Book 3 "HIGH STAKES GAMBLE"
CHAPTER ONE
Smooth Operator
Dear Patrick,
As you can tell by the date it’s nearly the end of May
and school will be out here in another week. We’re all
hoping for a real quiet and uneventful summer cause after the mayor’s younger brother showed
up, right after Easter a couple of months ago - nothing will ever be the same again…
……….
Friday, April 4th…
AM
1998
“Hit me.”
The dealer slid a third card from the shoe. From years of
practice she snapped it face-up on the felt
covered table. The card showing was an
eight of clubs. Beside the eight of clubs there were two
other cards, both face down.
The dealer slid a third card for the casino, face up. The
card was a six of hearts. “The House stays.” said the
dealer. There was no expression in her voice, or on her face.
The player studied his stack of chips. He slid two stacks of five chips to the
middle of the table. “Hit me again.”
The dealer guided another card from the shoe. She placed it
face up beside the player’s first three cards. The player’s fourth card was an ace of
hearts. “Nineteen, or nine.”
The player could barely contain a grin as he pushed all
his remaining chips to the center of the table. He felt the deck was with him this time. “Hit me.”
The dealer placed a fifth card face up beside the others. This card was the four of spades. “Bust, or fourteen showing.” The dealer’s voice was still monotone.
The player nudged his date, who stood directly behind his
left shoulder. “Throw in your lucky chip and the others we won from the
wheel.
She
hesitated a moment. She was bored and wanted to leave to eat but knew she looked fabulous in her
sleek new silver dress. A small crowd was watching them. Slowly she began to open her matching
evening bag.
Impatient,
the player snatched the purse shaking out all the contents onto the middle of the table.
Startled and annoyed, she grabbed her spilled
compact, a tube of lipstick, a comb and a small coin purse that
fell out with the betting chips.
“I’ll stay.” The player tapped the two cards in front of
him that were still face down.
The dealer turned over the casino’s two cards. “The House
has eighteen.”
“Close. Very close.“ The player nodded. “But not close
enough! Blackjack! Five cards under twenty-one and
these little beauties add up to n-i-n-e-t-e-e-n!”
The player had just won twenty-three thousand dollars.
In a flash his date was no longer bored and
her hunger was forgotten. She and her glimmering silver dress
began to shake as she squealed with delight. Then with quick, sweeping movements she started
to scoop up the chips from the center of the table into her evening bag. but her date stopped
her.
The dealer filled in the amount then signed the winnings
card for the player to redeem at the cashier’s window. The on lookers who had gathered to watch,
applauded then moved to other tables.
The loud applause caught the attention of two casually
dressed men who had just walked into the lobby
of the MissFortune Hotel. They
followed the sound to the doorway of the casino. By the time
they were inside the applause had stopped.
With skillful purpose the men split up. The first man
wore a tropical shirt with yellow and red flowers, tan
shorts and sandals. He made his way to the cashier’s office to watch the people as they came to redeem
their winnings. The second man wore a blue golf shirt, white shorts and canvas
loafers. He sauntered through the crowd between the gambling tables, to search for big winners
who might be moving on to play another game.
There was a short line of three people at the cashier’s
window when yellow-shirt reached the office
area. All three people in line had their
backs to him but he recognized the last man in line. He had sandy-brown hair, slightly taller than
the two people ahead of him and he wore a gray velvet
tuxedo. The young woman with him was a tall slim blonde wearing a silver dress.
Two beefy, uniformed guards with the hotel emblem on one
chest pocket were very visible. Both guards
were the size of small buildings and armed with shotguns so, yellow-shirt decided to wait.
As he watched, he keyed in a code number in his pager
then pulled a gambling credit application card from
the brochure container and pretended to fill in the blanks. With his back turned to the room, the
blackjack winner in the gray velvet tuxedo and his silver date walked right passed yellow-shirt.
Blue-shirt was already waiting in the lobby when velvet-tuxedo
and silver-dress came through the casino doorway,
heading for the restaurant. Yellow-shirt was right behind them.
Like a carefully rehearsed dance step blue-shirt and
yellow-shirt hooked arms with the couple. “Aw Bruce, it’s
so nice to see you again.” Blue-shirt spoke as he and his partner muscled the surprised couple
down a short hall then out of a side door that opened to a side street.
When the foursome burst into the sidewalk, they squinted
against the glare of the sun. It was six a.m. and though
the city of Reno never slept, the street had few pedestrians.
