John Locke - Vegas Moon
Phyllis paused again, as if listening for Connor Payne. Then she whispered, “Don’t be angry. What I did was really stupid, but—
On the phone, Phyllis suddenly went into full-blown panic mode. “Shit! Here he comes! I-I love you, Lucky!”
II
Lucky needed to…not panic. He tried not panicking for awhile, but his heart was racing a mile a minute. He decided to think, instead. Okay, so he needed to make some calls.
Several calls. How many, exactly?
Three.
But who first?
Phyllis? His wife Gwen? Mob boss Carmine Porrello?
Phyllis’s cell phone went unanswered. When he called her office, a cop said, “This is Detective Scrapple. I’m logging calls for Dr. Willis. Could you state your name, please, and your relationship to Dr. Willis?”
Lucky hung up. He knew it was a stupid thing to do, since Phyllis’s cell phone records would show he was the last person she called before her murder. Assuming she’s dead.
Assuming?
Of course she’s dead! Or she’d have called him.
Damn good thing I can prove I was in Jamaica when it happened, he thought. Of course, the details of his affair with Phyllis might come to light. Then again, beyond the cold shoulder he could expect from Gwen, a public affair could enhance his reputation as a lady’s man. A plus, in a town like Vegas.
If Lucky was anything, he was lucky. He calculated the odds of surviving Phyllis’s murder relatively unscathed, and put them at 12 to 1.
Connor Payne was a different matter.
Did Phyllis tell him about Lucky’s connection to the device? If so, Lucky and Gwen were both in danger.
Lucky called Gwen’s cell.
No answer.
He tried their home.
No answer.
This was a problem. If Gwen’s cell phone was operating, her voice message would have come on. He caught himself wishing he’d taken Gwen to Jamaica. It would’ve been nice to have a friendly face here, but he’d wanted to sample the local talent. He didn’t get far with the Jamaican women, though. In fact, he never got started. Because by the time he landed he was already shitting blood through his shorts. After gagging everyone in first class and then baggage claim, Lucky caught a cab and went straight to the hospital. After a day of tests and prep, they scheduled his colonoscopy. Welcome to the Islands, indeed, Lucky thought.
His third call got a response.
Mob boss Carmine “The Chin” Porrello couldn’t wait to take Lucky’s call. He’d been trying to infiltrate Lucky’s sports betting empire for years. But so far, Lucky had managed to resist the charms of doing business with the mob.
“What’s up?” Carmine said.
“You know this hit man, Connor Payne?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Really?”
“Really. Why you askin’?”
“He might be after me.”
“Sounds like you got a problem.”
“I need a body guard.”
“If your boy’s for real, none a’ my people are gonna want the job.”
“I just need a name. Who’s the best hit man in the business?”
“By business, you mean the family?”
“No. In the world. Is there someone who’s considered the best in the world?”
“Only one can be the best. But you’ll never get him.”
“Why?”
“He don’t need the money.”
Lucky said, “You give me the name, I’ll get him to work for me.”
“Things like this ain’t free.”
“You can’t give me a flippin’ name?”
“Not this name. Not for free.”
“Fine. How much?”
“Ten.”
“Ten grand? For a name?”
“Yeah, that’s right. But it’s a helluva name. Someone asks you for it, you can get your money back.”
“Yeah, but ten g’s?”
“Ten. Nothing less.”
“Fuck. Okay, done. What’s the name?”
Carmine’s voice went low. “My part ends when I say the name. You don’t tell no one I gave it to you, capisca?”
“Fine. What’s the name?”
Carmine paused, as if looking around before saying it. “Donovan Creed,” he whispered.
“What’s his number?”
“What? You think I know his fuckin’ number?”
“What’d I just pay you ten large for, if not his number?”
“His name, asshole.”
“How am I going to find his number?” Lucky said.
“That’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
“Five more.”
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“Let me tell you somethin’, Lucky.”
“Yeah?”
“When someone wants this man’s name and number, they’re humpin’ their last chicken.”
Lucky paused. “I don’t have any idea what you just said.”
“Ah, shit. I’m gettin’ old. There’s an expression in there somewhere. I just can’t remember the fuckin’ thing. You want the number, or what?”
“Yeah, fine.”
