Javernick sat in his penthouse study reading Melvin’s current traffic report. The income graph took a steep nosedive following the Pearl Harbor attack, and in the days since, the casino was in the red. Visits from high rollers were down, and practically non-existent from average tourists. Income was well below expenditures.
He was startled by how quickly things had changed. The war effort was on a global scale, and it certainly made his own financial problems seem small, but he wouldn’t be able to keep the casino open indefinitely if business remained so anemic.
Thankfully, it appeared that the nut ranch might take up some of the slack. America’s entry into the war had caused a spike in commodity prices and the money he made in Thousand Oaks was on the wholesale market. Dale and Rita were an efficient management team, overhead was low, and most of the trees were in their nut producing prime. A possible labor shortage was the only problem he could foresee, but there always seemed to be plenty of migrants looking for work when harvest time arrived in California.
He took a sip of coffee, and scowling, added a teaspoon of sugar. Javernick was feeling his advancing age and he’d been cutting down on his drinking. On the advice of an L.A. physician, he’d eliminated the all-day bourbon sipping. If you want to see sixty, you need to cut back on the booze, that’s what Doc Wilburn had said on his last visit. As a result, Javernick had adopted what he called his five o’clock rule—no drinking until late afternoon.
Melvin and Roland had noticed a change in his demeanor since he’d cut back. He seemed anxious and cranky in the morning and had less of his eternal optimism. Eunice could see a difference in his personality too—he often became visibly drunk when he broke his alcohol fast in the evening hours. That was out of character for Javernick, because in the past, no matter how much he drank, he always appeared sober.
He’d had yet to talk to Mariska about the mysterious microfilm cannister. Precisely what Kaylee had found in the pantry was unknown, but he had no question in his mind that her story was authentic.
It would be easy for her to deny any knowledge of the incident even if she was up to something sinister. Javernick had enough to worry about without accusing his housekeeper of something he couldn’t prove, so to avoid an unwarranted confrontation, he decided not to mention it, but at the same time keep an eye on her.
Nick Lococo had flown in from L.A. to check on his crew’s progress at the new marina. After that, he’d travel into Vegas to look at a construction project that his company was bidding on…But before he took the shuttle boat to Overton Bay with Art Contino, his pilot and driver, he called Javernick and told him he had something important to discuss with him in private. Javernick invited him up to his penthouse suite. Lococo rode the elevator alone, Contino would use the time for routine maintenance on the seaplane.
Mariska answered the door when he arrived, and he was stunned by her athletic good looks. It was the first time they’d met. “Did I ring the wrong doorbell?” he joked. “I’m looking for a crusty old stronzo name of Claude Javernick.”
“Mr. Lococo?”
“Call me Nick,” with a flirtatious gleam in his eyes.
“He’s expecting you.” She led him into the study where Javernick sat behind his polished rosewood desk.
“Good morning, Nick.” Javernick remained seated and reached over his workspace to shake the mobster’s hand as Mariska slipped out the door. There were bookshelves behind him, loaded with a variety of titles. Everything from engineering manuals to contemporary fiction by Steinbeck and Hemmingway. A detailed model of the casino building sat on an end table and eclectic artwork adorned the walls.
Lococo took a seat in one of the leather armchairs casually arranged in front of the desk. “Great view from up here.” He nodded towards the tall windows that afforded an unobstructed view of Bonelli Peak to the north. The low winter light accented the sheer granite faces on the rugged mountain.
“Yes, I can see forever sitting at my desk.”
“Personally, I prefer a few more trees in the landscape. It’s awfully dry out here, Claude.”
“It grows on you after a while.” Javernick lit one of his panatelas and frowned at the nearby coffee mug growing cold. “So, what’s on your mind, Nick? You have something you want to discuss?”
“When Lou and I had our sit-down with Carmello Viscuso, I made an agreement with him concerning territory along Las Vegas Boulevard. Where our two companies would operate. Unfortunately, Mr. Viscuso has decided to go back on his word in the meantime.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“We need to have a new business meeting, and your casino seems like just the place to do it.”
“Last time things turned out a little rough.”
“Yeah, but it had nothing to do with our sit-down…And if we hadn’t been here with our muscle that night, things might have turned out worse.