Bruce Peters recovered quickly. “Hey, I was coming to see
Paul, right after we had something to eat. See.”
He held up a gold colored plastic bag that looked like he bought a souvenir at the hotel
gift shop. “I just won almost a third of his money.”
Yellow-shirt jerked the bag from Bruce Peter’s hand.
Then silver-dress found her voice. “You told me we were
going to Hawaii!”
Blue-shirt stood with his hands folded across his chest,
while yellow-shirt checked the contents of the plastic
bag.
“Did he really?” Blue-shirt smirked. “Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. What should we do with you?” He made a quick
check of the road traffic and three people walking on the opposite side of the street. “We hate
to mess up your budding romance here but either you lied to this nice gal about your previous
obligations to Mr. Fedori - or, you just
lied to us…”
“There’s twenty three thousand even in the bag.”
Silver-dress swung her evening bag at yellow-shirt’s
head. He ducked. “Listen goat breath,” she glared at
both him and blue-shirt. “Half that money’s mine. I don’t care what you do with his half.”
Blue-shirt shook
his head. “Brucey, I do believe your gal is breaking up with you.” Then he looked at silver-dress.
“Now disappear toots – or, we’ll take your shoes and make you walk on the hot cement
barefoot.”
“What!” Silver-dress swung her purse again.
Yellow-shirt caught her wrist. Bruce Peters saw his chance. He spun around shouldering blue-shirt who stumbled
and fell backwards. He pushed silver-dress
into yellow-shirt and then he ran.
And he ran.
And
he ran…
Midway
down an alley, Bruce Peters darted behind a dumpster grabbing the handle for support. Pain shot across his chest in quick,
successive jabs. He struggled to keep from passing out. It felt as if his lungs would explode.
Sucking air, he got his bearings as he realized where he
was. Bruce Peters had run almost the full
distance of the entire strip from the MissFortune
Hotel to the north end of Reno to 4th
street, just south of the Nevada State Fairgrounds and Interstate 80.
Sweat from his forehead ran down to his eyebrows,
followed the slight arch of short hairthen slid passed his
temples to his cheeks where it dripped off his quivering jaw. The white silk shirt under his gray velvet
tuxedo jacket, stuck to him like another layer of skin.
Testing his wobbly knees, he pulled himself up slowly
still clinging to the dirty metal box. The desert sun
seared everything, even this early in the morning.
Bruce had no illusions that he had managed to evade the
two hired thugs. Paul Fidori paid several such
people all over the city. None of them had to run in the heat. They could call ahead, use their
cars and motor cycles then close in. His only option was to get out of the city – now.
The smell of fried food mingled with petrol fumes told
him the dumpster he had used to avoid detection was
behind a restaurant and gas station.
Checking the alley to his left then his right, Bruce stood. He
smoothed his hair and pulled on his jacket then moved to his left staying close to the wall of
the cement block building.
Keeping a careful watch behind him he peeked around the
corner and saw trucks, holiday trailers and motor
homes in the parking lot lined up waiting to refuel at the gas pumps. Bruce made a check of the
time on his pocket watch. It was eight minutes to seven.
He eased back the way he had just come and made another
nervous search of the alley one more time. It was
still deserted but for a lone orange tabby.
She was perched on top of a large cardboard box
engaged in a serious grooming ritual.
Bruce heard the diesel engine of a transport truck gear
down. There was a choke of dual air brakes then the
truck stopped. He watched as the driver leaped out of the cab then thumped his tires as he walked
around the full length of the trailer. There was a flash in Bruce’s
memory.
Something about the
driver looked familiar. The driver was tall and slim with coffee colored skin and a thin
mustache. But he could only see a small
part of the driver’s face from the side and the recollection
was fleeting.
The brim of the driver’s golf cap was pulled low over his
forehead and the dark sunglasses obscured his
eyes as he carried a large metal thermos with him into the restaurant coffee shop.
Using a truck loaded with framed windows as cover, Bruce
Peters walked to where the First truck had stopped
at the edge of the parking area. He tried the driver’s door not visible from the restaurant windows
– but it was locked.
The truck engine was still running so he knew it was
heading somewhere via highway I-80. He had a buddy
directly north in Winnemucca and another friend further northeast in Elko. They were only a
few hundred miles away if he could just get there.
He took a deep breath to keep the panic at bay. There was no place to stowaway between the truck and
the trailer. Then at the end of the open
trailer he saw a small sliding gate. The floor of the
trailer was four feet off the ground.
