David Robbins - Nevada Run

The escort lost her smile. “Why do you want to see him?”

“That’s personal,” Hickok said.

“No one can see Don Giorgio without an appointment.” the escort stated.

“Where would I find him?” Hickok asked.

“Didn’t you hear me?” the escort responded. “You can’t see him without an appointment.”

Hickok lowered his voice. “Ma’am, if you don’t spill the beans, right this moment, I’m afraid I’ll be obliged to shoot you in the foot.”

The escort did a double take. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Hickok’s mouth creased in a lopsided grin. “Try me.”

She scrutinized him from head to toe, then stared into his blue eyes for a moment. “I just bet you’d do it too!”

“Where can I find Giorgio?” Hickok queried again.

“You’re making a big mistake, mister,” the escort said.

“I make ’em all the time,” Hickok noted. “So what’s one more? Now where is Giorgio?”

The escort turned and pointed at a wall on the opposite side of the lobby. “Do you see those doors there?”

Hickok looked. There were three wooden doors spaced about 20 yards apart visible through the crowd. “Yep.”

“The middle door is Don Giorgio’s office,” she said.

“Is that a fact?” Hickok commented. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

Her cheeks reddened. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Nope,” Hickok stated. “The Don isn’t likely to have his office right out in the open, where anyone can mosey in anytime they feel like it. I’d imagine the Don is one cautious hombre. So where is his real office?”

The escort frowned. “Third floor. He has a suite at the end of the hall.

The elevators and the stairs are to the left of those doors.”

Hickok reached up and patted her on the left cheek. “Thank you, ma’am. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“If the Don discovers I told you,” she said fearfully, “he’ll kill me!”

“Don’t you worry,” Hickok assured her. “He’ll never know.” He motioned at the wall to his right. “I want you to stand right there, where I can keep an eye on you, until I get across the lobby. You might be tempted to warn the Don, and I can’t let you do that.”

The escort walked over to the wall and stood there meekly.

“Thanks again,” Hickok said cheerfully, and started toward the far side of the room. He scanned the packed patrons, noting the various games they were playing.

Out of the corner of his right eye, Hickok saw the blonde escort edging toward a wooden door 15 feet from the front entrance. He grinned, but otherwise pretended not to notice. Another minute or so and he’d have the welcoming committee he wanted.

The throng of spectators and gamblers shifted, and Hickok caught sight of three men in suits, men with countenances hardened like granite. None held weapons, but their jackets were open and each man had one hand near his waist.

“Excuse me!” a voice commanded, and Mousy appeared, shoving his way through the spectators.

Hickok grinned. “Well, if it isn’t Wart-Nose,” he addressed the diminutive mobster. “Long time no see!”

Mousy’s beady eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me Wart-Nose!”

“How about Poop-for-Brains?” Hickok quipped.

“Funny man!” Mousy snapped. “But you made the biggest mistake of your life when you waltzed into here!”

“I didn’t waltz,” Hickok corrected him. “I walked.”

“Did you really think Don Giorgio would see you?” Mousy demanded.

“It’d be the smart thing to do,” Hickok remarked.

“What do you know about smarts?” Mousy declared. “You’re so dumb, it’s pathetic.”

“Are you going to take me to Don Giorgio?” Hickok inquired.

“Dream on!” Mousy said.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me?”

Mousy snorted. “He wants to snuff you, jerk! You and all of your friends are to blame for his son’s death!”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Wart-Nose,” Hickok baited the button man.

“No, I don’t!” Mousy snapped. “The big geek with the knives told me that you guys whacked Franky!”

Hickok shook his head. “They didn’t. I did.”

“You killed Franky?” Mousy queried, astounded the gunman would bluntly confess.

“Yep,” Hickok said. “I was the one who plugged Franky. My pards shot Franky’s cronies.”

Mousy glanced at his chums. “Did you hear this jerk?”

“Enough small talk,” Hickok stated. “I want you to take me to Giorgio. Now.”

Mousy snickered. “No way.”

“Take me or die,” Hickok said softly.

The spectators abruptly wanted to be somewhere else. They scrambled to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the imminent violence. All except for an elderly woman, who kept avidly sticking coins into her purse.

“Do you really think you can take on all four of us by yourself?” Mousy asked sarcastically.

“If you try and draw on me,” Hickok responded, “none of you will live long enough to touch your guns.”

“You smug asshole!” Mousy declared. “You’re history!” He grabbed for the pistol in a concealed holster on his right hip.

The other three mobsters also went for their guns. All three were experienced Enforcers, experts at their lethal craft. Each one considered himself fast and accurate. Each one had outdrawn opponents at one time or another. But not one had ever beheld the spectacular speed of the gunfighter in buckskins.

One moment Hickok’s hands were draped at his sides. The next, in a literal blur of consummate swiftness, the Pythons were out and leveled and blasting.

Mousy was hit high on the forehead by both slugs, the brutal impact catapulting him backwards into a blackjack table. He crashed onto his back, his arms outspread.

Hickok swiveled to cover the remaining three hit men. They were imitating trees, frozen in place with their limbs at odd angles, having turned to ice in the process of reaching for their weapons. Not one had managed to move their gun hand more than an inch. “What’s it going to be, gents?” Hickok asked. “Do you want to die?”

Each one shook his head.

“Then unlimber your hardware, real easy like,” Hickok instructed them.

“One wrong twitch and I’ll perforate your noggins.”

The mobsters carefully eased their handguns from their holsters and ever-so-slowly set the guns on the floor.

“Now back up three steps,” Hickok directed.

They obeyed.

Hickok heard a door slam and glanced at the far wall. A dozen mobsters were coming toward him, led by a tall man with a cleft chin, a beaked nose, dark eyes, and white hair, and wearing a gray suit. Many of the mobsters carried machine guns, and Hickok girded himself for a battle royal. He grinned, hoping he would acquit himself with honor.

“Don’t shoot!” the man with the white hair shouted. “Don’t shoot! We want to talk!”

The mobsters were over 40 yards off, but still advancing.

“That’s close enough!” Hickok called out.

The man with the white hair said something to his henchmen and they halted.

“What do we have to talk about?” Hickok yelled.

“We don’t want any more shooting!” the man with the white hair said.

“Can I come closer?”

“Come ahead,” Hickok replied.

The man with the white hair cautiously came toward the Warrior. He stared at Mousy’s corpse for several seconds, then at the patrons ringing the lobby. “My name is Kenney,” he said when he was within speaking range.

“You’re Giorgio’s right-hand man?” Hickok queried, recalling the comments Mousy made in the alley earlier.

Kenney nodded. He stopped, scrutinizing the gunfighter. “Who are you?”

“The handle is…” Hickok began, and paused. What name should he give? Blade had given a false name to that Enforcer because the Big Guy didn’t want Don Pucci to know the Warriors were in Las Vegas. Should he do the same? If he gave his real name, would Pucci find out? Did it even matter, since Blade and the others were in the Golden Crown rescuing Mindy? Maybe he should play it safe. “Earp. Wyatt Earp.”