Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured

by Salvatore A. Joseph

  Sal strolls around, thinking, contemplating what to do. He decides to sort of half-assed play some video poker. Grinning at the machine, he mumbles, “. . . the reward would be fine, but ’ol Vince, that prick, would get all the credit for bringing me in on the investigation . . . if I smoke these guys out—four confirmed, the fifth probable, two DFC, bronze star. The money overall is not much after taxes and . . . and uh, what good to be honest comes of making the bust.”

  Oh sure, justice might be served, but why ruin this guy’s life. He put his life on the line for Uncle Sam with over 238 combat missions during the Vietnam War. He hasn’t hurt anyone and Salvatore still realizes the worst he might get is a year or two in the slammer plus another couple of years of probation. Hell, how many real bad-ass hijackers have been released after only serving a small portion of his or her time in the Big House. Fuck, how many hardened criminals are walking the streets released on probation, due to so called prison overcrowding? God knows that Senior Detective First Class Salvatore does.

  “Honoring and Keeping Faith with American’s Missing Servicemen.”

  Inscription on the Tomb of the

  Unknown Soldier

  Chapter 15

  Current Weather or current METAR for KLAS:

  22012KT 9SM OVC120 34/19 A29.99 or in layman’s terms:

  Winds are 220 degrees at 9KTS, 9 SM of visibility, overcast sky at 12,000 feet, temperature is 34C, dew point 19 and the area altimeter setting is 29.99

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Finding a quiet out of the way video poker machine to play and to try to relax or chill a bit, Sal slides into an empty chair. Digging into his worn gold-tone money clip, he retrieves a crisp 20 dollar bill and feeds the stiff bill into the bowels of the machine. The mechanical money changer and assorted gears deep inside the beast start to wind up as the IGT Jack’s or Better poker machine warms up, making its own unique sounds. It passes through Sal’s mind how in the world this contraption can somehow deduce if the paper money passing through the money slot is a real dollar bill or only a good counterfeit copy. He sure would like to take one of them apart to see how it works on the inside.

  Within seven plays, this machine on its own, this poker machine hits a Royal Straight Flush for 1,900 dollars and thus sets off the bells and whistles startling Sal back to reality. Within mere moments, Sal is surrounded by the Casino’s VIP personnel. The Casino Host and Casino Concierge arrive to greet this lucky winner as they start to work their magic all around Sal. A bit embarrassed, he collects his winning ticket, signs the required IRS tax form and exits out the front doors of the Luxor . . . to think, to take in a deep breath of fresh air.

  In an effort to grab some air, Sal walks out the main doors into the night’s warm breeze. With a brief look about, Sal scans the area while he takes off for a long walk up the strip to think, to get lost in the crowds. People are everywhere, some in a hurry, some simply hanging out. A camera flashes off to his right as a young, happy couple is gathering up some new memories. After walking a mile or two, he at last flags down a passing taxi cab and heads back up the strip toward the airport.

  Seated in the gate area bar, Sal is waiting for the inbound SouthEast flight to arrive at 8:05 pm local time. He sits and observes all the people as he sips on a beer and thinks the case over in his head.

  After a few moments, the round nose of the airliner is seen through the windows as it is taxiing up. As it stops, it lightly rocks back and forth. Sal gets up and walks back to the bank of fancy slot machines out of the way to covertly peek out as the gate agent announces the arrival of the flight.

  One after one, all 82 flying passengers de-plane the tired aluminum bird. At long last, the 3 female flight attendants exit and head toward their Operations Room. Five minutes later, Tom appears with his chart case and travel-pro roll aboard suitcase, followed, before long, by John. Walking through the airport, they swiftly and efficiently stroll toward their Operations Room to finish up their paperwork on today’s trip. Sal keeps a loose and efficient tail on them. He smartly goes on past the guys to wait on them a bit past the Operations Room.

  About 10 minutes later, Tom and John exit and head toward the downstairs baggage area, followed discretely by Sal, and continue on past the buzzing baggage claim area. The entire flight crew approaches the hotel shuttle van area. In less than five minutes, their Chevy one-ton passenger van, their ride to the hotel has arrived.

