June 26, 1968 was a Wednesday in Las Vegas.
All over the world it was Wednesday. Except across Australia and half of Asia, where it was already Thursday.
Wayne Norton sat behind the wheel of a car parked outside a donut shop at the southern end of Las Vegas Boulevard. He had the window wound down because it was fractionally cooler on the sidewalk than in the vehicle. Only a few years ago this part of the Strip had all been desert. Now there were buildings everywhere, and at least half of them seemed to be hotels or casinos. Or both.
Norton looked in the rearview mirror again. After pulling in, he’d angled the mirror so he could see himself. This only confirmed what he already suspected: His new sunglasses weren’t right? He didn’t look cool enough.
When he straightened the mirror he saw that the stretch limo was still there, still in a no-waiting zone. Norton’s car was in the same prohibited zone, but that was different.
His was a police car, and he was a police officer.
He glanced toward the donut store, but there was no sign of King. They were meant to be on patrol, so one of them had to stay inside the automobile in case of a radio message.
Because he was hot and bored and tired, Norton allowed his eyes to close for a second. He quickly opened them again. It would have been so easy to fall asleep, giving King another excuse to complain about baby-sitting.
He had to do something, so he opened the door, climbed out, and walked back along the street toward the Lincoln. It was all black, even the windows. He bent down to peer inside, but could see nothing through the darkened glass. The polished paintwork gleamed in the sunlight, and it looked as if it had come straight out of the showroom. It had Illinois plates, but even a driver from out of state should have recognised a no-waiting sign.
Norton wrote a parking ticket and tucked it behind the windshield wiper. That was when the door opened and the driver stepped out. He was six and a half feet tall and must have weighed over two-fifty pounds. His expensive suit was so well cut Norton could hardly detect the bulge of his shoulder holster.
The driver stood looking at him, then reached for the ticket. He tore it in half, in quarters, in eighths, and he kept tearing until his massive fingers had reduced the paper to confetti. One squeeze of his huge fist, and he could probably have turned it to dust.
“There is,” Norton said slowly. “A city ordinance. Against littering.”
The driver raised his hand to his face. And stuffed every scrap of paper into his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, swallowed it all down. His eyes never left Norton’s face. He didn’t even seem to blink. Then he climbed back into the car, closed the door, and disappeared into the blackness.
It was as if none of it had happened.
Norton decided it might not be such a good idea to issue another ticket. He turned away, and only then realised his right hand was on the butt of his revolver.
Sergeant King was leaning against the patrol car, eating a donut.
“Did you see that?” said Norton.
“I didn’t see nothing,” said King.
“That guy just destroyed state property.”
“Where’s the evidence?”
“He swallowed it.”
“Here.” King handed over a donut. “But a parking ticket probably tastes better.”
“So you did see what happened.”
“At least he didn’t make you swallow it.”
“What do we do?”
“Nothing.” King slid into the passenger seat. “A limo like that, who do you think owns it? We all get on fine, Duke. We leave them alone, they leave us alone.”
Norton looked at the Lincoln, imagining the invisible driver watching from behind the black windows. The automobile wasn’t really his style, but he’d have liked windows like that. They were real cool.
And gangsters were always cool.
Eating a donut on the street wasn’t very cool, but it couldn’t be helped. Norton didn’t want any crumbs in the car. He wiped his mouth, took a final glance at the Lincoln, hitched up his gun belt, then got back inside the LVPD vehicle.
They weren’t called gangsters, of course. In Las Vegas they were known as businessmen or investors or property developers. This was their town. They’d built it. They owned most of it. And that included the police.
Not that there was any corruption. Or not much.
Gambling, prostitution, all night drinking; everything was legal. So there was no reason to pay off the police. Or not much.
When he was a kid, Norton had wanted to be a gangster. He’d seen all the movies, watched the television series, and he always cheered for the baddies. They usually ended up dead, mown down in a hail of bullets, but that wasn’t for real. Growing up in Las Vegas, he knew real-life gangsters didn’t get shot. They always wound up with the newest cars, the smartest clothes, the best-looking chicks.
“Get this wagon rolling, Duke.”
King had been Norton’s partner for six months. Ever since their first minute together, when the sergeant found out his first name was Wayne, he’d always called him “Duke.” Norton had never said a thing, never let on that he knew the reason for the constant Western references. He’d hoped King would tire of them. But he hadn’t, and he called the two of them “the King and the Duke.” Which meant Norton was always outranked.
