The wrongest possible woman.
Incredibly, Blake Arthur Standiford III—if persistent rumors were to be believed—was screwing Kathleen Saldana, wife of Shotgun Sammy Saldana, the longtime leader of one of LA’s most violent crime families. The Saldana crowd was bad-tempered and ambitious, moving quickly up the rungs of the Southern California crime scene by extorting, blackmailing, and murdering anyone in their way, including—and especially—the strategically important people in rival gangs.
Thus far, the Saldanas had limited the expansion of their territory to the LA basin, but Rudy knew that if Big Tony Mercadante’s information about Standiford and Kathy Saldana getting horizontal was anything close to accurate, that situation would likely change. Saldana would train his murderous gaze on Las Vegas.
And quickly.
And blood would flow. Lots of it.
In addition to the obvious problem of having to fight off the Saldanas when Shotgun Sammy learned of his wife’s affair—and he would learn of it eventually—there was the issue of whether Standiford was sharing Mercadante family secrets, and which ones, if he was. Pillow talk was always dangerous, but never more so than when the person sharing the pillow was connected to thugs possessing the firepower and the will to cut you down and bury your bullet-riddled body in the desert if they so chose.
Big Tony had told Standiford two weeks ago in no uncertain terms to dump the Saldana bitch, and Standiford had responded in his inimitable fashion: by denying any affair, and then agreeing in the next breath that if he had been seeing Kathy Saldana—not that he was, you understand—he would, of course, immediately break off the affair.
Big Tony confided to Rudy at the time that he didn’t believe Standiford had it in him to quit Shotgun Sammy’s wife, and now, after several reported sightings of the two together—right here in Vegas, no less—Tony had had enough. He hated being ignored almost as much as he hated the idea of a war with the Saldana family, so this morning he had called Rudy into his office. Unlit cigar stuck into his mouth like a movie prop, Big Tony had said, “I want you to follow that stupid horny bastard for as long as it takes to determine one way or the other whether he’s really enough of an asshole to ignore my orders and continue screwing Shotgun Sammy’s wife.”
Rudy nodded. “I can do that.”
“Don’t let him outta your sight. If he takes a crap, get into the stall next to him. If he goes to the dentist, get in the goddamn chair with him, understand?”
So here was Rudy, sitting in the casino at the Luxor, playing blackjack without looking at his cards. It was mid-morning and the place was maybe two-thirds full, a decent crowd considering the early hour. Most of the gamblers consisted of young couples honeymooning and old geezers blowing their grandkids’ inheritance.
A short distance across the casino, more or less screened by the constant flow of gamblers moving across the floor, sat Blake Standiford, the Stupid Horny Bastard himself. Standiford also was playing blackjack while barely paying attention to his cards.
Rudy wouldn’t have been worried about Standiford spotting him even if there weren’t a moving wall of people between them, because Blake seemed to have eyes for only one thing: the chick standing next to him. She was long and willowy, and as he played he watched her with the intense concentration of a vulture circling a carcass in the desert.
It was Kathy Saldana.
Holy shit, stop the presses, the rumors really were true.
Rudy could kind of understand Blake screwing Saldana, at least a little. She was no kid; that much was true. But she was a lot younger than Shotgun Sammy and looked as though she could be a gracefully aging lingerie model. Heidi Klum, say, if Heidi were to put on about fifteen pounds and wrinkle up a little.
And Blake Standiford was nothing more than a low-level scumbag, paid handsomely to break bones and occasionally put people underground in places their corpses would never be found. He was an enforcer and it was all he would ever be, despite his grand illusions to the contrary.
So his interest in the wife of a mob boss made a certain amount of sense. Why Kathy Saldana would care about a cockroach like Blake Standiford was another question entirely, one Rudy knew he would likely never be able to answer. No accounting for taste, and all that.
What he didn’t understand was how Blake could be so monumentally stupid as to agree, in front of their boss and God Himself, which in the Mercadante family was almost the same thing, to stop seeing the Saldana bitch and then simply flaunt their continued relationship right here in Vegas.
