Nevada Run

CHAPTER FOUR

“Looks innocent enough to me,” Hickok mentioned.

Blade kept his foot on the brake, still uncertain of the wisdom of stopping. The SEAL was idling on Highway 93 approximately 400 yards south of Contact. The town had appeared to be deserted, although several of the buildings had exhibited evidence of recent habitation; the doors and windows on three of the homes had been intact and clean, and one of the yards had sported a flower garden.

“What are we waitin’ for?” Hickok queried impatiently.

Blade sighed. To their right was a gravel drive leading to a newly painted white structure. MA’s DINER was painted in bold black letters on a wooden sign perched over the front entrance. Four vehicles were parked outside, prewar-model cars in surprisingly fine condition. “One of us must stay in the SEAL with the doors locked,” he mentioned.

“I’ll do it,” Geronimo volunteered.

Blade took a right, slowly approaching the diner, thankful the SEAL’s tinted plastic body enabled him to see out but prevented anyone from viewing the interior. If hostile eyes were peeking from the diner windows, they would be unable to ascertain how many were in the transport. He pulled into a parking spot between a vintage Ford on the left and a Chevy on the right, then turned off the engine.

“Are we takin’ the long guns?” Hickok queried.

“Of course,” Blade responded. “It doesn’t pay to get too overconfident.”

Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “How about passin’ them up here, pard?”

Geronimo turned in his seat. On top of the pile of provisions in the rear section were four different firearms. One was a Navy Arms Henry Carbine in 44-40 caliber, Hickok’s favorite rifle. Next to the Henry was Blade’s machine gun, a Commando Arms Carbine, a fully automatic 45-caliber firearm with a 90-shot magazine. Also on the pile was Helen’s weapon, an Armalite AR-180A Sporter Carbine. Geronimo handed each of the guns to the proper party, then took hold of his Browning BAR. All of the firearms the Warriors used came from the enormous armory the Founder had stocked in one of the concrete blocks at the Home.

“Keep the doors locked,” Blade reiterated as he took hold of his door handle.

“I will,” Geronimo promised. “What if you do run into trouble in there? If I hear gunfire, should I come on the run?”

“You don’t budge from the SEAL no matter what,” Blade directed. “The transport might be virtually impervious, but I’m not taking any chances.

You stay here and guard the SEAL.”

“Okay,” Geronimo said reluctantly. “If I see anything suspicious while you’re inside, I’ll sound the horn.”

“Good idea,” Blade stated. He looked at Hickok and Helen. “Are you two ready?”

“I was born ready,” Hickok declared.

Helen simply nodded.

Blade opened the door. “I’m leaving the keys in the ignition,” he informed Geronimo. “If something does happen to us, you can drive off.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” Geronimo said.

Blade jumped out, waited for Helen to join him, then slammed the door.

Hickok closed his door and ambled around the front of the SEAL. “Do you smell what I smell?” he asked them.

The mouth-watering aroma of cooking food filled the dusty air.

“Smells like steak,” Helen commented.

“We’d best be on our guard,” Hickok said sarcastically. “These hombres could be fryin’ a steak just to trick us, to lure us into their trap!” He chuckled.

“Keep it up,” Blade admonished, and led the way up to the front entrance.

“I hear music,” Helen said.

Blade heard it too. A man singing in a wailing, heart-wrenching style.

He caught a few of the lyrics.

“…your cheatin’ heart…”

Blade grabbed the doorknob and pulled the brown wooden door wide open, then swiftly stepped inside, to the right of the doorway, flattening his broad back against the wall and leveling the Commando.

“Howdy, stranger!” a woman called out. “Welcome to Ma’s!”

Blade surveyed the diner. On the opposite side of the room was a counter running the length of the one-story building. Behind the yellow counter were two people, an elderly matron with gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a jowly jaw, and a tall man with black hair and a toothpick in his mouth. Both of them wore white clothes, including an apron. There were ten tables in the diner. At a table to the right sat three men dressed in ragged jeans and flannel shirts, cups of coffee before them. And at another table to the left of the door was a short, obese man in a grimy blue suit and a woman with bright red lipstick coating her thick lips and too much rouge on her cheeks. She was wearing a red dress.

None of them appeared to be armed.

“Howdy!” the matron repeated. “Come on in! Ain’t no one here going to bite you!” She smiled in a friendly, sincere fashion.

Hickok walked through the door as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

He took a look around and grinned. “Yep. Definitely a trap.”

“You won’t need that hardware, son,” the matron said, nodding at Blade’s Commando. “Our muffins don’t usually fight back.”

Hickok laughed.

Blade slowly lowered the Commando and advanced toward the counter.

The men on the right and the couple on the left watched him for a moment, then suddenly shifted their attention to the doorway. Blade looked back.

Helen had just entered the diner, her Carbine cradled in her arms. She scanned the room and followed Blade.

“Howdy,” Hickok said, grinning at the couple to the left. “How’s the food here?”

“Delicious,” the woman answered. “Try the steak. I recommend it highly.”

“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do,” Hickok said, stepping toward the counter.

