by Adam Bender
He consulted a map on his smart lens to guide him through the labyrinth of the Olympia casino. After following the winding trail for nearly ten minutes, Errol found Cornelius Boone in a small conference room used for breakout business sessions.
The casino’s owner and Breck Ammunition’s board chairman bided his time in one of eight chairs around a circular wooden table. He wore a pink collared shirt with ivory snaps and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A bolo tie featuring a bald eagle on turquoise tightened the old man’s collar. Behind him, a nude Aphrodite gazed hungrily, as if she might pounce out of the mural.
Boone sprang to his feet at the sight of Errol, beaming as if the gunman had come in carrying a full plate of Texas barbecue. They pumped hands, then Boone followed up with an even stronger hug. “Well if it isn’t Errol Breck! What a fine sight you make on a Thursday morning!”
“It’s been a long time, Corny,” said Errol as the two men sat across from each other. “I … I wanted to apologize for skipping town.”
The board chairman shook himself as if trying to wake from a nightmare. “I’m sorry to say it, Errol, but it’s been hell. Your stepbrother is an enormous idiot and his new gun is an expensive catastrophe! He’s going to ruin the business and destroy everything your father worked for.”
Errol nodded gravely. “Did you know he’s giving guns to the Red Stripe Gang in exchange for favors?”
Boone paled, which was a feat for such an old, white man. “We saw the reports in The New West, but Gerard denied —”
Errol’s eyes darkened. “Gerard is a liar.”
The chairman took a long, acknowledging breath through his nostrils, and looked hard at the Wanderer. “I trust you’re here to rectify the situation?”
Errol dropped his elbows on the table and clasped his fingers. “I’m ready to take over the company, if you’ll have me.”
Boone’s giddy expression made it clear that he’d been waiting to boot Gerard out on his ass for quite a long time. “You’ll have my vote, and I have no doubt the rest of the board will agree.”
Errol smiled. He didn’t think it would be this easy, but apparently Gerard had done most of the convincing for him already. “What do we need to do to make it happen?”
“I’ll call the board together for a meeting tomorrow. I’ll have to invite Gerard, of course, as he’s an executive director, but we won’t explain the purpose of the meeting — or that we have a guest of honor — until he arrives.”
Errol raised his eyebrows. He wondered how Gerard would react when he discovered the world crashing around him. Probably not well.
“I’d recommend carrying protection, just in case things go sour,” Errol warned. “Gerard knows I’m in town. He already thinks I might try something like this, and he’s resorting to blackmail to keep me from going through with it.”
Boone flashed his pearly whites, followed by a Lassiter. “You know me, Errol. I keep myself well protected. But I’ll let the rest of the board know to be on their toes. But what’s this about blackmail? Nothing bad, I hope?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s … about how my wife died … and why I left. I’m dealing with it. We’re going to preempt Gerard with a full reveal in The New West blog tomorrow. I hope it won’t change your mind about me, but if it does, I’ll gladly hand the company over to someone else. So long as Gerard doesn’t get to keep it.”
Boone laughed. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, my boy. I don’t know if there’s anything that could convince me to leave the company with that fool.”
*
Gerard put down the phone and poured himself another glass of whiskey. The board had scheduled an emergency meeting for the next day. That was highly unusual.
There was a smudge on his tablet. He opened the top drawer of his oak desk and took out a microfiber cloth folded into fours. He opened it carefully and rubbed it against the glass. When he finished, he folded it neatly back the way it was, placed it in the corner of the drawer, and closed the desk. Then he downed the whiskey in one swig and poured himself another.
Gerard tensed up. He’d heard a whisper.
“Gerry,” it said.
Gerard spun around in his chair and looked up, aghast, at the portrait of Al Breck.
“This is no good, Gerry. No good at all.”
The CEO swung the chair back to the desk, grabbed his drink, and spun back to the painting. The eyes of Al Breck watched him. There was something disapproving in the old man’s visage.
