by Robert Rand
Criminal Option
The Rourk Family Saga
Book I
by
ROBERT RAND
Robert Rand
Smashwords edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblances to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
Sullivan’s haunted reflection stared back at him from the bathroom mirror accusingly. Hollow eyes saw several days’ growth of beard. Tears left clean streaks on dirty cheeks. “Who is that man looking at me?” Sullivan asked aloud. A voice within answered, “That is who you’ve become.”
Horrified and shocked by the reality of his life, Sullivan reached into the backpack that sat on the bathroom counter and withdrew his pistol without being conscious of doing so.
His eyes were transfixed on the image being reflected in the mirror. A sallow-skinned face rested above an emaciated body riddled with scars. The puckered flesh across the right shoulder drew his attention. As he narrowed his focus, the scars grew nearer. There were miniature mountain ranges of scar tissue; peaks and valleys of rutted flesh stretching across the continent of the body in the mirror. The barrel of the pistol pressed into one peak before sliding into a valley, traversing the remnants of damage caused by another weapon, another weapon in another life.
Twelve shots rang out in his mind, the memory causing him to flinch. Sullivan returned his gaze to the eyes in the mirror, eyes that cried.
He watched, mesmerized by the scene unfolding before him, as the man in the mirror raised the heavy .357 Magnum Smith and Wesson revolver to his head. The gaunt, crying man pulled the hammer back.
Sullivan heard the double click as the weapon went from safe, to half cock, to fully cocked.
The man in the mirror trembled as the barrel pressed into his temple.
Sullivan stared, unable to intervene as the knuckle whitened on the finger that wrapped itself around the trigger. He realized that that finger was exerting pressure on the trigger. The hammer eased a fraction of an inch rearward in response to that pressure, the final action before it would fall forward, force the pin into the primer, detonate the powder, and send the lead hollow point bullet through the rifled barrel and on its deadly journey.
“Daddy! Hey Daddy! Are you in there?” The voice of Sullivan’s daughter pierced the horror of the tension-filled confines of the bathroom.
The man in the mirror quickly pulled the gun from his head and slammed his thumb on the hammer before it could drop. He eased it back into a safe position as he lowered the gun.
Sullivan watched as the gun slid down the mirror. When the man in the mirror had dropped the gun below the mirrors edge, he saw the gun in another hand, his hand.
Sullivan gulped in air as this registered in his conscious mind. The room began to spin. His emotions were in turmoil. There was so much love in his heart for his daughter, for his wife. However, there was hatred as well. He hated himself.
As he struggled to regain control of himself, Sullivan cried. The tears were brought on by the deep anguish he felt at having devolved into the person he saw in the mirror. But he knew that he was the one responsible for all that he had done to put himself here.
There was a pounding at the bathroom door, followed by that sweet little voice. “Daddy, I came to visit you!”
His daughter, Lisa, was here. His heart soared. “Daddy’ll be right out, sweetheart,” Sullivan’s voice broke with emotion as he spoke. He looked again at his haunted reflection in the mirror. All he could think of was that it was time to end his trip to hell.
Chapter 1
The crowds kept coming. Sullivan watched the alternating scenes on the casino’s bank of security monitors. The card room was nearly filled to capacity. Cameras 6 through 12 showed only eight vacant seats at the twenty-four card tables – all of which had stayed active tonight.
“Damned near 100% profit.” Sullivan thought as he watched one of the dealers take the house’s portion from the pot before giving the thin, expensively dressed Asian gentleman his winnings at the Pai Gao table reserved for the high rollers. The Asians flocked to the casino to play. Asian men dominated the Pai Gao tables, while the poker tables were predominately visited by whites and Hispanics of both sexes. Very few blacks played cards here. Filipinos and Samoans were always prevalent, but the casino didn’t attract many black men.
“ Maybe once we get the approval to play Blackjack and Craps.” Sullivan thought.
Transportation coordinators were pulling up at the south entrance and there was a hodgepodge of ethnic and racial diversity exiting the luxury buses. They had come from as far away as 150 miles on the air-conditioned bus provided by the casino to anyone wanting to come spend 6 hours of their time – and all their money.
Mostly the buses brought bingo players. The casino contained a 1500 seat high-stakes bingo hall. The game, first made popular at church socials and county fairs, had slowly raised its stature to its present state of payouts of $1000 per regular session game. They also offered assorted “special” games that paid $25,000 in cash or a new car, and once a night, every night except Christmas Eve, bingo halls across the country were connected via satellite to the MEGA BINGO game, which, if won, paid a cool million dollars. Suckers.
This was an “Indian” casino. At least it was located on an Indian reservation in an isolated stretch of scrubland near Palm Springs, California. The Indians had been at the losing end longer than America had been in existence. Now it was the Indian’s turn to come out on top. At least that was the pitch Sullivan made just 3 months earlier when he was able to get the tribe to agree to him taking over the casino.
