One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel (22 page)

Bone checked and got my message that Brandi had disappeared. He didn't know what to think about that, so he drove about a quarter mile down Sagebrush, parked near an empty lot, and tried to decide what to do next. His emotions told him to drive back to Los Angeles, but Bone decided to just keep going. He went back to the poker game, parked down the alley, and strolled toward the small crowd. A tall businessman with a bald spot and a ring of white hair was chatting up a quiet Latino man whose slanted posture announced his criminal background as clearly as arms roped with jailhouse tattoos.

"How do you get a seat at the table?"

The ex-con cupped his cigarette and turned away without answering, but the businessman had downed a few drinks. He laughed too long, too loud. "Get in line, pal, and you'd better have a wad of cash." He gestured over his shoulder.

Now that he was closer, Bud could see at least fifteen men were waiting for a chance to play. He whistled. "Best get here early, huh?"

The ex-con spoke in a guttural whisper. "You got that right."

"Any advice?"

"Be ready by six, game usually breaks up around two. Everybody in town wants a piece of Ernie Taylor."

Bone felt a little starburst of excitement. Ernie Taylor. Pay dirt. "Taylor? That black dude?"

"He's the man, homes. ET. That dude has played on TV." The convict used his cigarette as a pointer. Bone squinted. Through a small space in the thick curtains he could see the poker table, a crowd watching. There were only four men left playing. The huge, largely empty room was thick with cigar smoke. Only one of the men was black. Ernie Taylor was handsome, a man well into his forties, with gym-rat muscles and a thick moustache.

Bone shrugged. "He doesn't look like much."

"Hey, he wins." The businessman belched. "Mr. Taylor also owns most of the Wagon Wheel. The rumor is he won that right here, maybe four years ago."

Bud feigned boredom. "Ah, fuck it. I don't want to have to stand around."

The convict said, "ET, he got the hottest hand in town. You want in, got to maybe try next Friday."

"Maybe I'll come back."

"Good luck if you do," the businessman laughed. "It's five grand just to sit."

Bone drove straight to the Wagon Wheel, one of the newest businesses on the strip. It was a faux wood building, round, and a mere ten stories tall; known more for hosting small concerts than gaming. He parked in the lot, eyeballed the area, and strolled in through the main entrance.

The casino was not crowded. The décor was Western, and the walls were decorated with paraphernalia gathered from Nashville, Bakersfield, and a few other locales connected with country music. Some artifacts referenced old twentieth-century black-and-white Western serials featuring actors like Tom Mix and The Cisco Kid. It was cheese, but good cheese. Other than that, the place was typical, with loud colors, bright lights, big tits, short skirts, jangling noises, and free booze.

Bone made one circuit of the main room, to check out the location of the security cameras and guards, just to be on the safe side. Then he left and went several doors down to a chain coffee shop for a stack of wheat pancakes and some strong coffee. He lost a few dollars on their slot machines before wandering away.

By now my friend was bored and feeling tired. He walked the strip for a while, trying to make sense of what he'd learned so far. So the fabled ET was a card pro, a casino owner, and somehow affiliated with Big Paul Pesci. Everything led back to Pesci, sooner or later. Maybe Pesci had ordered Brandi kidnapped, in order to have one more tool to apply pressure.

Bud, like the rest of us, had a nagging feeling that he was missing something important. He walked and pondered. All around him tourists paced, sinned, lost money, went home satisfied or in disgrace. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas—especially your money.

At around two in the morning, Bud Stone was sitting up the block from the Wagon Wheel, watching the place through military binoculars. He'd parked at the top of the hill, where he could see both entrances. Bone figured Ernie Taylor would come back to his casino to look at the receipts and check things out before retiring. It also seemed likely he'd use the back, where the private parking spaces were marked by a low concrete divider, but Bone didn't want to take any chances.

Time passed slowly. The crowd thinned even further. Two o'clock came and went. No ET

Bone got out of the car to stretch his legs. He had another look while standing. He blinked and refocused the glasses. A Lincoln Town Car had appeared and was parked in the back, near the private entrance. Two men got out of the car. One was huge, the other of average height and weight. Neither one was black. No Ernie Taylor. Disappointed, Bone almost looked away, but did a double take and zeroed in on the smaller man. He brought the sweaty features into focus then grunted.

