Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  It took me about forty minutes to drive to Black Hawk from my place. It’s pretty high up there, about eighty-five hundred feet. Nosebleed country.

  I passed the Ameristar and pulled up across from The Mills Casino and Hotel. It was a little after eight in the morning, not exactly gambling time, but as I parked I saw a stretch limousine drive up in front of the casino and three big guys got out, followed by a little guy that reminded me of Joe Pecsi in Good Fellows. All were dressed in what I would think of as typical gangster suits, some sporting ties, others gold necklaces, and I thought, no way, it couldn’t be this easy, what are the odds? The limo drove away and the three men went into The Mills. As I was about to move farther down the street another limo, this time white, and even stretchier than the last one stopped in the vacated spot. Five guys got out, all of them big and heavy and the spitting image of the sons of Vito Corleone. They all went inside.

  Sitting there for the next hour I saw eight more limos drop off a total of twenty-seven, very Italian looking men, all dressed to the nines and at least a couple packing heat. The breeze was out of the north and a few of their coats blew open exposing pancake holsters and shoulder harnesses. Sheesh, I was beginning to feel under dressed.

  I finished parking up the street and walked back to the casino. It was a warm day in Denver, but up here the wind still held a nip that felt good after the long ride in the car. Long rows of Columbines, their white and lavender petals open wide, bracketed the automatic entrance doors to the casino. The gambling establishment paying homage to Colorado’s State Flower.

  Inside I saw a bank of slot machines stretching in both directions. Straight ahead was the registration desk and diagonally to the right was an enormous bar and a giant spread of poker tables. I decided to head that way.

  Looking about I saw security cameras everywhere, along with those big mirror domes that everyone knows are even more hidden security cameras. The bar was elaborately finished in black and mahogany with antique brass foot rails and a black granite top. Sitting on a six inch raised platform it stretched at least twenty feet long, with a ten-foot high mirror behind it.

  There were maybe thirty people playing the slots and two people at the bar: one man, one woman. The guy looked like he’d been up all night and the woman looked like she’d just woke up.

  Beyond the bar and around the corner the room opened to a medium sized restaurant. There were a lot more guys than I’d seen get out of the limos, so some of them had to have arrived before I did or were staying at the hotel already. They sat in little groups, some drinking coffee, some whisky, and one great big guy, a tall glass of milk. Waitresses, all wearing short tight skirts, and tight white shirts, with killer high heels, ran about serving them plates heaped with eggs, biscuits, omelets, steaks, pancakes, waffles.

  Breakfast stuff.

  Smelled good.

  I sat down at an empty booth, smiling at a group of five across from me. They all stared at me like I was road kill, or soon would be.

  A pretty waitress with too much makeup walked over to me.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but the dining room is closed.”

  I looked around at all the suits and smiled at her. “What about them?”

  She looked nervous. “It’s a private party. I’m very sorry, but I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  The big guy drinking milk looked over at me.

  “I’m really hungry,” I said. “Do you think I could maybe just get a couple of quick eggs and maybe a piece of toast and some coffee before I leave?”

  The big guy stood up. He walked over.

  The waitress looked even more nervous. “I’m sorry, sir, but…”

  Big Milk broke in. “Private means private, hit the bricks, bub.” He wasn’t a local, that was for sure. The accent was Bronxish.

  The guy was huge. He had some fat on him, but there was a lot more that wasn’t fat. I didn’t miss the telltale bulge under his left armpit either. His face was big and thick and he had dark curly hair and long eyelashes. He reminded me of that bronze statue of Atlas in front of Rockefeller Center. Actual size. The guy looked like he could chew billiard balls.

  I looked up at him and smiled. “What have you got going on here? Some kind of Good Fellows convention?”

  The room got very quiet.

  Big Milk pushed the waitress aside with a hand the size of a goalie’s mitt, and grabbed me by the front of my shirt. He picked me up out of my chair — with one hand.