The gate was another three feet above that level.
As he studied the gate closer – the rapid arrival of
another vehicle caught his attention. A burgundy Mercedes limousine
dashed around the corner from the access lane and made a wide sweep into the gas bay
section away from commercial fueling.
One lone minivan was fueling at the pump just fifty feet
away. That sole vehicle was the only cover between
Bruce Peters, cowering by the rear of the transport truck – and Paul Fidori’s familiar car.
Alarmed, Bruce gripped the lower rail of the gate. He pulled himself hand over hand, up and over the top of the
gate. As he twisted through the narrow opening he lost his handhold and fell to the floor
of the cargo trailer.
His awkward, sudden entrance startled the other
passengers. Shuffling hooves was the background beat to a
chorus of disapproving moos. Bruce jumped
up to face twelve wary, Black Angus yearlings. He had been so consumed with his get-away
that he hadn’t noticed the truck transported livestock.
On his feet and regaining some of his composer, Bruce
patted hot, sweaty hides as he moved to the middle of
the cargo area never taking his eyes off Paul Fidori’s car.
Between the metal slats of the trailer he saw three men
climb out of the Mercedes. Blue-shirt headed for the
parked vehicles on the far side of the restaurant. Yellow-shirt went into the building. A third man
wore a white dress shirt. He remained by
the limousine slowly scanning the details of all
activity around the gas bar.
Suddenly white-shirt moved. He walked to the gas pumps and started to check
each parked car, truck, and
van. With each ticking second white-shirt made his way closer to the idling livestock truck.
The contrast between his grimy, gray jacket and the black
calves would make it easy to spot him. As quickly as his hot, sticky body would let him
he peeled off his jacket and turned it inside
out. He hoped the green and black
paisley lining would make it more difficult to see him.
The calves watched the new creature, with their ears
twitching in mild interest.
White-shirt came around the back of the minivan.
Abruptly the truck trailer jerked forward.
Bruce went down face first.
Amid shuffling
hooves and the stuff that confined cattle tend to drop, Bruce quickly recovered to a sitting
position but stayed low. Bruce never took his eyes off of the man wearing the white shirt, who looked
directly at the livestock trailer.
White-shirt watched the slowly departing truck. He
scanned the trailer from front to back but all he saw between
the open spaces of the metal, support slats was fury black cattle...
CHAPTER
TWO
Somewhere
in the Shadows
Friday, April 4th
– A.M.
“Wow! The Vikings have landed.” Joey Salas stood beside Philip Peters with
his mouth open in frozen amazement. A very green, forty-five foot canoe
stretched out before them.
The boys had just opened the wide
double doors to the old barn behind Anderlund’s Market. Joey hurried over to the longest canoe he’d
ever seen, made even more impressive as it rested three feet off the wide plank
floor, supported by four wooden sawhorses.
Philip held back. “Are we gonna
have’ta paddle that?”
Leif Anderlund joined them carrying
a box of paint brushes. He turned on the overhead lights. “Naw, don’t worry
Philip. That’s my dad’s old canoe. He built that when he was eighteen then
brought it with him when he emigrated.”
“Really?” Philip was still
intimidated by the canoe’s size.
“Dad just finished replacing some of
the wood and painting it. It’s been up there since my mother died.” He pointed to the original hay loft now used
for storage.
Joey walked all the way around the
boat. “Man, this thing’s almost big enough for your dad to have thrown all his
stuff in the back and paddled across the Atlantic the whole way from Bergen,
Norway to Boston, Massachusetts. Course, his arms woulda fallen off.”
Leif and Joey laughed, but Philip kept his
distance from the massive boat.
The handmade, solid spruce, canoe
gleamed a shiny dark green all around the outside with an equally shiny, clear
varnish finish that coated the wood on the inside. It dwarfed two other canoes
that also rested on nearby sawhorses as it spanned the length of the far wall
of the vintage barn, from the bottom step of the loft stairs to the double
wagon doors.
The barn had once stabled the horses
and the volunteer fire department’s water wagon. Over the decades the hip-roof
barn that had once been a clearly visible landmark, became surrounded by
volunteer evergreen trees and willow. Just thirty yards behind the market, its’
construction was completed in 1909, the same year as Mosquito Creek’s original
train station.
When Mr. Anderlund bought the
abandoned pine log and river rock train station to renovate it for his grocery
store, the barn was included on the one acre site.
