Blood On The Strip

The few times Carlone Veretta had called Othello for a business meeting, it had meant some poor motherfucker was gonna die. He looked across the floor of the casino and lit his cigar with the butane cigar lighter he carried. He drew in the fragrant smoke and let it drool from between his lips. His dark eyes scanned the crowded floor for Carlone. He’d been friends with the new head of security for the Mandalay Bay casino for a short time. In that time, they’d gone through the shit together. Now their lives had settled down. Othello lived outside of Vegas with his wife Foxy. As far as he knew, Carlone was the only member of their little posse that was still in town.

The slightly older Italian man, dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit with light pinstripes, walked up to him. “You son of a bitch.” Carlone and Othello embraced with a lot of backslapping. Carlone took him by his broad shoulders and held him out at arms’ length. ‘You’re looking healthy, my friend.”

“I’ve put on a pound or two.” Othello chuckled darkly. He wasn’t hitting the gym as much as he had when he ran the streets on the regular. Nowadays most of his work was consulting on security details and homes for the incredibly wealthy and little-known.

“Let’s get a steak and talk.” Carlone turned and extended his arm towards the casino’s exit.

“I am a little peckish.” It was almost dinnertime and he’d had a light lunch, knowing Carlone only did business over food.

They walked to 3950, the steak and seafood house, and had no trouble getting a seat, even considering the crowds. The power of being one of the most important men in the building had its perks. They both ordered the Surf and Turf, and Carlone ordered a dry martini while Othello asked for a cup of green tea.

“On a health kick?” Carlone asked.

“It is good for you. Better if I’m gonna be working later.” He reached for the bread basket and buttered a roll.

They talked about life for a few minutes until their drinks arrived. Then Carlone’s face took on a darker aspect. “Madonn’, I ain’t gonna lie to you Othello. This is a big problem. One that I need someone I trust absolutely for.”

“You got a cheater or is someone going to rob the place?” Othello sipped his tea.

Carlone chuckled. “I can handle a cheater and if it was a thief, I could take that to the police or handle it in house. No, this is bigger than that. Someone is blackmailing some of my talent.” He looked up and held up his fist to break the conversation.

The waitress put their steak, lobster tails, and baked potatoes in front of them, adding a side plate of asparagus for Carlone and a small salad for Othello. Once everything was satisfactory, she disappeared.

The two men tasted a bit of everything, Carlone moaning as he chewed the lobster. Everything was amazing and done perfectly.

“Blackmail? Sounds like a job for the police. Why are you coming to me? Not that I mind at all.” Othello popped another piece of the rare steak into his mouth.

“The talent is a real chooch. He’s one of our singers. He was a big name, once upon a time, but his star has faded a little. Still, the owners love him. They wouldn’t want a whiff of this to get out. We take it to the cops…”

“And it’ll be on the front page the next day.” Othello noticed his friend’s martini was already gone. That wasn’t the Carlone he knew.

Carlone noticed him noticing. “Yeah, it’s making me drink a little. Stugots.” He shook his head. “But seriously, yeah this has me a little fucked up. I want to go take care of it myself. It’s what I’m used to, but I’m in a very high-profile job now. It’s one I love. I’m still getting used to it. And I don’t like asking for help, even from an old friend.”

“I understand. I’ll make this go away for you.” Othello poured more green tea from the little pot and handed the cup to Carlone. “Drink this. The caffeine will do you good.”

Carlone took the cup and downed it, making a sour face. “Fuck me.” He handed the cup back. “How do you drink that piss?”

“It takes some getting used to.” In fact, the man who was responsible for his real upbringing had taught him to love it, along with classical music, art, and philosophy. He was indebted to his adopted Father.

Carlone took a fat envelope from inside his jacket and handed it over. “Here’s the details and some walking around money.”

Othello took it without commenting about the payment. He didn’t need it but knew it was a matter of honor for the former consigliere. He opened the envelope and took out the few papers inside, ignoring the green and the photos. Then he put the envelope in his own inside jacket pocket. He read the threat, a photocopy of the original, and grimaced. Then he read a report Carlone must have put together. It was very detailed.

“This man is a piece of shit.” Othello tapped the report.

“He is, but he’s our piece of shit. And as far as you and I know, he’s been clean for twenty years. Maybe he has an accident down the road that you and I have a hand in. For now, we get rid of this embarrassment, yeah?”

It wouldn’t be the first time Othello had taken on a job involving a distasteful client. “Does he need a bodyguard?”

