David Robbins: Nevada Run

Should he waste the scuzz now or later? Johnny Giorgio glanced over his right shoulder at the source of his irritation and frowned. His diamond-shaped face, with its hard, cruel features, became even more severe. A flinty narrowing of his brown eyes accompanied a bunching of his bushy black eyebrows. He lifted his left arm and swiped at the bangs of his oily black hair.

“I still say this is the craziest damn idea you ever came up with,” Manzo complained for the umpteenth time. His rodent like countenance twitched as he spoke, his dark eyes flicking over the landscape on both sides of Highway 59. His dark brown suit, unlike Giorgio’s neat, black three-piece, was rumpled and in need of a washing.

Giorgio pursed his lips thoughtfully, his right hand resting on the machine gun in his lap, a Weaver Arms Nighthawk. He was tempted to order his driver to stop the jeep so he could show Manzo what happened to underlings who chronically complained, but he refrained for two reasons. First, he might need Manzo when he made the snatch. Secondly, he estimated they were within ten miles of their destination, and he didn’t want anyone from the Home to hear the gunfire.

No.

He would bide his time.

Play it real smart.

And rack the son of a bitch the first chance he got!

The two green jeeps, decades ago the property of the Nevada National Guard, continued northward on 59. A new road sign appeared on the right: HALMA. FOUR MILES.

Giorgio gazed at the road sign in perplexity. What the hell was this?

Was Halma inhabited? His snitch had never said nothing about Halma.

Manzo, seated in the rear of the jeep directly behind Giorgio, spotted the sign. “Look at that!”

“I see it,” Giorgio said calmly.

“You know what that means?” Manzo asked belligerently.

Giorgio twisted in his seat and stared at the two men in the back, Manzo and the other trigger man, lanozzi, who was sitting behind the driver. He focused his full attention on Manzo, composing himself so his anger was carefully concealed. “I know what it means,” he said in a quiet tone.

Ianozzi, a young man of 25 wearing a blue suit and tie, gazed at Giorgio for a few seconds, then casually placed both of his hands on the Mossberg Model 500 Bullpup resting across his knees.

“Why did we have to come so far?” Manzo queried, nervously surveying the woods bordering the highway. He failed to note the expression on Giorgio’s face. His fatigue and apprehension combined to make him careless. “Who cares what’s in Minnesota?”

“I’ve explained it to you many times,” Giorgio noted patiently.

Manzo scowled. “I just don’t like being this far from Vegas. We could have done this another way.”

“This is the best way,” Giorgio assured him. “Trust me.”

Manzo’s weaselly eyes shifted to Giorgio. “I trust you, Boss. You know that.”

“Do I?” Giorgio said. “I’m beginning to wonder.”

Manzo abruptly realized his mistake. He blanched and swallowed hard.

“Hey, no offense meant, Boss! I was just letting off a little steam. We’ve been on the road for over a week, and all the muties and creeps can get to a guy. You know how it is.”

“I know how it is,” Giorgio said.

Manzo mustered a weak grin. “I’m a little antsy, is all. All this nature shit makes me uncomfortable. I’m used to the casinos, the broads, and the booze. Hell! I ain’t been laid in over a week!”

“None of us have been laid since we left,” Giorgio observed. “But you don’t hear none of the other guys griping.”

Manzo voiced a feeble titter. “Don’t take it personal, Boss. I can’t help it if I’m edgy.”

“A wiseguy can’t afford to get edgy,” Giorgio noted. “You know the saying: If you blow your cool, you’re a fool.” He paused. “I don’t like fools in my organization.”

“It won’t happen again,” Manzo vowed. “I promise!”

Giorgio glanced at the other trigger man, Ianozzi. “Did you hear that, Ozzi? He says it won’t happen again.”

Ozzi’s green eyes brightened, his thin lips curling upward. “I heard it, Boss.”

The driver suddenly slammed on the brakes, causing the jeep to lurch slightly as it abruptly slowed.

Giorgio gripped the dash with his left hand for support. “What the hell are you doing. Sacks?” he demanded.

Sacks was gripping the black steering wheel tightly, his brown eyes on the highway ahead, his bulldog visage registering amazement. “Look! Up ahead!” He began to gradually accelerate.

Giorgio swiveled and faced front.

Highway 59 was awash with the bright May sunlight. Two hundred yards distant walked a quartet consisting of two men and two women, none of whom appeared to be much over 20 years old. One of the women was a blonde, the other a redhead. The blonde wore blue shorts and a faded yellow blouse; the redhead was wearing light brown pants and a green blouse. Both of the men wore jeans. One, the heftier of the pair, also wore a dark green T-shirt and carried a shotgun; the leaner of the men had on a brown shirt and was armed with a revolver in a holster on his right hip. All four were heading to the north, their backs to the approaching jeeps.

“Do we snuff ’em?” Manzo asked eagerly.

“No,” Giorgio replied. “Chill out and let me do the talking.”

Alerted by the roar of the jeep motors, the quartet had turned and were watching the vehicles draw ever nearer. The man with the shotgun hustled the others to the right side of the road, their expressions conveying their apprehension.

Giorgio gazed over his left shoulder and out the rear window, spying the second jeep 25 yards to the rear, the jeep containing three more of his best soldiers—Pete, Tommy, and Nicky—as well as most of their supplies, their food and water and spare gas.

“You want me to pull up next to them, then?” Sacks inquired.

Giorgio stared at his driver. Sacks was one of the old-time boys, and there were flecks of gray in his brown hair. Although Sacks was unquestionably loyal, his intellect was on a par with a turnip’s. “No,” Giorgio cracked, “I want you to run them over.” He paused. “Of course I want you to pull up next to them! How else am I going to talk to them?”

Sacks flinched and angled the jeep to the right side of the road.

“Keep your hardware out of sight,” Giorgio instructed his men. He slid the Nighthawk to the floor, then placed his right hand on the door latch.

The doors on the jeeps were canvas affairs with thin plastic windows instead of glass, and the windows did not roll down. He waited until the jeep stopped approximately five yards from the quartet before opening the door and stepping out, smiling broadly.

“Hello,” he greeted them.

The young men eyed him warily, the hefty one fingering the trigger of his shotgun, the lean one with his right hand on his revolver. Behind the men, the two women were clearly uneasy.

“Hello,” Giorgio said again. “I hope we didn’t scare you.”

The second jeep was coasting to a halt behind the first.

“Who are you?” the hefty youth queried anxiously. “What do you want?”

Giorgio deliberately maintained his friendly facade. He took a step away from the door, his hands at his sides to show he was unarmed and ostensibly not a threat. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re lost.”

“Lost?” the hefty youth repeated skeptically.

“Yes,” Giorgio lied. “We’re looking for a place called the Home. Have you ever heard of it?”

The redheaded woman grinned in relief. “I’m from the Home. Who are you?”

“You’re from the Home!” Giorgio stated in delight. “I can’t believe my luck! We’ve traveled so far to get here, all the way from Nevada.”