Authors: Kay Keppler
The truth was, Big Julie was tired. Remembering which suite he was supposed to be in every day and keeping two women happy—or at least quiet—took more strength than a circus elephant and better timing than an air traffic controller. So far Marilyn had spotted Baby just that one time, and although she’d gotten real cheesed about it, her screechfest had had an upside for him. But how long before Baby figured everything out? And then what? Baby had options.
So that was the first thing.
He heard the doorbell ring as he lathered his face with the casino’s triple-milled, vanilla-scented English soap. Drake’s raised voice. Then he heard a series of bumps and bangs as something crashed against the door. That was room service with the breakfast he’d ordered, on time for once. The food could wait for three minutes while he shaved.
He was still shaving when the bathroom door burst open and two big thugs rushed in.
That was the second thing.
The doorbell had not brought room service, but the Russians. They’d learned on arrival that Mrs. Marilyn Saladino and spouse were staying in suite fifteen-oh-one of the Desert Dunes Casino and Resort—just two floors down from themselves—and they had formulated a plan.
The plan started out great. Armed and dangerous—all except for Alexei, whose future, as their prospective attorney, could not be risked by a felony conviction—they stole an empty laundry cart from the hallway and the maid that came with it, pushing the tiny terrified woman and the giant cart before them down to fifteen-oh-one.
The door to the suite, concealed in a tiny alcove, was entirely filled by the cart and the maid. The Russians hid along the hallway, out of sight from the suite’s security view of the door.
“Ring the bell,” Johnny Red hissed to the maid.
The maid turned, stark terror in her eyes. Johnny Red turned to the triplet closest to the door.
“Markov, ring the bell,” he said.
“Why can’t I ring the bell?” asked Yakov.
“Just somebody ring the bell, dammit!” Johnny Red snarled.
Yakov squeezed past the frozen maid and rang the bell. Then he jumped back out of sight.
When Drake looked through the keyhole, he saw only a small, dark, nervous woman. Made lax by insufficient danger, he fell for the oldest trick in the world and opened the door.
“Yeah?” he asked. “What—” But before he could formulate the question, the five Russians jumped into the alcove, pushing the maid and the cart before them, rushed into the suite’s foyer, and tackled him.
“Hey!” Drake shouted, struggling against the maid, the cart, and the Russians. “Who—?” He shoved the cart against Alexei and two of the triplets, dodging the maid and taking a calculated swing at Johnny Red, which fell short.
“I’m gonna kill you!” snarled Yakov, who had been struck by the cart in a tender area.
“Alto!” squeaked the maid in horror. “Alto! En nombre de Dios!”
The struggle was violent but brief. Even facing five-to-one odds, Drake might have come out the victor, since two of the five Russians had little training and less practice in overcoming a strapping personal bodyguard with many years of experience in the Special Forces.
But Johnny Red had come prepared. While Yakov, Markov, and Igor grappled with Drake’s arms and legs and tried to take away his gun and Alexei watched to make sure the maid didn’t make a break for the phone, Johnny Red calmly uncapped a small vial. Holding it far away from his body, he dumped the contents into a paper towel he’d brought just for this purpose and held it over the struggling Drake’s face.
In a matter of seconds, Drake slumped to the floor.
“Presto, sleepo,” Markov said with satisfaction.
“Let’s move,” Johnny Red said.
Yakov and Markov each picked up one of Drake’s arms and legs and started to drag him into a closet.
“Dios!” groaned the maid, making the sign of the cross. “Mi loca vida!”
“So, how do you like Las Vegas?” Alexei asked her in a futile attempt to distract her.
Yakov and Markov shoved Drake’s feet after the rest of him and slammed the closet door, blocking it with a chair they propped under the doorknob.
“We’re good,” Markov said, dusting his hands.
“Hombres horribles,” the maid wept.
“The Desert Dunes is a fantastic facility,” Alexei told her. “You do a great job here.”