The majority of Anderlund’s Market was general
groceries including local produce and bake goods. The back section of the store
had been taken over by Mr. Anderlund’s second wife for her gallery. Local
prison art as well as crafts and art by other Powel County residents, were
displayed for resale.
“Where is everyone?” The thin, lanky
figure of Carl Anderlund stood in the center of the open doorway into the barn.
Mr. Anderlund was a taller version of both his thirteen year-old son Stephen
and his twelve year-old son Leif. All Anderlunds had straight, white-blonde
hair, contrasted by tanned skin, large grey eyes and dark rimmed glasses.
Leif shrugged. “I thought Stephen
was in the store with you?”
Mr. Anderlund checked his wrist
watch. “He must still be in bed along with everyone else. So much for getting
your canoe team together before school.”
Spring 1998 was the first race for the new
team, White Rapids Racers. Gordon and
Stephen had raced the previous season as second canoe for the more experienced
team in their senior year - The Ice Bullets.
Gordon
McKenna and Philip Peters were registered to paddle their team’s lead canoe.
Sonia Molosky and Hanna Gaikis were assigned the second canoe. Mia Cho and Joey
Sala were in the third canoe, with Stephen and Leif in the fourth and anchor
canoe.
The White Rapids Racers were one of
nineteen teams of four canoes that had registered by the previous Friday’s
deadline date, to compete in the sun-up to sun-set, forty mile canoe relay.
Paddling pairs for each lead canoe
had begun to practice and to assemble the required camping gear under their
overturned canoes at the official race, designated start site.
Park Sullivan, owner and editor of
the Mosquito Creek Review wrote and
published a detailed history of the popular community event with a route map.
Requiring skill and endurance, the teams raced against the clock, while
completing specific tasks in swiftly moving spring runoff to reach specified
mile markers. All of the competitors were between the ages of eleven and
eighteen.
Traditionally the race started at
the intersecting point where Lost Creek passed under the Bitter Root Crossing
trestle bridge, eight miles southwest of Mosquito Creek. The race course
followed Lost Creek for ten miles until it merged into Broken Arrow Lake, to the
twenty-mile mark. The rules required the first canoe to reach the second canoe,
then all camping supplies from the lead canoe had to be transferred into the
second canoe before it could launch.
The competitors in the second canoe paddled to
the far end of Broken Arrow Lake where the course changed south into the
stronger, snow melt current of Copper Creek, to the thirty-mile mark. When the
second canoe reached the third canoe the transfer of equipment was repeated
before the third canoe could take off. Competitors in the fourth canoe, loaded
with the original outdoor supplies from each canoe transfer, paddled to the
race’s end point at the Copper Creek State Campsite and the relay, forty-mile
finish.
Mr. Anderlund rested his hands on
his hips. Whenever he did that, his sons and their friends all knew it was a
signal that he was about to make a point. “Since two of the four canoes and
five of the eight team members are not here this morning, we cannot begin to
work on the race canoes. It’s getting late so gather your backpacks for
school.”
The spring morning started out sunny
but with a wind and gathering clouds, everyone new another unsettle weather
system was moving in. Philip pulled his favorite wool hat down over his short,
curly brown hair and zipped up his jean jacket. Joey clamped on his earmuffs.
As he adjusted the band it created a roaster comb to a small section of his
straight black hair. He tied a scarf around his neck then retrieved Philip’s
backpack with his.
When all three boys started for the
open doorway, Mr. Anderlund had not dropped his arms to his side, so they knew
he was not done.
” Guther Molosky and I are happy to give of
our time and experience, so that you can learn to care for your canoe and to
paddle most effectively. Please express
to your other team members, that while wining is not our focus for this year
coming in dead last would be a waste of our efforts. But…you can’t compete if
you don’t even ‘show-up’!”
Mr. Anderlund’s hands came off his
hips, then he turned and walked back to the store.
“That’s it. The next time I hav’ta
listen to one of my dad’s lectures without Stephen, I’m gluing all his socks
together.”
Philip watched as Joey pulled the
left door shut and Leif closed the right door. “Sonia must be sick, cause Grandpa
Molosky, wouldn’t let her stay in bed.”
The boys started walking toward
school. Joey, who was shy with girls had gathered all of his courage to ask Mia
to be his canoe partner. “Okay, so Hanna lives the farthest away at Grant
Ranch, but meeting this morning was Mia’s idea.”