  A bit uneasy, John makes one more glance around the area as he climbs aboard the hotel’s shuttle van stop. The white van pulls out into traffic and heads around the corner toward the Tropicana Hotel and Casino. The van converges into the lane of traffic and the van settles in with all the other vehicles headed west bound toward the fabulous Las Vegas Strip.

  After arriving by cab, Sal cautiously joins in with a large group of tourists as he heads into the heart of the casino. Sort of slipping off to one side, he has planned is to stake out the craps tables waiting for the boys to appear. Within a few minutes, they walk into the heart of the casino.

  It’s a close walk to the dice tables, and it’s only a few moments before the dice game starts hoppin, as Tom starts shooting the dice and betting big. He lays down 5,000—fifty crisp 100 dollar bills on the green felt surface of the gaming table. The cash is promptly picked up by the stickman, and it is counted out once again by the Pit Boss who nods to the stickman on his right. This simple nod is the long time signal it is OK to give out the casino’s chips . . . the casino’s money.

  A mere few seconds after the two red spinning dice leave Tom’s right hand, they bounce off of the far end of the table. In his booming voice, he said with gusto, “Yeaaah, baby! Come on seven-eleven.”

  The dice hit the far wall, bounce, once, twice and spin and spin. The first red dice stops on the number six and the second spinning dice stops on the number one at a final point . . . together they make up the winning number seven. The stickman running the game fires off a loud and fast, “Seven, winner, winner, winner! Just another front line winner. It’s a seven, pay the pass line and take the don’ts.”

  Another arching toss and another quick win. Five rolls of the dice and he is already up somewhere around 22,000 dollars. Over and over, several times in a row the dice come up a pair of winners—Tom starts winning big. John is winning also, but he isn’t betting quite as wild as Tom. His quick take is just a bit under 25,000 dollars.

  Off in the distance, Sal plays some of the distance slots, as he keeps a close eye on the two. He’s sure he has found his bandits. He whispers to the slot machine he is playing, “. . . yep, doing this would piss ’ol Vince off in the long run, but if they stop, he said it would be good enough for him . . . ‘nuff said!”

  And ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, as Sal hits a 2,800 dollar jackpot on an IGT Double Diamond Deluxe machine. He smiles as he cashes out his electronic pay ticket and heads to the casino cage. In a flash, he now has 28 rather new crisp one 100 dollar bills in his pocket.

  “This is good, I could get used to this” he says and grins to himself as he walks back into the heart of the casino gaming area. Saying this little piece of truth . . . he yawns, takes a bit of a deep breath, and looks about the casino. Like how and when he has decided to make his move on the case. His gut tells him it’s time to turn up the heat, so he does. Detective Sal is careful as he takes a stroll over to the hot dice table and on the fly basically decides to join in on the craps game. Standing at the opposite end, Sal bets along with Tom and starts to win bet after bet. He starts betting a couple of hundred per roll and starts to rake in lots of money; he likes getting all the green and black chips from the stickman and dealers.

  Again he whispers, “Damn, this is excellent.”

  “Keep throwing those big old sevens and making your points, young man.”

  John is concerned and nervous, but Tom keeps on playing dice, unconcerned about the interesting st
ranger at the other end of the table. From time to time, when someone rolls a winner, Tom raises his glass in a toast to Sal on the other end.

  Sal acknowledges with a raised beer and simply keeps playing along for another 30 minutes, then leaves to cash out at the casino cage, the casino bank. Again, he has acquired a good sum of money. In the last 40 minutes he raked in a little bit over 8,000 dollars. He has made his move. Like all good investigators on a big case, sometimes you have to take a chance and push the envelope, to shake things up. He damn sure has.

  John is not too happy and is tactfully trying to get Tom to leave, to go and talk over the new developments. The two men finally head toward the cage to cash out their winnings. After collecting their new found money, the two men walk, almost marching in unison, toward the front entrance door and get into a cab. Tom asks or tells the cabbie with in a mellow tone, “Downtown, Binion’s Horseshoe please.”