“I’m not doing anything wrong! I’m making all the right decisions! I’m building Breck Ammunition’s next great gun!”
“The board doesn’t think so,” said the ghost. “What will they do if you don’t make a profit?”
“I’m going to make a profit!” screamed Gerard, slamming the glass tumbler on the table. He hated that the apparition had asked that. Always doubting him!
“What about your debt to the Red Stripe Gang?” Al asked.
“I’m taking care of that!”
“You’re lucky they let you out of Union.”
“The Gang needs me.”
The ghost didn’t reply. For a while, Gerard just stared into the eyes of the portrait.
“If only Errol …” whispered the ghost.
Gerard clenched the whiskey glass so hard, it looked like it might shatter in his hands. “If only Errol what?”
The ghost said nothing.
“I get it! You think that Errol would know what to do! You think that he would run the company better than me. Is that it? So what are you saying? Do you suggest I go find him and beg him to come help me? Is that what you suggest? ‘Oh, please, brother dear, I just can’t do anything without you!’”
The ghost said nothing, but Gerard was already on his feet and yelling. “I don’t need Errol! He’s not better than me! And you’re not supposed to take his side!”
It happened before he even realized what he was doing. He was holding the glass, and then his hand came forward, and the glass — well, it must have slipped. There was a heavy crash as it smashed against the portrait of Al Breck, embedding splinters of glass in the canvas.
Gerard looked with horror at his shaking hands. He hadn’t been this angry since the day of the car accident. He’d been so careful to watch his temper.
The paint began to run on the portrait of Albert Breck.
“Dad!” Gerard cried, grabbing the microfiber cloth from his desk and dashing over to the painting. He kicked away the broken glass and ice cubes on the floor, climbed onto the bookshelf and reached up to press the cloth against his stepfather’s head. But it only seemed to make things worse.
*
“Daddy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Daddy, I’m so sorry —”
Elza shook her head at the live security camera footage of Gerard collapsing onto his knees and sobbing like a baby. She had it streaming on her computer, which was located only a few feet from the entrance to his office.
She leaned back luxuriantly in her chair, a comfortable, webbed thing made of black plastic mesh. She felt a little bad — maybe. Gerard was the one who had recognized her talent, given her a real job. She had been dealing cards at the casino for the high rollers when a man in a sharp black suit and carefully trimmed mustache had sat down by himself to play. He didn’t introduce himself, but she knew exactly who he was.
“You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen all night,” Gerard had said after several rounds. “Why are you working here?”
Playing up her exotic way of speaking, she had replied, “What is it that they say? A job is a job.”
He had asked about her accent and why she had come to America. She’d made up something about looking for streets paved with gold. The funny thing was that Breck was terrible at blackjack and kept losing money. Even so, he’d continued to spend. He’d said it was so she wouldn’t get in trouble for talking to a customer. Finally, Gerard had told her his name. He’d said that h
e had a senior role at America’s gun company, and that he wanted her to be his assistant. And just like that, her destiny had revealed itself.
Gerard had never asked her to dress provocatively; she’d understood the need to look good for clients. She’d suggested that he dominate her in public and she encouraged the leers of potential business partners. It was all part of the show, and together they were brilliant. Their rise to the top office at Breck Ammunition was inevitable. Errol had never had a chance.
Elza stroked her forehead, felt the deep scar left by that bitch Rosa Veras in Union. It was not long after meeting the reporter that things had begun to unravel. Veras had exposed their dealings with the Red Stripe Gang, and now that coward Errol had resurfaced and wanted to save the company from Gerard. Elza knew it would not be not long before the board would welcome the prodigal son with open arms. Gerard was done for, and where would that leave things for her? She was not willing to let Errol throw out years of careful planning.
She allowed herself a deep breath. It was okay. She accepted it. She’d gambled on one horse for too long. Gerard had taken her far, but now it was time to cut her losses.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Very, Very Lucky.
