High Stakes Gamble

Book 3 Mosquito Creek Detective Club - Chapter 1...

CHAPTER ONE

Smooth Operator

Saturday, May 22, 1998

Dear Patrick,

            As you can tell by the date it’s nearly the end of May. We’re all hoping for a real quiet and uneventful summer because this spring the mayor’s younger brother showed up right after Easter a couple of months ago – and nothing will ever be the same again…But everything began much earlier.

Friday, April 4^th… AM.                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

            “Hit me.”

            The dealer slid a third card from the shoe. From years of practice, she snapped it face-up on the felt covered table.  The card showing was an eight of clubs. Beside the eight of clubs there were two other cards, both face down.

            The dealer slid a third card for the casino, face up. The card was a six of hearts. “The House stays.” Said the dealer. There was no expression in her voice, or on her face.

            The player studied his stack of chips.  He slid two stacks of five chips to the middle of the table.  “Hit me again.”

            The dealer guided another card from the shoe. She placed it face up beside the player’s first three cards.  The player’s fourth card was an ace of hearts. “Nineteen, or nine.”

            The player could barely contain a grin as he pushed all his remaining chips to the center of the table.  He felt the deck was with him this time.  “Hit me.”

            The dealer placed a fifth card face up beside the others.  This card was the four of spades. “Bust, or fourteen showing.”  The dealer’s voice was still monotone.

            The player nudged his date, who stood directly behind his left shoulder. “Throw in your lucky chip and the others we won from the wheel.

She hesitated a moment. She was bored and wanted to leave to eat but knew she looked fabulous in her sleek new silver dress. A small crowd was watching them. Slowly she began to open her matching evening bag.

Impatient, the player snatched the purse shaking out all the contents onto the middle of the table.

  Startled and annoyed, she grabbed her spilled compact, a tube of lipstick, a comb and a small coin purse that fell out with the betting chips.

            “I’ll stay.” The player tapped the two cards in front of him that were still face down.

            The dealer turned over the casino’s two cards. “The House has eighteen.”

            “Close. Very close.” The player nodded. “But not close enough! Blackjack! Five cards under twenty-one and these little beauties add up to n-i-n-e-t-e-e-n!”

            The player had just won twenty-three thousand dollars.

  In a flash his date was no longer bored, and her hunger was forgotten. She and her glimmering silver dress began to shake as she squealed with delight. Then with quick, sweeping movements she started to scoop up the chips from the center of the table into her evening bag, but her date stopped her.

            The dealer filled in the amount then signed the winnings card for the player to redeem at the cashier’s window.  The onlookers who had gathered to watch, applauded then moved to other tables.

            The loud applause caught the attention of two casually dressed men who had just walked into the lobby of the MissFortune Hotel. They followed the sound to the doorway of the casino. By the time they were inside the applause had stopped.

            With skillful purpose the men split up. The first man wore a tropical shirt with yellow and red flowers, tan shorts and sandals. He made his way to the cashier’s office to watch the people as they came to redeem their winnings. The second man wore a blue golf shirt, white shorts and canvas loafers. He sauntered through the crowd between the gambling tables, to search for big winners who might be moving on to play another game.

            There was a short line of three people at the cashier’s window when yellow-shirt reached the office area.  All three people in line had their backs to him but he recognized the last man in line.  He had sandy-brown hair, slightly taller than the two people ahead of him and he wore a gray velvet tuxedo. The young woman with him was a tall slim blonde wearing a silver dress.

            Two beefy, uniformed guards with the hotel emblem on one chest pocket were very visible. Both guards were the size of small buildings and armed with shotguns so, yellow-shirt decided to wait.

            As he watched, he keyed in a code number in his pager then pulled a gambling credit application card from the brochure container and pretended to fill in the blanks. With his back turned to the room, the blackjack winner in the gray velvet tuxedo and his silver date walked right by yellow-shirt.

            Blue-shirt was already waiting in the lobby when velvet-tuxedo and silver-dress came through the casino doorway, heading for the restaurant. Yellow-shirt was right behind them.

            Like a carefully rehearsed dance step blue-shirt and yellow-shirt hooked arms with the couple. “Aw Bruce, it’s so nice to see you again.” Blue-shirt spoke as he and his partner muscled the surprised couple down a short hall then out of a side door that opened to a side street.

            When the foursome burst into the sidewalk, they squinted against the glare of the sun. It was six a.m. and though the city of Reno never slept, the street had few pedestrians.

            Bruce Peters recovered quickly. “Hey, I was coming to see Paul, right after we had something to eat. See.” He held up a gold-colored plastic bag that looked like he bought a souvenir at the hotel gift shop. “I just won almost a third of his money.”

            Yellow-shirt jerked the bag from Bruce Peter’s hand.

            Then silver-dress found her voice. “You told me we were going to Hawaii!”

            Blue-shirt stood with his hands folded across his chest, while yellow-shirt checked the contents of the plastic bag.

            “Did he really?” Blue-shirt smirked.  “Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. What should we do with you?” He made a quick check of the road traffic and three people walking on the opposite side of the street. “We hate to mess up your budding romance here but either you lied to this nice gal about your previous obligations to Mr. Fedori - or, you just lied to us…”

            “There’s twenty-three thousand even in the bag.”

            Silver-dress swung her evening bag at yellow-shirt’s head.  He ducked. “Listen goat breath,” she glared at both him and blue-shirt. “Half that money’s mine.  I don’t care what you do with his half.”