Carmine gave a number.
“What’s this, his cell phone?”
“No. Sal Bonadello’s.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Lucky said.
“The guy that can get you Creed.”
III
It costs Lucky another ten grand to finally get Donovan Creed on the phone. When he does, it goes like this:
“Mr. Creed, this is Jim Peters, from Las Vegas. My friends call me Lucky.”
Dead silence.
“Are you there?”
“Sorry, I thought you were making a speech.”
“Where are you, Mr. Creed? I mean, are you in the states?”
“Mr. Peters, I’ll be glad to tell you where I am, but it’ll cost you an ear.”
“A…what? Did you say an ear? What are you talking about?”
“You want something personal from me, I get something of yours in return. Since you asked, I’m in—”
“Shit no!” Lucky screams. “Don’t tell me!”
The voice on the other end is calm. “Fair enough. Why are we speaking today?”
“Ever hear of a guy named Connor Payne?”
“I have.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s one of the most lethal people in the world. Why do you ask?”
“I have reason to believe he murdered a friend of mine a few hours ago.”
“A close friend?”
“Well…yes. I mean, she was the Medical Director of a corporation I invested in. I’m the majority stockholder.”
“Wow. So Connor Payne murdered your friend.”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Me? I…well…I mean, I’m trying to do something about it right now. By calling you.”
“Did you have sex with her just the two times, or has this been going on awhile?”
“I—what? No. I mean, we did business together. We had a professional relationship.”
“Are you telling me Phyllis Willis was a hooker?”
“What? No, of course not. I mean, wait—how did you know her name?”
“It’s my job to know. By the way, were you able to keep your polyp?”
“My…polyp? What polyp?”
“The one Dr. Gayle cut out of your colon this morning.”
“He…I mean…what?”
Creed made a tsk, tsk sound. “Let me guess: he told you there was nothing in there.”
“His exact words were, I was clean as a whistle.”
“He keeps them, you know.”
“Polyps?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Makes necklaces out of them. Sells them on the Broomilaw.”
“The Broomilaw?”
“When it ices over. Between bear fights.”
This conversation has completely gotten away from Lucky. He starts over. “Mr. Creed, I want to hire you.”
“You want me to get your polyp back?”
“I want you to protect me from Connor Payne.”
“Whew.”
“Excuse me?”
“Thank God you’re asking for something simple.”
“Simple?”
“Compared to getting your polyp back.”
Lucky was getting frustrated. “Are you sure you’re Donovan Creed?”
“Pretty sure.”
“The Donovan Creed who kills people?”
“Are you recording this conversation?”
“Of course not!”
“Too bad. I’ve been working on my tough guy voice. I was hoping to hear how it comes across over the phone.”
“Mr. Creed.”
“Yes?”
“I’m a wealthy man. I can pay you to protect me. How much would you charge?”
“Depends on what you want. Do I just have to keep you alive, or would I have to kill Connor Payne?”
“You…could kill him?”
“I could. But I doubt I’ll have to.”
“Why not?”
“If he knows I’m guarding you, he won’t come within ten miles of us.”
“If that’s true, I shouldn’t have to pay you very much,” Lucky said.
“That’s a rather odd way to look at it.”
“I’ll pay you twenty grand a week. How does that sound?”
“Paltry.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“A premium hooker would cost you thirty. And offer no protection against Connor Payne.”
“I don’t need a hooker.”
“You might, if you’re right about Phyllis being dead.”
Lucky sighed. “Look. You want the job or not?”
“Mr. Peters?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a liar, a cheat, and a cheapskate.”
“Based on?”
“You lied about fucking Phyllis. You cheated on your wife. And you don’t want to pay me a fair price to save your life.”
Lucky paused. When he spoke, he sounded dejected. “How’d you know about Phyllis?”
“Carmine told me.”
“Carmine Porrello?”
“You know any other Carmines?”
“He said he didn’t know you! That sonofabitch charged me fifteen grand for Sal’s phone number! And Sal charged me ten for yours!”
“So you’ll pay twenty-five grand to get me on the phone, but only twenty a week to protect you? That hurts, Mr. Peters. If I have to seek therapy over this, who’s going to stop Connor Payne from killing you?”
“I can kill him myself.”
