House of the Rising Sun (2 page)

In the back wall of the cage was a solid wooden door that led into the counting room. The door had a peephole and a dead bolt, but Ray knew it wasn't locked because the girls at the counter were always in and out of the counting room carrying trays of money.

The House wasn't fitted with the elaborate security setup found in legal casinos. The owners had their own special security arrangements. It was simple, nobody had the balls to fuck with them. Only somebody forgot to tell Mr. Skull and his friends that you didn't try to take down a mob joint.

One girl was working the cage, cashing in chips for a player. She had cat whiskers drawn on her face and a pair of cat ears on her head. She was young and pretty. Ray couldn't remember her name. Bobby was inside the cage next to the girl, leaning against the counter, drooling over her and ignoring everything
else. Bobby was twentysomething and big. He was built like a wrestler and didn't mind letting people know how tough he was. Ray knew there was a sawed-off pump-action shotgun with a pistol grip clamped to the wall inside the cage just under the counter. He hoped Bobby wasn't stupid enough to reach for it.

As he neared the cage, Ray caught the tail end of a joke Bobby was telling the girl. “. . . so the old Jew comedian says, ‘You think you got problems. My shtick hasn't worked in years.'”

The girl ignored him and finished cashing in the player's chips.

The skull shoved Ray the last couple of feet. Off balance, he stumbled forward and had to grab the counter to keep from falling. The girl looked up at him. “Been celebrating?”

He shook his head. “Open up. I need to check on something.”

Turning toward the locked gate, she hesitated and gave Ray a curious look. He could read her face. It was an unusual time for him to be here. He always stayed out of the counting room until after the House closed and all the customers were out. The girl shot a look at the men with the masks. Then she glanced back at Ray. “It's Halloween, how come you're not dressed up?”

Ray didn't answer.

“Party pooper,” she said as she twisted the knob.

“Wait!” Bobby said, finally roused from his stupor. But it was too late.

The skull pushed Ray through the door so hard he stumbled into the girl. She screamed, and Ray had to grab her to keep her from falling. Bobby was stunned into inaction for a moment. Then he turned and clawed for the pump scattergun. Bobby was big but slow. Skull lunged across the open space between them and clubbed Bobby on the head like a baby seal. He went down hard and didn't move.

Skull, Bush, and Vampire rushed into the counting room.
The gorilla stayed in the cage, his back to the gate, shotgun leveled at Ray and the girl. She pushed away from Ray and stared at him, challenging him with her eyes. “Aren't you going to do something?”

Ray shrugged. “Like what?”

“Stop them.”

He nodded toward the gorilla with the sawed-off. “How?”

She looked at Ray for a second, then shook her head in disgust. Turning to the gorilla, she said, “You guys are dead. You know that?”

The gorilla didn't say anything.

Ray heard shouting from inside the counting room, then the sound of someone getting smacked with a pistol. A player showed up at the cage and stuck a cupful of chips inside the opening. He seemed confused when no one moved to help him, but then he looked at the gorilla with the shotgun and backed away, raising his hands in surrender and leaving his cup of chips on the counter.

More shouting from inside, another smack. This time it sounded like someone fell to the floor. Then the skull's voice yelling, “Hurry up!”

People were starting to take notice. At least a dozen players and several dealers had stopped what they were doing and stood staring at the cage. The gorilla's head swiveled back and forth, glancing out at the casino floor, then at Ray, then at the counting room door. Even though Ray couldn't see his face, he knew the guy was scared.

It seemed like an hour, but was probably more like sixty seconds, before Ray heard thudding footsteps and saw all three gunmen rush out of the counting room. The skull carried nothing but his big automatic while the other two carried their pistols and lugged the gym bags, bulging now with what Ray knew was cash.

Skull nodded toward the cage door and the other three went
out, the gorilla with the sawed-off taking the lead. Ray didn't move. He hoped they didn't need him anymore. The skull dashed that hope by pointing the Smith & Wesson at him, the muzzle about two feet from Ray's face. “Move,” he said, then jerked the barrel toward the cage door.