Meanwhile, Johnny Red and Igor went looking for Big Julie. They crept through the huge apartment until they got to the master bedroom. Gluing their ears to the bathroom door, they heard the little sounds of shaving—the water gurgling in the sink, the knock of a razor against the porcelain, the soft grunts of Big Julie as he scraped his skin.
They crouched outside the door. Surprise was everything. Johnny Red held up his fist and put one finger in the air. Igor nodded. One. Then two. Then three.
They burst through the bathroom door.
When Johnny Red and Igor crashed through the solid oak bathroom door, Big Julie couldn’t have been more surprised than if Lenin himself were leading the charge.
“What the—?” he started as he staggered back from the sink, but he had grasped the situation in a heartbeat. He tried to fend off the attack, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
“Get outta here! Drake!” he roared, to no results.
And that hadda be the third thing, because Johnny Red, the big putz who wanted Big Julie’s Jersey territory, wouldn’t have gotten this far if Drake were still in the picture. And of course Big Julie knew who his attackers were. Johnny Red had swaggered around the streets of Jersey often enough, even though Big Julie himself had never had the pleasure of socking the newcomer upstart in the jaw, him or his Mob soldier neither. The Russian goons had come out here to Vegas to get done on neutral ground what they couldn’t get done on their home turf, where Big Julie had plenty of friends and well-wishers who just happened to know a few things about firearms.
“
Go back to Moscow, you stupid Russian!
” yelled Big Julie. “You’re not getting New Jersey—and you’re not getting me, neither!” He tried to shake free from Johnny Red’s grip even as Igor grabbed him from behind. Big Julie’s large, wet torso and unsecured towel gave the Russians little purchase, but the two-against-one odds were poor and the towel hampered his best moves. Big Julie lost the towel within minutes and found himself inexorably dragged out of the bathroom toward the suite’s entryway.
Not good.
If the Russians got him out of the suite, he didn’t think he’d ever see the inside of it again. Not in one piece, anyway. Maybe in several smaller pieces, tucked inside a suitcase. Just not, he hoped, the genuine Louis Vuitton matched luggage set that Marilyn had bought to the tune of five grand just two days ago. She’d
never
get the blood out of that.
Speaking of Marilyn, where the hell was she? Or Baby?
Somebody
had to be up here
somewhere
who could get some help.
“Help!” Big Julie shouted. “Fire! Help!”
“Shaddup!” Johnny Red yelled, trying to slug Big Julie in the mouth. Big Julie dodged, and the blow glanced off his lower jaw as he ducked. Big Julie didn’t worry none about being slugged. He hadn’t risen to the top of the Jersey organization without taking a few hits. He thrashed against his captors as they hauled him out to the entryway, bucking and yelling the whole way.
“Yakov, get the chloroform!” yelled Johnny Red, trying to hang on to Big Julie as Markov leaped to his aid.
Yakov stared at Johnny Red. “But boss, you used it all up on the other guy.”
“Holy Mother of Russia!” boomed Johnny Red.
By the time Johnny Red and Igor had muscled Big Julie into the entryway and the door where the laundry cart was jammed, Johnny Red saw the first flaw in his plan. He’d meant to kill his arch-rival here in the foyer, dump him in the laundry cart, take him out to the loading dock behind the casino, stash him in the getaway car, drive him out to the helicopter pad, give him a nice ride, and then drop him into Lake Mead, right behind Hoover Dam.
The trip seemed like it would be fun. Big Julie would fall out of the sky into the water, which would make a nice, big splash, and the pilot had promised to pack a picnic lunch and fly over the Grand Canyon, too, as long as they were out there.
The problem with this program leaped to Johnny Red’s consciousness when the maid took one look at Big Julie, buck naked, kicking and flailing, dripping water, half his face still covered in shaving soap, and screamed in a pitch that could break glass.
“Eiyeeeeeee!” she wailed. The scream and its echo seemed to reverberate around the suite and down the hallway—and for all Johnny Red knew, down the elevator shaft to the security office. Alexei, who’d been trying to engage her in small talk with poor results, jumped up and clamped his hand over her mouth.
