Ray Hoy - Jack Frost 01 - The Vegas Factor (7 page)

Varchetta loved to dangle Felicia in front of the brute, a morsel he would never sample, something forever beyond his reach. Once, when Benny had performed a particularly brutal piece of “persuasion” on a business associate, Varchetta rewarded him with a special sexual treat.

The casino boss smiled as he recalled the incident. Felicia had been in a daze from the drugs, unaware of what happened until days later, when he had shown her the stack of photos the hidden camera system had captured—shots of the two of them, with Benny sitting in a chair next to the bed, dressed in his usual black suit, leaning forward as he watched, mouth agape, sweat rolling down his face.

The door opened and Felicia walked into the room, head down. The doorway behind her was filled with a smug Benny Florentine. Varchetta stood, walked around the desk, and met them halfway into the room. Her hair was uncombed and limp, her eyes dull and lifeless.
 

Varchetta stared at Benny. “Did you lay a hand on her?”

The grin disappeared from Benny’s face and his mouth worked for a moment before he could answer. “Oh no, boss, no. I sure didn’t,” he said. “Honest to God—”

“Get outta here!”
 

Benny’s face registered disappointment. The boss hadn’t said that he’d done a good job. And worse than that, he had said nothing about his reward. He turned and lumbered to the door, head down.
 

“Benny!” Varchetta called out. “You did good.” Benny stopped and turned to face his boss, his face breaking into a wide smile. “And you can watch, tonight, if you want.”

Benny swallowed with some difficulty, then nodded, looking at Felicia. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“I’ll give you a call when it’s time.”

“Jeez. Thanks boss. I’ll be right by the phone, waiting.” He turned and left, still grinning.

Varchetta grabbed Felicia’s face in both hands and tilted her head up until she was forced to look at him. “You made a damn fool out of me.”
 

Felicia’s eyes suddenly blazed. “Oh just how hard could that be!” she said, her voice filled with hatred. For a moment she thought he would hit her, but instead he looked down at her coat, then yanked it open with both hands.
 

He stepped back and looked at the sweatshirt. “Well, ain’t that cute! Does that belong to the big hero who’s been protecting you?” He gripped her shoulder with one hand and with the other, ripped the sweatshirt open from top to bottom.
 

The torn sweatshirt parted, revealing her heavy bare breasts. He pulled her close and roughly ran his free hand over her body. She cringed and tried to pull away. He slapped her hard, spinning her halfway around. But before he could react, she whirled and hit him squarely in the face with a roundhouse right, her hand balled up in a small fist. He reeled backward, tripped over a chair and fell, blood gushing from his nose. With a snarl he got to his feet, grabbed her hair, and threw her to the floor. She lay there without a sound, pulling her knees up to her chin.

“You ain’t ever leaving again, you sneaky little bitch,” he said. He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to his nose. The white cloth immediately turned bright red. “You’re gonna get your ass into the sexiest gown I can find, and tonight you’re gonna be singing on stage.”

In a soft, broken voice, she said, “I can’t … I won’t.”

“You can, and you will. Everyone in this town is gonna see you on display. They’re gonna know you’re back with Harry Varchetta. That will shut them all up. You’re back and you’re back to stay.”
 

He got down on one knee and looked at her, his face twisted in a sneer. “And then, after you’re done singing, I’m taking you to bed. We’ll have a good time, just you and me, loving husband and wife.” He paused, then laughed. “Benny, too. Benny wants to watch.”
 

He watched the sick expression saturate her beautiful features. She squeezed her eyes shut and began to softly repeat a name, over and over: “Jonathan, Jonathan …”

Chapter 11

I drove west on Sahara, pointing the long, sloping hood of my Jag toward the mountain range that lay just a few miles from downtown Las Vegas.

Ripper had been cooped up too long. I wanted to exercise him before locking him away in a motel room all day. We drove to the base of the mountains and I pulled off on a narrow dirt road that angled away from Sahara. The Jag was not designed for off-road driving, so I picked my way carefully through the ruts and debris.
 