“That’s a good point. I’ll agree with you on that much.”
“Vince Scudari gave up his life protecting your casino. Is it too much for me to ask?” That was Lococo’s ace-in-the-hole and in playing it, he knew Javernick couldn’t say no.
Javernick paused to look towards Bonelli, puffing on his cigar, then he looked back towards Lococo. “All right, Nick. When do you want to do it?”
Lococo’s facial expression turned to a sly smile. “Lou’s girl will call Viscuso this afternoon to make sure he’s amenable.”
“You think he might say no?”
“Unlikely. I’ll get back in touch when I have a date.”
Javernick made a smooth change of subject: “The marina looks great. Your guys are making good time.”
“Yeah, Hugo Ruiz is one of my best foremen.”
“When do you think it’ll be done?”
“Mid-February at the latest.” Lococo rose out of his seat. “I better get moving, Claude. I have a lot on my schedule today.”
“Let me know when you hear back from Viscuso.”
“I’ll do that. I’m planning on spending the night. See if I can lose some more money at your blackjack table.”
Javernick laughed. “Okay, Nick. I’ll buy you a drink if I see you on the casino floor later on.”
***
Lococo met with Hugo Ruiz in the office trailer at the new marina. The site was noisy with construction activity—a worker on a backhoe was digging a utility trench, another operated a pneumatic jack hammer, and a full crew was installing red clay tiles on the main building’s broad roof. The inside of the trailer smelled like refried beans and dirty socks.
“Jeez, Hugo, you need to freshen up the air in here a little bit,” said Lococo as he took a seat in a folding chair that looked small compared to his immense derrière. The chair groaned loudly when he shifted his weight.
“Yeah, I know it, Nick,” replied the foreman, He sat down behind a desk cluttered with paperwork and miscellaneous odds and ends. Ruiz was Latino, with a rough looking mug and a wiry build. He had several tattoos visible on his muscular arms. “If I open a window the place fills up with dust. The wind never quits out here.”
From the trailer, they could see the Royce residence in the distance. Melvin was hard at work at the casino and Kaylee had taken the Buick to her job at Bell Tel. Her ancient Model T sat in the driveway collecting dust. There was nothing more than a handful of creosote bushes on the rocky flat in-between, and Melvin had planted shade tree saplings in the irrigated grass that surrounded the house. A mix-breed watch dog named Jojo was asleep on the porch.
“I have an after-hours side job in Vegas.” Lococo pulled a pack of Kools out of the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He offered one to Ruiz, but the foreman waved him off. After lighting one of the cigarettes with his silver Zippo lighter, he held it between his teeth and continued, “That nightclub that Viscuso’s building on Hacienda? The one you told Marco about?”
“Yep. They’re out of bounds, ain’t that right?”
“Uh, huh. In violation of agreed upon territory.”
“So, what are we gonna do about it?”
“Torch it, Hugo.” Lococo blew a pair of almost perfect smoke rings that wobbled in the stale air as they drifted towards the ceiling. “And I don’t expect you to get personally involved. As a matter of fact, it would be a better idea for you to distance yourself from the operation. Far too easy for the flatfoots to connect you to me and Lou if something went wrong.”
“Nah, life’s too good for me to risk it, but I know who to call.”
“No one on my payroll, right?”
“Nope. Mexican mafioso from south of the border.”
“I don’t need to know names, but I got a big pile of dough for a job well done, and of course you get a taste of it.”
“Nuthin’ to it.” His gold tooth sparkled in the dusty mid-day sunlight when he smiled. “When you want the place burnt down?”
“Soon as possible. The sooner the better.” Lococo observed the ash growing long on his menthol smoke. “You got an ash tray in here?”
Ruiz rifled through the debris on his desk and came up empty. “Just use the floor.”
Lococo knocked the ash off his cigarette and watched it hit the filthy linoleum.
***
Late in the afternoon, Ruiz drove into Vegas in his canary yellow Plymouth pickup truck. He was bilingual, and he helped Lococo recruit Spanish speaking workers. Because of his street smarts and commonsense, the mobster had promoted him to foreman and put him in charge of running entire projects like Javernick’s marina.
