[h3]Arizona[/h3] [b]Kingman 2:31 AM[/b] Hank Carter was forced into the stiff wooden chair by the big gorilla in a sports jacket. The room had nothing in it besides the chair. No carpet, just bare concrete walls. Anybody who knew enough about casinos knew this is where card cheaters and welshers were dealt with. Even in a cut-rate place like this, the house rules were enforced with an iron fist. He'd watched his dreams go down the drain. He'd put what was left, all twenty-six bucks of it, on black to win. The little roulette ball landed on Red 8 and the uncaring dealer swept the chips into a slot and said how sorry he was with his words, while his eyes stared right through Hank and on to the next customer. That was when the gorilla gently took him by the crook of his elbow and steered him to this back room. "Playing with house money, Hank?" The Toad stood at the room's entrance, his bulbous eyes staring unblinkingly at Hank. He wore an all white suit with matching shoes and tie. A thick cigar rested in his plump hands. To Hank, he looked like a square, since he was almost as wide as he was tall and so fat his double chin had a double chin. "Toland," Hank said coolly. "I like the outfit. I suppose you have to strip to your skivves come supper time." The Toad waddled into the room and looked down at Hank with wry amusement. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and took a long drag off of it before he expelled smoke in Hank's face. "I don't think you're in a position to crack wise," he said after the smoke disappated. "Especially since you're in this room, owing Kingman Gardens, me to be specific, five thousand dollars." "You can't get blood from a turnip," said Hank. "Beat me until I'm raw, Toland. It won't get you your money." Told chuckled softly and took another drag on his cigar. This time, he pushed the smoke from his mouth and up into the air overhead. "You have no idea how bad I'd like to beat you raw, Hank. You see, were not like the Sun City outfits--" "No matter how much you try to copy them," said Hank. The Toad scowled. His goon put a meaty hand on Hank's shoulder and squeezed. Hank winced at the pain and squirmed in his chair. The Toad held out a fat hand to stop the pain. "As I was saying, before being so rudely interrupted, the Sun City boys have policies and procedures they have to follow. They report to people back east, people who don't take kindly to mavericks. The people who make the people back east mad end up in shallow graves out in the desert. "No, what makes me different is that I am sole owner of Kingman Gardens. You debt can be wiped away at the wave of my hand." To demonstrate, the Toad waved his hand. It seemed to Hank that the effort of the action caused him to break a sweat. "Who do I have to kill?" Hank asked with a raised eyebrow. The Toad laughed and came close to him. Even though Hank was in the chair and the Toad was standing, the two men were at eye level. The Toad put the cigar in his mouth and allowed himself a grin. "I don't want you to kill, Hank. I want you to find. Tell me, what did you do in the war?" Hank let out a sigh. "I was a desk worker." "Come now," said Toland. "You did more than that." "Well, you already know," Hank spat. "So why lead me on?" "I just want to know if the rumors are true. They said you were some kind of treasure hunter." "It was a bit more complicated than that," Hank said with a shrug. "We made sure artwork, monuments, historical items and all that weren't destroyed during the war." A large smile broke out on the Toad's face. Hank didn't like the look of it at all. "Then you know all about the ruins of Salt Lake." "Oh, no..." "Oh, yes. Your choices are simple, Hank: You either take a trip to Utah, or you take a trip to the desert." Hank couldn't believe what he was hearing. This fool believed the stories. The Treasure of the Latter Day Saints. Pure myth, the stuff of dreams. Countless people had went into the desert looking for it, never to return. He looked at the Toad. He was a fool, but he also held Hank's life in his fat, sweaty hands. "Get me maps," Hank finally said after a long silence. "Maps of Utah, maps of the Salt Lake City." Maybe if he played his cards right, he could get escape before they got to Utah. ---- [b]Sun City 3:21 AM[/b] Johnny Leggario smoked a cigarette. His suite had a perfect view of the Sun City strip in all its neon glory. He was clad in only boxers, his clothes were crumpled near the bed right next to the crumpled dress and heels the hooker wore. She was on the bed above the sheets, bare ass and lighting snoring. Johnny had put her through the paces soon after she arrived to his room. He was always that way after a job. In the run up, he was as celibate as a monk. He stored up that aggression and focused it on to the task at hand. After the work was done, regardless of the outcome, he would live like a hedonist for a few days. The hooker was his for tonight and tomorrow morning. If he still had the itch, he'd call the whorehouse on the outskirts of town and get another woman. He could afford it, after all. After Frenchie and the Valestra Family took their cut of the Cloud Nine heist, Johnny and his two-cohorts were left with a little over a million bucks. Prussian Joe did quick math and broke down their three shares to about four hundred thousand dollars a piece. A gentle knock on the door drew Johnny away from the view. He padded across the carpet, stopping by the coffee table to pick up his Colt. He cracked open the door and saw two guys he recognized. Rocky and Toots. Both were low-level guys, on the cusp of getting made. "The boss wants to see you, Johnny," said Rocky. "This late at night?" he asked. "Shit," Toots laughed. "Frenchie don't get up until after the sun goes down." Thirty minutes later, a fully dressed Johnny followed Toots and Rocky into Frenchie's office at the top of the Lucky Gent Casino. He had recreations of famous renaissance artwork scattered through the office. A faux Mona Lisa was mounted next to a Venus de Milo with giant tits. Behind a desk large enough to host an orgy on its surface, Frenchie Gallo sat with his slippered feet up. "There's my favorite sky pirate," Frenchie said as he dropped his feet and stood up. After a quick, awkward embrace, Frenchie dismissed Rocky and Toots and plopped back down behind his desk. He wore a tiger striped kimono around his hefty frame and dark sunglasses, even in the middle of the night. "You were amazing on that airship, kid. You were always an earner, Johnny. But not like this!" "Thanks," Johnny shrugged, at a loss for words. "You mind if we cut to the chase. I was in the middle of something when your guys showed up." "More like in the middle of someone," Frenchie winked. "Okay, so here's the deal. I'm going out of town in a few days. Heading to LA for the convention, I have a job for you while I'm gone." "What's the job?" asked Johnny. "Pest control. We've been having trouble with some biker trash riding up and down the strip. Highway Rangers, bunch of rednecks who can't get over the fact they lost the war, both of them. They cause trouble everywhere they stop and they're fucking bad for business. Toots and his boys had to get in between them and a couple of shines last night, the Rangers were about to knife the poor spooks. They hauled ass out of town, but they'll be back unless we do something." "Understood," said Johnny. "Should I preform surgery, or just lop the whole thing off?" "You're Italian," Frenchie said. "I want you to do to them what Rome did to Carthage. Destroy them, level them, salt the goddamn earth. [i]Capisce[/i]?" "Enjoy your trip to LA," Johnny replied. "When you get back, you'll find that the highways of Arizona are free of the Rangers."