  The thumb is the weakest part of the hand, and the easiest and surest way of making someone release a one handed hold is by gripping around the outside of the hand, with your fingers curling around the meaty part of the palm leading to the thumb and then turning sharply outward. This puts undue pressure on both the thumb and the wrist and results in the grip being released or bones breaking. I learned that move when I was sixteen from a Brazilian fisherman off the coast of Norway. He was fighting a smelly Basque with one eye and a terrible temper at the time. It was an instructive fight.

  I was considering the move as Big Milk pulled me off the padded bench when I saw the top edge of a room entry card in his shirt pocket. I decide not to go for the thumb and instead pushed against his chest with both hands. It was like trying to shove a bulldozer.

  A sharp looking guy with slick black hair and a two thousand dollar suit came up to us and nodded his head at Big Milk.

  “Let him go, Sal,” said the man. He said it quiet, but there was no doubting the authority behind that voice. Big Milk let me go and stepped back. One of the guys from his table came over and clapped him on the back, saying “Nice, Sal, you’d a mopped the floor with him.” They went back to the table and sat down.

  I straightened my shirt. “Thanks,” I said. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” I looked over at Big Milk. “And I certainly didn’t expect to get beat up.”

  “I’m sorry. This is a private party. We’re closed to the public until ten o’clock. A sign should have been posted.” He was polite, straightforward, but I noticed he didn’t say, “sir” as the waitress had. He handed me three black chips, worth a hundred bucks a pop, and put a hand on my shoulder, leading me out of the restaurant. “Please accept these in way of apology. Why don’t you head over to the bar and I’ll have your order brought out to you. On the house of course.”

  “Thank you,” I said. He was about thirty, slim but not skinny, and looked to me like he might be more of a handful in a fight than Big Milk would have turned out to be. It would take this kind of man to control a guy like Mr. Spock. “So what is going on in there?”

  He hadn’t smiled, and he didn’t now. He just looked at me for a second. “A family get-together.” He spread a hand toward the bar. “Have a nice breakfast, and good luck at the tables.” He turned to go. I stopped him with what I said next.

  “Would that be the Bugsy Siegel family or just the Cosa Nostra in general?”

  When he turned back to me any hint of pretended civility was gone. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of the Franklin family.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Should I know them?”

  I pulled out the red poker chip I’d taken from Pimple’s house and flipped it to him. He caught it like he’d been doing it all his life. Probably had.

  “I took that chip from one of your boys.”

  He didn’t even look at it, as though he could tell its make and worth by feel alone. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Does the name Kevin Burbank ring a bell?” I smiled waiting for his reaction. It didn’t come.

  “No. I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Really? And I suppose you’ve never heard of Tom or Amber Franklin either? Or Shane Franklin, who was murdered?”

  He stared at me for about ten seconds before he spoke. “What’s your name?”

  “I think you know my name. I’m sure your hired hand told you all about me.”

  “My name is Nick Carlino. My family has be
en in Colorado since the early twenties. I’m the CEO of The Mills Casino and Hotel, as well as two other casinos in Colorado. These people back here are friends and family and business partners. We run a legitimate business and obey all city, state and federal regulations. I know nothing of the people you have mentioned or of the unfortunate circumstances you have related. And I do not know who you are.”

  “All right,” I said. “We can play it that way. But it could get messy.”

  He held up his hands, the model of innocence. “All we play here are cards and slots. Enjoy your stay.” He turned and walked back to the dining area. A cool character.

  I went out to my car and looked at the entry card I clipped from Big Milk Sal. It was to a room right here at The Mills.

  Imagine that, getting lucky at a casino. What are the odds?

  32

  I waited ten minutes, took off my gun, badge, spare magazines and door-popper. Then I tucked in my shirt and hoped the slight change in my appearance would act as a makeshift disguise.

  The front desk answered on the first ring. What service.

  “The Mills Casino and Hotel may I help you?” It was a young sounding guy.

