Coldstone 2: Devils West - Chapter 1

Agenda
(Attn: Capteucalyptus)

Othello picks his crisply tailored Everett Hall original out of the closet and begins to dress.

"Marcy, when the Veretta people arrive set them up in the Opal room and make sure that Marcel feeds them very well. I want them good and sluggish for our meeting. Oh and make sure that I am in place no later than two-thirty for Miyamoto-san."

He finishes pulling on the suit coat and takes the cane from it's place beside the bed. Its weight feels good in his hand. It still misses the forty-five even after all this time. Like a cigarette smoker playing with toothpicks this is the closest he ever wants to get again.

"Call the manager at The Belaggio and make sure that JJ is on the roster. I want him warming up for their headliner in the Fontana Bar by next week. His material is ready for it. Call in a few favors if you need to."

He begins to walk out to the office, his people attending him moving like a precision drill team.

"Tima I want your input on this security meeting at five. Have some notes on their representatives ready for me by four. Oh and one last thing Marcy, make sure to have two dozen of those purple orchids that Foxy likes on her desk by eleven and double check our reservations for eight. I want her birthday to be extra special this year."

He settles into the daily routine with as much relish as he did any battle.

Number One Fan
(Attn: Rath, Burke)

"Pantuso here. I'm on deadline. If this isn't one of Paulie DiViaslo's insanley beautiful strippers, I'm hangin' up..."

the arrival

Frank glances at his watch. He is extraordinarily impatient, especially for him. He leans forward and turns on the radio.

'...as the city faces the prospect of new tax hikes in exchange for the increased police activity...'

He flicks the switch off, and looks out the window.

Where the hell is he, he thinks.

Number One Fan
(Attn: Rath, Burke)

The stillness was razor sharp. A cold whisper entered the phone.

"all men have chains. chains of obligation. chains of honor. chains of family. break the chains and you break the man.

you... interest me."

CLICK

Hardcase

George Kennedy strolls out of the office, ignoring the cold stare of his Chief. He stops by the secretary's desk, pours himself a cup of coffee. This should be good for another day out, he thinks to himself.

McClure walks down the long, white hallway and yells into the open door of Special Agent Hannity's small office, "Yo Hanjobity, we're going out, get your briefcase and enema and get in the fuckin' car."

McClure continues his stroll down the hall, nodding at Joey and giving a sly wink to Barb. As he exits the elevator on the first floor of the Clinton Federal Building, he chucks the empty cup into the trashcan and paces to the door.

McClure takes out the keys to the van, thinks twice about it, and then puts them away. He takes out the keys to his Volvo, and when he reaches the parking garage, he pops open the trunk to his Volvo and pulls out a license plate. He hears Hannity yelling about some shit in the distance, but undeterred, he switches the current license plate with one he took out from underneath a blanket in his trunk. As he screws it on, Hannity reaches the parking lot. "What the fuck are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm just messing around, so shut the fuck up, Hannity."

McClure gets into the driver's side as Hannity fumbles to close the door. "Where are we going, 'Kennedy'?" Hannity asks.

McClure ignores him and starts up the car. He turns the radio on and gets on a rap station. McClure isn't crazy about it, but he knows it pisses off Hannity, so he keeps it on.

They drive in silence, McClure slowly swaying to the beats of the Neptunes. They come to a stop as Kennedy eases into a spot.

"Okay, listen. You're going to walk up to the corner, make a right hand turn, and walk 'till you get to a place called Tony's Tiger. I want you to go in and get a girl and ask for something private. They'll tell you they ain't got nothing, but that's when you start slippin' them bills, all right pal?"

George reaches under his seat and pulls out a stack of cash.

"Where'd you get this?" Hannity asks.

"Don't worry about it, all right, this is fucking important so save me the bullshit questions. I want you to go in, find the best lookin' girl in the joint, get something private, then just ask her questions. About her life, how she got her, how she likes it. Don't be a fucking jerk about it either, treat her nice."

"The hottest girl, though? Which one's that?"

"Sinthia Slater. No one else, hear me? Now get outta here and go do your job."

The Arrival

A cool gust wafted out of the walkway tunnel as the all-too-chipper flight attendant propped the glass door open. His "Welcome to Coldstone" was quickly worn by the time it hit the third groggy passenger to stumble out into the airport.

High rollers, distant relatives, and a collection of college kids filter slowly into the waiting room. Eventually, the inept wheelman finds himself alone.