Norton turned the key and the engine roared into life.
“Another two hours to go,” said King, as he checked his watch. “What you doing tonight?”
“Nothing special.”
“This is Vegas, Duke. Every night is special. It’s the greatest place in the whole wide world.”
Norton hoped Vegas wasn’t the greatest place in the whole wide world. Was this the best he had to look forward to? The way things were going, he might never find out.
The one time he’d ever been out of Nevada was to see the Grand Canyon, and that was only a few hours away.
“England, Italy, Germany,” said King. “I’ve seen them all, hated them all. I couldn’t wait to get back here.”
England. Italy. Germany. Just the names sounded so exotic, like mythical lands out of an ancient-history book. “Maybe you wouldn’t have hated it if they hadn’t been shooting at you,” said Norton.
“They didn’t shoot at us in England. We were supposed to be on the same side. It rains in England, Duke. It rains all the time. I don’t know what was worse—the boredom and the rain in England, or getting shot at in Italy and Germany.”
King no longer had that problem. It didn’t rain in Vegas. Or not much. And no one shot at the police. Or not often.
That was fine by Norton. He was used to the weather, although it might be interesting to try another climate. He’d never been shot at, but he definitely wasn’t interested in finding out what it was like.
If he had been, he’d have gone to Viet Nam.
Which was what had happened to friends of his, those who’d been unable to avoid the draft. And those who thought it was their patriotic duty not to.
Norton had no idea how to join the mob, and in any case it probably didn’t mean automatic exemption from military service. So he’d gone with his second career choice and joined the police force.
He wasn’t sure it was the right decision. If he’d entered the army, at least he’d have gone somewhere. King would never have been anywhere if it hadn’t been for the Second World War.
“You’ve never wanted to go back to Europe?” he asked.
“What for?”
“For a vacation.”
“On a cop’s pay?”
Norton glanced at King, and after a moment King smiled. He didn’t have to live on his police pay. Because he was a cop, he had other sources of income. And fewer expenses. He probably hadn’t paid for those donuts.
Norton stood as little chance of going to Europe as he did to the Moon, but he said, “I’d like to see the world.”
“There’s no need, Duke. The world comes to Vegas. It’s the centre of the universe.”
King believed exactly what he said. Either that or he’d convinced himself he meant it. Which was the same thing.
Norton was worried he’d find himself believing it, too. Would he still be here in twenty or thirty years’ time, still driving around in a police car? Around and around. How many miles would he have driven by then? Without going anywhere.
A car overtook them.
Going fast.
Very fast.
On the wrong side of the road.
Norton floored the accelerator.
“A heist?” he said.
“What?”
“A robbery?”
“Nothing on the radio,” said King. “But that doesn’t mean much.”
Norton switched on the siren. This was more like it. The speeding car was a red Jaguar, and within a minute or two both vehicles were out of town and on the open highway. The police car was doing a hundred, but the Jaguar was even faster, pulling further and further away.
This was the most exciting thing that had happened for weeks, and Norton was enjoying the chase. He hoped King wouldn’t ask for back-up, or call for a Highway Patrol roadblock up ahead. Then he saw the red lights as the other driver hit the brakes, pulling over in a cloud of dust and a trail of burning rubber.
The police car skidded to a halt ten yards behind the Jaguar. Norton climbed out, drew his pistol. King did the same, waiting by the hood while Norton approached the other car. It was brand new. Had it been stolen?
It was a convertible, but the top was up and the rear window so small he couldn’t make out who was inside. The driver’s window wound down. Norton halted.
“Out of the vehicle!” he yelled.
The door swung open.
“Hands on your head!”
“Can’t I put them inside your pants?” said the driver.
It was a woman’s voice. A girl’s voice.
And Norton knew exactly who she was.
She slid her sandalled feet out of the door. Her legs long and tanned. Then leaned her head out. Her hair long and blonde. She stood up, smiling.
“Hi, Wayne. Hi, Sergeant King.”
“Hello, Susie,” said King. He grinned at the girl, holstered his revolver, winked at Norton, then went and sat back inside the police car.
“What do you think you were doing?” said Norton.
“About a hundred and twenty,” said Susie Ash. “Is that a gun in your hand, or are you just pleased to see me?”