Prior to this morning Rudy wouldn’t have believed even Standiford could be that brazen. Did he think Big Tony wouldn’t find out? Could he really be that stupid? Why didn’t he just pay for an ad on a Hollywood billboard while he was at it? “Hey Sammy, you old coot, I’m having a great time in Vegas doing your wife! Sincerely, Blake Arthur Standiford III, AKA The Stupid Horny Bastard.”
Maybe he could add a candid photo of some hot bedroom action, too, the kinkier the better, just on the off-chance Sammy wouldn’t be pissed off enough when he found out.
Rudy shook his head. His dislike for Standiford bordered on the obsessive, maybe because Blake Arthur was everything he, Rudy, was not. Standiford was tall, blond and handsome and looked like an extra in a 1960s surfer movie. He carried himself with a confidence bordering on arrogance, like he knew every woman’s eyes were on him when he walked into a room.
The worst part was that it was true: most of the time women were admiring his chiseled body and square-jawed good looks. It was only after you talked to the guy for a while—and usually a short while—did it begin to become clear he was about as bright as a bag of hammers.
Rudy wondered idly whether The Stupid Horny Bastard would seem as attractive to women when he was sporting a big, ugly bullet hole in his forehead. Because he had a strong suspicion that would be the eventual result of Rudy’s report to Big Tony.
He kept an eye on the unlikely couple while entertaining himself with pleasant fantasies of being the one to pull the trigger on Standiford. Eventually, the lovesick idiot rose and began threading his way through the crowd. Saldana followed a short distance behind him. There was no arm-in-arm stuff, no handholding, nothing at all to indicate to a casual observer that they were together.
But Rudy Palermo was no casual observer. He tossed in his losing hand and ambled along behind them, curious about what would happen next although he thought he had a pretty good idea. Shotgun Sammy kept a second-floor room permanently rented in the Luxor for use when he was in Vegas, and Standiford was heading straight for the staircase, Kathy Saldana still trailing along behind him like an Italian sports car drafting behind a Mack truck.
Rudy whistled softly through his teeth. The Stupid Horny Bastard had balls, he had to give him that. Big brass ones.
The crowd thinned as the pair left the casino, and Rudy was forced to drop a little farther behind. He still had a clear view, though, as Saldana caught up with Standiford in the hallway. Blake turned and reached for her hand and she flinched, pulling it away but drawing close to him.
That was odd, Rudy thought. He watched from the end of the hallway as Kathy Saldana swiped her key card and the pair entered the room of one of the most dangerous men in LA. The door thunked closed behind them and even from the end of the hallway Rudy could hear the locks click.
He chuckled darkly. This was one of the most bizarre things he had ever seen and after a lifetime spent in Vegas that was saying something. It was ten- thirty a.m., less than two hours into his surveillance, and he had already dug up the proof his boss had requested. Big Tony was not going to like this. Not one little bit.
For a moment, Rudy felt a stab of sympathy for Blake Arthur Standiford III.
But just for a moment.
And then it was gone.
4
When Big Tony told him to stop seeing Shotgun Sammy Saldana’s wife, Blake had known immediately that was not going to happen.
He wasn’t an idiot, though. His c
ontinued employment in the Mercadante family represented the key to everything Blake wanted. Namely, money.
In this career field, Blake raked in more cash every week than he had ever dreamed possible while growing up a petty thief and drug dealer, and he had been working for Big Tony Mercadante for years. His job description was no more complicated than doing what he was naturally predisposed toward, anyway: intimidating, bullying and hurting people.
And occasionally killing them.
So while he had zero respect for Big Tony, he wasn’t quite prepared to blow the guy off, either. At least not yet.
And he didn’t have to. He simply lied through his teeth. He stood in front of Tony’s desk and agreed to stop seeing Kathy Saldana.
It was easy. Blake had been lying, cheating and manipulating his way through life practically from the day he spoke his first words, and he had no compunction whatsoever about doing exactly that to his boss.