The one thing Lococo didn’t like about Ruiz was the way his Latino crews ran English-speaking workers off the jobs. They used the language barrier as a weapon when they outnumbered the Anglos. As a result, the construction crews had become segregated according to ethnicity and sometimes it led to fistfights. Lococo didn’t like the acrimony. Working together was essential to running a successful business, but he needed to get the jobs done on time, and Ruiz came up with an endless supply of Latinos, so he tolerated the ethnic bullying.
Ruiz surveyed the booming construction scene as he drove down Las Vegas Boulevard. Colorful new projects were underway all over the Strip, especially south of downtown around Sahara Avenue and Flamingo Road. He kept driving, across Tropicana, and into Lococo’s less developed territory. It was no wonder the boss wanted to protect his turf, because Chicago had most of the Strip’s construction action tied up.
Soon he was back in the barren desert. The fledgling city popped up like a mirage, and just as quickly petered out. The tall buildings grew small in his rear-view mirror as he continued driving.
He turned towards the west on Route 16, towards Pahrump, and came upon his destination, a Mexican restaurant and bar that sat by itself in the flat basin, Cantina de Forajidos. The parking lot was unpaved, ankle-deep in tortilla-colored Mohave dust, and he parked his pickup next to a Series 70 Cadillac with Ohio plates. An Anglo wearing a plaid ivy cap sat by himself in the driver’s seat of the caddy. Looked like an Irishman and he gave Ruiz the once over out of the corner of his eye.
The desert was bathed in surreal purple light as the sun slipped behind the Spring Mountains to the west. Ruiz strode through the entry and surveyed the uncrowded bar. He nodded at the bartender, who recognized him from past visits, but kept walking towards a set of swinging café doors. He was stopped by two burly gamberros before he could enter the backroom.
“I’m here to see Mr. Guerrero.” Ruiz spoke to them in Spanish as he raised his arms to let one of the thugs frisk him for weapons.
“Your name?”
“Hugo Ruiz.”
They let him pass, and when he walked through the doorway and entered the smoky backroom, he was surprised to see a pair of Anglos sitting with Fabio Guerrero. It was Dry Tom Sweeney and Bridgit Murphy.
Three more gamberros stared him down as he entered the room, one of them a gorilla-sized Salvadoran with a sarcastic nickname, Pequeñito.
Guerrero was dressed in top shelf cowboy attire. He wore expensive alligator skin boots, a solid gold belt buckle, and his black Stetson sat on the table.
“Buenas noches, Hugo. Have a seat, my friend…Get us more cerveza, Hector,” he said to one of his goons, pointing at an empty pitcher, then he turned back to Ruiz. “You have business to discuss?”
“Sí.” Ruiz looked towards Dry Tom and Bridgit, and then back to Guerrero, raising his eyebrows. “But it needs to be in private.”
“We were just getting ready to leave,” said Tom, sliding back in his chair, taking the cue.
“But I wanted to order something to eat,” said Bridgit. “The food smells so good.”
“Nah, let’s leave these men to their business. There’s steak and potatoes back at the dump.”
“We’ll talk again soon,” said Guerrero as Tom rose from his seat and motioned for a reluctant Bridgit to join him.
“Roger that, Fabio. Bridg and I will stop back by in a couple of days.”
“And next time we’ll eat,” said Bridgit over her shoulder as they walked towards the door.
The desert cooled off quickly when the sun went down, and Dry Tom wrapped his arm around Bridgit’s waist as they strolled across the dusty parking area. “What’d you think of Fabio?”
“If he can find us some help, I’m all for it.”
***
When Adriano Falanga arrived in Vegas, the first thing he did was approach Viscuso’s consigliere to request a sit-down with the mob boss.
“What’s the purpose of the meeting?” Slick Al Maugeri had asked.
“To make amends for the actions of my fucked-up younger brother. In representation of Fat Chuck Rizzo and the Toledo Syndicate.”
Adriano met with Viscuso at the downtown Bocce Club. He approached him respectfully, with his hat in his hand, and attempted a longwinded apology for the conduct of his disgraced little brother. The mob boss sat silently, looking Adriano in the eye, and when he was through, he accepted his atonement and welcomed him to town.
