The Bone Yard te-75 Read online

  A Texas native, Thorson came to Vegas close behind Abe Bernstein in the forties. Texan lawmen sought his extradition on a range of charges that included homicide, extortion and a host of others. But strategic contributions to the reelection efforts of an understanding governor had kept him safe and sound inside Nevada while the statutes ran and legal deadlines passed unnoticed. The Alamo Casino, down the gulch from Bernstein's Gold Rush, was a living monument to Thorson's gratitude; the understanding governor, retired now, and a host of relatives were permanently on the payroll.

  The aging cowboy still had muscle in Las Vegas and up north, around the capital at Carson City.

  They would have need of those political connections soon, before the battlesmoke had settled in Las Vegas.

  "The PR'S covered, Abe," Jack Goldblume said. "Whichever way it goes..."

  "It better only — go one way, Jack," Harry Thorson interjected.

  "It'll go," Abe Bernstein told them both. "I've got our people on the job already. When New York checks in, we'll help them feel at home."

  "That's some room service," Thorson chortled. "Tuck 'em in and put their ass to sleep. I love it."

  Goldblume shifted uneasily in his chair.

  "We have to be especially careful," he reminded no one in particular. "I can keep a lid on what goes down inside here — maybe I can keep the lid on — but if anything slops over to the streets..."

  "Don't give yourself an ulcer, Jack. Let's take it as it comes." Bernstein turned to Harry Thorson. "What's the word from Carson City?"

  Thorson shrugged.

  "Whispers, rumbles — you know the route. No one's gonna miss Spinoza or the rest of them, but natcherly they can't come out and say so for the record. If Frankie and his crew should turn up missing — well, I get the feeling that there won't be any posses tearing up the countryside to find 'em."

  Thorson's message was not lost on Bernstein.

  The law could not assist them, but it would not interfere as long as it could look the other way discreetly.

  And Abe Bernstein was the soul of discretion.

  "Fair enough," he said. "We'll have to clean it up ourselves, and keep it clean."

  "How many guns they bringing?" Harry asked.

  Bernstein shrugged distractedly.

  "I haven't got a head count yet. Let's figure somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty."

  Goldblume whistled softly to himself.

  "That's an army," he said.

  Bernstein raised a curious eyebrow.

  "Getting nervous, Jack?" he asked.

  Goldblume turned indignant.

  "Hell, no. I just hate to see it come so far and then run out of steam."

  "We're ready, Jack. Believe it. You just mind the headlines and stand clear."

  "Sure, Abe, I just thought..."

  "Don't think, Jack. It'll get you into trouble."

  Goldblume looked hurt and Bernstein quickly moved to salve his old friend's wounded feelings.

  "Listen, I'll be counting on your series to provide the background for some sudden disappearances. You up for it?"

  The newsman nodded, making a show of self-assurance.

  "Another day or two, at most — the Sunday supplement, for sure. We'll have it on the stands before Spinoza and the others turn up missing."

  "Fine. We'll let the locals give you credit for a cleaner Vegas."

  "What about New York? Chicago?" Goldblume asked. "Those boys won't take it lying down."

  Abe Bernstein's voice turned hard as tempered steel.

  "Then let 'em take it bending over."

  Harry Thorson chuckled appreciatively as Abe pushed ahead.

  "Once we have the town sewed up, they'll all be on the outside, looking in. They don't have guts enough to kill the golden goose. We're sitting on the biggest gold mine in the country. If they want a little piece of what we've got, they'd better ask real nice."

  "Forget the nice," Thorson interjected. "They better get down on their goddamn knees and beg."

  Abe Bernstein smiled. They were together once again, the shadow — doubts defeated, driven back into a corner. He checked his watch.

  "I've gotta shake a leg. You both know what to do?"

  "No sweat," the cowboy answered. "It's in the bag, Abe."

  Bernstein glanced at Goldblume, received a jerky nod of confirmation.

  "Well, then, let's get on it. I've got a plane to meet. They all rose, and he shook the hand of each man in turn."