  I held a couple of Taco Bell napkins, I found in my center console, over the mic to imitate static and did my best Italian tough guy imitation. “Yeah, this is Nick, what room is my pal, Sal staying in?”

  “Nick who?”

  I shook my head. “Nick Carlino, what, you don’t know your own boss?”

  The change was immediate. “Oh… sir… I’m sorry, sir. It didn’t sound like you.”

  Everyone’s a critic.

  “Yeah,” I said, “bad reception here. What room?”

  “Mr. Sal Palladino is in room four-seventeen, sir.”

  I hung up. A few minutes later I was standing outside Sal’s room. I knocked real loud. No answer. I slipped the card in and out. The red light went to green and I turned the handle. The door opened into a short hall, with the bathroom to the left. There was a big room with a seventy-two inch flat screen TV, plush couches, a fancy table with chairs, thick, maroon carpet. Double French doors opened to a bedroom with a king sized bed. There was a suitcase by the walk in closet that was open. Inside were t-shirts, underwear, socks. In the closet hung several giant sized suits. A pack of cigarettes sat on the nightstand by the bed. Tisk-tisk. This was a no smoking casino.

  There was a computer desk off to the side with a Dell laptop sitting on it. The top was closed but blinking lights flashed along the lower lip. Wow, Sal with a computer, who’d a thunk?

  I opened the Dell and a screensaver of desert cactus glowed into view. After a few seconds icons began popping onto the screen in orderly columns. I’m no computer whiz but I can move a mouse. I double clicked on the hard drive icon and when it opened, clicked on the applications menu. I scanned for accounting programs, and stuff like that, thinking maybe Shane hacked into their accounts or maybe opened a page outlining their illegal gambling practices or a hit on someone or… whatever Mafiosi types did these days. Nothing stood out to me.

  I went through every icon on the screen and found nothing I could make heads or tails of that would have anything to do with Shane Franklin.

  A leather computer case sat next to the desk. I checked through all the pockets. Inside one I found a loaded snub-nosed .38.

  Virus protection?

  In the closet I went through everything finding two business cards, a tin of Altoids (hmm curiously strong), a rubber-band, four bullets and a switchblade.

  When I walked out of the closet I saw Nick Carlino and two other guys I didn’t know, but who looked real tough standing next to him. To my left was Big Milk Sal. Before I could say anything a fist the size of Italy crashed into my face and all the lights went out.

  When I woke up I was sitting in a chair with my hands tied behind my back with zip ties. The room was small and bare except for an overhead fluorescent strip. The walls were concrete, which made me think I was in a basement. There was a metal bucket by my left leg filled with water and Big Milk Sal and Nick Carlino were standing to the side. Nick was holding the five shot Ruger I keep in my ankle holster and looking at it thoughtfully.

  I shook my head, trying to clear my vision. “That’s some punch you got there, Sal. I mean I’ve been hit before, but that… whew, I’m still feeling it. How long was I out?”

  “About ten minutes,” said Sal, who was holding a towel filled with ice over his knuckles. “You got a hard head.”

  I stretched my face trying to see how bad I was hurt. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Why,” asked Nick, stepping closer to me, “is a high priced PI with a gun strapped to his leg, sneaking into one of my guest’s room?”

  “You know why, Nick, so why play the game?”

  “Show respect,” said Sal, “or I’ll belt ya again.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t respect guys who kidnap little girls and torture teenage boys to death.”

  Sal stepped up, but stopped when Nick held up a hand. “Leave it go, Sal.” He handed Sal my gun and squatted down in front of me. He steepled his hands in front of his lips. “Why is it that you believe I’m involved with these terrible crimes?”

  Something about the way he said it gave me pause. I mean he had me here tied up and helpless. If he wanted to kill me there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. Of course he might just be trying to keep me in the dark until I found the thumb dot, but why keep up the charade?