Johnny Red pondered his problem. The maid, so handy when they stole the laundry cart, now was a hindrance. What to do about her? He couldn’t shoot Big Julie right here with her watching. He couldn’t leave an eyewitness to murder, and killing her, too, was out of the question. He couldn’t even really push her out of the suite and shoot him behind closed doors, because she’d seen the weapons, she’d hear the shot, and either way, she’d
know.
And if she knew, she’d scream. Johnny Red would swear to that on a stack of
Das Kapitals.
He wasn’t the only one who’d seen the problem.
“Uncle,” Alexei said in desperation, holding his hand over the maid’s mouth while she struggled to break free. “What are we going to do?” He flinched when the maid bit him.
“Let me think a minute,” Johnny Red said.
“Hurry,” Alexei urged, trying to stay away from the maid’s teeth.
Johnny Red thought while
Yakov, Markov, and Igor
held the still bucking and thrashing Big Julie, and Alexei kept his hold on the biting, kicking maid.
Leave no witnesses.
That was the first rule. And the second rule was,
kill no innocent bystanders
. So he had to try to reconcile these opposing forces. The dialectic was always difficult, even for Lenin. And for Stalin—well, forget it. The man couldn’t find a dialectic with a divining rod. Bottom line: Johnny Red couldn’t kill Big Julie and the maid, too. Big Julie, as a parasitic member of the decadent bourgeoisie—yes. The maid, as a conscientious member of the working proletariat—nyet!
“Change of plans.” Johnny Red announced. “We don’t kill Big Julie now. We do it in the helicopter. Then he goes into Lake Mead, just like we planned, and we still get our picnic.”
“That works,” Alexei said, “but what do we do about her?” The maid, exhausted from her exertions, slumped against Alexei. He gestured toward the maid, whose arm he still gripped.
Johnny Red shook his head impatiently. “We keep her with us till we get to the car. By the time she calls for help, we’re on our way.” The only question was, how were they going to get a naked and struggling Big Julie down to the getaway car?
Johnny Red paused for a second, giving Big Julie an opportunity to jerk a hand free. He used it to punch Igor in the jaw.
“Ow!” Igor said, letting go to punch Big Julie back.
Igor’s swing missed. Big Julie yanked upwards against Yakov and Markov. Caught unaware, they lost their grip. Big Julie, now unleashed, found that his way to freedom was still obstructed. The laundry cart blocked the front door, and he couldn’t retreat because Yakov and Markov were right behind him.
“Help!” Big Julie yelled as he jumped around, avoiding the Russians and looking for a way out. “Help! Murder! Fire! Help!”
“Ei-yeeeeee!” the maid screamed, Big Julie’s nakedness jumping in the hallway proving too much for her sensibilities. Alexei, who thought she’d pierced his eardrums, finally remembered his belt. He ripped it out of his pants, grabbed the maid’s wrists, and tied them behind her. Then he picked up Big Julie’s discarded towel and stuffed a corner of it, as gently as he could under the circumstances, into her mouth. When the maid was secure, he turned back and assessed their circumstances.
The situation did not look good. Big Julie was not subdued. The maid could not be counted on. The triplets were ineffective. And if the bodyguard woke up in the closet—well, he couldn’t think about that. And he wouldn’t need to think about it if he could get things under control.
First, he needed a weapon. Everybody else had one, but no one was using it effectively. Surely the Jersey Mob boss had a little something handy—something not too incriminating—squirreled away somewhere in this suite. He dashed off to the bedroom.
Big Julie lunged for the doorway, trying to squeeze past the laundry cart, and the triplets rushed after him before he could get away. Johnny Red lunged for the limp paper towel lying on the floor. Grabbing it, he, too rushed Big Julie. The avalanche of Russians squeezed Big Julie, forcing him in a tight space between the wall and the cart. Thus immobilized, Johnny Red was able to press the paper towel over Big Julie’s nose and mouth.
“What the—?” Big Julie asked, swinging his arms and kicking, trying to break free.
Johnny Red hung onto Big Julie and the paper towel as Big Julie thrashed around, not getting noticeably weaker. Seconds later, Alexei returned waving a giant pink leather dildo.