David Robbins - Nevada Run

“But eventually all the prewar currency will wear out,” Geronimo noted.

“What will they do then?”

“I don’t know,” Leslie said. “But they have a process for partially restoring really old bills. It will be a long time before all the prewar currency is gone.”

“I have a question,” Blade remarked. “How is it Las Vegas has so much gas and unlimited electricity?”

“You can get anything on the black market if you have the price,” Leslie said enigmatically.

“Are you married?” Helen unexpectedly inquired.

“Yes, I am,” Leslie answered. “Why?”

“How can you live in Las Vegas, you being a married woman and all?” Helen questioned.

“I don’t understand,” Leslie said.

“Look around you! All this gambling. Gangsters all over the place. Shootings on the streets,” Helen detailed. “How can you live in such an environment?”

“What’s wrong with Vegas?” Leslie responded. “Life here is good. We never have shortages of food, or clothing, or gas. The Dons protect the city from the looters and the mutants. And if you don’t carry a gun, odds are you’ll never be involved in a shooting. The standard of living in Vegas is higher than in most other parts of the country. The schools are excellent—”

“You have schools?” Blade interrupted.

“Of course, silly,” Leslie said. “How else would we educate our children? The Dons funnel a large portion of their profits into the educational system.”

“The Dons support the schools?” Blade asked in surprise.

“And the hospitals, and the utilities, and the senior centers,” Leslie divulged. “Didn’t you know that?”

“No,” Blade confessed, “I had no idea.”

“The Dons care about their people,” Leslie stated affectionately.

“Will wonders never cease!” Geronimo quipped.

A lean man with black hair, a square jaw, and glasses, attired in a white suit, was walking toward the Warriors with a hurried tread. He smiled as he neared them. “Hello. My name is Mario Pileggi. I’m Don Pucci’s Operations Manager.” He extended his right hand to Blade.

Blade took the hand and shook, Pileggi’s firm handshake and clear blue eyes disconcerting him. “I’m Blade. This is Helen and Geronimo.” He perceived that Pileggi was an urbane, confident man.

“I was told you want to see Don Pucci?” Mario said when Blade released his hand.

“We’re here at his invitation,” Blade stated.

Mario studied the three Warriors for a few seconds. “This is most mystifying. Perhaps you would be kind enough to accompany me to the main office. We can sort this out there.”

“What’s to sort out?” Helen demanded. “I want my daughter.”

“Where is your daughter?” Mario asked.

“Don’t play games! You know she’s here. The Don took her!” Helen said angrily.

“Hmmmm,” was all Mario replied.

“We would like to get this sorted out as quickly as possible,” Blade commented.

“Come with me,” Mario said, and turned and headed for the far side of the lobby.

Blade kept his finger on the trigger of the Commando as he crossed the spacious floor. If Mario was leading them into a trap, he wanted to be ready. They passed a row of those odd machines with the lights and rotating pictures of fruit. “What are those?” he inquired.

Mario glanced over his right shoulder, his forehead creased. “You’ve never seen a slot machine before?”

“No,” Blade said.

Mario halted and reached into his left front pants pocket. He withdrew a circular red plastic piece and handed it to the giant.

Blade took the piece. There was lettering on both sides.

“It’s a token,” Mario mentioned. “There’s a chronic shortage of coins, so we use tokens in some of the slots. This one’s on the house.”

“Thank you,” Blade said, pocketing the token, puzzled.

Mario continued toward the far wall.

Blade was feeling uncharacteristically tense. Something was gnawing at his mind, troubling him. What was it? Why was he so certain he was overlooking an important factor in this mission?

A glass-enclosed elevator appeared through the crowd. Mario was heading straight for it.

Blade surveyed the patrons for any sign of Enforcers or button men, but none were in evidence.

Mario indicated the elevator when they were ten feet away. “We’ll take this up to the second floor.”

“Is Don Pucci’s office on the second floor?” Blade queried.

“The main office is on the second floor,” Mario replied.

The elevator was large enough to accommodate a dozen occupants. A sign was affixed to the glass in the middle. RESERVED. RESTRICTED USE. Two glass doors comprised the front of the elevator.

“The public elevators are over there,” Mario said, pointing at four elevators 20 yards to the left.

“I was surprised to find this casino so close to Don Giorgio’s,” Blade absently commented.

Mario, about to reach for the gold handles in the center of the glass doors, froze and turned. “You know Don Giorgio?”

“No,” Blade said.

Mario’s mouth curled downwards. “Giorgio is an upstart. He deliberately built his casino across from Don Pucci’s.”

“Why?” Blade asked. “To increase his business?”

“Not hardly,” Mario answered. “He had ulterior motives.” He opened the elevator doors. “After you.”

“After you,” Blade said.

Mario shrugged and entered the elevator, standing next to a panel of buttons.

The Warriors stepped into the elevator.

Mario closed the doors and pushed a button marked with a 2. The elevator started upward.

“Are Don Pucci and Don Giorgio friends?” Blade questioned.

Mario laughed bitterly. “Friends isn’t the word I would use.”

The elevator coasted to a stop on the second floor. Below, the lobby was a jumble of bustling movement.

Mario turned. The rear of the elevator was a seemingly solid black plastic wall. He pressed a black button on the panel and the “wall” slid into a recessed slot on the right, revealing a lengthy corridor beyond.

Blade realized the glass portion only faced the lobby. Access to the corridors was through this rear door.

“Allow me,” Mario said, taking the lead and exiting. He took an abrupt right.

Blade, Geronimo, and Helen stepped from the elevator.

Mario had stopped and was facing them, grinning triumphantly. The rear door to the elevator hissed shut. “Would you care to tell me the real reason you want to see the Don?”

“We’ve already told you,” Helen responded testily. “I want my daughter.”

Mario sighed and raised his right hand. “I was hoping you would cooperate.” He snapped his fingers.

Doors all along the corridor suddenly opened, disgorging over a dozen somber men in suits, each armed with a machine gun. They trained their weapons on the Warriors.

“If you make a move,” Mario warned in a pleasant tone, “you’re dead.”

Hickok strolled into Johnny’s Palace with the Henry slung over his back and his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. He paused just inside one of the seven glass doors, studying the layout.

Johnny’s Palace was ornate, garishly decorated with an ostentatious green carpet and gaudy orange and yellow walls. Oversized chandeliers hung from the arched ceiling. The gambling was in full swing and customers crammed the joint.

A pretty blonde in a transparent, skimpy yellow dress walked up to the gunman.

“Hi there, handsome,” she declared, smiling broadly. “Looking for a good time?”

Hickok noticed an orange tag imprinted with the word ESCORT pinned below her left shoulder. “Howdy, ma’am,” he replied. “I’m lookin’ for Don Giorgio.”