Had he missed Viglio? Was he at the wrong gate? Why did he down that enromous Coke on his lunch break?

The driver gave into his urge, and darted quickly for a nearby restroom. No sooner had he located a urinal, then he unleashed the flow. Like God flooding a wicked earth full of sin, the grateful pisser whittled the blue deodorant puck into oblivion.

Three full minutes passed in the proccess. He finally shook and tucked, then went for his zipper. With a sigh that only a relived man can utter, he returned to an upright posture. Whistling, he turned to spot the pick up sign, which reminded him of the immediacy of his mission.

A quick wash at the sink counter was all he could afford--he'd have to skip the soap. He looked to the worn metal bin holding the paper towels, struggling with wet hands to free a full sheet.

As he tugged, the driver failed to notice the side-mounted A/C panel silently shifting behind him on the back wall. The oaf bent down to pick up his arrival sign, huffing heavily. "Tobiasi's gonna kill me," he uttered quietly, turning to exit through the open-rotunda entrance. With an unexpected crackling noise from behind, all went black...

Nearly twenty minutes had passed while Frank stewed in the back seat of the car. More than once the defacto crimelord had pondered getting out. Airport security knew better than to tow his car, despite being parked in the loading zone.

Then finally, movement woke him from his irritated trance. Shapes passed around the side of the car and opened the trunk. A moment later, the driver's door opened. As the driver settled into the seat, Frank began to notice his employee had indeed returned alone.

Before he could utter the words, the driver turned to face him. A stranger--a set of stinging-cold eyes--peered back at the passenger. Frank thought about moving for his weapon, but quickly began to put it all together.

Without a word, the new chauffeur produced the tattered call sign, with the bold "Viglio" marked on across the front. He handed it to Frank with a swift extension of the arm.

Tobiasi felt the engine hum to life as he flipped the waiting sign over. Written in bloody fingerpaint were the words "Dr. Frank Cannon". The red marks were no doubt the last traces of his former driver.

Viglio sat silently, waiting for directions out of the airport.

Veretta Security Inc.

A smile creeps across Carlone's face, as he ponders the driver's remarks. Asshole doesn't even know who he's fucking with.

He clicks the intercom button, "You think cops dress this nice? Just take us to the Savannah, gaki."

"Sure thing, Officer"

Carlone chuckles to himself as he glances sharply to his right, catching the fuming eye of his partner. Dahl, less than 8 months fresh from NYPD Homicide, looks like he's ready to turn this kid inside out.

"Hey, bein' a cop's not a bad thing...unless you're in our business...don't sweat it."

As the technicolor lights of the Strip splash across his face, Carlone quietly ponders the details of yesterday-evening's meeting with Takeshi.

It's been a a few long years since he's felt this amount of anticipation.

the arrival

Frank takes a tissue out of the rear glove compartment and begins to wipe his hands of the blood. He smiles slightly, impressed at Viglio's boldness, and a reminder of times past.

'Well if you're going to be my chauffeur, you'd better straighten your fuckin' tie, kid. This ain't Kyoto.'

He rolled down his window and discarded the tissue.

'Drive east into the city. I feel like a pizza.'

Number One Fan
(Attn: Burke, Rath)

The "Big Man" sits in silence. He's covered wars, assassinations, trials, fought back from a car accident, and faced down some of the most intimidating criminals the world has to offer. He's seen it all, and written about it.

Nothing scares him, nothing has. Until the voice at the end other end of that phone. A voice he had heard about but never thought he would hear himself.

He spins around in his chair and reaches for a book on his shelf. The international bestseller Gone By Dawn . He knows exactly where to look.

To find out what it said, keep checking the Coldstone 2: Fear And Loathing thread.

Veretta Security Inc.

Thomas Dahl, former NYPD officer was not happy. More to the point, he wished he had his Louisville Slugger in his hands right now. And there would be blood across the pavement if he had his way. He'd done it before, he'd do scum again. But the man to his left was the one in charge for the moment. If he started pulling shit, Dahl would start throwing it.

"You think cops dress this nice? Just take us to the Savannah, gaki."

"Sure thing, Officer"

Thomas just shakes his head slowly and mentally checks his pockets and possesions. All there, thank the mighty good Lord. If this was New York, someone would be crying to the stars. But this was Las Vegas. You didn't play life or death, you played a betting game. Veretta looked to him, sensing the rage building inside his partner.

"Hey, bein' a cop's not a bad thing...unless you're in our business...don't sweat it."