As Ray took a step, a hand grabbed his shirt and bent him backward. Again, the gun was pressed against the back of his head as the skull prodded him through the door. There was a lot of murmuring from the crowd. Glancing at the casino floor, Ray saw that all the gambling had stopped. Everyone was staring at the cage.

The other three masked goons stood just outside the cage, their backs against the counter, guns aimed at the crowd. Skull pushed Ray past the gorilla holding the shotgun and kept going, using Ray as a shield. The others fell in behind as they headed for the stairs.

Halfway down, Ray stumbled. A hard pull on the back of his shirt kept him from falling. “Slow down,” the skull breathed in his ear. Ray kept thinking,
Nobody has to die
. Just let these motherfuckers get out of here and everything will be okay.

At the bottom of the stairs, the end of the bar was just to Ray's right, the front door about thirty feet ahead and to the left. Ray glanced out across the room. It looked like no one down here had a clue what was going on. All the customers were still staring at the stage, where a second girl had joined the first. The two dancers were oiled up and rubbing their breasts together.

Ray looked at the door. Thirty feet to go and these guys would be out of here. He took a couple of steps forward with the guy in the skull mask shuffling along behind him and hanging on to Ray's shirt, his pistol still pressed against Ray's head.

Behind the bar, the storeroom door flew open and banged against the wall. Ray spun toward it and saw Peter Messina step through the door carrying a bottle of champagne in one hand
and two glasses in the other. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, a white apron hanging from his neck.

Peter nodded to Ray and took a step toward the lift gate at the end of the bar. “How you doing, Ray?” he said. Then he froze and stared at the gun behind Ray's head.

Ray spoke calmly. “It's okay, Pete, everything's—”

The bottle of champagne slipped from Pete's fingers and exploded on the floor. Ray tried to turn around but got stiff-armed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the guy in the gorilla mask step off the stairs, saw the shotgun come up, the twin barrels pointing across the bar. He wanted to tell the guy not to worry. Pete looked like an adult. Twenty years old, but he had the mind of a child. He wasn't a threat. Ray's mind screamed,
Nobody has to die!
But when he opened his mouth, the roar of the shotgun cut him off. Most of the blast hit Pete in the face, arching him back like a gymnast doing a backward somersault. He hit the floor hard. Not even a dead-cat bounce. Not even a twitch.

Screams. Some of the customers jumped to their feet, some dove to the floor. Ray glanced up at the stage. One of the dancers was bent over, looking at blood pouring out of a hole in her thigh. Something heavy cracked against the top of Ray's head, and he dropped to his knees. Dazed, but still looking at the stage, Ray saw the dancer with the hole in her leg collapse onto her ass. The other girl knelt beside her and cradled her head like a lover.

Sound was muffled, but Ray heard the skull yelling something. Then a foot in his back shoved Ray facedown onto the floor. He heard another blast as the guy with the sawed-off let go with his second shot. From the corner of his eye, Ray saw the twin barrels aimed at the ceiling. Glass from the colored track lights hit the floor. Then there was more screaming. At least the big gun was empty.

There was a dull pop just above Ray's head. Heat seared the
back of his neck as something smacked into the wooden floor next to his face. He could barely focus his eyes, but he was still able to see four pairs of feet rush past him on their way out the door.

Although he was glad they were finally gone, all Ray could really concentrate on was how badly he needed a cigarette. As he remembered the half-full pack of Lucky Strikes in his shirt pocket, he slid his hand along the floor trying to reach it, but he was just too tired. Something warm dripped into his left eye.

“Are you fucking kiddin' me?” Tony Zello screamed, nose to nose with Ray, spit spraying across Ray's face.

They stood in the storeroom behind the second-floor bar. Tony and his boy Rocco had dragged Ray up the stairs and shoved him into the storeroom as soon as the four armed robbers left. Tony wanted to find out firsthand what had happened. So far he had not liked what he had heard.

“Let me get this straight,” Tony said. “Four guys waltz in here with guns, rob us blind, kill Vincent's son, and all you did was lay down like a bitch?” Looking disgusted, Tony turned away and pressed the heels of both hands into his eyes as if he were trying to keep them from popping out.

