David Robbins: Nevada Run

Ma stared at the gunman. “You mean to say you don’t know what a chorus girl is? Where are you from? The moon?”

“Nope,” Hickok replied.

Ma’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I take it you’ve never been to Vegas. Anyone who’s been there knows what a chorus girl is.”

“Have you been to Vegas?” Blade asked.

“I was born there,” Ma said.

Blade and Hickok exchanged fleeting glances.

“Do tell,” the gunfighter stated. “Why don’t you fix us some vittles and join us at our table? We’d like to hear all about Las Vegas.”

“I’d be delighted,” Ma said. “What would you like to eat?”

“How about some steaks all around,” Hickok ordered. “And some milk for me, if you’ve got some.”

“Milk?” Ma snorted. “Don’t you want something stronger?”

“I never drink the hard stuff,” Hickok said. “A milk will be fine.”

“Milk for all of us,” Blade interjected.

“It’ll take about five minutes,” Ma said.

“No problem,” Blade told her, then walked to a table near the counter where he could command a view of Ma and the tall man behind the counter as well as the customers. He placed the Commando on the table, slid into a chair, and folded his fingers over the trigger guard.

Hickok deposited the Henry on the table, gripped the top of one of the wooden chairs and slid it to Blade’s right, then reversed the chair and sat down with his arms draped over the back.

Helen took the remaining chair, sitting with her back to the front door.

She leaned toward Blade. “Is it my imagination, or are these people staring at me?”

“It’s not your imagination,” Blade said. “They’re trying not to be obvious about it, but they can’t seem to take their eyes off you.”

“When do you reckon they’ll make their play?” Hickok asked in a hushed tone.

“What are you talking about?” Helen inquired.

Hickok lowered his voice to a whisper. “Blade was right all along. This is a trap.”

Helen glanced around the room. “Are you putting me on? There’s no danger here.”

Blade gazed into Helen’s eyes. “This is no joke. Keep your hands on your Carbine.”

“How do you know this is a trap?” Helen whispered.

“Did you see the three men drinking coffee?” Blade asked.

“Of course,” Helen replied.

“Did you take a look at their cups?”

“No,” Helen said, and began to turn toward the men.

“Don’t look at them!” Blade said hastily. “We don’t want them to know we’re on to them.”

Helen faced the giant. “What about the coffee cups?”

“All three cups are filled to the brim, yet those men haven’t taken a sip since we came in the door,” Blade elaborated.

“Maybe they’re not thirsty,” Helen said lamely. “Maybe they’ve already drunk some coffee and those are their second cups. Maybe they’re just waiting for their food.”

“And maybe the cups are props they’re usin’ to try and con us,” Hickok stated. “The shifty varmints!”

Helen studied the gunman for a few seconds. “I don’t get you. A couple of minutes ago you were positive this diner is legit. Now you say it’s a trap?”

“I knew it was a trap when I walked in the door.” Hickok informed her.

“You didn’t act like you thought it was a trap,” Helen noted.

“Do you play cards?” Hickok queried.

“Cards?” Helen said, mystified. “What do cards have to do with anything?”

“A good card player never lets the other fella see his cards until it’s time to put them on the table,” Hickok declared.

Blade idly scanned the room. “I don’t see any guns.”

“They could have some stashed behind the counter,” Hickok said.

Blade casually looked at the couple to the left of the door. The obese man and the woman in the red dress were simply sitting there, slight grins on their faces, their hands on top of their table, doing nothing in particular.

“You are becoming as paranoid as Blade,” Helen told the gunman.

“Better paranoid than dead,” Hickok retorted.

“Why don’t we just walk out?” Helen proposed.

“No,” Blade said. “They might let us go without any hassles, but what about the next innocent travelers who pass through Contact? What if they’re not as well armed as we are?”

Helen frowned. “I don’t see where this is any of our business. If you really believe it’s a trap, I say we walk out and keep going. The sooner we reach Vegas, the sooner I find my daughter.”

“I’m in charge,” Blade reminded her. “And we’re going to stay put and see what happens.”

“Now what do you suppose that is all about?” Hickok asked, nodding toward the counter.

Blade turned his head, perplexed at observing Ma and the tall man embroiled in an argument. They were huddled next to a grill, speaking softly but gesturing angrily.

“Maybe they burned one of our steaks,” Hickok cracked.

Blade leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room again. The “customers” were all watching the exchange between Ma and the tall man.

He scrutinized their clothing, striving to detect telltale bulges that might indicate concealed firearms.

They appeared to be clean.

Ma walked to a white refrigerator and took out a pitcher of milk.

Blade abruptly realized the music had ceased minutes ago. He glanced around and found an unusual apparatus positioned against the wall six yards from the front entrance. The bottom of the machine was square, the top a golden arch. A series of bright lights rimmed the arch, reflecting off a curved glass case between the arch and the square base.

“Here we go!” Ma said happily, coming around the end of the counter with a large tray in her hands. The tray supported the pitcher and three glasses. “Here’s your milk. Your steaks will be a minute or two yet.”

Blade pointed at the machine with the arch. “What is that?” he inquired.

Ma set the tray on the table. “It’s a jukebox. Haven’t you ever seen one before?”

“No,” Blade admitted.

The matron tittered. “You don’t know what a chorus girl is. You don’t know what a jukebox is. I’ve heard of pitiful, but you boys take the cake.”

“You said you were born in Las Vegas,” Blade remarked. “What’s it like there?”

“Vegas is a tough town,” Ma declared. “It’s not for chumps who don’t know how to take care of themselves.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Hickok said, speaking up.

“You think so?” Ma rejoined.

“I know so,” Hickok asserted. “Stick around. I may give you a demonstration.”

“Why is Vegas a tough town?” Blade queried to get Ma back on the right track.

“Because Vegas is mob-controlled, dummy,” Ma stated with a chuckle.

“You mean they have riots in the streets a lot?” Hickok asked.

Ma threw back her head and laughed. “Not that kind of a mob! I’m talking about the Families.”

Blade glanced at Hickok and the gunman shrugged, signifying he didn’t understand either.

The woman called Ma noticed their reaction. “Let me guess. You don’t have the foggiest idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“No,” Blade answered. He was startled to learn there were other groups with the same name as the Founder’s descendants.

“How do I explain it?” Ma asked herself. She stared at the giant. “Have you ever heard of Organized Crime?”

Blade reflected for a moment. The term did not ring a bell. “Never heard of it,” he confessed.

Ma shook her head. “Then let me give you a refresher course. Way back when, back before the war, there were three classes of people in America.

There were the ordinary slobs, rich and poor alike, who lived their lives according to the letter of the law. From cradle to grave they slaved away, basically honest jerks except for little things like cheating on their taxes and such. Oh, some of them went bad. They became drug dealers or robbed banks. But most of them were simple folks, if downright stupid.”