“Nah, I’ve got a detail on him. They’re good guys. Trained ‘em myself. Find the scum who’s doing this and make sure he doesn’t have anything solid. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings if he wasn’t around to call the cops later, but I leave that up to your discretion. Mainly, we want him not to be a danger to my talent.”

Othello nodded, folded the papers, and put them away. “Consider it done.” The two men resumed eating and talked about their adventures and life up till now.

Soon, Othello was back out in the warm Vegas night. It was time to do some digging. He didn’t have a lot to go on. The message was handwritten in block letters. It had an address for the money drop and when it needed to be delivered. They were asking for half a million by the day after tomorrow. Carlone had called him within hours of getting the blackmail letter, which made him feel pretty damn good.

He got into his Black Excursion and fired it up. The heavy SUV had blacked-out and bullet-resistant windows, armored panels, and the big V10 engine. It had come in handy a few times when he took on bodyguard work. He knew the streets of Vegas almost as well as he’d known the Chicago streets before he’d moved west. Finding his way to the drop point was easy enough. It was a seedy strip mall on the west side of town. Before he got out, he unlocked a hidden panel and took out the Smith & Wesson Model 686 Plus .357 revolver and the pair of brass knuckles he always kept in the truck. He also grabbed two speed loaders for extra ammunition.

It was a bit of a challenge, but he removed his jacket, slid into the shoulder rig for the large frame pistol, and pulled the jacket on again. The knuckles went into each pants pocket and the speed loaders into his left jacket pocket. Ready as he could be, he stepped out into the night. Most of the businesses that still operated were closed and had steel louvers drawn and locked over their doors. There wouldn’t be any tourists this far off of the strip, so there wasn’t much call for late-night hours. He locked the Excursion and started walking, pulling on a thin pair of leather gloves he took from his inside jacket pocket.

The pawn shop was the only place with any life to it. And it was here he would find the drop point. The instructions said to take a small safe out of hock, put the money into it, and then pawn it again. It even had the ticket, which Carlone had included in the envelope. He walked through the front door and took the place in. They had a central set of counters where it looked like any money changed hands. There were several shelving units around the outside walls, as well as racks to hold clothes and the less valuable items the shop felt comfortable leaving out.

“Good evening, sir. How can I help you?” A muscular white man stood behind the counter wearing a loud Hawaiian print shirt, red-blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Two other people in the store also wore similar shirts. Othello counted four customers.

“Actually, I do need some help. I need to get something out of hock.” He walked up to the counter and pulled out his ticket.

The man, whose name was Steve according to his nametag, took the ticket and frowned. “I’ll have to check and see if we still have this.”

“I hope you do. You’ve only had it for two weeks.” The date on the ticket showed when its owner had pawned it. “Don’t you have to hold it for thirty days?”

“Yes, sir. We do.” He looked at Othello and frowned again. “I’ll be right back.” Steve walked to the back of the store to a door marked Employees Only.

Othello walked over to the case where they kept their handguns. He was always on the lookout for a new pistol. Their selection was middling at best, and their prices were too high for what they had. It wasn’t too surprising, considering the clientele they served.

“Sir?” The big dude had stepped back out of the office.

Othello walked over to him, right hand in one pocket, fingers through the holes in the brass knuckles. “What did you find out?”

“Come with me. We have it, I believe. I just want to make sure it’s the right one.” He held his hand out for Othello to go through the Employee’s Only door.

Othello obliged. It led to a large storage area which included space for a few motorcycles, shelves that went to the ceiling, and a small office space to his right. He heard the scrape of metal on concrete and instinctively ducked.

The metal baseball bat whistled through the air where his head would have been. He spun in place, bringing his big right hand out of his pocket. His left one dove for the other set of knuckles. He wasn’t in punching distance. The bat and the dude’s long arms gave him a fair amount of reach.

“Who are you?” Steve took a step forward, the bat cocked over his right shoulder.

“Just a man who wants to pick up a safe. You gonna make this harder than it has to be?" Othello took a couple of steps forward. Now he was too close for the bat to be as effective as it would have been.

“It’s gonna be hard on you.” Steve swung the bat.

Othello, whose reflexes were still top notch despite his semi-retirement, launched himself forward catching the man’s hands squarely on the brass knuckles of his left hand. The bat dropped, and Othello stopped Steve's howl of pain with a right cross to his jaw.

Steve’s teeth clacked, and his head turned sharply. The punch was beautiful, but it was not the first time the big man had been hit like that. He didn’t shrug it off, but he also didn’t go down. He took a step back and launched a front kick.