"Well, I'll be damned."

Down below, the taller dude got back into the backseat of the big car. It drove away. Bone watched the younger, smaller man as he walked across the empty parking lot. The kid's shoulders were slumped forward, and he looked up only to zero in on his vehicle. He appeared thoroughly miserable.

Bone tossed the glasses onto the passenger seat and cruised down the slope with the lights off. Hissing tires, the crackling of pebbles. He passed the casino without being noticed by the sleepy security guard and eased into the back of the Wagon Wheel's parking lot.

Meanwhile, the young man had found his car, a shiny red BMW. He raised a remote and the alarm chirped. Bone pulled the binoculars again, focused. The guy got in the Beemer and fired up what could have been a small cigar.

Bone dropped the glasses, opened the door and eased out. He left his vehicle and jogged along the back, near the bushes, then crept up to the parked BMW. The driver's window was cracked and the skunk odor of top-quality marijuana permeated the cool evening air. Bone leaned close and spoke through the opening.

"Juicy fruit?"

"Ah!" The young man in the car jumped, coals went flying. He slapped at his expensive pants and shirt. "Jesus!"

"Actually, it's Bud Stone. How're they hanging, Jacob?"

Jacob Mandel swallowed and waved his hands around. "Uncle Bud? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know. Vacation."

They looked at one another. What was left unsaid hung in the air like thick syrup. Bone heard a burst of wild laughter from the back entrance as a group of revelers left the casino. Finally, he rapped his knuckles on the glass. Mandel reluctantly lowered the window the rest of the way.

"Uncle Bud, you scared the shit out of me."

"Lawyers are too full of shit to have any scared out of them. No, I ain't on vacation. Now, I know why I'm here, but what are you doing in Vegas, slumming, gambling, or getting your dick sucked? Last time I saw you, it was going to be Beverly Hills or bust. This town is beneath you."

"Nice of you to think so."

"And by the way, how's Jack?"

Mandel licked his lips. "Better. He's still got a little speech impediment from the stroke, but he's up and around again."

"Shitty thing to happen to such a young man."

"You know it."

"You tell him I send my best. The Chief was always a damned good man. We were bro's, your dad and me."

"Tell me something I don't know. I grew up hearing those stories, Bud. Sometimes I felt like I was in Iraq with you guys."

"Yeah, well, soldiers do like to reminisce. So why are you in Vegas?"

"I have a small office here, just for the time being. I'm sort of concentrating on this one special client."

"Who's that, Jacob?"

"A new outfit called The Valley of Fire Corporation." Mandel cringed as he said it. Bud noticed.

"Just the one client?"

"It's kind of hard to explain."

Something crouching between the lines again. Bone probed a bit. "Hey, try me."

"You want to go get a drink or something, Bud? Maybe catch up?" Mandel was clearly trying to change the subject. He opened the door as if to get out, but by now he was too stoned to stand properly.

Bud motioned for Mandel to stay in the car. "I've had enough booze for one lifetime." He slid into the passenger seat. "Jacob, I need you to do me a favor. I'm only here for a few days, and it's kind of on the quiet, so keep it to yourself if you run into someone we know, okay?"

"Sure."

"Actually, keep it quiet period."

"Uh, okay."

"It would be good to catch up with you. Hey, you got a business card or something, Jacob?"

Mandel patted the pocket of his jacket, handed over an embossed card. He was pretty faded, but Bud's caution finally registered. "You okay, Uncle Bud?"

"Yes and no. I might need a way to speak to you in confidence."

Mandel focused those bleary eyes. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Actually, I am. And you're in some kind of trouble, too, aren't you, Jacob?"

Mandel's eyes filled. He turned his head away and studied the night sky. "Oh, man. You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do."

"I can't talk about my clients."

"Not to put too fine a point on it, Jacob, but of course you can. We just have to make certain you don't get caught."