Then he spun back around and threw a punch. Ray tried to duck but he wasn't quick enough. Tony's fist caught him just above the left eye and bounced his head off the wall.

Tony stared at Ray and flexed his right hand. “Is that how you acted when you was in the joint? I bet you just bent over and took it up the ass, didn't you?”

Ray looked back and forth between Tony and Rocco, biting back the rage that welled up inside him. He wasn't going to provoke Tony, not here. Tony stood in front of him in his charcoal-gray, hand-stitched Italian silk suit, wearing it over a cream-colored shirt and burgundy tie, his feet encased in a soft pair of Bruno Magli loafers. The whole thing was worth an easy fifteen hundred bucks. Tony Zello, the man everybody called Tony Z. He was forty, just a couple years older than Ray, a
real up-and-comer, the right-hand man to the guy who ran the House—Vinnie Messina.

Tony spit at Ray's feet and turned away. Ray figured he was disappointed that Ray hadn't tried to hit him back. Tony looked at Rocco. “You believe what a fucking pussy this guy is?”

Rocco just nodded. He was big and dumb and never said much. He had on a nice suit, too, but he couldn't pull off the look the way Tony did. Rocco always looked like he had trouble stuffing himself into his clothes, like maybe they were a size too small. The two of them were always together, just in case Tony Z. needed someone's leg broken or a skull cracked.

The storeroom door stood open and Ray could see a few employees milling around on the other side of the bar, peeking in and listening to what was going on. Tony liked to have an audience. Somebody called out. “Tony, the cops want you downstairs.”

Tony Z. nodded to Rocco. “Let's go. This punk's making me sick.”

Ray heard Tony tell everyone to go downstairs. After everybody left, Ray walked out of the storeroom. He found a towel behind the bar and wrapped some ice in it. His head had stopped bleeding, but he could feel his left eye starting to swell. The second-floor casino was deserted.

As soon as the gunmen had left and before anyone called the cops, Tony and Rocco had shown all the gamblers the back door and reminded them they were never here. Then they did the same thing on the third floor, except it had taken a little longer since a lot of the customers weren't dressed. The girls had been told to stay in the rooms and keep quiet.

“Shane!” someone shouted from the stairwell. Ray walked over and looked down. Rocco stood halfway down the stairs, one hand on the rail, the other cupped next to his mouth.

“Yeah,” Ray said.

“They want to talk to you.”

“Who?”

Rocco took a couple of steps up. “The cops,” he whispered, but still loud enough for everyone to hear.

Ray followed the big moron downstairs. Cops were all over the first floor—uniformed officers, detectives, crime-scene techs, and a photographer. Near the front door, two coroner's assistants leaned against a gurney. Their postures reminded Ray of a couple of vultures perched on a branch, waiting for the lions and hyenas to finish, waiting to pick up what was left of the body.

Since the first floor of the House was mostly legit, the customers had been told to stay. The police had shoved a bunch of chairs into a corner to form a makeshift waiting area and herded the customers into it. A couple of detectives were making the rounds and taking preliminary statements.

Standing on the bottom step of the stairs, Ray peered over the top of the bar. Pete's body still lay on the floor where it had fallen. The only thing different was the ring of crime-scene tape the cops had strung around the bar, three-inch wide, plastic yellow tape with big black letters that read
POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS
repeated over and over again.

Ray was always surprised at the chalky white color of fresh corpses. They looked fake, like wax dummies. The blast had caught Pete in the face and bowled him over onto his back. His legs were folded under him at crazy angles. Painful, if Pete had been in any condition to feel pain.

The short range hadn't given the shot much time to scatter. The stripper onstage must have caught the one buckshot pellet that missed Pete. Instead of being peppered with individual holes, Pete's face looked like it had been scooped out with a hand shovel. There was nothing left of it but a bloody crater that started just below one eyebrow, cut across mid-nose, down under the other eye—which was still in its socket—then back under the mouth, and up between the cheekbone and the ear.
Ray remembered reading somewhere that an adult's body held roughly a gallon of blood. If that was true, then most of Pete's blood was on the floor, well on its way to congealing.