Othello had expected to at least buy himself a second to follow with an uppercut, so the kick surprised him. It caught him in the stomach, winding him and making him stagger back a couple of steps. Steve had some big ass feet. Othello got back into a guard stance before his opponent could close.

Steve sent a flurry of jabs Othello’s way. Some of them made contact, but mostly on the hired killer’s shoulder.

Othello faked a jab of his own and snapped a kick he’d learned from his Muay Thai instructor at Steve’s groin. He wished he’d been wearing his steel-toed boots. It would have been more effective. But Othello’s feet were not much smaller than Steve’s and his shoes had a nice, hard point.

Steve howled at his crushed balls, and his hands flew to the damaged area.

Othello gave him a one-two punch that sent him to the concrete floor. As he watched the big man roll back and forth, he tucked away his knuckles and pulled his pistol. Then he squatted and waited till he had Steve’s attention. Finally, he tapped Steve on his forehead with the six-inch barrel.

“You listening?”

Steve nodded.

“Use your words.” He tapped Steve again.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“You’re not smart enough to be the blackmailer. It’s obvious you had to call someone. All you need to do for me is tell me who you called.”

“I can’t do that. They’ll kill me.” He opened his eyes and saw the gun for the first time.

“Motherfucker, if you don’t tell me, you’re not gonna live to see tomorrow.” He put the barrel against Steve’s nose and pulled the hammer back.

“You… you wouldn’t do that. They’d hear the gunshot.” Steve’s voice had developed a nasal whine.

“They would. Then they would run like hell. I’d put a few more holes in you. Then, I would pull your security tapes and fade into the night. Another brother in a city full of them.” He screwed the barrel into Steve’s nose hard.

Between the ache in his groin, the pain in his head, and the gun burrowing into his nasal passage, his eyes watered. “You could look at caller ID.” As if Othello didn’t know that.

“Motherfucker, I didn’t say ‘what number did you call', did I?” He moved the barrel of the gun to Steve’s ear.

“N-no, sir. I called the man who set this up.” The gun drilled into his ear canal. “I don’t know his name. He said to call him Jersey. Said when I got the money I was to take it to an address he gave me.” Steve rattled off the address. “I swear that’s all I know.”

Othello hauled him to his feet and dragged him to the stacks of detritus people had brought here to sell. He found some bungee cords and a ball gag. First he jammed the gag into Steve’s mouth and tightened the strap. Then, he used the bungee cords to tie his hands and feet to the racks. It wouldn’t hold him for long. Long enough for Othello to split. “You make any fuss before I leave, or call and warn these sons of bitches, and I will be back. You don’t want to know where I’ll stick this gun next.”

He brought the barrel in a short, sharp arc down on Steve’s temple. Then he ran to the office. He jotted down the number, then he smashed the phone with the butt of his pistol. The loading dock door let him out into the night, but not before he took Steve’s keys. That would make him think twice about going against Othello.

The SUV started up, and he let it roll lazily out of the parking lot, while he plugged the address into the GPS unit. It was closer to the strip, in what looked to be a group of houses. This was one of those situations where he wished he had a partner. He could call Carlone, but there was a reason the man wanted him to handle it alone. He didn’t want to accidentally get his name or the name of anyone involved with the casino attached to it.

Othello stopped the SUV a few blocks from the house in question and walked to the rear of the vehicle. Since he had known Veretta was going to ask him to work, he’d brought a few more toys. He opened the tailgate and removed a piece of the carpeting. His thumb covered the print sensor, and he heard the lock disengage.

Opening the floor safe, he cracked his knuckles. He removed his suit coat and hung it from a peg on the back of the seat. Then he removed the folded black leather duster from the safe. He pulled that on, relishing the weight of the Kevlar lining. He dropped a few flash/bangs in the outer pockets and some syringe speed loaders for the 12 gauge in specialized pockets on the inside front.

He still had his .357 and the speed loaders for it, but he wanted to bring the Remington semi-automatic shotgun with the thirteen-inch barrel. It was a real attention-getter. He slung it over his right shoulder and pulled out the last weapon he liked to take on missions. The Gurkha kukri knife had a twelve-inch long curved blade. He slid it into the scabbard sewn into the outside of the duster between his shoulder blades. He topped off his look with a black beret. Now, he felt appropriately dressed.

He buttoned up the SUV and set the alarm. Satisfied, he headed towards the house. This was a decent neighborhood, but not too tony. He would look a little out of place, a wraith dressed all in black. But he wouldn’t be visible for long. All these houses had back yards with privacy fences separating them, but the gates were easy enough to get over.