  "I'll see you back here for the main event?"

  "Damn right," Thorson beamed. "I wouldn't miss..."

  "I'll be here," Goldblume promised, but he sounded considerably less enthused than Thorson by the prospect.

  Bernstein saw them out and closed the office door behind them. He would give them time to clear the premises before he made another round to supervise the mass evacuation under way. No point in taking any chances, with victory so close now that he could taste it. He was concerned about Jack Goldblume.

  All those years behind a desk had taken something out of him — the old vitality, the nerve. Perhaps when they were finished Jack would get it back. If not.

  Well, newsmen were expendable.

  And old friends?

  Yes. Them, too.

  Abe Bernstein was about to realize a dream he had been cherishing for thirty years and more. Revenge required precision planning and the father of Las Vegas had devoted three decades to winning back the empire that was rightly his. Spinoza and his kind had ruled the roost for too damn long already.

  It was time for them to settle up their debts. In blood.

  He was ready to unleash a crimson river on the streets — a desert flash flood that would sweep the city clean of that Italian scum. His city, sure — and never mind Jack Goldblume's seeming lack of nerve. If they were able to contain their action at the Gold Rush, fine. If not — no matter.

  Bernstein did not seek publicity, by any means, but if it came... He was the father of Las Vegas, dammit, and he had the right — the bounden duty — to defend the city he had done so much to build. The people of Las Vegas — his people — would salute him if they knew what he was doing. He was cleaning up Las Vegas and if he should turn a profit in the process... well, so much the better. It was the American way, and who was more deserving than himself?

  He was a goddamn civic hero. They owed him something, all of them, for what he had accomplished — and for what he was about to do. Especially that.

  He was disposing of the Mafia, relieving Vegas of a plague. And later, when the dust had settled, he would deal with Seiji Kuwahara and his Eastern imports, too.

  First the plague and then the yellow fever.

  Bernstein chuckled to himself feeling better already, younger than he had in years. He had been working toward this moment all his life, and now that it was here the savior of Las Vegas knew that he was ready.

  Abe Bernstein left his office, moving eagerly to meet the future that was waiting for him.

  * * *

  Lucy Bernstein slipped a twenty to the cabbie as she disembarked a block short of the Gold Rush entrance. Limousines stood two deep at the curb, obstructing traffic regally, and Lucy spied a charter bus idling on the nearest side street.

  The sidewalk all around the bus and limousines was clotted with a press of tourists dragging luggage, red-coated bellboys weaving in among them, offering assistance where they could and pocketing the rare last chance gratuities.

  She made her way upstream against the human current, finally gained the glass revolving doors and spent another moment jostling faceless strangers, being shoved and elbowed more than once before she made it to the lobby proper.

  Inside, the hotel lobby was a larger replay of the sidewalk scene she had just witnessed. Ranks of angry guests were crowding up against the registration desk, all jabbering in unison at two beleaguered clerks, demanding refunds, glowering at the promises of other rooms in comparable hotels. One of the patrons, florid faced and beefy in a garish
flowered shirt, had to be restrained by uniformed security from hurdling the counter and extracting his deposit from the cash drawer. Lucy veered away from the confusion, almost colliding with a Kansas-farmer type, his wheat-blond wife and stair-step children strung out single file behind him, all intent on plowing through the crowd toward freedom and the street outside. She moved across the lobby, searching for her grandfather amid the chaos.

  Fifteen minutes passed before she spotted him.

  She saw his white hair bobbing like a fleck of sea foam on the surging human tide. He moved with easy self-assurance through the crush — here speaking gently to an agitated guest, there giving orders to an employee. Lucy approached him, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder.

  He turned to face her, smiling — and she saw the plasticized expression falter for an instant as he made the recognition. He took her by the arm and steered her in the direction of his office.

  "Lucy... what on earth... What brings you out here on a night like this?"

  "Like what?" she asked. "What's going on around here, grandpa?"

  Bernstein spread his hands and smiled expansively.