Dahl smiled a grin, his eyes flashing. There was much need for action from cop who'd been bashing heads for 24 years. His smile broadend as he thought and planned how he would end the life of the man in the drivers seat.

"Better be a one hell of a ride to make up for the start of this shit..."

The Arrival

In "made" circles, "Lio Leo" was a name that was no longer spoken aloud, rather it was carefully whispered. For Viglio, however, the temptation of ego qas quickly quelled. The young assassin had learned respectful patience. Where a lesser man would have scoffed, Viglio was content to play "chauffeur".

With deference to Tobiasi, the new driver deftly moved the vehicle out of the airport terminal, and carefully into traffic. Sharp eyes took in everything about the city skyline. As Coldstone sized up its most recent guest, the newcomer was likewise making his own analysis.

The wheel slid effortlessly between his gloved fingers, and after a few navigational checks, the car was on course as directed. Requiriing little additional word from Tobiasi, Viglio instinctively found the side streets necessary.

He casually brought the vechicle to a gentle rest, parking next to a bright orange "Luigi's X-Tra Crust" pizza delivery van. The aroma of oven-fresh pepperoni seeped into the car, as Viglio awaited the next instruction.

Luck be a Lady Tonight...Tomorrow...and the Next Day
(Attn: Laugharn)

"Lucky? I wish. Nah, it's just another night of old Charles Wellstone being crushed beneath the wheel of karma."

*checks watch again*

"Besides, I got a bitch back home who's probably worried sick right now."

"You married?" Lonnie, the cocktail waitress asks.

"No, I was talking about Patches, my dog. Work is probably the only thing I'll be married to in this lifetime."

"Oh yeah? Where ya work?"

There was a muzak cover of Luck Be A Lady in the background, the 4th time it'd come up in the past 17 hours. Charles took note.

"I'm a statistician."

"Oh."

"A top secret statistician."

"Oh yeah, what's a top secret statistician do?" Lonnie rebuttled with a giggle.

"Currently doing calculations on potential casualties in the event of a WMD attack on the Eastern Seaboard."

"Well that sounds... kinda dismal."

"Well that kinda sums up my life."

And with that, Lonnie left, another life made just a tad bit more miserable. He paid his tab and walked out in to the harsh Las Vegas sun, just a few thousand dollars lighter than when he'd entered.

He got in to his 1992 Olds Cutlass, turned the key, and pulled out on to the strip. Luck Be A Lady was on the radio.

"Confluence." He muttered under his breath.

Veretta Security Inc.

"Better be a one hell of a ride to make up for the start of this shit..."

Dahl had settled back in his seat and opened his file folder and had started to review the information he had in front of him. It was limited and nothing that wasn't basic knowledge of the current climate in Las Vegas. It was a interesting read, but it wasn't as concerning to Thomas as was the pace they were making to the Savannah. He calmly clicked on the intercom.

"Hey, little man. Can you pick up the pace here? We've got a meeting with you fucking boss man and I have a feeling his shit ain't gonna be pleased we show up late on your crusty fuckard driving..."

There was no response on the other end. The cop turned private citizen turned to Veretta as he turned the intercom off.

"You believe this shit? Bastard won't even talk! I say we screw his legs two ways to Tuesday and let him know we ain't no slow ass Ms. Daisy." He hit the intercom radio once more.

"Hey, mothershit! Get your hand out of your ass and on the wheel!"

Veretta Security Inc.

Carlone cocked a sly grin toward Dahl. He understands. He was feeling a little impatient himself, and he knows the driver's cracks earlier were eating away at his companion.

He laughs to himself as they creep slowly by the Bellagio in the Las Vegas morning traffic.

the arrival

'Wait here.'

Frank looks around, and then steps out of the car. He walks around the van, and knocks on the side. Suddenly, the side door slides open about ten inches. A hand emerges, carrying an envelope. The hand is bandaged, and bruised. Frank takes the envelope, smiles and walks back to the car. As he steps inside, he nods at the van's driver.

'Okay. Now we go see Roman.'

Agenda
(Attn: Capteucalyptus & Voltes)

The slightly damp smell that invaded all dressing rooms wafted into his nose. Othello enjoyed meeting all the new talent. He admired people whose skills didn't involve an obscene amount of bloodshed. It was an infusion of light into his soul.

He took in the bottle, underwear and picture and let everything he had heard about this man come to a simmer. Alcoholism and a taste for the women could be a nasty mix. According to his report the man had lost a wife, no doubt the woman in the picture, and the big man could only imagine what pain that had caused. If Foxy were to die that way then heaven help the man.