The scrub desert surrounding Las Vegas looked like one big junkyard. The landscape was littered with discarded refrigerators, cars, baby cribs—and maybe a body or two.

I stopped the car and we got out. While Ripper nosed around, I stood looking at the city of Las Vegas, off in the distance. Even though we were several miles from the Strip, I knew that eventually all of this wasteland, right to the base of the nearby mountains behind me, would be covered with housing developments. Never mind that Las Vegas would soon be running out of water, if there was money to be made, that took top billing.

I worked Ripper until he was tired and panting, then headed back toward the motel. I was sure that my description had been distributed to every one of Varchetta’s employees. They’d be looking for a man about six-five, weighing two-forty or so, with sleek black hair worn in a short ponytail, and scars on his nose and chin. They’d never see a man of that description.

When we got back to the motel, I locked the door and opened a well-stocked leather make-up case. I spent a diligent hour in front of a mirror, changing my appearance, while Ripper looked on with curiosity. When I finally sat back to admire my handiwork, I did not recognize the stranger in the mirror. Colored contacts changed my eyes from gray to blue; makeup covered the scars; an elaborate wig covered my own hair and a neatly trimmed, full beard and mustache completed my disguise.
 

I turned my head to the left and right, looking at myself out of the corners of my eyes. Not bad, I thought. A friend who was one of Hollywood’s finest make-up men had taught me the fundamentals. I leaned close to the mirror and critically examined my face for any sign of sloppiness that could give me away.

Satisfied, I went to my suitcase and fished out a round piece of flat rubber. I walked into the bathroom and laid it over the bathtub drain. Flipping the stopper to the closed position to complete the seal, I ran water in the tub.
 

A thirsty Ripper is a pissed Ripper.

I slipped on my jacket, ordered Ripper to stay, and locked the door behind me. Motel burglaries in Las Vegas are big business. I hoped that no petty burglar would have the misfortune to select room 108.

* * *

I walked through the main casino entrance of Varchetta’s lavish hotel and stopped for a moment to look around. The place was wall-to-wall people. Thanks to its enlarged convention facilities, the Vegas “tourist season” now runs all year long.
 

I walked past long rows of blackjack tables with not one vacant seat, and past craps tables so jammed that everyone stood sideway. “You only need one eye and one arm to shoot craps!” was the old saying. I tried to compute the staggering gross a place like this must take in during a twenty-four hour period.

Good times or bad, there will forever be a Las Vegas.

I avoided the long breakfast line waiting to get into the hotel dining room, and took a seat at the counter. After a plate of eggs and bacon, I sat for a while with a second cup of coffee, trying to figure out what to do next.
 

There was no way of knowing what time Felicia and Benny had arrived in Vegas, but I was quite sure the brute would have wanted to hustle right back to Varchetta with his prize. They probably got into town last night about the same time I did. I could not help but think that Varchetta might already have spent his first night alone with Felicia. I mentally shook myself and tried to purge that ugly picture from my mind.
 

I paid the check, and walked into the casino. I stood for a moment, looking around, then strolled casually toward the lounge. A huge cardboard cutout of Felicia Martinez stood guard at the entrance to the show room. Varchetta had wasted no time spreading the word. According to the billboard, she would make her first appearance at ten o’clock.

Felicia Martinez, where are you now?
Somewhere above me, in this steel and glass monument to human greed, one very frightened, very sick woman was being hidden away and held prisoner. I wished she knew I was here. I had the feeling that right at this moment, she felt totally alone.

She wasn’t.

I walked around the casino, wagering a few dollars here and there, with no luck. I felt mildly irritated to think that I had stayed at this very hotel several times in the past, never knowing that it was run by one Harry Varchetta.