“Now that’s a bold statement.”
“There’s a device. I only need you as long as it takes to find it.”
“Interesting. Tell me more.”
“I can’t. Not over the phone. If you protect Gwen till I get back to Vegas, you and I can search Phyllis’s office together, and find this thing I’m looking for.”
“Gwen?”
“My wife. Her life could be in danger.”
“Why?”
“If Connor Payne thinks I have the device, he might go to my house looking for it.”
“Or for you.”
“Right.”
“But you don’t have it.”
“No. Phyllis has…had it.”
“Want me to check her office?”
“You can’t. The police are there. You can get me in there tonight, though, right?”
“If I come to Vegas,” Creed said.
Lucky said, “How did Carmine know about Phyllis?”
“Mr. Peters, you may be brilliant when it comes to bookmaking, but you don’t know shit about the people who are scheming to bring you down.”
“And you do?”
“What I don’t know I can figure out.”
“But you won’t help me.”
“Did I say that?”
“You said I was a liar, a cheat, and a cheapskate.”
“True. Nevertheless, I’m in.”
“You are?”
“I’m intrigued.”
“Why?”
“Connor Payne is a one-man army. I want to know how you plan to kill him.”
“I’ll tell you tonight, after I land. There’s a direct flight to Vegas, leaves at five, gets there nine twenty. I need you to go to my house, watch my wife till then.”
“Okay.”
“And bring her with you to the airport to meet my plane.”
“You need to let her know I’m coming.”
“Of course.”
“There’s one problem.”
“What?”
“The police are having a convention at your house.”
“How do you know?”
“Carmine told me.”
Lucky’s heart sinks. “You don’t think something’s happened to Gwen, do you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Why?”
“No ambulance.”
“Mr. Creed. Are you in fact in Las Vegas?”
“Let’s put it like this: I can be at your house in an hour.”
“And you’ll take the job?”
“If you agree to cooperate.”
“What would I have to do?”
“Tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“That’s right.”
“About Connor Payne?”
“We can start with him and see where it takes us.”
“Fine. But I can’t divulge any details about my business.”
“Why not?”
“It could ruin me.”
“Let me put it this way. You can tell me what I want to know, or you can tell Connor Payne everything. And he won’t ask nicely.”
1.
29 Hours Earlier…
The chip in my head can be activated by tapping a four-digit code into a device that looks like a wrist watch. When the code is entered, the chip heats up and starts liquefying my brain. Do that to me, and you better have fresh batteries and type in the right code, because if you don’t, I’m going to come for you.
It’s not personal.
I know you’ve got a life, a loving spouse, two apple-cheeked kids, three dogs, four cats and five parakeets. Or maybe you live alone in a basement apartment with a single window that’s half dirt and half sky, and you dine nightly on canned cat food while fantasizing about large, hairy women in boxer shorts who could win the limbo contest if the people on either end would just raise the fucking bar!
Either way, you’ve got a life, and as far as I’m concerned, you deserve to live it without interference from me.
Until you press those buttons.
Do that, and your life belongs to me.
I’m Donovan Creed, former CIA assassin, sometime hit man for the mob. I currently head up a team of assassins who kill suspected terrorists for Uncle Sam. I can be your best friend or your worst nightmare.
But you should know I don’t have many friends.
I’m a tolerant, even-tempered guy who likes the same things you do: long walks on the beach at sunset, holding hands, romantic candlelit dinners featuring great food and premium Kentucky bourbon, making love under the stars with high-end call girls, torturing, maiming and killing bad guys…
I’m not a bully.
Random comment, I know, but God, I hate bullies.
I’ve been told I have a hero complex, which means I feel compelled to help those in need. Personally, I think the world would be a better place if more people get involved when bad things go down. But apparently the fact I feel compelled to help people, instead of choosing to help them—makes me something of a sociopath. Let’s say it this way: if you’re a bully—and that word covers a lot of ground with me—it won’t take long for you to see something no one wants to see:
The man I keep hid.
To prevent that from happening, don’t fuck with the U.S.A., and don’t fuck with me, or the people I care about.
Which brings me to the buzz I felt in my head a few hours ago. The one caused not by alcohol, but by someone attempting to activate the kill chip in my brain.