With Sammy Roselli gone, Viscuso needed the extra muscle. Adriano was a sharp dresser and well-spoken too, so he’d make an acceptable bodyguard for social situations. Though he was welcomed into the fold quickly by the mob boss, Viscuso’s Windy City lieutenants were not so easy, and they gave Adriano the new guy treatment.
Fat Chuck Rizzo called him from a favored telephone booth in Toledo. “I’m glad you were able to make amends with Carmello, but no matter what happens out there, just remember one thing—you’re still in my outfit. Don’t get any ideas about defecting to Chicago. Capiche?”
“Sure, Chuck,” said Adriano from his own phone booth. “I may be working for Carmello, but I’m still representing Toledo. How’s the weather in Ohio?”
“Snowing sideways and fifteen degrees.”
“Sunny and mid 60s out here.”
“Yeah, well you don’t need to rub it in.”
“You should visit sometime. Might like it out here.”
“Ain’t got time for vacations. What? You think Ralph and Pete could run the whole show without me?”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“What about dames, Adriano? Did you find yourself a Vegas girlfriend yet?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.” That’s what he said to Fat Chuck, but the truth was, Adriano was playing the other side of the field. With the non-stop construction and new military base, the current male to female ratio in Vegas was three to one. Sure, there were plenty of dishy dames moving in to take the entertainment and cocktail waitress jobs at the new casinos, but the city was also crawling with attractive young men.
He was a newcomer in a fast-growing city, largely unknown, and with no small-town reputation to protect, Adriano had decided it was a good place to explore the risqué side of his sexuality. He’d even found a Detroit-style queer biker bar near the Army Air Force base. All he needed now was a new motorcycle.
Carl “Easy Money” Sorbello caught him checking out the construction workers on a job across the street from Viscuso’s club. Standing on the sidewalk, inspecting the beef. “What the fuck you lookin’ at anyway, Adriano?”
“I ain’t lookin’ at nuthin’, Carl. Just interested in how they do it.”
“How they do what?”
“You know, build the buildings.”
“No, I don’t know. What? You’re thinking of becoming a construction flunky?”
“Nah, I just like watching how they get it up.”
“Wait a minute, Adriano. You like to watch guys get it up?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, how they put the buildings up.”
“How ’bout you and me go down to the strip club and watch some hot tomato take it all off instead.”
“Kind of early for the bar.”
“So, now you don’t want to go to the tittie bar?”
“Early in the day to start drinking is what I meant.”
Sorbello, stepped in closer to stare him down. The mobster wore a suit and tie, but he was a sloppy dresser. His rumpled grey suit jacket was open, and his plump belly hung over his belt. The brim on his porkpie hat was turned up in the front and Adriano noticed fresh gravy stains on his shirt. His breath smelled like garlic when he spoke. “Order a Coke then.”
“You sure it’ll be all right with Carmello?”
“I’ll go inside right now and tell him we’re taking a lunch break. He don’t care where we go on break.”
“Yeah, okay, Carl.”
A few minutes later, Sorbello came back out on the street. “Everything’s hunky dory with the boss. We’ll take my car.”
Adriano climbed in the passenger side of Sorbello’s powder blue Chevy Coupe. It was parked in front of the private Italian club. There was a silver cross and rosary beads hanging from the rear-view mirror and a cheesy crucifix glued to the glove compartment door.
Sorbello was a loan shark. As a young man, he’d inherited a fortune when his wealthy Sicilian grandmother passed away and left him everything she owned. That’s how he acquired the “Easy Money” nickname, because he’d never had to work a real job in his life. He specialized in high interest loans to vulnerable parties, meaning men who were easy to blackmail.
There was no legal recourse for loan sharks because their business model was outside the letter of the law. He could threaten to break a guy’s legs, but that might hinder his ability to earn money, so it wasn’t a practical option, beyond the possible heat from the fuzz if his mark squealed.
Blackmail was a more sophisticated option because the victim was almost certain to keep his mouth shut. If a mark was behind on his vig, Sorbello would look for something to use against him, like photos of him meeting a secret girlfriend when he had a wife and three kids at home. He worked with sleazy private detectives, skilled at digging up the dirt…
Sorbello’s demeanor became more friendly now that he and Adriano were on their way to the strip club.
