Stephen Cannell - King Con

"Arnold Buzini," the Shift Manager said, his voice tired.

"Hey, cocksucker, here's something you can do t'start savin' your job. That whore I was with last night is down by the pool. You go down there with two of your plastic badges and you bring that lyin' cunt to Joe's villa."

"Yes, sir."

"And, dickhead, try not to start World War III in the process. I may end up wastin' this bitch, and I don't need you to start some slapdance tournament in front of all them geeks down there. You got me? Real easy, real smooth, bring her up here."

"Yes, sir," Buzini said, his voice shaking, and he hung up the phone. What did Tommy mean, he might end up wasting her? Buzini was a hotel casino manager, not a hood. He'd actually been to hotel school. Was he now about to become involved in a murder? How on earth did I get to this place? he wondered.

Tommy paced in the luxurious villa. There was a white grand piano in the living room, and the villa had its own private beach off the bedroom porch. Joe had supervised the decorating and had fine oil paintings under glass, in hermetically sealed frames, so the ocean air and humidity wouldn't destroy them. There were also priceless Aztec art treasures that Joe collected and had placed out on the sideboards. Then Tommy's alcohol-soaked brain stopped slipping cogs, and he remembered Calliope. He had to get her out of there. He moved quickly into the bedroom and found her asleep on the king-size bed. He yanked her up by the hair.

"Whatta you doin'? Whatta you… leggo," she squeaked as he pulled her up and threw her dressing gown at her.

"Where the hell were you, Tommy?" she said in a sleep-filled voice, and Tommy hit her in the mouth with his fist. She flew backwards. Tommy loved hitting.

She rolled and she landed on the pillows. Blood was flowing out of her mouth.

"Don't…" Tommy said softly. "Ask…" and he walked around the bed, leaned down, and pushed his face into hers. "Questions," he finished.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking into eyes filled with hate and anger.

"Just get the fuck out of here. You come back before afternoon, you're gonna look worse than a Bosnian housewife."

Calliope scrambled off the bed and ran from the room, out onto the patio, and up to the hotel.

Now Tommy paced back and forth, waiting. A few minutes later, he could hear talking on the porch.

"No… no. It's for our best customers, a complimentary gift from the hotel; I keep the bottles cold in the refrigerator here," he could hear Buzini saying as the door opened and Dakota moved into the room. She was wearing only her bikini bottom and a coverup. She was barefoot and her hair was still wet.

"Hi," Tommy said from the living room. "Remember me?"

"Tommy," she said, smiling, "I thought you were still asleep."

"Come here, doll face," he said, grinning his ghastly, ax murderer's smile.

She moved toward him, and when she was only a few feet away, he swung from his heels. It was his Sunday punch. Tommy had always been a great puncher and he hit her high on the cheekbone, snapping her head around and driving her back against the wall. He charged her like a mountain gorilla as Arnold Buzini gasped in horror. Then Tommy grabbed Dakota's hair and, with a fist full of her tresses, he yanked her up and hit four more times: two chilling shots to her midsection, where he actually felt something break, then he moved upstairs for two ringing head shots. Some of her teeth were knocked out and hit the carpet. She went down, her back slamming the floor. She was quiet for a moment, then Dakota slowly struggled to prop her elbows under her. She smiled up at him weakly through bloody gums. "Is that the best you can do?" she finally whispered.

Tommy grabbed Dakota's wrist and yanked her up. Her legs were jelly, but once she was up, she tried for his groin with her knee. But he was too fast and kicked her in the stomach with his still-wet wing-tip. She went down again and curled up on the carpet.

"You're gonna kill her!" Buzini said, with pain in his voice.

"If she's lucky, she'll die. Now get the fuck outta here," he said. And when Buzini didn't move, Tommy grabbed one of Joe's priceless Aztec treasures off the sideboard and hurled it at the Shift Manager. It shattered against the wall. Arnold fled in terror.

Then Tommy grabbed Dakota up off the floor and pushed her backwards. She stumbled into the living room, leaving a trail of blood on the white carpet. But remarkably, she was standing her ground, weaving slightly, both of her fists clenched, ready to defend herself as Tommy moved toward her and stood a few feet away. It was a good punching distance for him, a distance he'd measured from the time he started fighting as a kid. "Okay, we need some answers, doll face," he said.

"About the worst piece of ass I ever had," she answered.

"That wasn't the question," he sneered. "Who are they?"

"Who are who?" she said, buying time, trying to clear her head. Without warning, he hit her again. This time she went down immediately. She had lost most of the strength in her legs. She was on the edge of going into shock, but she turned her face to him, glaring defiantly. "Better, but I'm still conscious. You can't even take out a girl, Tommy."

"You're a tough bitch," he said. "I gotta give you that."

"Or maybe you just can't hit for shit," she hissed, her voice cold as Wilkinson steel. She struggled to sit up against the back of the couch, breathing through her mouth.

"Who are they?" he said again. "The old fucker in the tricked-out wheelchair… who is he? A professional tat player? He's not in our records… He some kinda dice cheat?"

"His name is Harry Sutton," she said. "He's… not a dice mechanic, he's a… a physicist or some kinda physical engineer, an inventor."

"I see. And what's he been inventing, queer dice?"

"The dice are loaded with cellophane gas. He invented the stuff. It turns solid when you heat it, not the other way around… Could I have a wet towel for my mouth, please?"

Tommy moved to the kitchen, turned the cold water on and ran it over a towel and threw it to her. She caught it and held it to her mouth, which was bleeding badly. When she brought it away, Tommy could tell that he'd really connected with that last shot. He'd opened up a two-inch cut on her lip. "Go on," he commanded.

"Harry lives in Fresno, on a houseboat called Seismic Shot. It's docked at the Mud Flat Marina there. They brought me from Vegas, told me to pick you up."

"And who are you?" he snarled. "A hooker?"

"I'm an opportunist… who used to have a great smile."

"Go on. The redhead guy, who's he?"

She hesitated for a minute and Tommy took two steps forward and now was standing in range again. "Don't fuck with me, sis… I love wrecking people. This is my favorite sport."

"He's Douglas Clark. He's a doctor of geology. Works for an oil company… the Fentress County Petroleum and Gas Company, or something like that. They just fired him and he's all pissed off about it. He's got some harebrained plan to get even. They're trying to buy the company's stock or something. That's why they were stealing from your casino, they need lots of money for stock… Could I have some ice? This lip is ballooning on me."

He went to the bar and grabbed a few cubes out of the ice machine and threw them at her. One hit her on the head and fell into her lap. She picked it up and winged it back across the room at him, missing and hitting a glass decanter behind the bar, breaking it. He knew he'd hurt her badly, but like a gutsy prizefighter, she refused to show the pain.

They looked at each other for a long time. Finally, Tommy moved back and, with the toe of his shoe, touched her deep between her legs. She recoiled slightly and closed her legs, wrapping her arms around her knees.