  A lone faded yellow taxi cab, but one of hundreds of cabs pulls out onto the strip and heads north toward downtown. A moment later, another cab follows north bound, too. It is simply another hot muggy night on the Las Vegas strip.

  After an awkward bit of silence, Tom starts to talk.

  “Uh . . . please, and take the Strip, to Binion’s Horseshoe . . . I want to see the lights again . . . I’m in no hurry.”

  “Uh . . . what are we gonna’ do . . . man, this ain’t good,” says John.

  Tom softly replies as he motions with his right hand, “Not now . . . not here. Relax, enjoy the ride, the sights . . . it’ll all work itself out.”

  A quick protest of, “Yea, but . . . uh,” comes from John.

  Trying to be a bit soothing, Tom offers, “Why don’t we go eat, and we can talk it over in the restaurant.”

  The men sit back and stay quiet. It is a fine clear night as the cab changes lanes trying to make its way up the strip. Both men chill and think as the taxi heads northbound up the Fabulous Las Vegas Strip.

  Some ten minutes or so later, the taxi cab arrives and pulls up to the east side of Binion’s, lets the boys out, and they enter the Casino next to the gift shop. A few moments later, Sal’s cab pulls up to the same drop spot. He quickly flips the driver a 20 and gets out of the right side of the cab against the cement curb.

  Tom and John walk around for a moment, checking out some of the action, and head downstairs to the little café restaurant. They walk right by Sal, who is laying low by the old bank of payphones by the back entrance next to the small gift shop. He watches as the two descend the stairs to one of the best little restaurants in the city. Well known for its low priced meals and extra large portions, it is a wonderful restaurant. By the way, this establishment, hands down, serves the absolute best banana cream pie in the world.

  Our boys Tom and John are seated in one the four small booths in the smoking section, up by the old soda fountain counter area, which conveniently is rather discreetly out of the way. They both wait for the Asian bus-boy to pour their water before either one starts talking.

  A now rather cautious Tom, the elder of the two, leans in and starts to speak. “Uh . . . you wanted to quit—I think now would be a good time to do that. I don’t know who this guy is, but I respect your hunches.”

  A relieved John offers, “Right, right.”

  “Well, I’d say we get the hell out of here tonight and don’t come back for a long, long time. I sort of figured all that damn money could get us in trouble some . . .”

  As John is saying this, Detective Sal arrives out of nowhere and tosses his tan folder full of documents onto the table top. Almost on cue, the top two pieces of paper that slide out are the data sheets on the boys, followed by some surveillance photos from one of the banks they had hit. Sal slides right in the booth next to John. Talk about making your move!

  A damn bit surprised, John finishes his sentence “. . . trouble anyway.”

  Sal, sliding into his seat greets the boys with a quick, “Hi ya’ boys,” playing on his southern drawl. “May I join you . . . my name is Salvatore, but please call me Sal.”

  Tom is unusually relaxed, but John is more than a bit uneasy by all of this. He fidgets a smidgen in his seat while trying to act cool and calm. Tom is sure that John’s blood pressure numbers just went off the scale as he can feel his own heart inside of his chest cavity pounding away.

  A good thing about fighter pilots is simply that they have a quick mind and reflexes. Flying at nine, ten, twelve miles a minute, you have to think way out in front of the other folk. Tom reacts by reaching out his hand to shake. “By all means, join us, I’m Tom and this is my good friend, John.”

  Sal reaches out, shakes hands, and offers, “Thanks, guys . . . nice to meet you boys,” smiles and grins. “Got a minute? Can we talk?”

  A bit reassured, Tom says, “Sure, can I get you a drink or some coffee?”

  Sal says, “A Bud Light would be good.”

  Tom raises his right hand and signals the waiter to come over to the table. After a few quick words are exchanged, he orders some drinks for the table.

  Sal continues, “I guess you boys are wondering why I stopped by to meet with you today.” Digging deep inside of the tan folder, he pulls out several of the data sheets and surveillance photos. Placing them about here and there, Sal, in a semi-efficient way sorts out the papers and photos on the scratched up black Formica table top.