“What? Oh. Yeah.” Norton put away his pistol. “Whose car is it?”
“Mine. You like it? Daddy bought it for my birthday. I thought I’d see how fast it could go.”
“You did that deliberately, didn’t you?”
“Did what?”
“You know what. Because you wanted me to chase you.”
“I’ve always wanted you to chase me, Wayne. Because I’ve always liked it when you caught me. Come here. Give me a kiss.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m on duty, Susie. The only thing I’m going to give you is a speeding ticket.”
“Another present? No, you shouldn’t. You’re all so good to me. Daddy gives me a car, then you give me my first speeding ticket. Wow! It’s all too much. Am I a criminal? Will you lock me up? There must be a cell back at the station where we can be locked up together. Why don’t you handcuff me, Wayne? Then I’d be unable to resist you.”
But Susie was the irresistible one. Norton had known her for years. They’d grown up together, gone to school together, done almost everything together. She wore a tight pair of cut-off denims and a tie-dyed psychedelic T-shirt that clung to her bra-less breasts. When Norton looked into her eyes, all he could see was himself. She was wearing her mirror-lensed sunglasses.
Everyone thought Susie was a great girl. She was. And she was his, all his. Or so everyone thought.
Norton glanced at the car. It wasn’t her birthday until Friday, and he hadn’t bought her anything yet, but what kind of present could compare with a brand-new Jaguar? Susie’s father had built one of Las Vegas’s first supermarkets, and now he owned stores from California to New Mexico.
Norton had always wanted to visit California, to see the ocean—and the bikini-clad surfer girls. Susie had gone out there last summer, lived in San Francisco and become a hippie. Until her father had her brought back to Vegas, before sending her on a long tour of Europe. At the end of this summer, she’d be gone again. To college, back east.
College. Europe. A red Jaguar. Norton was nothing but a rookie cop. Susie was his girlfriend. But for how long?
He’d always hoped they would get married, and it was something they used to talk about. As time went by, they talked about it less. Everything became less, in fact. They saw each other less, did less together.
“I do love a man in uniform,” said Susie, reaching out to him.
She folded back his shirt collar, checking he was still wearing the peace button she’d given him for his last birthday. He’d much rather have had her sunglasses.
“Almost as much as I love a man without his uniform,” she added, as she tried to undo his shirt buttons.
Wayne stepped back. “What do you want for your birthday?”
“Only you.” Susie stepped forward.
“I wish.”
“It’s not what you give, Wayne. It’s the thought that counts.”
“I know what I’d like to give you,” said Norton. “It’s something I’m always thinking about.”
Susie smiled. But with her eyes hidden, the smile could have meant anything.
“How about a sample?” she said, sliding one of her legs between his, rubbing her thigh up and down his crotch, pressing her warm breasts against his chest.
“No!” Norton leaned back. “The sergeant’s waiting.”
“What about all the times you’ve waited for him?”
Every few days, Norton had to sit in the car while King visited some cathouse or other. At least he was never inside very long.
Susie licked her lips. Norton knew he stood no chance.
She really was irresistible. They kissed, her lips sucking at his, her teeth clashing against his, her tongue snaking deep into his mouth. She tasted so good.
She drew back for a moment. “Maybe it’ll be you who gets a present on my birthday,” she whispered.
“I wish.”
They kissed again, her kiss promising everything. When they finally parted, she looked him up and down.
“You are glad to see me!” she laughed. “Adios, Wayne.” She spun around.
A few seconds later the Jaguar roared away. Norton watched it vanish in the distance, then turned and went back to the patrol car.
“Where’s the ticket?” asked King.
“What? A ticket? Well… er… no… I didn’t… er… write one.”
“I thought maybe she’d swallowed it, but I guess she was too busy swallowing your tongue.” The sergeant laughed and shook his head. “You’re a lucky guy.”
“Am I?”
“Her father’s one of the richest men in the whole goddamned state. She’s his only child. As if that isn’t enough, she’s a total knockout. You’ve got it made, Duke.”
Norton wasn’t so sure. He started the engine.
“If only I was twenty years younger,” added King, “you wouldn’t stand a chance.” He shook his head again. “What an ass that girl’s got. Great tits. Real blonde, too, no two-tone model. Not that I have to tell you.”
Norton looked at him.
“No offence, Duke. Just being complimentary, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I bet she’s great in the sack, yeah?”
Norton looked away, smiling.