As it was though Othello knew that he would most likely pass before she would, though these days it would be more likely to be due to her tendency to deep fry everything. That wasn't a complaint but his personal trainer/bodyguard never let him forget it. But that pain of his loss couldn't be an excuse for self-destruction, not on Othello's watch anyway. He knew that he needed to handle the talent gently and this man had buckets of talent but that bottle had to go.

"Good day Mr. Priest. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I was present in the booth for your audition and I must say that everything I heard about you is true and let me assure you that everything you have heard about me is also true. I don't care who you sleep with as long as it doesn't interfere with your job and it isn't on the property. I want that to be the last bottle I see in your room and if I or any of my people smell liquor on your person then you will be singing in someone else's club by lunchtime, though I doubt it will be in this town."

He extended a hand and smiled warmly.

"Welcome to the family."

The Arrival

Viglio allows his recent observations to soak in as he makes his way back to the highway.

The driver of the pizza van had been shaking nervously--apparently the recipient of a fresh beating. In the back of the vehicle, a likewise battered hand had passed a thick envelope to Tobiasi. Viglio surmised that the racketeering in Coldstone had continued to flourish, and the man simultaneously determined not to become involved in such activities.

Did Tobiasi's crew consider him a thug? A henchman, brought in as hired "muscle"? The assassin was not concerned with these factors himself, though he wondered what assumptions Frank had made.

It would soon be irrelevant, however, as Viglio noted the "Granite Hill State Penitentiary" sign approaching as he drove Frank into the northern stretch of downtown. Navigating Coldstone had proven to be easier than he might have imagined. With devout attention, Viglio absorbed as many streets signs and exits as possible, forming a mental map of the area in his mind.

He manuevered the car into visitor parking, and carefully parked the car behind the tall, barbed wire fence. The unexpected events surrounding his arrival would be swept away, as Viglio's meeting with Roman Carvaggio drew close.

the arrival

'Si.'

Frank nods, and walks into the hall, lighting up a cigarette.

HARDCASE

The stranger sees Paulie's shoulders visibly tighten then relax before he turns to face him.

"Lots of money? Oh, well then please, take the whole fuckin' bar." He walks towards the newcomer, arms spread wide. "I mean, you got lots of money, right! Hey, wait," he says, reaching into his pocket, "I got my car keys in here, I'll throw those in too!" He's face to face with the man now. Paulie puts on a mock grin. "'Cause Lord knows we ain't never seen us lots of money before!" Then like that, the grin is gone, and he leans in close.

"Case you hadn't noticed, we ain't open. And nobody 'rents' one of my girls, 'lots of money' or not." Paulie turns his back and walks back to the stage. As he goes, he signals the bartender.

"Lurch, get this piece of shit out of my bar."

Lurch puts down the glass he had been cleaning and steps out from behind the bar. He's a mountain, and he looms above the stranger like an impending avalanche.

"Mr. DiVialoso would like you to leave now."

The Arrival

(The following is an edited transcript of an I.M. conversation RPed between Katanga and myself.)

Once alone, Carvaggio approached Viglio. "Welcome to our shores, Viglio Leonardo." His guest bowed respectfully, kissing Roman's ring. "The Capella Family is honored to host someone of your considerable talents and we are at your disposal."

"Sono qui servire", Viglio replied calmly, with an economic choice of words.

"To business then," Roman continued, moving to whisper several sentences to the assassin. Without any change of expression, Lio Leo took in the details of his assignement.

When clear to speak, Viglio queried quietly, "Othello Redman?" His sharp reply indicated immediate familiarity with the subject. Roman then proceeded to whisper a few more words in reply.

The newcomer nodded, signaling full acceptance of his instructions. Carvaggio offered one final comment aloud, "This business is strictly between you and me. Not even Tobiasi needs to know."

Viglio glanced around the visitor's area, making mental note of the two armed guards' faces, then nodded again. "È ci pericolo della rappresaglia?"

"Isn't there always?" Roman offered casually.

Where a normal man would grin, Viglio only nodded one last time and spoke slightly, "Partirò immediatamente."

Roman put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Buona fortuna."

A parting bow of courtesy followed, as Roman returned to his cell. Once alone, Viglio made for the door. He walked the long hallway to the gate, around the corner to where Tobiasi waited. He approached Frank, who had just finished his smoke. Viglio looked directly to the man, speaking a single word. "Andiamo."