  "We're looking at some trouble with the culinary workers. Some damn thing about the pension plan. They're walking out at midnight, and we're putting up our guests at other places till it all blows over."

  Lucy was confused.

  "A wildcat strike? I haven't heard a thing about it at the paper."

  "It came at us out of nowhere. Who can figure unions?"

  They had reached the office and he ushered her inside. The closing door cut off the babble from the lobby.

  "So, Lucy, would you like a soft drink? Or some wine?" He looked embarrassed. "I keep forgetting that you're not a little girl."

  "No, thanks."

  "Well, then... what can I do for you?"

  She was hesitant now, nervous, having second thoughts about her presence at the Gold Rush.

  "If you're too busy now... I could come back another time."

  "Too busy for my one and only grandchild. Never, Lucy. Tell me what you need."

  "Some answers, grandpa."

  He smiled, but with a hint of caution now.

  "Ali. The journalist."

  "I don't know how to ask you this..."

  "The simplest way is usually best. So, ask."

  "How well do you know Frank Spinoza?"

  "Frank?"

  Did she imagine the surprise behind his eyes, the ripple of uneasiness that spread like fleeting pallor underneath his sunlamp tan? No. It was there.

  "We work together, Lucy," he was saying. "You know that. I guess you'd say I work for him."

  "I've always wondered how that happened, grandpa. I mean, how Spinoza wound up running the hotel and everything you built from scratch."

  Another flicker there behind the slick facade, but quickly hidden now, before she had a chance to name it.

  "These things happen, Lucy. Businessmen run into trouble... Spinoza and his people helped me out, and in return I got myself some partners."

  "Who exactly are Spinoza's people?"

  "Eastern businessmen, some bankers, some..." He hesitated, spread his hands and shook his head. "I'm not about to tell you lies. Some of them... well... you hear these stories. Truth is, there are stories people tell about your grandpa, too, from the old days."

  Lucy could not meet his eyes now. When she answered him her voice was soft, subdued.

  "I've heard them."

  "So?" He ruffled fingers through his snowy hair. "You see the horns? Smell brimstone? Lucy, every man has done some things he's not too proud of. Maybe if I had the chance to go back fifty, sixty years, I'd do some things a little differently." He hesitated, pinned her with a searching stare. "I can't go back, Luce. Nobody can. What's done is done."

  "And what's about to happen?"

  He frowned.

  "Now you're talking riddles."

  "Grandpa, there are stories, rumors... Are you planning something?"

  "Something? Lucy..."

  "With Frank Spinoza? Or against him... I don't know..."

  His voice was on the razor's edge of anger when he spoke again.

  "Who filled your head with this meshugeneh idea?"

  "It doesn't matter, grandpa."

  "Well... what would I do to Frank Spinoza? What could I do?"

  "I'm sorry, really. I don't know."

  "Forget about it, Lucy. I understand how these things sound sometimes."

  "I'd better let you go. You've got your hands full here." She was having trouble keeping tears out of her voice now as she turned toward the office door. She wanted to be out of there, away from him. The destination did not matter to her, just as long as she was moving.

  "You stop by any time," he told her. "And never be afraid to ask me anything, Lucy. Anything at all."

  "I love you, grandpa." But she could not face him. Could not let him have the parting kiss that they had always shared from childhood.

  "Lucy..."

  But she was already moving, the noises of the crowded lobby closing in around her, drowning out the old man's words. The tears were in her eyes now, burning, threatening to spill across her cheeks. The ache inside her chest was so intense she felt that it might steal her breath away. He had been lying to her, with the ease of endless practice. He had been lying, start to finish. Lucy knew it in her heart, and with the knowledge came a stabbing pain that pierced her like an ice pick. There had not been a wildcat strike in Vegas for as long as Lucy could remember; they were clearing out the Gold Rush for some other reason. But why? To accommodate whom?

  And what about Spinoza? Every answer dealing with the New York mafioso had been just a shade too easy somehow. None of them rang true. As if in answer to her secret thoughts, she recognized the face of Frank Spinoza across the crowded lobby.

