Houston Attack (18 page)

The showgirl with the thick auburn hair and long legs was gone.

Hawker was surprised at the disappointment he felt.

He liked women. He liked the smell of them, the feel of them, the deep throaty sounds they made in the ecstasy of bed.

But he had felt true emotion for very few of them. Hawker was honest enough with himself to admit that he used women for the pleasure they could provide him—just as the women he had been with used him.

There was seldom anything more than that. Women were a pleasurable necessity. Like fresh air.

Hawker turned from the balcony and went back into the canned chill of his room.

After unpacking, he dressed himself in gray cavalry twill slacks, a pale blue Royal Oxford shirt, a pair of glove-soft lamb's wool socks, then pulled on a cobalt doeskin flannel blazer.

In Las Vegas, a city of mobility and temporary relationships, Hawker knew first impressions were more important than in most places. He wanted to look moneyed without looking flashy. Once again he surprised himself as he realized that he really
was
wealthy. Not a millionaire. Not yet. But there was more money socked away in his Chicago account and his New Cayman Island account than he had ever dreamed of.

On his last assignment, he had become a partner in a south Texas oil company. Vice-president, in fact. His partners in the company knew nothing about drilling for oil. But they had something better going for them. They were lucky. Very damn lucky. And now they were all wealthy men.

Hawker thought it funny that he had found almost no use for the money. He cared little for the stuff. The one purchase he had made was that of a house on the wilderness southwest coast of Florida. A cypress house built on stilts on a broad tidal river.

He had yet to see the house.

But he liked the idea of having a place to go when he wanted to get away and fish or just be alone.

He had given a fair share of the money to friends as loans or outright gifts. That which was left over went into the bank accounts.

He sometimes wondered if he would live long enough to find a use for all the money.

When Hawker was finished dressing, he went into the suite's second bedroom. Jacob Montgomery Hayes had shipped his arsenal of equipment in wooden crates—by private courier, of course.

Hawker opened one of the crates and selected the two weapons he would never be without on this assignment.

The first was his Randall Model 18 Attack/Survival knife, made especially for Hawker by Bo Randall's craftsmen in Orlando, Florida. Hawker had used the Randall in more than one very tough spot, and he had full confidence in the weapon's integrity. He pulled up a slacks leg, strapped the custom-built scabbard over his calf-high sock and inserted the heavy knife.

The second weapon was a Walther PPK automatic. The Walther was small enough to wear unobtrusively in the spring-loaded shoulder holster beneath his sport coat. Yet, in nine millimeter, it had enough firepower with its eight-round detachable clip to be a solid man-stopper. The Walther had the expected drawbacks of every automatic handgun: it lacked killing range and accuracy, and there was always the chance it would jam.

But, as James Hawker knew better than most, every firearm was a compromise. The trick was to match the strengths of the weaponry to the demands of the assignment.

And this Las Vegas encounter, he knew, had to be a low-profile operation. He had to be able to blend into the gambling scene unnoticed, yet be able to sting the mob when the opportunity presented itself.

In Hawker's mind, keeping a low profile meant leaving no bodies for the police to find.

three

Hawker took the elevator down and stepped out into the casino hallway of the Mirage Hotel.

The hall was done in plush burgundy carpet and coppery velvet wallpaper.

The decor was suggestive of a San Francisco beer hall during the gold-rush days of the late 1800s. The furnishings were done in rich mahogany and polished brass.

Kevin Smith had explained the setup to him. There were five casinos in the Five-Cs complex. Each of the five ex-cops involved had invested his life savings to found a syndicate to build this small gambling center on the outskirts of downtown Vegas, east of the famous Vegas strip.

The plot of land they had developed was a twenty-acre wedge of sand and rank weed near nothing but a fast four-lane, Highway 95. The five cops had their own ideas about what Vegas casinos could be and they wanted their business separated from the famous Las Vegas both spiritually and physically. They had used the purchase of the land both as collateral and as a sign of their good faith. On that commitment, they had borrowed enough money to begin their syndicate.