Blade moved to within four feet of the matron. “Hello. We could use a bite to eat.”

The matron beamed. “That’s what I’m here for. They don’t call me Ma for nothing. Tasty food and service with a smile. That’s what everyone gets at my place.”

Blade angled his body so he could keep an eye on the three men and the couple. “How long has your place been open?”

“Oh, about four years,” Ma said. “Give or take a month.”

“You get much business here?” Blade casually inquired.

“Enough,” Ma replied. “We don’t see much traffic heading north, but we do see a lot going toward Vegas. They’re the bulk of my trade.”

Hickok reached the counter and rested the Henry on top. “Howdy, Ma. Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Why, thank you, sonny,” Ma responded. “You sure are polite. What’s your name?”

“The handle is Hickok,” the gunman stated.

“And the big one?” Ma queried.

“That’s Blade,” Hickok said. “Don’t mind him. His middle name is paranoia.”

“And your beautiful companion?” Ma asked.

“My name is Helen,” Helen said, answering for herself.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re pretty enough to be a Vegas chorus girl,” Ma mentioned appreciatively.

“What’s a chorus girl?” Hickok questioned.

Ma stared at the gunman. “You mean to say you don’t know what a chorus girl is? Where are you from? The moon?”

“Nope,” Hickok replied.

Ma’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I take it you’ve never been to Vegas. Anyone who’s been there knows what a chorus girl is.”

“Have you been to Vegas?” Blade asked.

“I was born there,” Ma said.

Blade and Hickok exchanged fleeting glances.

“Do tell,” the gunfighter stated. “Why don’t you fix us some vittles and join us at our table? We’d like to hear all about Las Vegas.”

“I’d be delighted,” Ma said. “What would you like to eat?”

“How about some steaks all around,” Hickok ordered. “And some milk for me, if you’ve got some.”

“Milk?” Ma snorted. “Don’t you want something stronger?”

“I never drink the hard stuff,” Hickok said. “A milk will be fine.”

“Milk for all of us,” Blade interjected.

“It’ll take about five minutes,” Ma said.

“No problem,” Blade told her, then walked to a table near the counter where he could command a view of Ma and the tall man behind the counter as well as the customers. He placed the Commando on the table, slid into a chair, and folded his fingers over the trigger guard.

Hickok deposited the Henry on the table, gripped the top of one of the wooden chairs and slid it to Blade’s right, then reversed the chair and sat down with his arms draped over the back.

Helen took the remaining chair, sitting with her back to the front door.

She leaned toward Blade. “Is it my imagination, or are these people staring at me?”

“It’s not your imagination,” Blade said. “They’re trying not to be obvious about it, but they can’t seem to take their eyes off you.”

“When do you reckon they’ll make their play?” Hickok asked in a hushed tone.

“What are you talking about?” Helen inquired.

Hickok lowered his voice to a whisper. “Blade was right all along. This is a trap.”

Helen glanced around the room. “Are you putting me on? There’s no danger here.”

Blade gazed into Helen’s eyes. “This is no joke. Keep your hands on your Carbine.”

“How do you know this is a trap?” Helen whispered.

“Did you see the three men drinking coffee?” Blade asked.

“Of course,” Helen replied.

“Did you take a look at their cups?”

“No,” Helen said, and began to turn toward the men.

“Don’t look at them!” Blade said hastily. “We don’t want them to know we’re on to them.”

Helen faced the giant. “What about the coffee cups?”

“All three cups are filled to the brim, yet those men haven’t taken a sip since we came in the door,” Blade elaborated.

“Maybe they’re not thirsty,” Helen said lamely. “Maybe they’ve already drunk some coffee and those are their second cups. Maybe they’re just waiting for their food.”

“And maybe the cups are props they’re usin’ to try and con us,” Hickok stated. “The shifty varmints!”

Helen studied the gunman for a few seconds. “I don’t get you. A couple of minutes ago you were positive this diner is legit. Now you say it’s a trap?”

“I knew it was a trap when I walked in the door.” Hickok informed her.

“You didn’t act like you thought it was a trap,” Helen noted.

“Do you play cards?” Hickok queried.

“Cards?” Helen said, mystified. “What do cards have to do with anything?”

“A good card player never lets the other fella see his cards until it’s time to put them on the table,” Hickok declared.

Blade idly scanned the room. “I don’t see any guns.”

“They could have some stashed behind the counter,” Hickok said.

Blade casually looked at the couple to the left of the door. The obese man and the woman in the red dress were simply sitting there, slight grins on their faces, their hands on top of their table, doing nothing in particular.

“You are becoming as paranoid as Blade,” Helen told the gunman.

“Better paranoid than dead,” Hickok retorted.

“Why don’t we just walk out?” Helen proposed.

“No,” Blade said. “They might let us go without any hassles, but what about the next innocent travelers who pass through Contact? What if they’re not as well armed as we are?”

Helen frowned. “I don’t see where this is any of our business. If you really believe it’s a trap, I say we walk out and keep going. The sooner we reach Vegas, the sooner I find my daughter.”

“I’m in charge,” Blade reminded her. “And we’re going to stay put and see what happens.”

