The Bone Yard (10 page)

"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 problems 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.

But not just yet.

He had to wait until the final guests were bussed away to alternate hotels, their places taken by gorillas who were circling McCarran Airport at that very moment.

When everyone was present and accounted for — the imports and Spinoza's coterie of shaky allies on the local front — then Bernstein would be ready to unleash his strike force. And he was looking forward to it with relish.

There was a great day coming for Las Vegas — and for Bernstein. He was about to do a favor on behalf of justice. Poetic justice. And it was going to be a pleasure.

Frank Spinoza took his time about emerging from the elevator. He would be at a disadvantage if he seemed too eager, too uncertain of himself. He could not afford to let the new arrivals think that he was unable to hold down his end. He had to deal from strength or they might find a way to ease him out along with Kuwahara's kamikazes.

Spinoza watched as the first contingent of arrivals from the East grouped up around the entrance, waiting for the porters to unload their bags. Outside, the rest were quickly piling out of airport limos, unwilling to expose themselves on hostile soil until they knew the layout. Spinoza planned to let them get their fill of action as soon as possible, but first he had to play the role of host to the assembled hunters. The lobby was a wasteland now, devoid of paying guests, with only Bernstein's few employees and the new arrivals. The place was deathly quiet-calm before the storm-and Frank Spinoza realized how much he missed the jangle of casino action from the big adjacent room. Right now, without the players his casino was lifeless — like a tomb.

Spinoza pushed the morbid image out of mind and crossed the lobby, Paulie Vaccarelli trailing at his elbow. Time enough to get the players back when he had dealt with Kuwahara and the frigging Yakuza once and for all.

Spinoza was a dozen paces out when one of the Manhattan soldiers peeled away and moved to greet him, two more falling in behind but hanging back a yard or so, their attitude conveying mute respect. Spinoza took the offered hand and shook it, matching ounce for ounce the pressure in that grip. He kept his face impassive.

"I'm Frank Spinoza. Welcome to Las Vegas."

"Jake Pinelli. Glad that we could help you out. No problem with the rooms?"

"My house is yours."

"Okay. Just let us settle in, and we can all get down to business."

"Good."

A movement on his flank distracted him, and Spinoza saw a runner huddling with Paulie, speaking to him in a whisper. Paulie heard him out, dismissed him, and then, before Spinoza could direct the New York crew chief to his suite, the houseman cleared his throat, discreetly claiming Frank's attention.

"Say, Frank..."

"Hang on a minute, Paulie. Now..."

"You got a call, boss. On your private line. It sounds important."

"Dammit, Paulie..."

"Never mind," Pinelli interjected, frowning. "We'll find our way. Go take your call."

"I'll have some food sent up. You name it, Jake."

"We caught some dinner on the plane, but thanks. I'll just wait till you get your action squared away."

Spinoza, fuming, followed Paulie back in the direction of his private office. He would have to watch Pinelli closely, make damn sure the snotty bastard did not start to think he was in charge.

Too many chiefs were bad for business, and Spinoza meant to be the only honcho at the Gold Rush.

Hell, he meant to be the only honcho in Las Vegas. Alone inside his office he relaxed a fraction, slumping down into his high-backed chair and punching up the lighted button for his private number as he lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Yeah?"

Momentary silence on the other end, finally broken by a voice that was distinctly male, distinctly cautious.

"I needta speak to Mr. Frank Spinoza." There was a trace of Eastern Seaboard in the voice, which he could not identify with any more precision.

"You got him."

"Yeah? I mean, good evening, sir."

"Who am I talking to?"

"Just call me Joe from Jersey. I'm connected back there with the Drucci family."

Sure, it fit. The Jersey twang.

Spinoza was not taking any chances with the caller being who he claimed to be.

"I've got some friends in Jersey," he allowed. "How's old Vinnie Giacovelli doing these days?"

Hesitation, but the caller caught on fast.

"He died six months ago. You ought to know that, sir."

"Okay. So, Joe from Jersey, how'd you get this number?"

"I guess you'd say it was a backup, sir. A kinda last resort... just covering all the bases, like, you know?"

"Somebody said this was important."

"Well... yeah, it might be. Anyhow, I thought I'd better tip you when I heard about your troubles."

"Troubles?" Spinoza was hard pressed to hide his irritation.

"Uh, yeah. That's kinda why I called. I thought you oughta know... about what I heard."

Spinoza kept his tone civil now with an effort.

"I guess I don't follow you, Joe."

"Well, I picked up a broad downtown this evening what a looker, man, the jugs on this one — anyway, we stopped into this restaurant she likes. A Japanese place. Me, I don't care much for all that seafood shit, but hell, whatever turns 'em on, you know? I mean..."

Spinoza interrupted him.

"Where is this place?"

"On Paradise. It had some kinda flowers in the name."

"The Lotus Garden." It was not a question.

"Yeah, that's it. Well, anyhow — where was..."

"In the restaurant."

"Oh, yeah. So we're just sitting there and this babe's sucking up the fish, but me, I'm concentrating on dessert, when I make out these two Nips talking shop behind me in another booth."

"Go on."

"I wouldn'a paid attention in the first place, but I heard some names that rang a bell, you know. These gooks were naming you, Liguori, Johnny Cats — some others I don't know for sure."

"What did they say?"

"Well, that's just it, sir. They were switching in and out with Japanese and some damn kinda broken English, so I couldn't get too much, but..."

"Anything at all, Joe." Spinoza's voice was cold as ice now, almost brittle.