They were well known in Vegas, well liked and trusted. They had no trouble getting backers. They built the five casinos in a semi-circle, with Captain Smith's, the largest, in the middle.

The Mirage.

But this casino was no mirage. It was a dream that had come true.

Each of the five casinos was different, reflective of the idiosyncratic personalities of the detectives who were the principal owners.

Kevin Smith was an Old West buff. Read all of Zane Grey. Collected antique weaponry. Liked the idea of his showgirls wearing heavy petticoats, dresses of scarlet satin and billowing plume hats. His casino emphasized the elegance of that era—particularly the feminine kind. Captain Smith had hired the most beautiful women in Vegas to dance the floor shows and work the casino.

One of the other cops was an outdoorsman. Liked hunting and fishing. He decorated his casino like an elite men's club: plush leather furniture, gigantic stone fireplaces, mounted tarpon and elk on the walls.

The other casinos were equally individualized. As a result, they seemed to attract a better and more loyal clientele.

As Hawker stepped into the hallway, he noted that there were times when even clientele of the highest class looked bad.

It was a Friday morning, but the haggard faces of the men and women in the casino said it was very late Thursday night.

In the casino, full-breasted waitresses in tight shorts and cowboy hats carried drinks on trays to the men and women hunched over the craps and blackjack tables. The casino's piped-in music was fast and jazzy.

There were no clocks on any of the walls.

In the front hall, a couple of dozen matronly women kept the slot machines busy. Bells clanked, lights flashed and the machines whirred. The women played with a religious intensity, stopping only to light cigarettes or get more change.

Hawker wondered how many of them knew that of the two billion dollars in winnings the Vegas casinos took in annually, the largest percentage of the money came not from the glamour games—blackjack and roulette—but from slot machines.

The billion-dollar shimmer of Vegas was fired by the nickels and quarters of America's matriarchs.

Straightening his tie, Hawker made his way down the hall to the front desk.

The desk was mahogany and brass. Behind it was a switchboard and two personal computer stations for handling reservations. Hawker jotted a note telling Kevin Smith his plans for the afternoon and asked the deskman for an envelope.

“You'll give this to Mr. Smith?”

The deskman's nod was as European as his accent. “Of course, Mr. Hawker. I'll deliver it personally. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Captain Smith said something about a car being at my disposal.”

“Anything you wish, Mr. Hawker. Those were our instructions.” The deskman allowed himself a sophisticated pause that seemed to be the equivalent of a smile. “Cars, food, chips for the casino … women—or whatever diversion you choose.” He shrugged humorously. “Of course, I can't provide you with a woman from the casino. Mr. Smith doesn't approve of that sort of thing and doesn't allow it—”

“I'll settle for just a car right now.”

“Would you like a car with a driver? Perhaps a nice tour of the city?”

“No. Just a car. And a map.”

“Of Las Vegas?”

“Of Nevada.”

“Ah!” There was the implication of a smile again. “I think we have just the vehicle for a day of touring.” He tapped the brass bell sharply. The bellboy wore the red double-breasted jacket and round red hat of a bellboy from the old days.

The deskman held out a set of keys. “Bring number six around from the casino car pool for Mr. Hawker. Make sure it's fueled and ready for a long drive.” He looked at Hawker. “Can we have the kitchen pack a lunch for you? Perhaps some cracked crab and a split of champagne on ice?”

“A car,” said Hawker, growing impatient. “All I want is a car.”

The deskman nodded at the bellboy. “You heard Mr. Hawker. A car right away!”

Hawker followed the bellboy outside and waited on the curb. The valets were men in their early twenties. They wore white dinner jackets. Hawker wondered how they kept from looking bored. He guessed it was because Captain Smith had ordered them not to.

Smith ran a tight ship. No doubt about that.

When the bellboy finally came with the car, Hawker did a double take.

“Are you sure that's the car I'm supposed to use?”

The bellboy grinned. “This is the one. Number six.” He held out the keys. “Some machine, huh, Mr. Hawker? Some French count or someone like that transferred the title to Mr. Smith to settle a gambling debt.”

“A gambling debt? How much did he lose?”

“I heard about twenty grand. I guess the car would be worth more than that, huh?”