He stopped at the house next door to his target, glad to see the lights were out. The gate shook under his firm hand, but there was no answering bark. He tried the latch and it was locked. So with practiced ease, he put both hands on top and vaulted over. The ground was solid on the other side, and he made out some kids' toys as well as a nice little picnic table. The wooden table was solidly built. It made a useful step stool to look over the privacy fence once he dragged it in place.

The back door to the target’s house was brightly lit as was the entirety of the yard. They’d notice if the light went out, and if anyone was looking, a huge living shadow would stick out. He could take a risk that no one was paying attention, or he could try the second floor. Standing on the side gate would give him the height he needed to reach the eaves. He could pull himself up from there. There were no lights on upstairs. The only other option he could see was a full frontal assault. That would be noisy and he wanted to talk to this Jersey, before blowing him away.

He stepped off of the picnic table and thought for a couple of minutes. Once he had an idea, he stepped back up on the picnic table. Once things started rolling, the timer would start counting down. He left the shotty by his side and drew the pistol. Sighting carefully, he put two bullets in the window of the back door. The glass shattered, leaving most of it on the kitchen floor. Not waiting, he pulled the pin on one of the flash bangs and side-armed it at where the glass had been. With a throw that would have made Greg Maddux proud, it sailed through the hole.

Othello didn’t wait, holstering his sidearm and leaping the fence. His feet touched down as the bright flash, followed by the loud bang, woke up anyone in the house who had slept through the hand canon speaking up. Landing lightly on the balls of his feet, he had the shotty up and squeezed off two rounds at waist height. The door splintered, but it had to have a steel core. The lead slugs spattered against the metal sandwiched between two slabs of wood.

Shots rang out from inside the house, automatic fire, probably nine millimeter.

Othello threw himself forward as bullets hummed through the air where he had been standing. At least one snagged his duster’s collar. He fired two more slugs from a prone position at a dark shape in the kitchen door’s window.

A scream filled the night as one of the slugs found flesh. He came to his feet as an upstairs window busted outwards. He made it to the cover of the house’s eaves as their overwatch shot the ground full of holes.

He pressed the barrel of the shotty against the door’s locking mechanism and pulled the trigger. The brass and steel disintegrated under the lead onslaught. He spun away and grabbed one of the syringe reloads. Sliding it home into the shotty’s receiver, he grabbed the door’s handle and pulled as he squatted..

A man with a grievous shoulder wound, holding an MP5 in his right hand, stepped out and let off a fusillade at where Othello’s head should have been. One of Othello’s lead slugs tore through his jaw and into his brain.

He pulled the pin on his second flash/bang and tossed it through the doorway, before turning away.

“Gren-” The bang and eye-searing flash cut the word short.

Othello came through the doorway like an avenging spirit. One slug caught a mook in a cheap suit in his sternum.

The door to what must be the basement opened, and Othello caught a bullet in his chest plate. The shooter pulled the trigger on his Beretta three more times, but Othello had fallen to one side triggering the Remington twice. Slugs chewed through the wooden door and found the man behind it.

Othello knocked over the kitchen table and took up a spot behind it. As visual cover it would work nicely. Against bullets, it wouldn’t do shit. He waited. That was the hardest part. Someone would move first, and that person might give away their location. As far as he knew, he hadn’t killed the brains of the operation. These geezers all acted like your standard off the shelf button men.

“Who are you?” The voice had some confidence behind it. There was also a trace of Italy there, though it was filtered through Chi-town. Not Jersey, surprisingly.

“Doesn’t matter who I am.” Othello had one flash-bang left. It wouldn’t do any good yet. It sounded like Mr. Chicago was in the living room, hiding behind the wall. “What matters is, I’m here to send a message. You’re pissing in someone else’s pool.”

“Yeah? Maybe it’s my pool now. You tell your boss that.” Othello could make out muttering in Italian.

“My boss isn’t gonna like that.” He hooked the shoulder strap of the nearby MP5 with his foot and dragged it to him. It had half a mag left. That was good. He crouched, the pistol in his left hand and the auto in his right. “Tell you what, you pinky swear you'll leave the singer alone and I won’t kill the rest of you.”

When he heard the men laugh over the notion of pinky swearing, he stood up and unloaded the rest of the rounds from the MP5. There wasn’t anyone standing in the hall, but the effort wasn’t wasted in his mind. As the submachine gun let loose, he walked around the table and took up a spot to the right of the hallway. Then he slung the weapon over his shoulder. Keeping the pistol in his left hand, he drew the long knife from between his shoulder blades.