“Now what do you suppose that is all about?” Hickok asked, nodding toward the counter.

Blade turned his head, perplexed at observing Ma and the tall man embroiled in an argument. They were huddled next to a grill, speaking softly but gesturing angrily.

“Maybe they burned one of our steaks,” Hickok cracked.

Blade leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room again. The “customers” were all watching the exchange between Ma and the tall man.

He scrutinized their clothing, striving to detect telltale bulges that might indicate concealed firearms.

They appeared to be clean.

Ma walked to a white refrigerator and took out a pitcher of milk.

Blade abruptly realized the music had ceased minutes ago. He glanced around and found an unusual apparatus positioned against the wall six yards from the front entrance. The bottom of the machine was square, the top a golden arch. A series of bright lights rimmed the arch, reflecting off a curved glass case between the arch and the square base.

“Here we go!” Ma said happily, coming around the end of the counter with a large tray in her hands. The tray supported the pitcher and three glasses. “Here’s your milk. Your steaks will be a minute or two yet.”

Blade pointed at the machine with the arch. “What is that?” he inquired.

Ma set the tray on the table. “It’s a jukebox. Haven’t you ever seen one before?”

“No,” Blade admitted.

The matron tittered. “You don’t know what a chorus girl is. You don’t know what a jukebox is. I’ve heard of pitiful, but you boys take the cake.”

“You said you were born in Las Vegas,” Blade remarked. “What’s it like there?”

“Vegas is a tough town,” Ma declared. “It’s not for chumps who don’t know how to take care of themselves.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Hickok said, speaking up.

“You think so?” Ma rejoined.

“I know so,” Hickok asserted. “Stick around. I may give you a demonstration.”

“Why is Vegas a tough town?” Blade queried to get Ma back on the right track.

“Because Vegas is mob-controlled, dummy,” Ma stated with a chuckle.

“You mean they have riots in the streets a lot?” Hickok asked.

Ma threw back her head and laughed. “Not that kind of a mob! I’m talking about the Families.”

Blade glanced at Hickok and the gunman shrugged, signifying he didn’t understand either.

The woman called Ma noticed their reaction. “Let me guess. You don’t have the foggiest idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“No,” Blade answered. He was startled to learn there were other groups with the same name as the Founder’s descendants.

“How do I explain it?” Ma asked herself. She stared at the giant. “Have you ever heard of Organized Crime?”

Blade reflected for a moment. The term did not ring a bell. “Never heard of it,” he confessed.

Ma shook her head. “Then let me give you a refresher course. Way back when, back before the war, there were three classes of people in America.

There were the ordinary slobs, rich and poor alike, who lived their lives according to the letter of the law. From cradle to grave they slaved away, basically honest jerks except for little things like cheating on their taxes and such. Oh, some of them went bad. They became drug dealers or robbed banks. But most of them were simple folks, if downright stupid.”

She paused and snickered. “Then there were the government types, the politicians, the most dishonest bunch of all. They stole from the people to fatten their big bellies, but they made their stealing legal. They called their system taxation. Property taxes, sales taxes, income taxes. The people were taxed to the max, and hardly complained because they trusted the politicians who were robbing them silly.”

“Hold on there,” Hickok interrupted. “I studied some history when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. And my teacher explained things differently. Not all politicians were crooked. There were some who cared about the people and wanted to help them. And how can you call the average folks stupid just because they obeyed the law?”

“They were stupid because they let others run their lives!” Ma replied vehemently.

Blade pursed his lips in contemplation. He had observed the woman closely as she talked. Ma wasn’t the bumpkin she pretended to be, and under her seemingly friendly exterior was a heart of stone. “You mentioned there were three classes,” he prompted her.

Ma smiled. “The third class was the best. They didn’t pretend to be something they weren’t. They knew the score. They knew there are only three things in life that matter: money, power, and loyalty. They were the organized-crime Families, and they controlled most of the action from coast to coast. The lousy politicians tried to rub the Families out, but couldn’t. The Families were too strong for the government and a hell of a lot smarter. The leaders, the Dons, saw the war coming months in advance. And they decided to do something about it.”

“What did they do?” Blade inquired.

“They already had a foothold in Vegas, so they decided to take the city over, lock, stock, and barrel,” Ma detailed. “They flocked to Vegas right before the war began, and they were in place and ready when the crap hit the fan. When the government collapsed, it was child’s play for the Families to take control. They had more soldiers in Vegas than all the law enforcement agencies combined.”

“Soldiers?” Hickok said.

“Yeah. Button men. Trigger men. Hit men. They’re all basically the same thing.” She grinned. “So the mob has been in control of Vegas ever since. There were some rough times at first, what with the Dons unable to agree on territories and percentages. For over ten years they fought it out.

The Seven Families War it’s called. One Family came out on top, and their bloodline has ruled the city for seventy years. From father to son to grandson, they’ve passed the leadership on down the line. Their Don is the supreme Don.”

“Does this Don have a name?” Blade casually asked.

Ma nodded. “The Don who runs the whole show is Don Pucci. Don Anthony Pucci.”