Authors: Reavis Z Wortham
Vengeance is Mine (12 page)
“We got a problem, Mr. Best.”
The casino owner glanced up from a sheaf of papers on his desk. He propped the horn-rimmed reading glasses on top of his head. Chris Champion was one of his most trusted men. He'd moved up since the recent loss of his older, more experienced men in the Texas shootout in the Shamrock motel. “Talk to me.”
“A couple of weeks ago we had a large number of counterfeit bills show up at one of our high-stakes tables. We haven't had a problem with funny money in a couple of years, and I thought the stupid bums who print this stuff finally learned it was bad business to launder their paper through our casino.”
“How much is considerable?”
Champion looked uncomfortable. “Someone dumped five-thousand in one night, on one table.”
Best glowered and plucked the butt from his lips. He crushed it out in the crystal ashtray beside the papers. “So that means a lot more could have come through here that night.”
“Right. We checked the other tables, and the total came to more than twenty thousand.”
“How the hell did we miss something like
that
?”
“It's good paper. Some of the best I've ever seen.” He pulled a sheaf of bills from his pocket and gently placed it on Best's reports.
Best slipped the rubber band off and flicked his fingers so that it rolled onto his wrist like a bracelet. He squinted at the top bill and held it up to the light. He rubbed it between his fingers, then sniffed it. He shuffled through the remaining bills and selected another one for the same treatment. A tickle of recognition in the back of his mind warned him of what was coming next. “All right. I can see how it got through. Do you have any idea who brought it in? A high roller dumping that much cash should be remembered by somebody here.”
Champion swallowed. “It wasn't just one night. It happened three nights in a row, and not only here at The Desert Gold. I checked some of the other guys, and even a couple of clip joints out on the edge of town. They all report the same thing, only not as much. For some reason, this mug liked usâ¦a lot.”
Best didn't say anything.
“So we went back and looked around some. You know, since we kindaâ¦keepâ¦cash stocked, I had one of my best men check back through the dates.”
Best was the only casino operator on the strip to keep cash in rotation, instead of banking it like the others. He was the last of the old-timers who funneled money back to the Family, but he did it in a different way. Unimaginable amounts of money were stored in a monstrous vault deep below the casino. There, stacks of bills from weeks past rested on carefully numbered and labeled steel shelves.
“We ran the numbers. Then I cross-checked the tables and talked to the dealers and pit bosses to see who bought in, lost a little, and then cashed out. You know the dodge, change a counterfeit thousand into chips, lose a little, and then cash out with real money. Every time I checked, I came up with a guy they all remembered.”
Best's patience was almost at an end. “All right. I believe you. So who was it?”
“I think it was that Texan, Griffin.”
Best's eyes went cold. That wasn't the two-part deal he had with the north Texas sheriff. Griffin was supposed to bring the funny money in and exchange it for a percentage, a very small percentage, so he could walk away clean with fresh cash. Best was going to funnel the fake paper back east into another organization. It was a beautiful idea that would keep his enemies fighting and too preoccupied to make any significant push into Vegas.
For the second half of the deal Griffin brought legit one hundred dollar bills to use in creating a front company that dealt in precious metals, jewelry, art, and antiques. The entire operation looked good to Best, since Griffin agreed to an eighty-twenty split using what Best suspected was drug money that flowed up through Texas.
They also planned to combine the front company with a land scheme handled by an associate Best had known for years. They would purchase property in the desert well below market value and slip the cash difference to the seller. Then, a few months later, the idea was to resell at the true value, getting that cash back as a perfectly legal profit.
The best part, as Best liked to think, was that he'd orchestrated everything to point directly at Griffin. If the scam went south, he could walk away with clean hands and no loss.
But the criminal had double-crossed the criminals.
Chris shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He never knew what bit of information would set Best off. “But the way we nailed him was simple. Remember those two suitcases full of cash he left?”
“Of course.”
“What about it?”
“Half that was counterfeit, too, Boss.”
Best felt his face redden. “So I have been taken by a rube.”
“Sorry, Boss, but look at it this wayâyour cash system worked like it was supposed to. We won't get caught again.”
“You are right about that.” Best reached for the phone. He punched one of the buttons lining the bottom. “Ann, get me Leo Caifano in Kansas City.”
I was filled with a white rage that drove me to the edge of the woods.