In the profound silence, Othello heard, “Andare!”

Rushed footsteps came towards his previous position, the goon in question leading with a handgun. Eight. Nine. Ten. The firing stopped and the gunman stepped out into the kitchen.

Othello brought the knife back and swung it like a tennis racket. His backhand had always been killer. The viciously sharp kukri sliced through flesh and vertebrae, sending the man’s head tumbling forward while blood shot to the ceiling.

Loud cursing filled the air along with the sound of at least one man retching. Othello leaned out and put two of the .357 Magnum slugs into the chest of the gangster was next in line. The bullets didn’t punch all the way through, their soft noses ballooning once they found their way into the target. They ruptured his heart, and gouts of blood shot from his mouth and from the massive chest wounds.

Knife dripping blood and pistol sweeping the air in front of him, Othello looked every inch the Angel of Death. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

A man in his early sixties, hair swept back and dyed the black of shoe polish, stepped out into the hallway with his hands up. “Jesus Christ. I give up. Please don’t kill me.” This was Mr. Chicago, all bravado gone from his voice.

Othello laid the edge of the kukri on Chicago's neck above the starched shirt collar. Any more pressure and it would start to slice the skin. He put the barrel of his pistol square in the middle of his forehead, the still hot barrel making Chicago flinch. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“I’ll pay you. I have money. And I’ll give you the blackmail stuff. Please, let me live.” Though his lips quivered and his hands shook worse than a dried-out drunk, he had enough self-control not to cry.

“Tell you what, man. You tell me where the money and the blackmail stuff are and I’ll let you go.” Othello grinned big.

“But you could just kill me then.”

“I could, but I won’t. See, I’m gonna let you live, and you’re gonna go back to your boss and tell them that the Mandalay Bay is off limits. If I killed you, they would send someone else.”

“Then they’ll still kill me and send a bigger crew down here. Either way, I die.”

“Well, since you put it that way.” Othello pulled the trigger, sending the 125 grain bullet through his head and into the wall behind him.

It didn’t take long to find the money or the blackmail materials. These men weren’t all that imaginative. They had run a couple of these scams on some other local entertainers. Judging by the million and a half dollars, give or take, they had been successful. He threw everything he felt like taking into a couple of gym bags they had and went back down to the kitchen.

The stove was gas. He lifted the top and blew out the pilot light. With all four burners on, it wouldn't take long for the place to fill with gas. He grabbed the phone book and some junk mail from the coffee table and tossed it in the trash can. It soon made a cheery little fire thanks to his cigar lighter. Then he hauled ass out the front door.

There were sirens in the distance, so he poured on the speed to get back to his Excursion. Before he'd made it thirty feet, there was a dull whoomph and a huge warm hand pushed him forward. Flying glass and other debris showered him, making him thankful again for the long coat he wore.

He barely had enough time to load up and drive away before the boys in blue arrived.

The next day he called Carlone to come to his place for lunch. He promised he’d make it worth his while. When the man walked into the sunken living room and saw the cash on the table he crossed himself.

“Madonn'. I send you out to keep someone from getting our half a mill and you come back with…” Carlone did some mental math. “That looks like a million five?”

“You don’t miss much.” Othello sipped his martini. “Now, I have some good news and I have some bad news.”

“Pour me a god damned martini and tell me the bad news first.” He sat in a recliner opposite Othello.

He poured his friend a drink and slid it over to him. “These boys came from Chicago. I called some friends back home and gave me the skinny.” He thumped a file folder on the coffee table beside the money. “I’ve got enough info here that I can be prepared for their arrival and enough money to hire some guns. But, here’s the good news. They were running this scam on at least six other people. Of those people, three paid.”

Carlone had downed his martini in one go and was chewing on the olive. “Which means they can’t link it directly back to us.” He nodded. “I knew you were the right man for the job.”

“What do you want to do?” He poured himself and Carlone another drink. Foxy was putting the finishing touches on lunch. He’d smoked some ribs and she made some collards and black eyed peas.

“You hang on to that money for the war chest. We’ll both put out some feelers to see if these Chicago boys come looking for trouble. If they start to nose around my place, we can start worrying. Yeah, spend a few bucks if you need any new toys and start gathering muscle just in case.”

“This man doesn’t need any new toys and he has all the muscle he needs.” Foxy stood at the top of the steps to the living room. “But, I guess if he’s going to help you, Carlone, he can do what he wants.” She smiled. “Now, you boys come on up and eat. Lunch is ready.”