“You like Chicago style deep dish, Adriano?”
“Yeah, sure, Carl.” He wasn’t going to tell him that he preferred New York style pizza. Figured it would be safer to agree with him on everything. Sorbello was higher up in the mob pecking order and Adriano was being careful not to ruffle any feathers.
“I thought you might like Detroit style seeing as you’re from Toledo.”
“Nah, fuck those square pies, and actually, I’m from Kokomo.”
“Indiana?”
“Yup.”
“So, what kind of pizza you got in Kokomo?”
“New York style.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. Romeo’s Taste of Sicily. The only pizzeria in town.”
“But you like Chicago style better?”
“Chicago is fine, Carl.”
“The reason why I mention it is there’s a good Chicago style pizzeria a couple doors down from the tittie bar. We can get some slices before we go inside.”
“Sounds great. I could use something to eat.”
“We’ll get some pizza then. All they have at the bar are shitty little hamburgers and they’re way over-priced.”
The ice between the two wise guys was beginning to thaw and by the time they left the strip club, Adriano felt a new friendship growing. The place was uncrowded at mid-day, and he made sure to flirt with the dancers as much as possible. Especially the sporty looking redhead from Seattle. Her name was Sandy, and Adriano, with his good looks and charisma, had her laughing at his lame jokes in no time.
Sorbello looked relieved—the new guy wasn’t a fag after all…Well, at least that’s what he thought…
When they returned to the Bocce Club, Viscuso called them into his office. (It wasn’t an office per se, just a backroom in the restaurant with a privacy curtain.)
“We got problems with Kansas City, boys,” said Viscuso as Sorbello and Adriano settled into their seats.
“What’s up, boss?” said Sorbello.
“Yesterday, I got a call from Lou Civella’s girl in L.A. She said the Meatman, and his no-good sidekick Nick Lococo, want to have a sit-down. I said, sure, no problem. Where and when. She said, Friday night at Javernick’s casino if you’re amenable to the arrangement. I said, okay, Friday night on the lake. It’s in the best interest of the organization to keep things copacetic, especially since Vegas has been deemed an open city so of course I’ll agree to a sit-down with the Kansas City Meatman.”
“So, we’re going out to Javernick’s casino Friday night?”
“Don’t interrupt me, Carl. I wasn’t done speaking yet.”
“Sorry, boss. I thought you was through.”
“Not quite.” Viscuso took a drink of red from his wineglass and continued, “As I was saying, I agreed to the sit-down and then late last night, the nightclub job on Hacienda burnt to the ground.”
“Holy shit,” said Sorbello. “You think Lococo was behind it?”
“I would be very surprised to learn that Nick Lococo wasn’t behind it. I was just on the phone with the insurance company investigator. He said he located signs of accelerants, and the fire is officially classified as a case of criminal arson…You know what that means, Carl?”
“Uh, no.”
“It means the damage isn’t covered by the goddamn insurance policy, that’s what.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“We go through with the sit-down on Friday night. I’m sure Lococo will deny any involvement with the fire but that doesn’t mean I can’t express my displeasure to the Meatman, because that sonofabitch just cost me a pile of dough.”
***
When Javernick opened the casino for business, his plan was to make it something unique in Southern Nevada—not only underwater but also a gambling venue free from mob influence…But then Anthony Falanga had shown up at the grand opening, and things went downhill from there.
The last thing he wanted was for the casino to become a full-time mob hangout, but with business so slow, he didn’t mind hosting a second sit-down. Lococo and Civella were both big spenders. They dropped plenty of lettuce on the casino floor and word was out among Javernick’s employees that they were both big tippers too. On the other hand, Carmello Viscuso had the reputation of being a cheapskate, though he’d only visited Rioville once before, to attend that first ill-fated meeting.
Javernick didn’t like to think of the casino as being Kansas City turf, but that was how things had evolved after he made his deal with the Meatman. And in considering the situation in Vegas, with mob money moving in all over town, his protection arrangement with Lou Civella had become indispensable.