Moments later, the two were en route back to Coldstone airport. The whirlwind tour of the town hadn't fazed Viglio. Outwardly, he was content in following orders. In the private recesses of his mind, the assassin pondered the impending death in the West. He was being tested. His final loyalties examined under the watchful eye of his superiors. In the end, the family would be served.

Luck be a Lady Tonight...Tomorrow...and the Next Day

Wellstone approached his door and drew his firearm. Not like the standard issue .45 had ever been loaded in his many years on the force, but hopefully it would scare whoever was in his room enough to no longer be in his room.

Charles turned the corner, kicked open the door, and extended his weapon. A man in a moderately priced suit was sitting on his bed, watching television.

"You need better security, Chuck. I coulda been a communist spy! But that damn thing down." Chuckled Edward Dewey.

"Mr. Dewey, sir. What brings you to my humble abode?" Wellstone replied as he holstered his weapon.

"I'm here to tell you you've been chosen for the new upstart subdivision." Dewey had an odd mix of seriousness and delight in his voice.

"New subdivision, sir?" Wellstone was confused.

"Don't tell me you haven't heard the office buzz..."

"...well, sir, I haven't been to the office in two weeks. I'm on vacation here."

"Not any more. As of this moment, you're on assignment."

"On assignment?!" Wellstone was flabergasted. "Doing what?"

A smirk came to Dewey's face. "Underworld." He said.

Veretta Security, Inc.
(Attn: Kid Ego & Seahawk)

Thomas Dahl sat back as the car picked up speed. Either the words had made him move his ass or he had taken offence to the Ms. Daisy comment. Whatever it was, the man was content. Content until the limo hit the curb and sent to the two in back jumping in thier seats. Dahl breathed under his breath.

"Motherfucker."

The car came to a stop, thankfully smooth. The doors opened and men in red greeted both Veretta and Dahl. The NYPD officer nodded quickly as he stepped into the night. It was warmer then New York, but the air still held something, a taste of what was to come.

“I’ll stick around in case you don’t make The Big Bust.” He sneered. A sneer that made Dahl snap his head around. He made a move, but stopped himself and smiled thinly.

"Your asscrackin' head would be a fantastic bust in my living room."

A young lady, catching the eye of Thomas for only a moment before any thoughts were allowed to copulate, approached with her PDA.

“Mr. Veretta and Mr. Dahl. I’m Marcy Davenport, Mr. Redman’s personal assistant. I’d like to welcome you to The Savannah and personally escort you to your rooms to await your meeting with Mr. Redman.” She friendly face was open and warm. “Right this way, gents. I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have. We've got you in adjoining suites with a conference room. A buffet will be set up and you may indulge in the bar as our guest. We also have $500 worth of chips in each suite. Welcome."

Dahl nodded. A pleasent welcome, compared to thier ride, which reminded him. He turned around, pulling a ten doller bill from his pocket and approached the driver.

"Back for more Coppa?" Dahl nodded and held out the ten dollers.

"You made the ride colorful." The driver raised an eyebrow and snagged the ten dollers as Dahl held his hand out for a handshake. Slowly, the driver complied. When the hands met, Dahl pressed down hard and pulled the driver close to him.

"You are a fuckard. I don't take fuckards. Veretta doesn't either. Consider this our parting gift." There was a sudden snap as Dahl clamped down, snapping bones in the man's hand. The boy reached to scream, but he couldn't get the words out of his mouth. With a quick twist, the wrist of the man snapped as well, and Thomas Dahl shoved him back against the limo.

"Next time, I break something else. And I won't let go until it snaps off, you bastard."

Dahl turned and made his way, taking the smile off his face as his eyes met Veretta. The young man yelped in tha background as he made his way to the other side of the car.

"When we leave, I'd request a new driver."

He waited. And watched.

Agenda
(Attn: Capteucalyptus & Voltes)

Priest appreciates the bluntness of his new employer. He wonders whether his new boss suspects that the photo on his mirror wasn't his wife, Amelia. If he had known that Mr. Redman was African-American, then he would have taped Amelia's true photo on the mirror. But, then perhaps, this is all for the best. He's here to work. And only work.

"Call me 'Ray,' Mr. Redman," Priest says as he extends his hand. "Thank you for hiring me. I'll knock your audiences dead, as they say. That's a promise from The Priest. Heh."