“Yeah,” King said again, and he sighed.
Great in the sack? Norton wished he knew. The way his life was going, he’d never find out. At twenty-one, he was probably the oldest virgin in Las Vegas.
And Susie Ash was the second oldest.
He hoped.
Norton slammed on the brakes and managed to stop before he hit the man. Even then, the guy didn’t move. Norton sounded the horn, but the jaywalker stayed in the middle of the street, less than a yard in front of the squad car.
“Out of the road!” yelled Norton.
His shift was almost over, and all he wanted was to go home. King had already gone, getting Norton to drive him there. They were supposed to sign off together, but the sergeant had been on the force long enough to bend the rules.
Norton had been thinking about Susie, and the man seemed to have appeared from nowhere. If he’d moved away, Norton wouldn’t have given him a second look; but because he remained where he was, Norton looked again.
He was wearing the most amazing shades.
They weren’t shaped like a pair of sunglasses, but more like the visor of a motorcycle helmet. At first, the lens appeared to be mirrored, and yet the effect was the exact opposite—as if it absorbed light instead of reflecting it. The surface looked black, but every colour of the spectrum seemed to swirl and shimmer within the darkness.
Although only a narrow strip, the shades effectively masked the man’s face. They were real cool. Exactly what Norton wanted. Where had he bought them?
Norton could feel the hidden eyes staring straight at him. Then the guy suddenly laughed and shook his head, stepped toward the sidewalk and turned up the next street.
It wasn’t just his shades that were odd, Norton realised. His hair was long, but there were hippies even in Vegas. His clothes were weird, too, even by Vegas standards. When it was all added together, there was something very suspicious about him.
Norton was a cop, he had an instinct for such things. He turned the wheel and drove up the side street.
The guy wasn’t hard to spot. He was dressed all in red, like some out-of-season Santa. His hair was also red. And green. And blue.
He glanced back over his shoulder, noticed the squad car was following him. That was when he started running. He sprinted for half a block before diving down an alley.
Norton smiled to himself, knowing he’d been proved right. He swerved into the alley. Narrow and dark, it sloped steeply downward. It was a service entrance, and at the bottom of the ramp there was a loading bay. The shutters were down, and nothing moved.
There was no sign of the man in red. The only red Norton could see was one of the three cars parked in front of the bay. It was a red convertible, a Jaguar.
Susie’s red convertible Jaguar.
Alongside it was a stretch limo. Norton recognised that, too. A black Lincoln with Illinois plates.
“Heck,” he muttered, as he stopped at the end of the ramp.
He reached for the mike, but the radio was dead. There were too many tall buildings all around. He climbed out of the car and drew his revolver. Twice in one day, he realised. That had to be a record.
Everything was still and silent as Norton walked over to the Lincoln. Holding the gun in his right hand, he pulled the driver’s door open with his left. The car was empty. So was Susie’s. The third vehicle was a white Chevrolet. Nevada registration. Also empty.
He climbed the concrete steps to the door at the side of the loading bay and looked in through the small window. It was too dark to see anything. Whatever the building was, this was basement level. He tried the handle. It turned. The door opened outward. He thought of going back for a flashlight. There wasn’t time. He went in.
There was a light in the distance, over by the far corner, and he slowly made his way in that direction. He kept glancing around, but there was nothing to see.
The basement was used as a storeroom. In the dark, it could have been stacked with anything. He paused for a moment by one of the thick pillars which supported the floors above. Next to him was a broken fruit machine, a no-armed bandit. Above, he realised, must be a casino.
He began walking again and almost tripped over something on the ground. Not something. Someone. He bent down, reaching out. Someone big. The Lincoln driver. Big and dead.
If there had been any light, he’d have seen more red. The driver had lost a lot of blood. As well as the gun from his holster.
Norton wiped the sticky liquid off his hand and onto his pants leg. He knew he had to go back, but he also knew he must go on.
Then he heard voices. At least two men, maybe three. Arguing and shouting. He cocked his pistol.
There were four of them. Two with their hands on their heads. Two with pistols in their hands, covering the first pair.
He stood in the shadow of one of the concrete pillars, his heart beating so loudly he thought they must have been able to hear him. His whole body was filmed with sweat, and he held his revolver in both hands to keep it steady.
