Vegas Moon

II

Lucky needed to…not panic. He tried not panicking for awhile, but his heart was racing a mile a minute. He decided to think, instead. Okay, so he needed to make some calls.

Several calls. How many, exactly?

Three.

But who first?

Phyllis? His wife Gwen? Mob boss Carmine Porrello?

Phyllis’s cell phone went unanswered. When he called her office, a cop said, “This is Detective Scrapple. I’m logging calls for Dr. Willis. Could you state your name, please, and your relationship to Dr. Willis?”

Lucky hung up. He knew it was a stupid thing to do, since Phyllis’s cell phone records would show he was the last person she called before her murder. Assuming she’s dead.

Assuming?

Of course she’s dead! Or she’d have called him.

Damn good thing I can prove I was in Jamaica when it happened, he thought. Of course, the details of his affair with Phyllis might come to light. Then again, beyond the cold shoulder he could expect from Gwen, a public affair could enhance his reputation as a lady’s man. A plus, in a town like Vegas.

If Lucky was anything, he was lucky. He calculated the odds of surviving Phyllis’s murder relatively unscathed, and put them at 12 to 1.

Connor Payne was a different matter.

Did Phyllis tell him about Lucky’s connection to the device? If so, Lucky and Gwen were both in danger.

Lucky called Gwen’s cell.

No answer.

He tried their home.

No answer.

This was a problem. If Gwen’s cell phone was operating, her voice message would have come on. He caught himself wishing he’d taken Gwen to Jamaica. It would’ve been nice to have a friendly face here, but he’d wanted to sample the local talent. He didn’t get far with the Jamaican women, though. In fact, he never got started. Because by the time he landed he was already shitting blood through his shorts. After gagging everyone in first class and then baggage claim, Lucky caught a cab and went straight to the hospital. After a day of tests and prep, they scheduled his colonoscopy. Welcome to the Islands, indeed, Lucky thought.

His third call got a response.

Mob boss Carmine “The Chin” Porrello couldn’t wait to take Lucky’s call. He’d been trying to infiltrate Lucky’s sports betting empire for years. But so far, Lucky had managed to resist the charms of doing business with the mob.

“What’s up?” Carmine said.

“You know this hit man, Connor Payne?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Really?”

“Really. Why you askin’?”

“He might be after me.”

“Sounds like you got a problem.”

“I need a body guard.”

“If your boy’s for real, none a’ my people are gonna want the job.”

“I just need a name. Who’s the best hit man in the business?”

“By business, you mean the family?”

“No. In the world. Is there someone who’s considered the best in the world?”

“Only one can be the best. But you’ll never get him.”

“Why?”

“He don’t need the money.”

Lucky said, “You give me the name, I’ll get him to work for me.”

“Things like this ain’t free.”

“You can’t give me a flippin’ name?”

“Not this name. Not for free.”

“Fine. How much?”

“Ten.”

“Ten grand? For a name?”

“Yeah, that’s right. But it’s a helluva name. Someone asks you for it, you can get your money back.”

“Yeah, but ten g’s?”

“Ten. Nothing less.”

“Fuck. Okay, done. What’s the name?”

Carmine’s voice went low. “My part ends when I say the name. You don’t tell no one I gave it to you, capisca?”

“Fine. What’s the name?”

Carmine paused, as if looking around before saying it. “Donovan Creed,” he whispered.

“What’s his number?”

“What? You think I know his fuckin’ number?”

“What’d I just pay you ten large for, if not his number?”

“His name, asshole.”

“How am I going to find his number?” Lucky said.

“That’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“Five more.”

“You gotta be shitting me.”

“Let me tell you somethin’, Lucky.”

“Yeah?”

“When someone wants this man’s name and number, they’re humpin’ their last chicken.”

Lucky paused. “I don’t have any idea what you just said.”

“Ah, shit. I’m gettin’ old. There’s an expression in there somewhere. I just can’t remember the fuckin’ thing. You want the number, or what?”

“Yeah, fine.”

Carmine gave a number.

“What’s this, his cell phone?”

“No. Sal Bonadello’s.”

“Who the fuck is that?” Lucky said.

“The guy that can get you Creed.”