotten shot yet, and it would be a shame if you were the first. So do I have your word you will take me to your father and to nobody else?”

  “Upon the grave of my father’s mistress, I swear it,” said Don Julio. “Would you please put that safety catch on? I might stumble. My knees seem to be a bit shaky tonight.”

  “Anything to oblige,” said Heller and put the side-lever safety catch on, pushing the gun into Don Julio’s ribs. He turned him around and with a companionable arm over his shoulders and a thumb close to a paralysis point of Don Julio’s neck, he let the chief’s son lead on.

  They went to an elevator. Don Julio pushed the call button. They went to the second floor. Don Julio turned down a corridor which seemed to be made up, not of bedrooms, but offices. They came to the end and Don Julio knocked twice, then three times.

 
; Somebody inside opened the door.

  It was a splendid office, very large, done in what appeared to be yellow leather. An expensive rug was on the floor. Hanging plants gave the room a strange jungle look.

  A very small man was sitting at a very large desk. There were several other men in the room, hands in pockets, hats on, natty but very dark and Italian.

  “My father,” said Don Julio impressively. “Capo Gobbo Piegare, supreme leader of the Atlantic City mob.” He glanced sideways at Heller. “I am sorry. I do not know how you are called.”

  “Cattivo,” said Heller. “Johnny Cattivo. At your orders,” he added with polite formality. He was still speaking Italian and he seemed to have their endless, involved manners down pat.

  “Sit down,” said the capo, waving at a yellow interview chair that had its back to the room.

  “Thank you. I’ve been sitting too long this afternoon,” said Heller. “I think your gracious son and I will stand over here against the wall.”

  “Just trying to make you comfortable,” said Gobbo Piegare. “So, with your permission, we will get down to business. I don’t know how you bribed the croupiers to always stop the wheels on the right numbers, but that’s all ancient history. Where’s the dough?”

  “It is my take, isn’t it?” said Heller.

  “According to custom and law,” said Gobbo, “I must allow that it is. However, I must point out, with all delicacy, that every exit from this hotel, as well as the parking lot, is covered with Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter submachine guns in the hands of very competent guards who have orders to shoot you on sight if they see a single package in your hands. They’re on the roof, too.”

  “I appreciate your courtesy,” said Heller, “but I must point out that your son and you would undoubtedly be hit by .45 slugs before the rest of the men in this room could shoot out of their pockets. And you have no idea at all where the money is, other than that it is in my possession.”

  Gobbo Piegare made a tent of his hands, elbows on the desk, and supported his chin. He thought for a while. Then he said, “Legally, this is what is called a ‘Mexican standoff.’ You have me at a very great disadvantage. You have drained the other four casinos and this one of all cash. Without that cash, finances could become embarrassing. I have a proposition. Are you open to offers?”