Bud watched Mandel closely, saw wheels turning in his head. They heard high heels on pavement, some laughter. Several young women came their way, probably dancers getting off work. The two men fell silent. Bud Stone slid down in the front seat. The women turned to the right several cars off and their voices faded away.

Mandel sighed. "You know who Paul Pesci is?"

Bud nodded in the gloom.
Bingo
. "Sure, I've heard of Pesci."

"Well, he's behind this new company. And they have some people working for them that give new meaning to the term mob."

"Go on."

Mandel sobbed quietly. "Jesus, Uncle Bud, I'm in way over my head. I've seen some things, bad shit. I don't know what the fuck to do."

"Maybe we can help each other out."

Mandel wiped his eyes. "How's that?"

"I'm in a box of my own," Bud said. He gave Mandel bits and pieces of the story, just enough to score points. Said he owed Pesci money, and that he was being squeezed to find some stolen property, that it was spiraling out of control. "So you can't tell them I'm here, okay?"

"Of course not," Mandel said. "Man, it sounds like we're both fucked."

"Not really. Maybe we can help each other."

"I don't see what either one of us can do."

"You will." Bud opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement. He looked around. The coast was clear. "Hang in there, kid. I'll be in touch."

"Uncle Bud," Mandel said quietly, "these people play rough."

"That's okay," Bone said. "So do I."

I'm dreaming, can't wake up. . . .
A big kid with a runny nose is circling me in the dirt ring, fists raised. His right eye is swelling. He's been crying. The men around us are hooting, laughing, cursing, and mocking him for being afraid. My heart swells with pride because Daddy Danny is pleased and we're going to make a nice piece of change on this one. Everyone thought Scott would put me down. He kicks at my crotch, I twist and give him a hip, then an uppercut that straightens him up like a board and drops him in the dust on his back. Scott cries "Uncle" and quits. I give it some theater, spit at his feet. The crowd cheers. Some part of me has the decency to feel ashamed. That's the first night Daddy Danny offers me booze to celebrate.

I woke up to the roar of a leaf blower and some shouting as the next-door neighbor's gardener browbeat his Latino employees in what sounded like Japanese.

The bed was empty. Darlene was long gone.

I rolled out of bed, disturbed by the dream, heart kicking against my rib cage. I went flat on the floor, stretched, and did one hundred push-ups and enough stomach crunches to create a nasty burn. Went off to the kitchen, started a pot of strong coffee. To the bathroom for a long, cool shower.

I came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and found Mary Kate waiting in the hall. She was wearing the same clothes, and looked a whole lot better than she smelled. Darlene had patched her up pretty well. Except for a major hangover, some minor swelling, and a small bandage on her scalp, she seemed okay. Turns out my sister was a pretty woman.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck me? Fuck
you.
"

We glared at each other for a long beat, and then burst into laughter. Mary Kate hugged herself. "Well, I don't suppose you keep a hair of the dog around?"

"No booze in this house."

She shrugged. "I'll get something later, just to take the edge off."

"That will start it all up again."

"I know that whole speech," Mary Kate said. Her voice dropped to a whispered mixture of defiance and remorse. "I don't want to hear it again."

"Well, then, what I'd suggest is a mug of hot coffee with honey, some plain wheat toast, and a few aspirins."

She brightened a bit. "You could talk me into that."

I led her back to the kitchen. "If you're feeling better later on this morning, I'll whip up a protein shake with fruit. You'll need to get something decent into your system pretty soon."

Mary Kate planted herself at the kitchen table. A beam of sunlight cut through the plaid curtains and blinded her. She blinked rapidly and changed positions. The chair squeaked on the linoleum. My sister winced and rubbed her temples. "Oh, man. This one is brutal."

"Lots of honey for the blood sugar? I'd advise it."

"Yeah. Sure."

I knew better than to lecture, but it was hard to watch her suffer and just keep my mouth shut. AA has an old saying about being "a program of attraction, rather than promotion." Of course, I hadn't been a very good AA member lately. That's why Hal had been on me about getting back into regular meetings. I made her sweet coffee and some toast, poured myself a cup and sat across the table. Mary Kate licked her lips. "Damn, I'm really thirsty."