Javernick sat with Roland at the bar as the meeting commenced. Eunice and Rose were on duty as house detectives, observing the action in the casino. Business was typically slow, but a party of high rollers from San Francisco were keeping the roulette wheel spinning and the poker table lively. Melvin had left work at his usual time and was home with Kaylee listening to Abbott and Costello on the radio.
The camaraderie between the two rival factions was gone. The mob soldiers patrolling the property were sticking to themselves and avoiding the other side as much as possible. It was no secret that serious conflict had broken out and Viscuso had brought along Slick Al Maugeri, so he wasn’t outnumbered in the sit-down room.
“No matter what the disagreement, the use of extreme measures like arson are uncalled for,” said Maugeri as Viscuso gave Lococo a silent look of disgust.
“I’ll agree with you there, Al,” said Civella, “but accusing Nick of arson with absolutely no evidence whatsoever is equally way out of bounds.”
“Oh, come on, Lou,” said Viscuso. “It’s common knowledge that burning down jobsites is a typical Nick Lococo MO.”
“Says who?” said Lococo.
“Says any made man with above room temperature IQ, that’s who.”
“Yeah, and fuck you too, Carmello.”
“No, fuck you, Lococo.”
“Gentlemen please,” said Maugeri. “I agreed to attend this conference based on a promise of civil discourse.”
“I hear you, Al,” said Civella, and then turning towards Lococo, “Nick, can we discuss the issue at hand without resorting to unwarranted profanity?”
“He started it.” Lococo pointed an accusatory finger at Viscuso.
“Yeah, and I’ll finish it too, you two-bit Kansas City guinea.”
On the floor below them, Adriano and Sorbello strolled through the promenade, on the lookout for bad actors.
“Those electric fish are something else, eh, Adriano?” said Sorbello as they watched a battery-operated barracuda glide by.
“Yeah. Hard to believe until you see ’em with your own eyes.”
“They got a mermaid tank over by the whorehouse but from what I understand, the tarts don’t like it so much, except for the one of ’em and she’s got the biggest knockers in the bunch.”
“Probably the only underwater cathouse on the planet.”
“I sure as shit never heard of one before. They got a Mexican fag in there too. Name of Little Juanito.”
“Turning tricks?”
“Yep. Not that I’d know that much about it…What about you, Adriano? You ever gone to a whorehouse before?”
“Nah. I’ve never had any problem scoring pussy, Carl. Paying for it would seem stupid.”
Sorbello checked his wristwatch. “It’s eight o’clock. I better go upstairs and check-in with Bonfiglio. I’ll be right back.” He walked towards the elevator.
Adriano’s curiosity was piqued, and he strolled towards the entrance to Eunice Adair’s Undersea Whorehouse. Near the entrance, Willie was lying on a dog bed in front of his custom canine villa. The elderly bloodhound stood up and sniffed in Adriano’s direction as he approached. His eyesight was failing, and he wagged his tail when Adriano leaned over to pat his head.
He found Molly West sitting on the edge of the big glass aquarium. She was topless and wearing her mermaid tail. As Adriano walked towards her, she lowered herself into the heated tank and began treading water. “Hi there, handsome. Looking for some fun tonight?”
“Nah, just having a look around.”
“You can have a look at tonight’s line-up if you’re interested in some action. Half price off on ménage-a-twaz,” she said, mangling her French.
“Not tonight, I’m on duty.”
“On duty? What are you some kind of cop or something?”
Adriano laughed. “No, not quite.”
Little Juanito was standing nearby, at the entrance to his Spanish Salon, half concealed behind potted tropical plants. He was drawn to Adriano like a moth to a flame. Wearing nothing but sandals and his trademark navy blue Speedos, he sashayed over to the mermaid tank. “I’m Little Juanito,” he announced emphatically like he was some famous Hollywood celebrity.
Adriano tried to ignore him at first, looking back towards the promenade to see if Sorbello had returned yet.
Little Juanito was undaunted. Short in stature, he was lewdly eyeballing the tall Italian’s crotch. “In my discreet Spanish Salon, we offer a form of entertainment more escabroso than your typical run-of-the-mill bordello.” He dismissed Miss Adair’s much larger establishment with a cliched wave of the hand.
“Oh yeah?” said Adriano in a bored tone of voice.