When he peered around the other side of the pillar, he saw a fifth man. He was sitting on a wooden box between the two gunmen. With thinning white hair, he looked quite old. He was the one doing most of the shouting, aiming his cigar at the first two as if it were a weapon.
“Think you could kill me?” he demanded. “I’m immortal, you know that.”
Then Norton stopped listening to what he was saying because all his attention was focused on one of the men being threatened.
It was Mr. Ash. Susie’s father.
Norton wondered what to do.
Two shots, he thought, and both of the gunmen would be down.
Yeah, sure. Knowing his luck, he’d probably hit Mr. Ash and the other guy, then the gangsters would wipe him out.
Gangsters. They really were gangsters, he realised. And his pulse raced even faster.
He stepped slowly forward, out into the half-light. Mr. Ash and the other man noticed him. He raised his left index finger to his lips, but they didn’t need warning.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” said Mr. Ash, doing his best to keep all the attention on himself.
“Wrong?” said the older man. “I thought Luigi’s goon tried to shoot me. Am I wrong?”
“It was a misunderstanding, Carlo,” said Mr. Ash.
“It wasn’t a misunderstanding,” said the man called Carlo, “it was a mistake. And you made it.”
Norton drew his nightstick with his left hand and crept forward, getting nearer and nearer to the first gunman.
Until the man spun around toward him.
He brought the baton down, hard, smashing it against the man’s arm. The man shouted in pain. The gun fell.
Norton quickly stepped back out of reach, aiming his pistol at the second gunman.
“Don’t move,” he warned.
The man didn’t move. No one moved.
“Drop the gun,” said Norton.
The gunman turned his head, slowly.
Norton aimed at his head, carefully.
Carlo looked around, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw Norton.
“Is there a problem, officer?” he asked.
“Not if he drops his gun,” said Norton, and he changed the direction of his aim. From the gunman to Carlo.
“If he does,” asked Carlo, “can we talk?”
Norton nodded, and Carlo gestured to the gunman. But instead of dropping the gun, he slid it into its shoulder holster.
“Hands on your head,” said Norton. “And you.”
The two gangsters put their hands on their heads. As they did so, Mr. Ash and the other man lowered theirs.
“Good to see you, Wayne,” said Mr. Ash. “Nice work.”
“He’s one of yours?” said the old man.
“You don’t own the whole force, Carlo.”
“Where’s Susie?” asked Norton.
“Susie?” said Mr. Ash. “She’s at home, I think. Why?”
“Her vehicle’s outside.”
“I borrowed it.”
“She’s not in any danger?”
“No.”
Norton nodded. Susie wasn’t here. Neither, it seemed, was the man in red. But what was going on?
That didn’t matter for now. First he had to arrest the three who’d held up Mr. Ash. He only had one pair of cuffs, and he still had to disarm the second gangster.
“Step back,” he told the first one, and the man moved away from his dropped weapon.
“We can talk,” said Carlo. “However much they’re paying you, I’ll double it.”
What Norton needed was someone to keep the three men covered.
“Can you handle a gun, Mr. Ash?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Norton kicked the fallen automatic across the ground.
“No!” yelled Carlo.
Mr. Ash picked up the weapon.
The second gunman reached into his holster.
Mr. Ash shot him.
Then he shot the first gunman.
“Ciao, Carlo,” he said. “See you in hell.”
And then he shot the old man.
Norton stared at him in amazement, before bending down to examine the three fallen men. None of them needed handcuffs. Each one had hole in the centre of his forehead.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Mr. Ash,” he said. “I was going to arrest them.”
Mr. Ash walked toward Norton.
“Sorry, Wayne,” he said.
Then came the pain. It hurt. It hurt so bad. But it lasted only a moment. Then it was gone. And so was Norton. The whole universe opened up and he dropped down down down into the infinite void.
“Is he one of your men?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you kill him?”
“He’s my daughter’s boyfriend.”
“Great! I wish I’d killed my daughters’ boyfriends when I had the chance. It’s too late after the wedding because by then the bastards are family. Take my advice, Mario, finish him off while you can.”
Mario Catania, alias Mark Ash, glanced down at Wayne Norton’s crumpled body. He’d be unconscious for about an hour, have a headache for a day or two, and be bruised for over a week.
“I can’t kill him,” he said. “He’s just saved our lives.”
“You’re getting sentimental in your old age,” said Luigi Sciacca, and he kicked Carlo Menfi’s dead body.