  Sal continues, in a pleasant calm, non-threatening tone, “Well, boys, today I am a new friend, no . . . your best friend. Today, if truth be told, is your lucky day. You two did pretty good back at that dice game over at the Tropicana . . . and to tell you the truth, I did pretty damn good myself.” After a quick drink, he offers up, “Let me start from the beginning. I was a cop, a detective specializing in armed robberies, you know—like uhh . . . grocery store robberies, gas station robberies and uhh . . . bank robberies for a long, long, very long time. One day a few months ago I started tracking a couple of fancy bank robbers before I retired from the force.

  “Retired?” John asks.

  Sal continues, “Yeah, a short time ago . . . a couple of months ago or something along those lines. Anyway . . . so anyway, I start checking into these two bank hijackers, these fancy bank robbers on the side. Also I worked with an insurance investigator for a couple of weeks, but then he turns out to be an A-number one asshole. On top of that, he royally pissed me off.”

  Tom is actually doing fine; he is at peace with the situation, but John is still overall a bit uncomfortable or in other words . . . rather nervous.

  After another drink of his beer, Sal continues the conversation, “. . . to the point where I don’t care if these cases ever get fucking solved. Moreover, I really don’t friggin’ care if anyone gets sent to jail, but I would like them to stop before someone gets hurt.

  A quick Tom says, “And without trying to insult you, my friend . . . why are you telling us?”

  John(calming down now) adds a soft, “Yeah.”

  Digging further, deeper into his manila file folder, Sal grabs some of the papers and sorts them out of the table top. “Ya’ see here, I recently learned the two fellows doing all the bank jobs work for SouthEast Airlines. Yeah, I’m the one who was able to connect all the dots in a row . . . I was the one who figured out how to connect all the little bits or clues on this case. I always appreciated there was a real—a legitimate reason that tied everything together. Finally, I figured out that actually all of the banks which were hit were in cities serviced by little ’ol SouthEast Airlines. Furthermore, as careful as these fellows were trying to be,” as Sal takes another sip—”they made some small, tiny, tiny, mistakes along the way. Sooner or later, those idiots over at FBI may have figured it all out.”

  John next adds, “Idiots . . . May?”

  Followed by a few words Tom says, “I take it you don’t think too highly of the folks over at the FB
I”

  Sal says, “No, I don’t. There are some real fine FBI Special Agents out there and one of them is one of my best friends back home in Houston. Agent Bob is one you boys would actually like. He was a real honest to goodness mud Marine in Vietnam for two tours. However, they have more than their share of screw ups . . . like the Air Force I was in, and (pointing at Tom and John) you were in, we were all once in.”

  They both watch and scan Sal, surmising coolly, “Who is this guy? Is he for real? Do we trust him?” All these different legitimate questions raced through their minds.

  A now calmer Tom stretches out his hands above his head and rubs his hands, sort of stretching, before saying, “Let’s say for a moment, these two men you are searching for are friends of ours and we tell them to stop. Uh, how do we uh . . . you won’t come back after them another day?”

  “Uh, yea, how . . . what would it take . . . uh . . . uh,” started John.

  A rapid fire move by Tom cuts him off in mid-sentence, but with a soft and calming voice, “No, no. Don’t insult this man,” says Tom holding out his right hand in a stopping motion. The elder of the team, Tom understands complex men and has been in harm’s way many times before today. He is good at assessing men and life’s situations. His gut feeling is almost as good as that of the Detective First Class sitting across the table, a mere two feet away. He speaks in a calm, but serious voice, “I can distinguish genuine honor when I see it. This, young man, is an honorable man. I’d go into combat with this man at my side. We may come from different backgrounds, but in an eerie way, we share the same.

  When I went to work every day in my jet fighter, I had an eerie calm that would stay with me for the entire time I was in the heat of battle. Although I just met this Detective, I’m sure somehow, I . . . uh, we share the same bond of combat. Maybe not in the same fire fight, but he has passed through the fire . . . where I . . . we have been.” With a slight sigh, he continues, “Where we have all been and somehow knew, in a spine chilling way, that everything was going to be OK.”