Though Little Juanito was attracted to the Kokomo Stallion, he wasn’t Adriano’s type. It’d been 14 long years since he’d arrived at Roland’s landing with Maximino, and to Adriano, he appeared to be a guy in his mid-thirties trying to look like he was still eighteen. Adriano was 28, and there was a specific type of man he was attracted to—younger and better looking, and without the cheesy mustache.
Sensing his lack of interest, Little Juanito took an alternate approach. “I have a new young friend in my bordello. His name is Luján and he’s looking for his very first date. An attractive muchacho who arrived from Los Mochis just yesterday. Would you like to meet him?”
“I ain’t paid for it yet, and I’m not about to start now,” said Adriano, brushing him off.
“Suit yourself.” Miffed, Little Juanito stalked off.
Adriano looked back towards Molly who was politely trying to suppress laughter. Then her eyes left his and instead went to something—or someone—over his shoulder…Uh oh, it was Sorbello.
“What the fuck, Adriano? I leave for ten minutes and come back down here to find you having a conversation with the local fruit?”
“I was telling him to buzz off, Carl. I was talking to Molly the mermaid here, and he came over and started bothering us, right Molly?”
“That’s right,” said the mermaid with a sheepish grin.
“Yeah, well I would have slugged that fag in the kisser if he made a pass at me. Lucky Carmello didn’t see you talking to him. Jesus Christ, Adriano.”
***
High on the roof of the hotel tower, Marco “The Shrimp” Di Stefano was scanning the docks with his high-powered binoculars. Professor Culpepper’s upgrade to the turbochargers had allowed Javernick to increase the number of outdoor lights and it gave Di Stefano the ability to see things more clearly than the last time he visited.
When he looked to the lake, he was stunned to see a group of what looked like law enforcement boats closing in from the west, at least four of them. They were identical runabouts with inboard motors and though none of them displayed official insignia, he could clearly see “FBI” spelled out in big yellow letters on the blue windbreakers the passengers wore.
He watched intently as the vessels reached the far end of the docks. FBI agents jumped out of each of the boats, some securing mooring ropes to the cleats, others scrutinizing their surroundings carefully. At least twenty G-men, and a few of them were carrying tommy guns.
Di Stefano wasn’t sure what to do. He had no way of contacting Civella or Lococo. There was a pay phone in the employee recreation area near his post, but who could he call? The front desk? There wasn’t time to try and notify the boss, the raid was already underway.
He decided to sit tight and observe the unfolding scene on the docks below him. He noticed a small group, maybe five or six of them breaking off and closing in on the fuel station. They arrested the attendant at gunpoint and then hustled him off towards one of the boats in handcuffs.
At first, Di Stefano thought they might be imposters. It was possible they could be an armed robbery crew masquerading as cops, but the more he saw, the more he was convinced they were the real thing. Did someone tip them off to the sit-down? Were they coming for someone in particular? And why was the fuel station attendant singled out for arrest?
On the docks, Curtis Dudley strutted towards the entry with his assistant Lester Lightfoot to his right and Inspector Alvin Cockburn to his left. Lieutenant Blake Keene was a few paces behind. They were led by a trio of G-men carrying tommy guns, and the bulk of the heavily armed agents followed.
Dudley wore an expensive sharkskin suit, with a carefully folded, fuchsia-colored handkerchief in his breast pocket and a matching silk band on his flashy fedora. He wore his hat cocked slightly to the side, mimicking a James Cagney pose he’d seen on a movie poster.
They reached the motion-activated entry doors, and when they slid open, they were greeted by a smiling Jace Lyle. “May I help you gentlemen?”
“And who would you be?” said Dudley as the lead G-men fanned out into the reception area, carefully inspecting the premises with suspicion. The front desk clerk was frozen in place, afraid to move a muscle. Carmine Giordano and Maximino had both hopped on the elevator when they saw the cops arrive and were now on the casino level, informing their respective superiors.
“I’m Jace Lyle of house security.” Like Melvin, Jace was a native of the Moapa Valley and he had that same easy going, cool demeanor.
“Senior Special Agent Curtis Dudley of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Are you armed, Mr. Lyle?”
“Yes I am.”
“With what?”