  He was standing near the main security station, deep in conversation with another man she did not recognize — until he turned sideways.

  Lucy placed the profile in a single lurching heartbeat. He was one of the hoodlums who had viewed her in captivity at Minotte's and briefly listened in on her interrogation by the boss before the roof collapsed around them.

  And what would he be doing with Spinoza? Were New York and Chicago joining hands somehow? And did their business help explain the sudden mass evacuation of the Gold Rush in the dead of night?

  Her tears were dry as Lucy Bernstein slowed her pace, no longer heading for the exit and the crowded sidewalk now, but drifting in the general direction of Spinoza and his company. The two of them were moving toward the bank of elevators, with another pair of flashy suits in tow. Lucy fell in step a cautious distance to the rear.

  Her news sense drove her now. She was determined to uncover what the man she trusted most in all the world before tonight was so determined to conceal.

  She meant to follow Frank Spinoza and his trail of slime wherever they might lead, and in the end, if some of his corruption should rub off on others — on her grandfather — well, she would deal with that when she came to it.

  The man had made his choice years before she was born, and he could live with it — as she would live with what she had to do that night. She had no choice.

  Lucy Bernstein had a duty, and she would see it through, no matter what the cost. There was no turning back from this point even if it killed her.

  And it might, she knew with sudden chilling clarity.

  * * *

  Abe Bernstein watched his granddaughter cross the crowded lobby, finally losing sight of her before she reached the registration desk and exit. He tried to put her out of mind but he could not dismiss her questions quite so easily.

  She had been fencing with him, but why? That business with Spinoza had been too damned close for comfort, and he wondered where she heard the rumors of their troubles. No one knew the plan outside of his immediate organization. If they had a leak at this late date... Bernstein calmed himself with an effort.

  He was building pr
oblems out of nothing now, he knew. She must have been uncovering bits and pieces for the series Goldblume had assigned her to the one that was supposed to break on Sunday. It was inevitable that his name would surface in the course of her inquiry — he had built the goddamned Gold Rush, after all — and he could stand the heat, the trace of accusation in her eyes where only childlike love and trust had shown before.

  He hoped she was not getting too immersed in all this Mafia business. It was a fading brotherhood though Frank Spinoza did not know it yet. They needed the cover Lucy's series would provide, but it was only that. She did not have to know the ending. Abe intended to write that for himself, beginning very shortly.

  He moved across the crowded lobby, smiling absentmindedly and receiving mostly hostile stares in answer. He was halfway to the wide casino concourse when a husky bellboy flagged him down, appearing to continue with his futile sweeping while they spoke.

  "We're set," the bellhop told him, dark eyes scanning cautiously around the lobby.

  "All right. They're due within the hour. We'll be waiting for a clear shot. No one makes a move without my word."

  "You've got it." He moved along, secure that everything was ready.

  The sweeper was one of Bernstein's "specials," handpicked with an eye toward ruggedness and military backround. There were forty of them on the premises this night, each one with weapons on his person or within his reach, all prepared to make their move on Bernstein's word. It was a private strike force primed for action, with Abe Bernstein's finger on the trigger.

  He had taken pains in the selection of his commandos, gleaning out the best available from mercenary sources over eighteen months of careful shopping. He had supervised their training personally, hiding them among a crop of young Olympic hopefuls working out at the exclusive health spa that he owned in Southern California.

  Procurement of their arms, the final honing of their lethal skills in combat situations, was accomplished in conjunction with the neo-fascist paramilitary gangs who populate the Southern California desert with their training camps and arsenals, Forty soldiers, right — each finely tuned and with a special duty to perform when Bernstein gave the signal. Teams to close the hotel off from outside access, others for the hotel wings, prepared to move from room to room until they had eliminated every Eastern gunner. More to handle any stragglers in the restaurant and lobby area, making it a clean sweep. When Bernstein gave the word, they would transform the Gold Rush briefly into the biggest morgue in town.