LOU'S TATTOOS

Chapter 32: SUNDAY NIGHT

Evening shadows curled themselves around the grassy landing strip outside of Moab, like a black dog settling in for the night. Randall, in his rattletrap van, pulled into the pitted dirt lot behind the metal shed that served as Moab's "airport" terminal. He turned off the van, but it persisted in chugging six more times before going silent. When the vehicle finally stopped vibrating, Randall left the van, carrying his gear, and strode into the shed.

By the light of a scrawny bare light bulb in the center of the ceiling, Randall saw a quartet of mismatched chairs that might well have been scrounged from roadside trash piles. His hired pilot looked up from one of the chairs and put down his coffee cup. He also laid a folded USA Today newspaper on an adjacent chair.

"Ah, there y'are," groaned the pilot, raising himself stiffly to his feet. "Well, let me go to the can, and we'll be takin' off momentarily."

"Whenever you're ready," Randall said. He leaned over and picked up the pilot's abandoned newspaper. "The sooner we leave, the sooner I can get a lot of arrangements made back home in Miami..." (he spotted Fritz's photo labeled "the reclusive Galen Randall...), "where I will promptly be killed."

From beyond the flimsy restroom door, the pilot soothed, "Oh, no, I think that's mostly media hype. All big cities are dangerous; Miami's no worse than any other."

Randall spoke to heaven, "Please, please, please, let Meriweather not see this!" Then to himself he murmured with alarm, "Maybe Fritz wasn't visiting at the cemetery when I tried to call him! I know her. She'd get us both." He looked at Fritz's picture and shook his head in mourning.

Sunday night in Las Vegas was just as hectic, glittery, crowded, and loud as every other night of the week. Casinos never closed, and the bells of slot machines tinkled and clanged in syncopated rhythm without end. Security was, of course, extremely important to casino operators, since in the huge, dimly-lit arenas striped with rows and rows of machines and gaming tables, the gambling public was easy prey for pickpockets, scammers, and other nefarious types. And then there was the question of cheating. Someone always thought they had found a way to manipulate a game sufficiently to remove the casino's built-in advantage. They seldom succeeded. Buddy Petruccio was one of the reasons they didn't.

Buddy Petruccio had the morals and the mindset of an old-time mafia hitman, but in the mid-1990s those "wiseguys" were no longer running Las Vegas. Buddy wore a suit and tie and looked more like a banker than a casino security chief. He reported to a casino manager, who reported to a corporate vice president, who reported to an offsite corporate president, who reported to a board of directors representing the interests of the casino's thousands of stockholders.

Las Vegas had become the playground of big corporations. One newspaper columnist had written that Vegas "runs just like Disneyland," which was something one could never have said back in the mobbed-up 1970s.

As casino security chief, Buddy Petruccio had one major flaw: Now and then someone managed to scam the casino and walk away. The corporate types were angry, of course, but they wrote off the loss in a businesslike way and carried on. Buddy's pride would not let him forgive and forget, though. Buddy would, on his own personal time, find the cheating rat and carve him up in creative ways. This was how Buddy had earned his nickname, Buddy the Blade. His work was well known on both sides of the law, but he had never been convicted of a crime. Witnesses and evidence were scarce in any case allegedly involving Buddy the Blade.

Corporate Las Vegas preferred to handle grievances through civilized, legal channels. They knew that if a hint of underworld activity or organized crime touched their casino, they could lose their licensing and be out of business. And the law would prevent them from getting a casino license ever again. So, naturally, any alleged slicing and dicing of cheaters by Buddy the Blade was frowned upon by the board of directors, the offsite corporate president, the corporate vice president, and the casino manager. It was up to the last officer on that list to convey their corporate displeasure to Buddy in person.

Any normal person would be understandably worried about getting on Buddy's bad side, but Buddy's boss had worked with The Blade for many years and was known to be a tough character in his own right. So he was calm, cool, and collected when he called Buddy into his office on that Sunday night.

When Buddy entered the office, his footsteps soundless on the thick, velvetty carpet, the two men exchanged friendly greetings and shook hands. Buddy took a chair across the desk from his boss and quickly gave a succinct report of activities on the casino floor in recent hours.

The boss received the report with a nod of approval. "Good job, as always, Bud," said the boss.

"Thank you, sir," Buddy said and leant forward as if to rise from his chair.

"Before you go," the boss said with a stay-there gesture, "I need to tell you somethin'."

Buddy sat back in his chair and raised an eyebrow curiously.

"It's about what happened in Miami," the boss said.

"Don't worry about it. I was on my own time, didn't tell nobody where I was, and I didn't leave no evidence behind. Miami ain't gonna come back to bite us."

"Yeah, you told me. And up to now it's been just between you and me. But a local cop called the human resources department, asking questions on behalf of a brother cop in Miami. Questions like when you were on vacation, or on sick leave, or on a business trip."

"Okay. What did Human Resources tell 'em?"

The boss shrugged. "Oh, well, of course they said Mister Petruccio has a perfect attendance record. There's nothing on their books that indicates you've taken a day off since Reagan was president."

Buddy's shoulders relaxed at this. "All right, then. No problem."

The boss looked down at his desk for a moment. "I need to be clear about this, Bud." He looked up and fixed Buddy with a steady stare. "Nobody, especially not me and not the Board of Directors, is telling you to, uh, do anything to anybody. I'm just sayin' you don't want your name connected to any criminal investigation, especially if it's the kinda crime that puts the thought of 'mob' or 'mafia' or 'organized crime' in the mind of licensing authorities. I'm just sayin' if you spill crap on the carpet, you need to clean it up. All of it. Are we clear?"

Buddy stood and nodded slowly. "Clear. Say no more."

"Good," said the boss. "I'm sure you'll do what's needed. Goodnight."

"G'night, boss," Buddy said and strolled casually from the room.

~o~~o~~o~

A/N:  Rats! Does this mean Buddy the Blade is planning a trip to Miami sometime soon? If so, will Lou's biker friends in Miami protect her? What will Randall do?  

In Chapter 32, Monday Morning, Randall will have to face the wrath of Meriweather! Has she killed Fritz already? Will Randall survive the meeting?  See you next time.

Thanks for the votes and the comments. They mean more than you imagine.