He looks at the empty bottle of gin on the table and gives a warm smile. "Very well sir. Apologies for that. No booze and all other sorts of alcoholic beverages inside your establishment. I shall be respecting your wishes," he lies.

"What's my schedule, sir?" he asks as he thirsts for another shot of gin.

Agenda
(Attn: Capteucalyptus & Voltes)

He sees right through the little lie but lets it go. JJ was an addict once, enslaved to the pipe and the needle, so Othello knew all about their lies.

"Alright Ray, you call me Othello or Mr. Redman, whichever makes you more comfortable."

He breaks the handshake.

"I know you'll do well otherwise I wouldn't have hired you. As to your schedule talk to Ronnie, the stage manager. He'll be around shortly. Again a pleasure to meet you."

He and his shadow heaad on to his next apointment.

Agenda
(Attn: Capteucalyptus & Blunt)

Out in the hall Othello stops and snaps out his phone. He speaks "Seraph" into the mouthpiece. Not surprisingly he gets voicemail.

"Virgil, this is Othello. I have a very delicate matter that requires your specific talents. One of my employees has run into some trouble. Call me soonest."

The phone snaps shut and he and Tima continue on ther way.

Agenda
(Attn: Capteucalyptus & Voltes)

Priest watches his employer exits his dressing room. He then takes out his wallet and stares at Amelia's photo.

I think I'm getting close, my darling. I can smell them. I'll have your vengeance, he whispers to himself as he kisses her picture.

Agenda

Red digits flashes 12:OO as an alarm starts to blare in an LA appartment. From beneath the sheets, a hand emerges and violently slams on the clock, shutting off the ringing. A muffled voice mumbles "goddamnfuckingmachine", as Virgil Abrizza rises from his bed. He stretches, the dim sunlight filtering through the windows casting a sort of aura around the tatoo on his back. He steps into the bathroom, showers quickly and get dressed. As always, his next move is to turn his cellphone on. A message from Othello awaits him. His old friend needs his help.

It's the first time O has aked him for anything since he helped him set up his little venture 3 years ago. Apparently, the time to pay him back has come. Virgil decides to go directly to Vegas without calling Othello back beforehand. That'll be a nice little surprise.

He goes back into the bedroom. Natalie, the love of his life, the woman he brought back from France, like his father had done before him, is still asleep. He gives her a soft kiss on the cheeks and leaves a note on the bedtable. He knows she'll undertand. He heads for the drawers and pulls out a suitcase, always ready in case he has to travel. He then leaves the house and slides behind the wheel of his car, putting his sunglasses on. He smiles at his own reflection in the rearview mirror.

"Together again. Well, I'm ready...ready for the big ride baby." He starts singing as the car pulls into traffic.

A few hours later....

It is now well into the afternoon and one can sense that all of Vegas is getting ready for another night of gambling,drinking and fucking. It's been a while since Virgil's last visit, but he easily finds his way and soon parks his car in front of Othello's casino. He steps out, readjust his suit and head inside.

Hardcase

George McClure sits up, starts the car, and waits. None of this surprises him. As Hannity walks over, brushing off the dirt and checking for cuts, McClure cuts the engine and gets out of the car.

"Great fucking job, man," McClure says. "Real smooth too, I bet. You fucking cock. Why did I even fathom that you'd go in there and get the job done?"

McClure gets out of the car, and goes back to the trunk. He goes to work on the license plate again, taking the current one off and putting his real plate back on.

"Why are you fucking around with that again?" Hannity asked.

"It's my pops," McClure answered. "It's my good luck charm, you could say."

McClure hid his dad's license plate under his jacket at his went to the front of Paulie's place. He took out his digital camera, snapped a few shots, and then walked back to the car.

"You, drive," McClure told Hannity. "Stop in front of Paulie's place when we go down the road."

Hannity got behind the wheel and made a right and pulled up in front of Paulie's joint.

"When I give the signal, I want you to speed off," McClure told Hannity.

"What's the..." Before Hannity could even finish his question, he saw McClure tying his father's license plate around a brick. Before he could even stammer out another word, McClure chucked his cement calling card into Paulie's front window.

"That's the fucking signal."

Hannity sped off as McClure calmly stared at the road ahead, not even looking back at the work he just did.

"Some good luck charm!" Hannity yelled, his hands shaking with a bit of fear, but mostly excitement.

"When it's all over, I'll have it back. Luck of the Irish, bud."

HARDCASE

The sound of shattering glass interrupts Paulie from his review of the dancers. Almost as one, he, Lurch, and Vince whirl with guns in their hands.