The struggle had been a difficult one. Sullivan had taken a full load at Cal State Riverside while maintaining a full time job at the Desert Pueblo Indian Casino. While going to college, he had been able to climb the ladder at the casino to the point where he was the night manager of casino operations. Two days after receiving his Bachelor Degree in Business Administration Sullivan had asked to address the Tribal Council. He knew the contract that the tribe had with the current management team – his boss’s- was a pittance compared to the current profits, and especially to the potential profits.
Sullivan had approached the Bureau of Indian Affairs first. Only the BIA could issue a license to conduct gaming on Federally protected Indian lands. Very few casino operators bothered with this detail since it wasn’t enforced by the government. But there was protection in the license. Protection from what he was planning against his unlicensed bosses ever happening to him.
With a $300,000 stake gathered from a loan on his house, the sale of his 1968 Corvette and some investment from various members of Sullivan’s family, he made his pitch to the Tribal Council.
Sullivan took half the money with him to the Tribal Council meeting where he offered to double the tribes’ monthly payment from the casino - from $75,000 to $150,000, as well as providing a profit sharing of all revenue, something the current management refused to do. He also guaranteed hiring preference for tribal members and would place Council members into several management positions if they would contract his services, essentially handing over the casino operation to him and ousting the current management.
He opened his briefcase, exposing the first month’s payment, extracted the contracts and told the Chief and two Council members that he would return in ten minutes for an answer. He walked out of the Council Hall and lit a cigarette.
Sullivan smoked his Marlboro slowly while leaning against the front fender of his five-year-old 280Z, trying to appear nonchalant and confident, knowing full well that the three people inside could see him through the mirrored glass of the Hall’s front windows. He dropped his smoke and stamped it into the dirt parking lot, extinguishing it beneath his cheap penny loafers, before walking back into the hall.
The briefcase was nowhere to be seen.
“Thank you for your faith in my proposition. I assume I can count on your cooperation in gaining immediate control of the casino?” Sullivan stated as he affixed his signature to the contracts that the Tribal Council members had already signed.
Donny De la Cruz, the three hundred-plus-pound Tribal Chairman extended his huge, beefy hand, which Sullivan immediately grasped. The Chief then promised that a half dozen of the tribes biggest and meanest would be arriving shortly to give any help he may need. Sullivan discussed his plan with the Council members and they assured cooperation. He left the hall and drove to the casino to await the arrival of his “troops.”
Sullivan entered the casino via the south entrance and proceeded to the executive offices upstairs. He went to the General Managers office and told the condescending old woman sitting at the front desk, who’s job title was receptionist, but should have been ‘Rabid Guard Dog’, that he would like to see Jacob, the GM. She looked Sullivan over from head to tow and back again before informing him “You haven’t an appointment so you’ll have to wait.”
That was fine and as he expected. Sullivan sat on the comfortable sofa in the reception area next to the private executive entrance door that led to an outdoor stairwell. Ten minutes passed and still Ms. Stillwell hadn’t made Sullivan’s presence known to Jacob White.
The subdued buzz of the receptionist/rabid guard dog’s telephone interrupted Sullivans thoughts and Ms. Stillwell’s typing. “Mr. White’s office, how may I help you?” Ms. Stillwell intoned into the receiver. She listened for a moment before jabbing down the hold button without replying to the caller. Peering down her patrician nose at Sullivan, she haughtily stated that line one was for him and he could take it on the phone to his left.
Sullivan picked up the receiver: “This is Sullivan.” He said into the phone.
The slightly Hispanic accented voice on the other end only stated “Everything is ready.” before hanging up.
Sullivan replaced the receiver in its cradle, and then stood. The ‘rabid guard dog’s eyes were locked onto Sullivan’s movements. As he stepped towards the private entrance she chirped “You cannot use that door!” in her most ostentatious voice, as if a mere middle management peon passing over it’s threshold would be some sort of sacrilegious affront to God himself.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going out,” Sullivan replied. He opened the door and in stormed over 2000 pounds of gun toting Native Americans. It was only seven men, one of whom was the bear-like son of Chief De la Cruz. The Indians seized the office in less than 10 seconds. The GM, Jacob White, his Security Director, and the comptroller, as well as the old rabid guard dog, were all staring down the barrel of one gun or another, backed by a group of men who said not a word.
Chief De la Cruz entered the office a moment later, followed by the other two Council members. Sullivan walked them into Jacob Whites luxurious office suite.
“What is the meaning of this, De la Cruz?” bellowed White. He had never liked the Tribal Chairman and therefore refused to address him by anything other than his last name, denying him the respect that decency and his position provided.
Sullivan answered for the Chief. “ This, White, is what could be construed as truly a hostile takeover!”
The three Council members laughed, as did Sullivan; White and the young man pointing the bolt action Remington rifle at him did not.