Ash looked at the pistol. It had been a long time since he’d even held a gun, but pulling a trigger was something you never forgot.
Three shots, three kills.
He felt quite pleased with himself. Because it was a lot better than what might have happened.
Slipping the automatic into his jacket pocket, Ash frowned, not liking the way it spoiled the line of his suit. He’d have to get rid of the weapon. As well as the three bodies. Or four, including Sciacca’s torpedo.
But the biggest problem was what to do with Wayne.
“It’s my daughter’s birthday in a couple of days,” he said. “She’d be upset if he wasn’t there.”
Sciacca took Menfi’s billfold, unstrapped the watch from his wrist, and tore the rings from his fingers. He’d started his career as a pickpocket, stealing from the living. Now he robbed the dead.
“What was he doing here?” asked Sciacca.
“He must have seen my daughter’s car and thought she was here.”
“You came in her car in case you were followed?”
“No. Because mine was stolen.”
“Stolen? Some people got no respect.” Sciacca undid Menfi’s silk tie, holding it against his own shirt to see if it would go with his suit. Then he ripped the silver cross from the corpse’s neck. “Can’t trust nobody these days.”
Ash nodded, realising that the biggest problem was what to do with Sciacca.
“How did he see the car?” asked Sciacca, as he moved over to the first bodyguard. “The parking lot is out of sight from the road.”
“He must have been on patrol and—”
“On patrol?” Sciacca found a pack of cigarettes in the corpse’s pocket, stuck one between his lips, lit it with the dead man’s lighter. “He really is a cop?”
“Sure.”
“So that’s why you don’t want to kill him.” Sciacca pocketed the cigarettes and the lighter. “You always thought ahead, Mario. It’s going to be useful having a cop in the family.”
And Sciacca never thought ahead, not even as far as opening his mouth. Although it might be useful having a police commissioner or a district attorney in the family, Wayne was only a rookie cop. But whoever he was, he wasn’t good enough to marry Susie.
“He’s not going to be part of the family,” said Ash. “I don’t like him.”
“Then kill him.”
“I can’t kill him just because I don’t like him.”
“Why not?” Sciacca went to the second bodyguard. “In the old days, you used to kill people who you did like.”
“Things don’t happen like that anymore.”
“Don’t they?” Sciacca glanced at the three dead bodies. “This reminds me of the old days, Mario.” He counted out the change from the guard’s pocket. A nickel fell between his fingers and rolled away. It didn’t get far. He flattened it with his shoe and picked it up. “The good old days.”
Although he took everything he could find, he was careful to leave the bodyguard’s gun in its holster.
“The good old days were never good at the time, Luigi. Forget the past, like I’ve done. This is now, and my name is Mark Ash.”
“Carlo calls you Mario.”
“Not anymore.”
Sciacca laughed. He looked at the tip of his cigarette, at the ash.
Ash guessed they were both thinking the same thing: There were now only two of them left alive who knew his real identity.
He’d chosen Mark because it wasn’t very different from Mario, and Ash by going through the telephone book until he found a surname he liked.
“You know something?” said Sciacca. “A few minutes ago they were bodyguards. But they ain’t guards anymore, they’re just bodies!” He glanced over toward the entrance, where the other hoodlum lay. “A pity about Piccolo, I’ll miss him. Great sense of humour.”
“Sure,” said Ash, “I nearly died laughing. What was the idea of getting him to pull a gun on Carlo?”
“The idea was to kill him.”
“Luigi, you came here for a conference.”
“With Carlo dead, who needs to talk? It’s all worked out well.”
Only thanks to Wayne, thought Ash. He watched as Sciacca dropped his cigarette to the floor and stepped on it. On the paper, on the tobacco, on the ash. That was when he knew what had to be done with Luigi Sciacca.
“What did Carlo say?” added Sciacca. “Being immortal, was it? Ha!”
Ash looked at Carlo Menfi, who was dead. He looked at Wayne, who wasn’t. He realised what he could do with him.
“We’ve got to freeze him,” he said.
“Who?”
“The cop.”
“Ice him, you mean?”
“No, we freeze him. That’s what Carlo meant when he said he was immortal. Give me a hand.”
Sciacca held out his left hand.
“Two hands,” said Ash, as he slid his arms under Wayne’s shoulders, raising him off the ground.