There's a license plate tied to a brick resting amongst shards of broken glass on the floor by the front window.

"Somebody don't know their history," Paulie mutters, putting his 45s away. "I got a thing for broken glass."

He walks over and looks at the license plate. He picks it up and calmly chucks it back out through the hole in the window.

"And it's gonna take a lot more than that clumsy worm to bait this fish." He turns to Lurch. "Call my cousin at the glass repair place, tell him I got a job for him."

He walks back to the stage and returns to the laborious taks of seeing who can shake their tits the best.

HARDCASE

"Hannity," McClure muttered, "I want you to go back there tonight. Wait for Slater to leave, then tail her. Find out where she lives, if she lives with anyone, all that shit. Report back to me tomorrow morning. Don't tell chief."

McClure reclined back in his chair and tried to nap as Hannity drove back to the Federal Building.

Veretta Security Inc.

Carlone ignored the abuse inflicted on the driver. He knew what Dahl did the minute he saw the cock-eating grin on his face. Carlone prays that his companion has better impulse-control in the meeting later.

As he watched his single satchel being hoisted from the trunk of the limousine, his eyes took in every detail of his surrounding, from the obnoxious tourist couple and their four kids, to the six armed personnel loitering about the entrance. The four reflective camera-mounts hidden behind the glaring lights do little to impress him. Immediately upon exiting the limo, he knows the best way around their vision, he finds their blind-spots, knows exactly what they're looking for and knows just how often those monitors should be in rotation. With his arrival, Othello Redman would surely have tasked him as a priority, looking for a weakness, a moment of lapse.

"Thank you Ms. Davenport. It's a great pleasure to be here, as I've looked forward to meeting Mr. Redman for a long time now. I hear many good things about him." He smiled as she gestured them on.

Carlone follows as Redman's assistant leads them into the noise of the casino floor, making it a point to look directly into each camera. Today's obviously not a busy day. It didn't matter though; they would be watched like hawks no matter how busy it was.

The room was simple. Unimpressive, to say the least. Redman obviously didn't realize the significance of his guests, or he simply didn't care. Either way, Carlone felt a bit disrespected, something Takeshi assured him wouldn't happen.

He thanks Ms. Davenport for her courtesy, and tips the bellhops for their effort carrying the three bags. Still not speaking, he unlocks the silver, metal briefcase with a key from his pocket. With a click, the latches pop open, and he withdraws two small, black devices. Handing one to Dahl and flipping the switches on, they silently sweep the room for any and all electrical devices.

Agenda

(The following is an edited transcript of an I.M. conversation RPed between Katanga and myself.)

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Redman.”

Othello bows deeply. "The honor and pleasure is mine Takeshi-san."

"My assistants Otomo and his brother Kinjo." It strikes you that the men are identical twins. They give curt nods. Neither removes their shades. Marcy offers Takeshi the chair at the opposite end of the table. He takes it as his men stand to his immediate left and right.

Othello sits. "Marcy, tea for the gentlemen please,"

"Mr. Redman, I am an honest man with little patience for gentle negotiations. I represent a consortium of Japanese investors who are looking to add "entertainment" profiles to their financial portfolios." Marcy pours three steaming cups. Takeshi immediately takes his, sips, and smiles at Marcy.

Redman sips the bitter green tea and smiles. "I admire your directness sir. A quality I strive for in my own life. I presume you wish to buy the properties I manage?"

"Invest, Mr. Redman. If we could alleviate some of the financial burden and then TOGETHER," He knits his fingers together "attain the next plateau of success."

He places his cup on the table and his eyes narrow a bit. "I regret that this would not be possible. At the moment we have all of the capital we require."

"I anticipated this answer." Takeshi looks to one of the twins, who snaps an attaché case from his wrist. "A token of our sincerity" The old man says. He pops the locks to reveal 4 uncut diamonds. Othello's larcenous knowledge avails him that there are 20 million in ice right there.

Greed and loyalty war for the briefest of nanoseconds. "I do not doubt your sincerity Takeshi-san, but as I said before we do not need other investors. We are flush with capital at the moment."

Takeshi smiles. "Perhaps I should seek an audience with the true proprietor of this establishment. Tell me MR. Redman...what are visiting hours at Granite Hill Federal Prison?"

Othello's amiable face set's like ebony into a mask of determination. "You show me a great amount of disrespect Takeshi-san. I have full authority to make all decisions. If it were the wishes of the owners to accept new investments they would have informed me. As it is they have not. Is there anything else we need to discuss?"