“White,” Sullivan continued, “you are hereby relieved of any and all duties, affiliations and interest in this casino. You have five minutes to gather any personal belongings from this office, after which you will be escorted to the reservation boundary.”
White’s face flushed red with anger and he shouted, “Rourk, you have absolutely no idea who you are fucking with right now.”
He started to say more, but the explosive sound of the rifle as the younger De la Cruz fired a shot into the wall and inch above White’s head quickly dissuaded any further objection he may have had.
Sullivan walked around the ornate cherry wood desk and opened the lower right hand drawer. Inside, right where it always sat was Jacob White’s 357 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver. Sullivan removed the weapon and moved aside so Jacob could leave. White didn’t take anything other than his suit coat. Without another word, without a backward glance, Jacob White walked out of the office, followed by a young man whom White would surely address as Mr. De la Cruz, if he were to ever address him at all. The other young men had escorted the others from the property and now, it was Sullivan’s Casino.
Chapter 2
The message Jacob White sent to his son was short and to the point. He informed him of being ousted from the casino by Sullivan Rourk and included the address where Rourk lived.
Aaron Bradley “Whitey” White received the letter from his father six days later in his cell at Soledad State Prison. His anger was monumental and taken out on the closest person to him, his new cellmate. Whitey pulled his sleeping celly from the top bunk and threw him to the floor. The beating that ensued was vicious. When Whitey’s rage had subsided, he wrote a reply letter to his father to let him know the problem would be dealt with.
Whitey heaved his unconscious celly back onto the top bunk before the yard release unlock. He had a phone call to make and the inmate telephones were located on the prison yard.
The call was answered on the second ring, the collect call charges accepted and the message to Denise Amhurst given. She would be at the prison to visit Whitey the next day so he could pass his orders without the guards overhearing.
Chapter 3
The days immediately following Sullivan’s takeover of the casino were a flurry of meetings, appointments of Council members to key management positions and the hiring of tribal members to a dozen positions within the casino.
On his one-month anniversary as general manager, Sullivan left the casino at just after 6 p.m. He had to rush to the opening of a new art gallery in Palm Springs that his wife, April, had been the architect for.
The who’s who of the High Desert attended. A gallery opening in the area always brought out the City’s cream de la cream. Sullivan didn’t much care for the crowd; he was raised in a middle class neighborhood in Southern California. His regard for art was about like his regard for the people who considered themselves the society’s best, nil. However, this was April’s night, she had not only designed the modern structure housing the exhibit, she had been instrumental in putting together the art that was on display within.
Sullivan loved his wife absolutely; there was nothing he would not do to ensure her happiness. They had met at U.C. Riverside at the library. Sullivan was just over 6 feet tall, April closer to 5 foot in height. He had pulled a book for her from the top shelf and became mesmerized by her bright green eyes, long auburn hair and engaging smile. He asked her out right then and there. When she turned him down, he became even more interested.
Throughout the following semester, Sullivan sought out April whenever he was on the campus. He asked her out every week. Every week she turned him down. After he had overheard her listening to classical music he bought a pair of tickets to the Los Angeles Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl. She didn’t hesitate in saying she would go.
From then on, the two were nearly inseparable. Sullivan fell in love right away. April held back a little longer, but not by much. They were married the weekend following the end of their third year of college.
April had graduated cum laude with a dual masters in architectural design, and art history. Design firms from across the country quickly recognized her educational accompl
ishments. There were opportunities in San Francisco, New York, Chicago and Miami. She chose a small, yet prestigious firm in Palm Springs that was willing to give her immediate lead architect status on a major project. Her success on the first design led to more and more responsibility within the company. After only eighteen months, April Rourk was a junior partner at Sheldon and Kominski Architectural Designs.
The latest project was something April was particularly proud of due to the complete artistic freedom she had been given. It was her baby from inception to completion. This was her night to shine and Sullivan was happy to be by her side and watch as her peers plied on the praise.
Following the reception at the gallery, Sullivan and April headed out to dinner. The car that followed them went unnoticed.
“I’m proud of you, Baby. Proud and impressed,” Sullivan said to his wife as he opened her door at the restaurant.
“Thank you,” she smiled brightly while replying.
Sullivan leaned in to give her a kiss. Their lips never met as Sullivan was grabbed by the collar of his jacket and thrown against the car in the next parking space.
April screamed as two bulky men wearing leather jackets and blue jeans proceeded to beat her husband.
Sullivan tried as best he could to defend himself. He landed a few return blows against his attackers. Several were solid, but these two were used to fighting and had gotten a jump on him that he couldn’t recover from. They were strong and tough. Sullivan soon fell to the asphalt where he received several hard boot kicks to his back and ribs.
“You will either give that fucking casino back to Mr. White or start working for the people he worked for. And those people would be our people,” growled one of the men, Sullivan wasn’t sure which one.