“A .45 caliber Smith and Wesson pistol.”
“Would you like to voluntarily surrender your firearm to Agent Lightfoot?” Dudley said, gesturing towards his assistant.
Lyle paused to think for a few moments, and then said, “I was deputized by the County Sheriff, and I’m authorized to protect the property by the owner. Why are you asking me to surrender my weapon?”
“Do you have the requisite law enforcement badge, Mr. Lyle?”
“Yes, I do.”
“May I see it, please?”
“Of course.” Jace opened his sport jacket so Dudley could see the deputy’s badge that was pinned to his inner pocket.
Dudley leaned in to take a close look. “Okay, Mr. Lyle, you can hold on to your gun.”
There was a loud chime, and a red light flashed as the elevator car arrived from below. Javernick and Roland were inside. When the door slid open, they were met by a trio of G-men pointing tommy guns in their direction. Javernick was flabbergasted. “What in the world is going on around here, Dudley?”
“I have an arrest warrant for Mariska Sarkozy. We’ve already taken Vazul Dobos into custody.”
“An arrest warrant for Mariska? What did she do?” Javernick and Roland left the elevator car to confront Dudley.
“Sarkozy and Dobos are Nazi spies, Mr. Javernick,” said Cockburn, stepping forward.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Inspector Alvin Cockburn of the SEO.”
“You’re English?”
“Yes, I am. Leftenant Keene and I have had Sarkozy and Dobos under surveillance for some time and Senior Special Agent Dudley feels we’ve gathered enough evidence to try them both for espionage. A district judge in Los Angeles agreed, hence the arrest warrants.”
Javernick was visibly upset and appeared unsteady on his feet. Roland remained silent.
“Is Sarkozy on the premises?” said Dudley.
“As far as I know,” responded Javernick.
“Where is she?”
“Mariska should be in her quarters, on the penthouse level of the tower.”
“Let’s go men,” said Dudley. “Agent Lightfoot, take Marlowe and Greene in the elevator. The rest of us will go up the fire stairs…Mr. Javernick, do you know if Sarkozy is armed?”
“I honestly don’t have a clue.”
Cockburn and Keene remained in the reception area with Javernick and Roland as the pack of G-men began running up the fire stairs one after another.
“I realize Sarkozy has been deceiving you and I can understand how shocked and betrayed you must feel,” said Cockburn to Javernick.
The pieces of the puzzle were finally coming together in Javernick’s mind. He’d known there was something suspicious about her, but he’d been reluctant to accept it because he liked her too much. There was nothing sexual in their relationship. It was a friendship based on Javernick’s admiration of her intellect. She was as bright as Professor Culpepper, and he was deeply hurt by her apparent duplicity.
“There’s something I need to tell you gentlemen about Mariska.”
“What’s that, Mr. Javernick?” said Cockburn politely.
“Not too long ago, my general manager Melvin Royce and his wife Kaylee were staying in the guest house at my nut ranch in California. Mariska was the last person to occupy it before their vacation.”
“Yes, we’re aware that she worked for you in Thousand Oaks.”
“Well, Kaylee found a suspicious film container in the pantry.”
“A film container? Microfilm perhaps?”
“Exactly, and after she found it, she discovered a way to pass the film through my projector to look at what was on it.”
“And what did she find?”
“Kaylee said it was filled with diagrams of what appeared to be rockets and Melvin said the text looked like advanced physics formulas.”
Cockburn nodded at Keene. “Just as we suspected.”
“Melvin though it best to return the cannister to where Kaylee had found it and alert me to their find. But when I traveled out there and looked for it, I was unable to locate it. Later, I talked to my caretaker, Dale Preston, and he said that Mariska had made an unexplained trip to the ranch on her motorcycle, and in the same time frame when Melvin and Kaylee were visiting.”
Dudley appeared at the fire stairs door, escorting a handcuffed Mariska. She kept her eyes on the floor as the G-men walked her through the reception area. Javernick wanted to say something to her but was at a loss for words. As they pushed her through the doorway and out on to the docks, Roland could see how devastated he felt.
“Forget that ditzy dame, Claude.” Roland placed his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Let’s go downstairs and have a drink with Eunice and Rose.”
To be continued…