Reluctantly, Sciacca took hold of Wayne’s legs. They carried him down to the lowest level, hidden deep below the casino, but had to stop and rest a few times on the way.
“No more,” panted Sciacca once they reached the lowest level. “I’m not carrying any of the stiffs. Your boys can get rid of Carlo and the others.”
“My boys?” said Ash. “They take groceries out to customers’ cars. You want them to hide dismembered bodies in paper bags?”
“I forgot,” said Sciacca, lighting a cigarette. “You’re just a supermarket owner.”
“Sure. It’s all legit, Luigi. I’m respectable. I’m honest.”
“Only the rich can afford to be honest. And the only way they got rich was by being crooked. Like you. You might have changed your name, Mike—”
“Mark.”
“—but nothing else has changed.”
That wasn’t true. At one time, Ash could have carried a corpse for miles. Alone. Dug a deep hole and buried it. Then gone back and partied all night. Now, even sharing such a weight for a few minutes was too much. It wasn’t the sort of thing he should be doing, risking a heart attack for this. He ought to have someone he could trust, someone younger, someone who was family.
Carlo Menfi never had anyone. Because he had no family, no son, he’d had to trust Ash. Ash hadn’t betrayed him, but Menfi was still dead.
None of this need have happened. If Sciacca hadn’t interfered, if his muscle hadn’t pulled a gun, Ash would have inherited everything when Menfi died.
Except that Menfi had no intention of dying. Or not permanently.
“What’s this?” asked Sciacca, as he finally noticed the huge insulated cabinet next to them.
“A cryogenic freezer,” said Ash.
“A freezer? You mean like a meat store?”
“Almost, but for living meat. Carlo wanted to live forever, and it was my job to make sure he did. Before he died, I was to bring him down here and put him into suspended animation.”
“Huh?”
“He’d be more than dead, less than alive. He hoped his body would be revived in the future, and anything wrong with it would be fixed. He figured that by then they’ll be able to cure anything. If there isn’t the right medicine, people can have replacement parts fitted.”
“Like getting a car repaired, you mean?”
“Sure. You’ve heard of that guy in South Africa, the one who does heart transplants?”
“Yeah, but I’ve never heard of one of these.” Sciacca studied the huge box. “Must be a scam. Who sold it to Carlo?”
“Some scientist guy.”
“Ha! A mad scientist.”
Ash shrugged. He also had his doubts about the entire scheme, even though he’d seen the equipment working. He knew it could keep someone in suspended animation for at least a week. That was as long as the scientist had frozen himself. He might have been mad, but he wasn’t stupid.
Carlo Menfi had read about the man in some magazine, arranged a meeting, then offered to bankroll his project. The scientist had built two cryogenic units: one for Menfi, here in Las Vegas, and one for himself, wherever he lived—and wherever he planned on not dying.
“But not as mad as Carlo,” added Sciacca. “You know something? He should have asked for a lifetime guarantee! What a waste of money.”
“You can’t take it with you, Luigi. And what did he have to lose? He might only have had a very small chance of being revived, but without it he had no chance.”
And he had no chance now, not with a bullet in the brain.
“Death is permanent,” added Ash.
“I hope so. I wouldn’t want to meet up with any of the guys I rubbed out.” Sciacca ground out his cigarette with the sole of his shoe. “Why freeze the cop?”
They both glanced down at Wayne, who lay on the floor between them.
“I don’t want him around until things have settled down. In a couple of days, I’ll thaw him out.”
By then, Ash would know exactly what to do. About Menfi. About Sciacca. About Wayne.
He owed Wayne something for saving his life. Something? Everything. He also needed someone he could trust. Someone who was family. If the price of an heir was marriage to Susie, well, maybe that was the way it had to be.
He’d just have to offer Wayne a deal he couldn’t decline.
Sciacca helped lift the unconscious police officer into the cryogenic cabinet, then lit another cigarette as Ash started to connect the life-support systems. He’d smoked two more by the time Ash swung the heavy door shut.
“That’s him out of the way,” said Sciacca. “Now what do we do?”
“We?” said Ash.
Two days later, Mario Catania, alias Mark Ash, was arrested and charged with numerous state and federal offences, including the murders of Carlo Menfi and Luigi Sciacca. At his subsequent trial, he was found guilty on various counts and sentenced to a minimum of two hundred and eighty-nine years’ imprisonment. He didn’t live that long.
But Wayne Norton did.