"Right, okay. One guy says something like, "The troops are in," and then they go back into Japanese a while. But I can still make out your name, the Gold Rush, this and that."

"Go on."

"Well, they go back and forth like that and most of it is all this gook palaver, but then one of them comes out and says, "Tonight. We go tonight," like that. I mean, it doesn't take no Einstein now to figure out they're running down a hit on your place for this evening."

"And that's all of it?"

"It's all that I could understand. They took off pretty quick, and I hauled ass myself. I figured you should hear about this right away."

"You did the right thing, Joe. I wanna thank you."

"Hey, we're all arnici, right? I could stop by... I mean, I've got a piece if you could use an extra hand."

"I think we've got it covered here, but thanks again. I'll thank your capo personally when I get the chance."

"Hell, that ain't necessary, sir.

"I think it is."

"Well... thank you."

"If you ever feel the urge to relocate out east — you know, to get some sun..."

"I might at that."

"Okay, Joe. Have a safe trip home."

"And you, sir. Don't take any shit offa those Nips."

"Good night, Joe." Frank Spinoza put the phone down gently.

His mind was racing in confrontation with the danger that awaited him outside in the darkness of the desert night.

Somehow Kuwahara had found out about his buildup at the Gold Rush, and he had been working on a countermove — his own preemptive strike. Well, two could play that little game. Spinoza had the troops on hand to end this thing in one decisive move.

It was time for Jake Pinelli and his guns to earn their money. He would send Paulie with them, just to be sure they did it right the first time and to see that all his interests were protected. When they finished mopping up the streets with Kuwahara's chopsticks... well, Spinoza meant to have a little send-off waiting for them at the Gold Rush. A going away that none of them would soon forget. For the survivors. As for the rest... there was a great big desert out there waiting to be filled with little graves, and Frank Spinoza had a corner on the shovel market. He was going to get a lot of digging done before the bloody sunrise came up over Vegas one more time.

And it would not be Kuwahara's rising run. No way. His sun was going down in flames, except the Jap was too damned dumb to know it yet. The sun was rising for Spinoza and his family. The Nevada family. And they were going to flourish in the light.

Mack Bolan — lately known as Joe from Jersey eased the telephone receiver down and lit himself a cigarette. He was anticipating the results of his brief conversation with Spinoza, what the aftershock would mean for Seiji Kuwahara, for the Mafia and for the city of Las Vegas. He had cruised by the Gold Rush earlier, observed the hard-eyed types unloading from their chauffeured limos, mobbing up at the hotel-casino. They were going hard down there, about to put an army on the streets, and from his knowledge of the Mafia mind, Bolan knew that when the killing started they would not be taking time to sift out innocent civilians from the line of fire.

West was ready to collide with East and countless lives were hanging in the balance. All of Vegas could become a battleground — unless the Executioner's device turned out to be successful.

He had called Spinoza in the hope of giving him a target, drawing off the savages from roving street patrol and pitting them against the common enemy where they would do least damage to the innocents around them. Kuwahara's hardsite seemed the perfect place to bring them all together. Any troops who hung back at the Gold Rush, left on garrison duty with Spinoza, would be waiting for him when he finished with the spearhead.

He dropped another dime and dialed the number of a giant Strip hotel, his eyes upon the traffic sliding past his phone booth while the operator put him through to Tommy Anders's room. The comic's voice was cautious as he answered, "Yes."

"How is she?"

Hesitation on the other end.

"Well... ah, dammit, man, she split."

And something cold turned over in the soldier's stomach.

"What happened, Joker?"

"I was only in the next room for a minute, maybe two, just touching base with Wonderland. When I came back there was no sign of her."

"How long?"

"I'd say an hour, maybe less."

The warrior's mind ran through some alternate scenarios, but none of them provided him the slightest reassurance. Finally, reluctantly, he put the woman out of mind and went ahead with business.

"Let me have another hour, Joker, then put through a call to Metro Homicide. The man you want is Captain Reese."

"Okay. I've got it."

"Tell him that Spinoza has a crew at Seiji Kuwahara's, and they're bringing down the house. He'll know the address."

"Kuwahara's, right. Hey, Sarge..."

"Forget it."

"Can't. I'm sorry that I let her get away."

"She wasn't ours to hold," the warrior told him. And again, "Forget about it."

But the soldier would have trouble following his own advice that night. Lucy Bernstein was in danger, right, and there was nothing either he or Tommy Anders could have done to keep her safe and sound. The choice was hers, and she had made it freely. And he understood why. She had a job to do and she had gone about it on her own. She was a big girl. He only hoped she had the sense to find herself a shelter from the rising storm that was about to sweep the city. There was no way he could stop the wheels that had been set in motion here tonight.

The Universe was in the driver's seat and all of them were booked through to the end of the line, wherever, whatever that end turned out to be. For some, perhaps for all of them, the vehicle would prove to be a hearse-but none of them could disembark before they reached the final destination preordained by fate.

The Executioner stubbed out his smoke and left the phone booth, moving through the darkness toward his waiting rental car. He had no wish to put off the inevitable; on the contrary, he welcomed the future whatever it might bring.

For he had done his duty, and he would continue doing it while life and strength remained. Tonight, tomorrow — for as long as he was given, he would fight the good fight, carry on and spread his cleansing fire among the dark encampments of the universal enemy.

The Executioner was moving toward a rendezvous with destiny in the desert, with a stopover in hell along the way.