A dozen dogs worked across the pasture a hundred yards below, sniffing the grass in hopes of startling a rabbit from cover. A skinny German shepherd with prominent ribs stopped and raised his nose to the air.
For the second time that day, Uncle Wilbert's rifle rose to my shoulder. I'd already killed two strays down by the creek. My cheek found the smooth stock. The iron sights lined up down the barrel.
Squeeze the trigger. Never yank it. Squeeze until the shot surprises you.
The sharp crack echoed off the trees. The good smell of burned gun powder filled the air.
The half-starved German shepherd lay on the ground, kicking weakly. In the back of my head, I thought I was doing him a favor, dying quickly instead of starving to death in the coming winter.
I shifted my aim at the pack of fleeing dogs. The next shot missed a running mixed-breed, and I remembered the .22 was a semi-automatic. I led the dog and squeezed the trigger as quick as I could. The little rifle spat over and over again, almost spraying like a machine gun. Bullets plowed into the sand behind the dog. I led even further, and the mutt rolled.
It was hard to see through the tears blurring my eyes. Another, slower dog settled into my sights and it rolled and lay still. I was on automatic, mind and body working together without conscious thought.
Prickly anger took over when the rifle ran dry and my chest tightened. Through the tears, I fumbled a few shells out of my pocket to reload, but I dropped most of them. I fought the deep sobs that tried to surface. I wanted to be like the men in Center Springs, and hold it inward. None of them cried over dogs.
“Dang, that's good shooting,” Ty Cobb Wilson said, stepping out of the tree line twenty yards away. I was shaking when I saw Jimmy Foxx there with him. Both men were holding rifles, though Jimmy's rested over his shoulder, and Ty Cobb held his own 30.30, pointed muzzle down.
“Y'all can shoot, too, you know.”
They joined me. “We could, Top. But we ain't mad at them like you, even though I suspect they've killed a calf or two around here.”
“They hurt Hootie.” Tears welled.
“I know. We heard. That's why we're here.”
“He's a good dog. He was so smart⦔ My voice broke.
Jimmy Foxx gave my shoulder a pat. “He ain't dead yet, leastways he wasn't when we went by the house.”
For the first time since I saw Hootie, all cut up on that tailgate, I broke down and cried. I hadn't cried so hard when The Skinner took me and Pepper. I didn't cry much when Mama and Daddy were killed in a car wreck. But with two tough outdoorsmen watching, I bawled like a baby over my dog. Maybe it was because they were hunters and understood, because they loved their bird dogs. I don't know, but it felt like everything inside me flowed out with those tears.
I wrapped my arms around Ty Cobb for no reason except he was closer, and bawled, letting all the pain and anger out. It didn't seem like I could ever stop.
He took the rifle from my hands and passed it to his brother and pulled me against the brush pants covering his legs, getting my jeans muddy, but I didn't care.
Jimmy Foxx dug a handful of .22 hulls from his pants and reloaded my rifle. I wondered later why he had them. Neither of the Wilson boys were carrying .22s that day, but he had enough to fill the rifle's magazine.
I finally cried myself out and felt curiously relaxed, like a pressure valve had released something that had been building a long time. I wiped my runny nose. “I'm sorry.”
“No need to be sorry.” Jimmy Foxx handed the loaded rifle back. “We're pretty close to Cody's house. Why don't we run by there for a few minutes?”
“I'm still hunting.”
“I know you are, but them dogs'll keep hightailing it for a while. They'll come back. Right now we need to let folks know you're all right. They're looking for you.”
The pasture was empty, except for the dead dogs. A light breeze moved the nearby leaves, and the long grass swayed. I didn't feel bad about killing them. I didn't feel anything at all, except kind of empty for crying so hard. Killing the dogs wouldn't make Hootie any better, but it was something I had to do for myself.
My chest hitched, but I finally regained control. “All right.”
I followed the brothers through the woods. They moved like the animals they hunted, quiet and without wasted motion. My footsteps sounded loud as a bull stomping through broken glass.
When we arrived a while later, Norma Faye and Uncle Cody were in their front yard near the blackened ring where Mr. Tom Bell burned lumber scraps. He'd worked for months to restore the house. When he didn't come back from Mexico, they found he'd willed it to them.
The Wilson boys led the way out of the woods. Uncle Cody nodded to the brothers. “Thanks, boys.”