The bouncer at Wild West Casino refused to let Errol come in wearing a smart lens. The Wanderer responded by showing him his Lassiter, and soon they agreed on a compromise. He wouldn’t wear the eyeglass, but he could keep it in his pocket. This was under the condition that if the cameras caught him putting it back on — or even so much as taking it out — he would be kicked out immediately.
“I guess I should’ve told you,” Kid Hunter said over the din of slot machine bells that came rushing to greet them as soon as they stepped inside. “For real, did you think you could wear that in? You ever been in a casino before?”
Errol shrugged. “Never really saw the point.”
Rosie laughed. “What kind of cowboy are you?”
“A rich one.”
“Trust me,” advised Kid Hunter, “if you’re going to cheat, there are subtler ways.”
The policy made sense, but removing the eyeglass made Errol feel even more naked. Rosie, God bless her, wouldn’t let them leave the house until both men had shaved the fuzz off their faces. That wasn’t so bad, but then she’d demanded that he change his clothes, too. So here he was, wearing a chocolate suit and a crisp, powder-blue shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar. At least she’d let him keep his grey Stetson.
The Wanderer thought he smelled a farm animal, but couldn’t locate it in the artificial desert that was the Wild West Casino. There were cacti everywhere and the floor was dusty like a dirt road. A lot of the restaurants and stores inside had names beginning with “Ye Olde.” The buxom waitresses were all dressed as cowgirls. The casino piped in music from old Westerns. Currently, it was the whistling theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
“All they need is the cow shit,” Errol commented dryly.
The others seemed amused. Errol had to say, though, that the constant ringing of bells and blaring of electronic melodies from the gambling machines somewhat undermined the theme. The clientele was also typical Vegas. A smattering of slick twenty-somethings in expensive suits or tight-fitting dresses surrounded the craps tables, while the slot machines were dominated by ladies who looked as though they’d taken a few too many turns at the buffet.
It had been the Kid’s idea to go out for the night, a last chance to let off some steam before the board vote to oust Gerard. Things were bound to change after that. Errol hoped it would be peaceful, but deep down he knew his stepbrother would not bow out easily. Also, if he did manage to win back the company, Errol would have new responsibilities, and he wasn’t sure how much he’d see Rosie and Kid Hunter anymore.
The trio headed straight to the blackjack tables. It was the one game they all felt more or less confident playing. To get there, they crossed an artificial moat onto a life-size replica of an old riverboat with four giant paddle wheels spinning in place on the back. It had three floors of card games. Kid Hunter made a move for the stairs where the casino kept the high-stakes tables, but Rosie, fine woman that she was, redirected the group to a twenty-dollar dealer instead. Errol was pleased to find at least one person in the group worried about where his money went.
He found himself stealing glances at Rosie. He’d let her borrow one of Helen’s dresses, and she fit it well. It was a white thing that offered an eye-catching contrast to the reporter’s deeply tanned skin. He had been thinking a lot about that kiss back in Union. They hadn’t talked about it at all since it happened.
The blackjack dealer was a middle-aged Chinese-American, but the casino had him dressed as the ludicrous stereotype of a Mexican, complete with a bright pink poncho and giant sombrero. As Errol and the others settled into their seats, one of the cowgirl waitresses took drink orders — one of the few things in the casino that didn’t cost a penny.
Errol drew a seven of diamonds and three of hearts the first hand, while the dealer had a jack of hearts. The Wanderer tapped the table and got a queen of hearts. With a smirk of confidence, he waved over the cards to stand at twenty points. Rosie followed with a seventeen — respectable. Laughing victoriously, Kid Hunter presented twenty-one.
The dealer turned over the queen of clubs, and Errol and Rosie groaned. That added up to twenty, which beat Rosie’s hand and pushed Errol’s, meaning he hadn’t won nor lost.
On the next hand, Errol drew a nine of clubs and a three of diamonds, adding up to twelve. The dealer had a three of spades. A bit annoyed after the results of the last round, the Wanderer tried doubling down, but the next card to come up was a king and he busted.