Because actually going through with it and cutting Shotgun Sammy’s wife loose was more than he could manage. It was more than he wanted to manage. Kathy was tall and leggy, with big tits, almost but not quite beautiful, and incredibly well preserved for a broad pushing forty. She was stylish and classy and, best of all, ready and willing and kinky in the bedroom.
Plus, she was Shotgun Sammy Saldana’s wife, for chrissakes. The perverse rush Blake got out of screwing the wife of one of the most influential mob bosses west of the Mississippi was electric, and not something he was willing to sacrifice just to make Fat Tony’s life a little easier.
Hell, if he played his cards right, he wouldn’t have to put up with Tony’s shit much longer anyway. All he had to do was figure out how to leverage his secret relationship with Kathy into a spot on Sammy’s team. Blake thought he’d enjoy living in LA, and he wasn’t above blackmailing or threatening Kathy Saldana to make it happen.
In the meantime, though, he was determined to continue nailing this babe, with or without Tony Mercadante’s approval. He’d just have to be a little more careful about it. The stupid bitch showing up as he was relaxing in the casino downstairs wasn’t part of the plan; he hadn’t even known she was in town.
But what the hell. Blake had looked up and spotted her and his initial burst of anger at the position she was putting him in with Tony had faded almost immediately, replaced by a carnal desire that was almost overwhelming in its intensity. Kathy was dressed down today, in a simple pair of tight blue jeans and a light V-neck sweater. He could see right away she wasn’t wearing a bra and he smiled appreciatively.
After keeping her waiting a few minutes—ya gotta let ‘em know who’s in charge—Blake rose from the table and sauntered away without so much as a glance in his lover’s direction. She followed immediately, as he had known she would, and caught up with him on the stairs, both of them making a beeline for Sammy’s permanent room.
“Blake, we have to talk,” Kathy said in her sexy, breathy voice. He loved her voice; she always sounded like she had just gotten laid and couldn’t quite catch her breath.
“We can talk when we’re done,” he said, not even looking at her.
“No, we’ll talk now.” Kathy reached past Blake and slid her key card into the lock. Pushed the door open. Walked into the room and turned to face Blake, whose anger immediately flared. Impulse control was not Blake Standiford’s strong suit, and being mouthed at by some little bitch, sexy or not, wife of Sammy Saldana or not, wasn’t something he was prepared to take lying down.
Or at all.
He closed and locked the door and then advanced on her. He wrapped his arms around the small of her back, grasping her delectable ass and pulling her body tight against his. The movements were angry and violent, not soft and sensual. The fury rising in Blake mixed with his desire and exploded. He wanted her now and he would have her now.
“Blake, stop it!” Kathy Saldana demanded. She pushed against his chest trying to reestablish some distance between them but was much too weak to accomplish anything against Blake’s superior bulk and muscle. “Just listen to me! I’ve decided I need to spend more time with Sam. He’s older. His health is failing. He needs me. You and I are going to have to stop seeing each other. There’s no future for us.”
Blake gazed flatly at Kathy, the blood rushing in his temples as his pulse pounded inside his skull. Her eyes widened. Blake could tell she was trying to keep her cool but her fear was obvious.
“I’m sorry to break it to you like this,” she said, “but I thought I should do it face to face. I thought I owed you that much.” Her voice wavered just a little.
Blake heard the words she was saying, but they didn’t make any sense. She was dumping him? And not just dumping him, she was leaving him for some ancient limp-dick liver-spotted walking-dead old bastard?
“Bullshit,” he said quietly, the words barely more than a whisper. “Bull fucking shit.” No little bitch was going to give him the brushoff, especially not some forty-year-old glorified truck stop whore who had managed to hit the jackpot by sucking off Sammy Saldana so well the crazy old coot had married her.
Blake had released his hold on Kathy out of sheer surprise, and now the two stood facing each other, inches apart. He could feel a vein pulsing in his forehead. He thought his skull might be about to explode. He flexed his fists, one after the other: right, left, right, left.