I sat down at a blackjack table, dug out a couple hundred dollars, and found myself on an incredible hot streak. Fifteen minutes later I walked to the cage and exchanged my double handful of black chips for a little over five grand. I tucked the money away and glanced up at the row of one-way mirrors overhead.
Take that, you little prick.

I turned away from the cage and looked around for a moment while I listened to the whoops of laughter, groans of anguish, the sing-song chant of the stickmen, and the constant paging over the public address system.

I eased through the crowd, resisting the lure of the craps tables as I passed by, heading toward one of the hallways that lead to the hotel proper. Jilly had once mentioned that Varchetta had an entire suite on the top floor of this thirty-story hotel, and that security was not all that great. Apparently Varchetta felt safe in “his” town.

Big mistake, little man.

* * *

Ripper actually seemed happy to see me when I returned to the motel. I glanced at my watch. Three o’clock. Seven long hours to go. I sat down and removed the makeup. I didn’t look forward to putting it all on again, but it was too uncomfortable to wear for the rest of the day. I took a shower and flopped on the bed. I planned to have my gear packed and Ripper waiting for us in the car at the rear of the hotel. After her show, I’d grab her and we’d get the hell out of there.

I closed my eyes and once again set my mental alarm clock, this time for seven o’clock. That would give me time to get my disguise back on, pack, grab something to eat, and still get to the lounge in time to see Felicia arrive, no doubt accompanied by one or more bodyguards.

I questioned the wisdom of trying to take her out of there by force, then decided that if that was the way it had to be, that’s the way I’d do it. The mood I was in, I would probably have considered a frontal attack through the main casino entrance with a flame-thrower.
 

I smiled as I recalled one of the Vikings coaches yelling, “Dammit, hit somebody, anybody!” That was the mood I was in—I wanted to hit somebody, anybody!

Chapter 12

Felicia Martinez lay in a giant, freeform tub, submerged to her neck in steaming hot water. She realized, without caring, that the water was draining the little energy and strength she had left, adding to the weakness she had felt since Benny had forced her into his car in Reno.
 

Her mind drifted. There was no way, she thought, that she could perform in the lounge tonight, yet she knew that in just an hour or so she would be standing in front of the microphone facing a curious crowd. She knew Harry wanted her to sing so everyone would know she was back. He didn’t care if her performance was good or bad, as long as she made her appearance.
 

She shivered, despite the hot water, then stood with effort and stepped out of the tub. She toweled herself dry and sat down in front of the dressing mirror. Her hands shook. The woman who stared back from the mirror looked haggard and old.
 

How alone she felt. There was no one in the hotel she could trust, no way she could get a message to Jack.
Is that even necessary?
Surely he must know what happened, where I’ve been taken. He will come for me. Jack Frost will come for me.

She began applying her makeup. She gasped as she caught Harry Varchetta’s image in the mirror as he walked quickly up behind her. Before she could react, he slipped his hands under her arms and around her, cupping and lifting her bare breasts. She twisted away from him and walked quickly to the closet, aware of her nakedness. She slipped into a dressing gown, then turned to face him.

“We’ll see how bashful you are tonight,” he said, as he walked toward her. She braced herself for the blow, but he reached past her and grabbed a red gown from a hanger. It was nearly transparent, and cut low and wide to emphasize her breasts.

“Wear it!” he ordered. “And nothing under it! Benny will pick you up in forty-five minutes. Be ready.”

Fighting the tears, she sat down on the bed after he walked out of the apartment. When she finally forced herself to put on the dress, she stood in front of the mirror. There was nothing in her wardrobe that she could wear beneath it to soften the impact. He had made sure that the only clothes she had were those he had bought her. She understood him only too well.
 

Forty minutes later there was a knock on the door. With a feeling of dread, Felicia called out for Benny to enter. He walked into the room, an apprehensive look on his face. This was sacred ground to him, she realized. He stopped just inside the door, his eyes riveted to her breasts. He walked slowly to her, sweeping her body with his eyes, making no effort to conceal what was going on in his mind.