Norma Faye knelt and opened her arms. “Come here, baby. It's gonna be all right.” Her soft voice cracked and I couldn't help it. I found myself rushing toward her and for the second time that day I broke down. Maybe it was because I needed to cry some more, or maybe because I needed a woman to hold me, but I stuck my face in her mane of wild red hair and she held me close, crying herself.
The men pretended not to see.
Three well-dressed men stepped off the plane from Kansas City and rented a blue Ford Galaxie at Dallas' Love Field airport. A bald bull of a man named Michael Braccaro drove. “I hate this city. How long will it take us to get out of here and to wherever we're going?”
His olive-skinned associate in the passenger seat glanced up at the red flying horse on top of the Magnolia Building, high above downtown Dallas. Jack Machino, known as Johnny Machine, was the toughest gangster Kansas City had ever seen. “They call this burg a city?”
In the backseat, Nicky didn't bother to look up from the open map in his lap. “It's what passes for a city in Texas.” He traced a line leading east with a forefinger. “Michael, you went the wrong way. If we keep going in this direction, you'll come to Northwest Highway. Turn right and stay on it until Buckner Boulevard. That'll take us to Highway 66. Then we go east.”
Michael Braccaro shrugged and checked his rearview mirror, knowing he could never be too careful when it came to the local constabulary. “Don't expect me to remember all that. Tell me what to do when we get there.”
The distinctly northern accents were completely out of place in a state full of slow drawls. Johnny Machine patted his coat pocket. “Anyone got any butts?”
A half-empty pack sailed over the seat. “You need to buy your own smokes next time. It'll only cost you thirty-five cents.”
Johnny tapped one loose. “Hell, Nicky, you bum off me all the time. I didn't bring a whole
carton
for cryin' out loud. I buy 'em by the pack just like Michael.”
Michael rested his wrist across the steering wheel. “How far away is that town?”
“Chisum?” Nicky examined the map. “It doesn't look far. Half an hour maybe?”
The Machine drew a lung full of smoke. He released it and the slipstream sent it to the back where it mixed with Nicky's own cloud. “This ain't Kansas City. I know because the last time I came to this lousy state, I found out the hard way. The distance between towns is a lot farther than the way it looks on that map.”
Ten minutes later, Nicky sat forward and spoke over the seat. “The next street is Buckner Boulevard. Hang a right. You were right, Johnny. It adds up to about an hour and a half, depending on traffic.”
“There won't be any traffic after we get out of the city.” The Machine glanced toward White Rock Lake as they passed. Sailboats tacked across the small Dallas water source. Closer to the bank, two men fished from a V-hull aluminum boat.
Michael turned at the light. “The place we're looking for is tiny, at least that's what Mr. Best says.”
They drove in silence for fifteen minutes, until the Machine couldn't take it anymore. He had no idea why they were heading for a small town in northeast Texas. “Are you going to tell us our orders?”
“Relax.” Michael slowed for a stoplight. “We gotta good opportunity here. We do something for Mr. Best, and he takes care of us, right?” The light changed before the car came to a complete stop, and they passed through the intersection. The four small shopping centers at each corner were roofed in red Mexican tile. A red Pegasus glowed atop a corner gas station. “Casa Linda. What's with that stupid flying horse everywhere?”
“Mobile stations are popular around hereâ¦uh, oh. Everybody sit tight. A cop's behind us.”
“Relax. We ain't wanted for anything.” The Machine didn't like cops either, but he knew better than to catch their attention by watching through the back glass. He shifted so he could better see the side mirror. “But I don't like cops.”
Michael grinned. “How do you feel about sheriffs?”
“Don't like 'em either, why?”
“We're going to meet the town sheriff in Chisum.”
The other two perked up. “What for?”
“Because Mr. Best said so, that's why.”
“Left here.” Nicky resisted the impulse to check behind them. “This is Highway 66. It takes us halfway there, and then when we're way out in the sticks, Tighway 24 takes us to Chisum.”
The police car continued straight down Buckner. The Machine sagged back into the seat. “Mr. Best didn't fly us all the way out here just to talk with a local sheriff.”
“That's right. When we leave, he won't be sheriff no more.”
“Will he be breathing?”
“Nope.”
“And then?”
“Then we call Mr. Best and tell him it's finished.”
“These are the kinds of jobs I like,” Johnny Machine said. “Quick and easy.”