“Ooh, sorry, man,” commiserated Charlie.
Rosie hit a few times and ended up with nineteen. Kid Hunter got twenty-one again.
“Very lucky,” said the dealer, who flipped out cards until he had eighteen.
“All right!” exclaimed Rosie.
The Wanderer finally won on his next hand, but Rosie busted. When Charlie won his third straight hand with twenty-one, the dealer looked up at the ceiling and said, “Very, very lucky.”
“How you doing that?” the reporter asked.
Kid Hunter smiled at her. “I’ll never tell.”
A pair of heavies stepped up behind Charlie and tapped him on the shoulder. “Sir? I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
Errol stood up. “Hey, that’s my friend. What’s going on here?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but your friend here appears to be breaking casino policies.”
“By winning?”
“By cheating.”
Kid Hunter waved Errol off. “It’s okay, man. I’m feeling tired anyway. Maybe I’ll just get a hamburger then call it an early night. You guys have fun!” He turned to the bouncers and handed them his recently won chips. “Here, you can have them back. I’m going.”
The bouncers seemed fine with this and let him go. When he was gone, Rosie commented, “An early night? It was his idea to go out, wasn’t it?”
“Hmm,” responded the Wanderer, watching his partner fade into the crowd of gamblers. The Kid wasn’t stupid. Something about the whole thing seemed off. A waitress carrying a margarita and a frosty bottle of dark Mexican beer interrupted his chain of thought. Well, they could still have fun without Charlie, couldn’t they?
*
Charlie didn’t go for a hamburger. He got in a cab and directed it off the Vegas Strip to a gentleman’s club called Roxy Rox. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey with ginger ale. Liquid courage.
Roxy Rox was a dive, even for a strip club. It wasn’t a place for amateurs out on a bachelor’s party. Tonight’s entertainers were dripping with sweat, and the male customers were practically lapping it up with their hanging tongues. The music throbbed a steady bass pulse, and the glass on the disco balls looked like it had yellowed a few shades over the last few decades. Yeah, the girls looked hot, but also pretty fresh
off the boat. They’d be here only as long as it took them to get out.
Charlie stuck a machine in his ear and dialed a number on his wristband. Someone picked up but didn’t say anything.
“It’s Charlie. I’m back in Vegas. Roxy Rox. I’ll be at the bar.”
He knew from experience that business with El Tiburón couldn’t wait. If he didn’t deal with it now … well, he didn’t even want to think about what could happen. The tricky thing had been not involving Rosa or the Wanderer. They were chronic helpers, especially the Wanderer, and would have come looking for him if he’d gone out by himself and didn’t come back for hours. But going out with them and pretending to call it an early night? He should change his name to Kid Genius.
“Can I get you another?” asked a woman with an eastern European accent.
He glanced at his empty whiskey, and then at the hottie who had spoken. She looked like a runway model. Sure, he usually liked to have a little more to hold on to, but the girl had an alluring face and a damn fine figure.
It occurred to him he was in a strip club, so it wasn’t really remarkable that there was a hot girl chatting him up. She wasn’t offering to buy him a drink. She was just a waitress asking him if he wanted to order one, and maybe a lap dance, too. That wasn’t why he was here. “I don’t have time for anything,” he was sad to inform her. “Someone’s meeting me soon.”
The woman sidled up next to him, close enough for him to smell her exotic perfume, and took a seat on the barstool next to him. “At least buy me a drink then?”
Charlie covered his gaping mouth in embarrassment. Strippers didn’t ask you to buy them drinks. They didn’t even accept drinks if you bought one. He’d tried.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were — I mean — of course I’ll get you a drink, baby! What do you like?”
“Cosmo,” she said, “and you thought that I worked here. This is okay. I am not offended. I used to work here.”
He imagined her writhing on a pole, that red silk dress slipping off …
“Well,” he said in an attempt to snap himself out of it, “I guess I’m not surprised.”