  I decided to tell him and see what happened. So I told him everything. When I was done he continued to stay in that squatting position. I thought his quads and hamstrings had to be getting tired. The guy had good balance.

  “You know,” said Nick, “I have twin daughters just about the same age as this girl Amber.” He looked me in the eye and shook his head. “I have nothing to do with any of this. I give you my word.”

  That hit me harder than Sal had. Because I absolutely knew he was telling the truth.

  “Okay,” I said. “I believe you. But there’s just too much for this to have been coincidence.”

  “Yes,” said Nick. “Too much. It was a set up.”

  I nodded, feeling sick. “And I fell for it.”

  He stood and walked behind me. There was a second of tension on my wrists and then they were free. He closed my tanto knife and handed it to me.

  “You’re letting me go?”

  “Whoever set you up used me and my casino to do it. I don’t like that. You go take care of this guy.” He handed me his business card. “That has my personal cell phone number on it. You need any help, give me a call.” As I stood up he pointed a finger at me. “You save that little girl.”

  33

  Okay, so now what? I thought as I drove back from the mountains. I’d wasted a day and a half on a wild goose chase. Or had I? It was possible I just had the wrong casino. After all, if one casino was controlled by the mob, why not the others?

  But then I remembered Mr. Spock just before he got back in the limo when he said he was going to take a gamble on me because he’d had me checked out. He was playing with me, setting me up to waste time or maybe get me killed off without him being involved. It almost worked. I rubbed the side of my face where Sal hit me. It felt swollen and sore, but at least there didn’t seem to be any broken bones or permanent injury. Like Sal said, I have a hard head. Thick too. What a sap.

  I took out the crumpled traffic ticket I’d found in Baldy’s car and smoothed it open. It was dated a month ago… for running a red light. I checked the location of offense. Colorado Springs. Hmm. The limo rental place was in the Springs too. Colorado Springs is basically the opposite direction from Black Hawk. I felt like a fool. I looked back at Max for some comfort but he looked like he thought I was a fool too.

  I decided to take a ride down to Ballard’s Rentals. I was pretty certain Mr. Spock wouldn’t leave any evidence behind or be stupid enough to have rented the car under a name that would be traced back to him or his employer, b
ut hey, anyone can make a mistake. Look at me.

  I had just gotten onto C-470 heading southeast when I saw a silver, nineties Chevy drive past me going north. I did a head shake. It couldn’t be. But I could have sworn I’d seen Baldy and Pimples in the front seat. Were they going up to Black Hawk for some gambling? Was I wrong about Nick Carlino not being involved?

  Flooring the gas pedal I shot down the closest emergency turn around. It’s only to be used by cops and emergency units, but I used to be a cop and besides this was an emergency. I flipped a U and floored it again and was barely able to make them out, as they turned eastbound onto I-70. Huh? That was the wrong way. Black Hawk was west.

  As I got closer I saw it was definitely them. Time for some answers. Black Hawk or Colorado Springs, either way, I was along for the ride.

  As it turned out they didn’t go to the Springs or Black Hawk. They stopped at an old, broken down, two-story house on Beeler and Mexico, in unincorporated Cherokee County. Up here the county is in spitting distance of Aurora and Denver. Jurisdictional issues can be a real pain, with one side of the street belonging to Denver, and the other to Cherokee. Baldy and Pimples went into the house. Two other cars perched in the crumbling driveway. They were both hoopties; not the type of spaceship Mr. Spock would be riding in.

  Hmm. More drugs? Or maybe a hiding place for kidnapped victims?

  When I got out of my car, I unclipped the leather key-holder I keep on my belt and dropped it next to the door. I’d already redressed after leaving the casino and all my tools were back in place.

  I left the car running to keep Max cool. I parked on the other side of the block and made my way around a limp, chain-link fence until I spotted the shabby, white two-story. Window wells grew from the ground on the west side wall, looking down into a basement. If Tom and Amber were here, my money was on them being down there; less likely for cries or screams to carry far through concrete and earth.