             Blue-shirt shook his head. “Brucey, I do believe your gal is breaking up with you.” Then he looked at silver-dress. “Now disappear toots – or we’ll take your shoes and make you walk on the hot cement barefoot.”

            “What!” Silver-dress swung her purse again.

            Yellow-shirt caught her wrist.  Bruce Peters saw his chance. He spun around shouldering blue-shirt who stumbled and fell backwards.  He pushed silver-dress into yellow-shirt and then he ran.

            And he ran.

And he ran…

Midway down an alley, Bruce Peters darted behind a dumpster grabbing the handle for support.  Pain shot across his chest in quick, successive jabs. He struggled to keep from passing out.  It felt as if his lungs would explode.

            Sucking air, he got his bearings as he realized where he was. Bruce Peters had run almost the full distance of the entire strip from the MissFortune Hotel to the north end of Reno to 4^th street, just south of the Nevada State Fairgrounds and Interstate 80.

            Sweat from his forehead ran down to his eyebrows, followed the slight arch of short hair then slid down his temples to his cheeks where it dripped off his quivering jaw. The white silk shirt under his gray velvet tuxedo jacket, stuck to him like another layer of skin.

            Testing his wobbly knees, he pulled himself up slowly still clinging to the dirty metal box. The desert sun seared everything, even this early in the morning.

            Bruce had no illusions that he had managed to evade the two hired thugs. Paul Fidori paid several such people all over the city. None of them had to run in the heat.  They could call ahead, use their cars and motorcycles then close in. His only option was to get out of the city – now.

            The smell of fried food mingled with petrol fumes told him the dumpster he had used to avoid detection was behind a restaurant and gas station. Checking the alley to his left then his right, Bruce stood. He smoothed his hair and pulled on his jacket then moved to his left staying close to the wall of the cement block building.

            Keeping a careful watch behind him he peeked around the corner and as trucks, holiday trailers and motor homes in the parking lot lined up waiting to refuel at the gas pumps. Bruce made a check of the time on his pocket watch. It was eight minutes to seven.

            He eased back the way he had just come and made another nervous search of the alley one more time. It was still deserted but for a lone orange tabby.  She was perched on top of a large cardboard box engaged in a serious grooming ritual.

            Bruce heard the diesel engine of a transport truck gear down. There was a choke of dual air brakes then the truck stopped. He watched as the driver leaped out of the cab then thumped his tires as he walked around the full length of the trailer. There was a flash in Bruce’s memory. Something about the driver looked familiar. The driver was tall and slim with coffee colored skin and a thin mustache.  But he could only see a small part of the driver’s face from the side and the recollection was fleeting.

            The brim of the driver’s golf cap was pulled low over his forehead and the dark sunglasses obscured his eyes as he carried a large metal thermos with him into the restaurant coffee shop.

            Using a truck loaded with framed windows as cover, Bruce Peters walked to where the first truck had stopped at the edge of the parking area. He tried the driver’s door not visible from the restaurant windows – but it was locked.

            The truck engine was still running so he knew it was heading somewhere via highway I-80. He had a buddy directly north in Winnemucca and another friend further northeast in Elko. They were only a few hundred miles away if he could just get there.

            He took a deep breath to keep the panic at bay.  There was no place to stowaway between the truck and the trailer.  Then at the end of the open trailer he saw a small sliding gate. The floor of the trailer was four feet off the ground.  The gate was another three feet above that level.

            As he studied the gate closer – the rapid arrival of another vehicle caught his attention. A burgundy Mercedes limousine dashed around the corner from the access lane and made a wide sweep into the gas bay section away from commercial fueling.

            One lone minivan was fueling at the pump just fifty feet away. That sole vehicle was the only cover between Bruce Peters, cowering by the rear of the transport truck – and Paul Fidori’s familiar car.

            Alarmed, Bruce gripped the lower rail of the gate.  He pulled himself hand over hand, up and over the top of the gate. As he twisted through the narrow opening, he lost his handhold and fell to the floor of the cargo trailer.

            His awkward, sudden entrance startled the other passengers.  Shuffling hooves was the background beat to a chorus of disapproving moos.  Bruce jumped up to face twelve wary, Black Angus yearlings.  He had been so consumed with his get-away that he hadn’t noticed the truck transported livestock.

            On his feet and regaining some of his composer, Bruce patted hot, sweaty hides as he moved to the middle of the cargo area never taking his eyes off Paul Fidori’s car.

            Between the metal slats of the trailer, he saw three men climb out of the Mercedes. Blue-shirt headed for the parked vehicles on the far side of the restaurant. Yellow-shirt went into the building. A third man wore a white dress shirt.  He remained by the limousine slowly scanning the details of all activity around the gas bar.

            Suddenly white-shirt moved.  He walked to the gas pumps and started to check each parked car, truck, and van. With each ticking second white-shirt made his way closer to the idling livestock truck.

            The contrast between his grimy, gray jacket and the black calves would make it easy to spot him.  As quickly as his hot, sticky body would let him he peeled off his jacket and turned it inside out.  He hoped the green and black paisley lining would make it more difficult to see him.

            The calves watched the new creature, with their ears twitching in mild interest.

            White-shirt came around the back of the minivan.

            Abruptly the truck trailer jerked forward.

            Bruce went down face first.

             Amid shuffling hooves and the stuff that confined cattle tend to drop, Bruce quickly recovered to a sitting position but stayed low. Bruce never took his eyes off of the man wearing the white shirt, who looked directly at the livestock trailer.

            White-shirt watched the slowly departing truck. He scanned the trailer from front to back but all he saw between the open spaces of the metal, support slats were fury black cattle.

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