Of their team, Philip, the youngest
at eleven and Mia Cho already twelve, were the shortest. But as each team
member practiced the previous month with their paddles while sitting in a chair
beside a full bathtub of water, their stature ceased to be a factor. Philip and
Mia’s arms, shoulders and upper back muscles had strengthened almost as much as
the others. And Philip’s Down syndrome had not interfered with his coordination
ability.
Stephen Anderlund, was the tallest
and like his brother Leif, gangly and thin. The hours they spent paddling with
the bathtub exercise in March helped to add more definition to their
string-bean shape.
Gordon McKenna, though a year older
than Leif was the same height. Because he wasn’t growing quite as fast as Leif
and Stephen his muscles were in proportion which made him the strongest
paddler. The rest of the team consisted of Hanna Gaikis who was thirteen and
slightly taller than, Sonia Molosky and Joey Salas who were both twelve and the
same height.
Because Gordon and Stephen had
competed the year before, they knew what the rest of the team was in for. The
canoe relay race took stamina. And, regardless of whether a competitor was
right handed or left handed every hand, arm, shoulder, back and abdominal
muscle on both sides, needed to be well exercised.
**********
P.M.
“With the numbers in the second
ledger modified, everything is in place at my town.” A member of the assembled
group completed his report. “But I understand that in Mosquito Creek, you’re
looking to place one more rookie on town council.” He looked at the moderator.
“Yes. Mayor Peters is too savvy and
so is the old newspaper editor Park Sullivan. It’s too much work to get
doctored paperwork passed either of them. The office staff is competent but
complacent. All of them have been there so long they don’t look that closely.”
The Moderator continued. “Mosquito Creek’s council meetings are
plagued by Hank Keating who asks too many questions and begun to gather just a
little too much historical documentation.”
“If you recall, Mr. Keating
inherited the historic Coleman-Lansing Hotel from his father forty years ago.
His daughter and son-in-law look after most of the hotel’s day to day
operations now.”
“Because Mr. Keating is semi-retired
he has more time on his hands. He tends to hang around after council meetings. And lately, several times each week he shows
up at the town offices during the day then questions everyone to distraction or
just snoops. Technically any taxpayer or council member has a right to check
any file or ledger but they never have.”
“However, Hank Keating has become
the exception. My concern is that he may accidently stumble onto policy or
financial information that motivates Mayor Peters, to also begin to question my
data.”
The five people assembled met in a
top floor room of the Holiday Inn Express at exit 200, north of Montana’s
capitol city, Helena.
The group gathered once every three
months to compare their progress status notes. Each member of the group took
turns reserving a single room. And then
one by one, thirty minutes apart, each member arrived. When all were assembled the meeting began,
then disbanded exactly two hours later–with each member of the group leaving
thirty minutes apart in the same order they arrived.
A second member of the group
addressed their Moderator and the other members. “At this point we can’t risk
any questions now. We followed years of methodical, diligence to set everything
in place. Our Moderator’s original plan
was brilliantly simple and we stand to prosper very, very well. Now that we are just a few months away from
finishing what we started eight years ago, I for one do not want some silly
fluke like Hank Keating to mess us up.”
The Moderator cut to their dilemma.
“As before, what we decide to do about Hank Keating must be unanimous and the
outcome must serve our ultimate goal.”
A third member of the group spoke.
“Doing what we did before left too many loose ends and questions. There was no
logical reason behind the disappearance of Joe Molosky. My vote is for some
other way of dealing with Hank Keating.”
The Moderator nodded. “You’re
absolutely correct. That was impulsive and not very well thought out. I see too
possibilities for Mr. Keating. One – if he was somehow disgraced he would be
required to resign his council seat and no one would be inclined to listen to
him, or two – he has a fatal, or almost fatal accident that renders him no
longer able to fulfill his duties as a sitting member of the Mosquito Creek
Town Council.”
The
Moderator looked at each face around the room in turn. “Pick one.”
The
quietest member, who held back the most and listened the most, stated the
obvious. “I may be wrong here, but it seems to me that the risk in creating a
disgrace is twofold. First it would take too much time to plan and second, if
we didn’t execute it well Mr. Keating could end up vindicated.”
“My vote is for a debilitating
accident. If he survives fine – if not
well…” With a shrug of his shoulders the quiet member’s voice trailed away to
silence.
The Moderator asked for a vote. “Are we all in agreement then? We’ll arrange
an accident for the troublesome Mr.
Keating who if left in place may very well unravel our plans?”
Everyone held up a hand. The count was a unanimous five. “All right
then let’s put the details of that plan together.”
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