Hawker ran his hand over the fender. It was a vintage twelve-cylinder Jaguar XKE convertible. Maybe a 1961 or '62. Midnight blue with light blue leather interior, all in absolutely mint condition.

“More,” said Hawker. “Considerably more, I would guess.”

“When Mr. Smith first took it in trade, he had a mechanic make sure it was in tip-top shape. Engine, brakes, tires, everything. Then he took it out on the flats to see what she would do. He never really said how fast he got her up to, but I saw him when he got back. His face looked kind of pale and his hands were shaking.” The bellboy laughed. “My guess was that he quit before this baby did. I'd say a hundred and sixty would be conservative. Gas was cheap back then, and they built 'em fast.”

Hawker slid in behind the walnut veneer and the bank of gauges.

The convertible canvas was down and the car smelled of fresh leather.

He shifted into first and touched the accelerator. The bank of mufflers burbled huskily as he drove out of the parking lot, around the circle that connected the five casinos and onto the main road.

It was a spring day in Nevada. High, clear sky of the palest blue. A dry wind blew across the sand flats, cooled by the distant mountains of Toiyabe Range.

The wind whipped through Hawker's dark red-brown hair as he drove. Once he was on the open road, he had to suppress the adolescent urge to flatten the accelerator and see just how fast the Jag really would go.

Instead, he kept it at a comfortable sixty-five.

There was too much on his mind to concentrate on high-speed driving.

Kevin Smith had told him a little about the problems they had been having. There had been telephone threats. Some careful vandalism. One of his associates, Charlie Kullenburg, had been beaten almost to death. And Barbara Blaine's boyfriend had disappeared.

Hawker had pressed for all Smith knew about Jason Stratton, the young man who, in Barbara Blaine's opinion, had been murdered.

Stratton was an outsider. Something of a hermit. Lived in a mountain cabin on a secondary road that led to Kyle Canyon. Liked classical music, good books and intelligent talk. Stratton pieced together a livelihood by operating a backroom biological specimens wholesale business.

He collected insects, snakes, fossils and sold them to the universities.

Stratton also made a little money as a watercolor artist and as a pulp fiction writer.

It was an odd love affair: an intellectual recluse and the proprietor of a whorehouse.

Hawker doubted there was anything to gain by visiting Stratton's cottage. The local cops had already gone over it—but not as carefully as they probably would have if there'd been a corpse involved.

Stratton had been listed as a missing person.

In Las Vegas, people turned up missing every day of the year. Usually by choice.

So Hawker doubted if the cops had given the place a thorough search. At least he hoped they hadn't, because it was really the only thing he had to go on.

At State Route 157, he turned southwest, then left again onto a dirt road. According to Captain Smith's directions, Jason Stratton's cabin wasn't far.

The mountains were ahead of him now, cool and smoky blue in the distance. He had passed no cars for some time, so he noticed immediately when the black Datsun 280Z came charging out behind him, blasting a plume of red dust.

The Datsun surged right up behind him, disappearing in the dust wake of Hawker's Jag.

Hawker backed off on the accelerator, figuring it was some teenager who wanted to race. Some acne-faced kid who, like too many adult male drivers, used the gearshift as an extension of his libido.

He expected the Datsun to pass, but it didn't. Instead, it edged right up behind and nudged the Jag's bumper.

Hawker's face tightened and he swore softly. He glanced at the speedometer. He had slowed to forty-five. Even at that speed, the nudge on the bumper caused him to fishtail slightly.

He slowed even more, pulling off the dirt road to the right a little to give the Datsun one more chance to pass.

Instead, it smacked him in the rear bumper again.

Hawker knew then. He knew it was no teenager out for a joyride. He knew that somehow the mob had found out about his arrival, and about his plans to search Jason Stratton's cabin.

This was no childish encounter on a mountain road. This was an assassination attempt. A matter of life and death.

Calmly Hawker reached beneath his jacket and placed the Walther PPK in the bucket seat beside him. He glanced over his shoulder to see how many men were in the Datsun, but the dust squall thrown by the Jag made it impossible to tell.