"Apparently not. I thank you for you hospitality and your time. We will seek investment elsewhere." Takeshi stands and moves to Othello with his hand extended.

Othello stands and offers the man a firm handshake and holds it until the Japanese man releases. "You are welcome. I am sorry we could not accommodate you."

The trio exits as Marcy escorts them out. Tima leans to Othello "If they are businessmen, I'm Anastasia."

"Well you wouldn't look very good in a dress anyway."

The Arrival

The burgeoning career of the young assassin had taken him many places outside of Sicily. Tokyo, Brussels, Austria, Sydney--Viglio had covered two full continents in only a handful of years. The places, situations, and the marks themselves were all crystal clear in his memory. Despite the sharpness of his recollections, each of the past assignements had felt the same: another contract, another silent kill. Somewhere deep beneath his professional exterior, Viglio had begun to hope for something... new.

His first trip to America had already proven to be a departure from this norm. No sooner had the killer landed in Coldstone, than he found himself back on board another plane, now destined for another new locale. Ever the consummate student, Viglio held in his lap a briefcase filled with area maps, and a booklet of information on the decadent city of Las Vegas.

Il Diavolo Ad ovest, he thought as he gazed for a moment out the window. Eventually, he would have to procure new "tools" once on the ground, before making his way to the Savannah Casino.

He glanced back to his documents, producing a black-and-white photo of Othello Redman. He noted the scar on the man's forehead. It had perhaps faded over time, but to such a sharp eye, it was still evident.

Avete fuoriuscito una volta la morte, Othello Redman.

The 747 flew over the Las Vegas strip, bearing down as though an angel of death. Once it had landed its cargo, the reach of death itself would extend into the city.

Tires screeched as the pilot crew carefully landed the vessel. In a few short minutes, it taxied softly to the departure tunnel. Viglio moved quietly through the first class cabin, flexing his dormant leg muscles. The chime and clatter of slot machines rang out to greet the incoming travellers.

"Devil's West," the man whispered to himself. Lio Leo stepped through the evening air and into Las Vegas.

the arrival

Frank looks out over the entirety of Coldstone as police sirens howl in the distance, a somewhat calming and familiar sound to the man. As he takes a puff of his cigarette, he looks down, the balcony of the highrise allowing a dizzy view of the area.

He sighs, and exhales, the smoke escaping and rising up beyond his dark eyes. And what lay behind those eyes, was an air of confusion. Uncertainty. He was still cautious about Viglio. Had Roman just brought him in for cleaning? What other agenda was on his mind? After all this time, did he not trust Frank? There was a time when he would call Carvaggio brother, when he would lay his life on the line whatever the circumstances. And he still would.

But, to Frank... the snub at the prison was enigmatic. He had needed to talk to Roman. He still looked on him as his mentor. But instead, he was being fobbed off for a goddamn cleaner.

'Frank?'

He took another puff as Katherine slowly walks out onto the balcony, the silk sheet draped around her fluttering in the wind. She puts her arms around him, and lays her hands on the balcony rail.

'Are you going to stay out here all night?'
'Of course not,' he replies, smiling slightly.

He takes a last drag of the cigarette, and flicks it over the edge. At that moment, Coldstone catches a final sight of his eyes, flaring up, wide. As the touch of light rain begins to fall, Frank turns, puts his arm around his wife, and disappears inside the apartment, the screen door closing behind him on the cold night.

Agenda

Othello motions his assistant over after she gets back from taking care of the Takeshi party.

"Marcy, see if you can push the meeting with the security people up a bit would you? I don't want to be late for my dinner with Foxy. Thanks."

He looks at Tima.

"What can you tell me about these reps that Veretta has sent?"

Luck be a Lady Tonight...Tomorrow...and the Next Day

18 of his last 48 hours have been spent at The Savannah, now. That's excessive, even for Wellstone. He sat in a booth at the back of the bar, trying to take all that had happened so far. Not a day earlier he was on vacation, trying to get his mind off of a looming war with a little bit of craps. Now, he's field agent, sitting in a casino, nursing his Bombay and tonic, looking over his new assignment. Something was going down at this casino, and it was Wellstone's job to gather intell.

He opened the manila folder again and looked inside. In it was pages and pages of history, and a few snapshots: snapshots of people like Othello Redman, Virgil Abrizza, Thomas Dahl, and one Carlone "Jack" Veretta.