“How about one last ride then. You know, for old time’s sake.” The words came out flat, monotone, deadly.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Blake.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Blake,” he mimicked, his falsetto cracking with rage. “I don’t give a fuck what you think is a good idea!”
The pulsing in Blake’s forehead had insinuated itself into his eyeballs, and the room was tinted with a red hue that shifted and rolled as if alive. He grabbed Kathy by the neck and threw her across the room. It took barely any effort at all.
She smashed face-first into a wall mirror and it shattered. Then she staggered backward and fell, knocking a lamp off the nightstand as she crumpled to the floor. Blood from a dozen gashes ran down her face.
“Please,” she whimpered. “Please stop. Please.”
Blake advanced on her, lost in his rage, his limited self-control long gone. The fists that had beaten so many men and more than a few women now rained down on Kathy Saldana. He was strong and in shape and utterly unopposed to using his size and strength to terrorize his girlfriend.
Correction: ex-girlfriend.
The storm continued until the woman lay dead on the floor, her battered face virtually unrecognizable.
***
Rudy waited half a minute after the door slammed closed before moving from the end of the hallway. Once he heard the locks engage he wasn’t concerned about Blake leaving the room any time soon, but just as the pair disappeared into Sammy’s room, an elderly couple appeared farther down the hallway and walked slowly in his direction.
He waited for the geezers to pass and then eased down the plush carpet, coming to a stop outside the room The Stupid Horny Bastard had just entered with his girl. There wasn’t anything in particular to be gained by snooping; Rudy had already gotten the verification Big Tony wanted. And besides, the rooms in the Luxor were well insulated for privacy, so the occupants would have to be screaming at each other for him to hear anything at all.
Still, he investigated further, anyway.
Rudy slowed to a stop outside Shotgun Sammy’s room and was surprised to find that he actually could hear something happening on the other side of the door. And it wasn’t anything like what he had been expecting. He heard a guttural growl as Standiford shouted, “I don’t give a fuck what you think is a good idea!”
An instant later he heard a crash and a scream. Rudy couldn’t imagine what might have happened in the last sixty seconds to set off The Stupid Horny Bastard, but knowing what he did about Blake Arthur Standiford III and his incredible disappearing self-control, he guessed Kathy Saldana was in big trouble.
>
And just like that, so was the Mercadante crime family.
5
“Are you shitting me? He was out in public with her? Where anyone could see?” Big Tony was already working himself into a fine froth, and Rudy had been in the boss’s office less than thirty seconds. The nickname “Big Tony” was appropriate and in this case well earned. Nobody in the Mecadante family knew for sure how much the man weighed, but everyone agreed it was well north of three hundred pounds, and when Tony got angry, he somehow looked even bigger, like a startled cat puffing out its fur.
Big Tony had a tendency to spit when he got upset. Rudy answered, “Yeah. At the Luxor,” while taking what he hoped was an inconspicuously small step backward. He wondered if he was out of range and wished he could have worn rain gear.
“And it gets worse,” he continued, doing his best to ignore the sudden light drizzle in the room.
“What the hell could be worse than that?”
“They went into Shotgun Sammy’s room and closed the door, so I eased up to it and listened. They were having some kind of altercation. It was physical. You know how that idiot Blake gets when he loses it. I’m afraid he might have killed her.”
Tony’s eyes bulged out of his head and his faced flushed bright red and he shouted, “Killed her! Are you fucking kidding me?”
The boss wasn’t really looking for an answer to that question, Rudy knew, so he kept his mouth shut and waited.
“Jesus Christ,” Tony finally sputtered. “That fuckin’ dumbass has no idea what kind of a position he’s putting us in.” He swiped the back of one meaty paw across his chin, drying the spittle and clearing the way for the next wave.
“Well, to be honest, he looked like he was contemplating any number of different positions as they entered the room, but I think she might have told him to get lost,” Rudy answered.
Big Tony chuckled and a little of his anger seemed to melt away. “Any number of positions. You’re a regular Don Rickles, ya know that?”
The Organization Page 3