Coldstone 2: Devils West - Chapter 1 - Page 2

Number One Fan
(Attn: Rath)

Elmore slammed down the phone and sighed. He always loved an excuse to visit Tony's Tiger.

He got up from his desk, telling the cleaning lady in Spanish to close up but that he'd be back later in the evening. Running down the ten flights of stairs with a surprising speed for a man of his size, Elmore dashed through the parking lot to his beat up DeLorean, a car he had owned since it was released. It was his "investigating" car.

He got into the DeLorean, rolled down the window, and pulled out of The Times' parking garage. John Mellencamp's "Small Town" blared out of the new speaker system he had installed last Christmas. It was unusually warm for this time of year. He lit a clove cigarette and sang along to the music.

By the time he drove across town to Paulie DiVialaso's strip club, Johnny Cougar had crossfaded into AC-DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" and Elmore was on his third cigarette. He wasn't surprised to find the lot full, so he parked across the street. He got out of the car, and strode across the parking lot.

He could hear the club's stereo system blaring the same AC-DC song from the edge of the lot, getting louder as he approached one of the glass windows. His keen eye told him that the window had been repaired earlier in the day.

He put out his cigarette and walked inside. Glancing around the room, he held his arms wide open.

"I love this place!" he cried with a big, friendly grin.

Number One Fan
(Attn: Burke)

The monster named Wesley walked quickly to the newsstand. He'd only been in town a few days, not quite long enough to sniff out his territory. But the streets were deserted, save for the news vendor. A fair chance. Besides, anyone who might have even guessed that he was in this town was stone-cold.
Wesley cut across the street to the vendor just as a Times truck rumbled into view, tossing it's errant baggage like the fish wrap it was. Midnight delivery, two minutes late. What a fucking world.

Wesley observed he vendor quickly slicing open the Times wrappers but he must have been careless because the man suddenly cried out in pain. Wesley quickly palmed his Livesay combat blade, as a black Ford explorer rolls in between him and the rag vendor.
The black tinted rear passenger window rolls down to reveal a double barrel, sawed-off shotgun pointed not five feet from his person.
"Get in, motherfucker." The voice sounds as if it was gargling with hot asphalt. The door cracked open still not revealing what was inside.
The monster stared at the truck. Someone had gone to an awful lot of trouble.
Synapses fired in Wesley's brain. So many options in this situation. "Didn't you hear me shit for brains? I said get in!"
The window was down about five inches, which gives a range of motion of approximately 5-6 feet. To hit a moving target at that range... the door.
"I said..."
Wesley dropped to the ground and rolled towards the Explorer. As the shotgun pulled back, Wesley wrenched open the unlocked door with his left and snaked the knife in with his right. "No more talking," Wesley whispered. "No more vulgarities. Drop the shotgun or I play dice the kiwi with your balls."
In shadow, the Explorer's driver turned to face Wesley. "We've got a job for you..."

Veretta Security Inc.

Carlone sneers as he hears Dahl's sweeper beep. That makes three. At least there's no fucking cameras. He motions to his partner with a drinking motion and points to the door. They lock up the minimal bags and exit the room without a sound. Carlone is fully aware of his importance right now, and even the slightest wrong move on his part could blow the whole deal. The two move through the casino talking quietly to each other as noise pounds their eardrums drowning out their voices to everyone listening.

"You remember I was telling you about Charles Wellstone a couple of months ago?"

Dahl nods.

"Take a look over there," Carlone mumbles as he motions with his eyes toward the bar.

Sitting in the second booth from the bathroom door, a short, balding man in glasses peruses a file folder. From over 70 feet away through a busy casino, Carlone can't quite make out what it is. Whatever it is, it's not his Keno winnings.

"Do me a favor, follow him. Find out what he's up to and who he's after. Be careful....and thanks."

Agenda
(Attn: Cap & Blunt)

Othello put the bag in the drawer of his mahogany desk. He would deal with this problem later. It maddened him that no matter how much he tried to help people that there would always be someone who was too weak. Well as his Momma always said, it's the strong's job to help the weak.

Good old Virgil, he hadn’t expected the man to drive up without calling but it was a nice surprise. It was always fun seeing the old gang, but unfortunate it was under these circumstances. The button on his intercom clicked.

"Send Virgil in Marcy and bring the red file in with you."

The file contained all of the information on why he had summoned the Seraph.

HARDCASE

Paulie looks up and sees Elmore come in, that same old shit-eating grin on his face.

"Hey! Pants! Get over here!" He waves Elmore over to the table, and turns to Sinthia. "Later babe, I gotta get some face time here."

Sinthia does that fake little pout that routinely stuffs her garter with twenties, then slinks off to the group of Marines on leave.

(To be continued via IM this evening between myself and Rath)

The Arrival

Viglio looked to the man oddly, as if the cabbie had spoken in Swahili. He offered back in a perfect French accent, "Je ne parle pas beaucoup anglais..." With his gloved hand he pressed a casino matchbook to the glass between the two cab occupants. The driver shrugged off his confusion, and departs the bustling airport at the prompt.

Over the next 7 or 8 minutes, the cabbie's forced attempts at conversation were met only with polite silence. Viglio again made full effort to study the town, lights shimmering as night begins to fall. The gaudy neon permeated every corner of Las Vegas Boulevard. Each of the casinos beckoned to their wide-eyed prey. The Luxor... the Mirage... and finally, the Monte Carlo.

The cabbie pulled into the front of the casino-hotel, navigating between slow-paced pedestrians. Viglio had readied man's cash before the stop was even complete.

"Merci," the passenger offered as he deftly departed the vehicle.

"Good luck, ya fruitcake!" the cabbie yelled, assuming himself free to offer insults in English. His words hit empty air, as the target of his playful jab was already clear of the driveway, sliding in between glass doors.

Still draped in pressed black and pinstripe, Viglio entered the casino casually. Despite his quiet temperament, the skillful assassin was fully capable of blending in as necessary.

He strode to a small giftshop beyond the check in desk, gathered a newspaper, and waited patiently for his contact. He leaned against a wall, pretending to read his paper, while secretly eyeing the surrounding area.

Various passersby littered the marble halls. A well-dressed gentleman passed in front of two elderly women--each of their frail arms buckling under the weight of plastic cups full of nickels. Across the way, a woman in a business suit haggled into a payphone over the details of a presentation.

Several people flooded out in a sudden crowd--almost too many for Viglio to track. They each bore flyers and memorabilia of 'Lance Burton'--star of the nightly magic show. Kids swooned with their parents over what they had just seen, while a group of three teenagers bickered about how fake the whole thing was.

A few moments passed, and the mass began to thankfully thin. Viglio returned to a more central position. Light footsteps caught his attention above the ring of slot machines. Lowering the newspaper to his side, he looked across to face the new arrival...

Agenda
(the following is an edited transcript of an IM conversation between capteucalyptus and myself, done under the watch of our GM)

Virgil is ushered into Othello's office by his lovely assistan Marcy. Above his mahogany desk hangs a familiar 45 in a shadowbox, with a note that says "In case of Emergency break glass". "Have a seat my friend."

Virgil pulls a chair from the desk and sit in it, crossing his legs "Sorry I didn't phone you before, I wanted to be here quick. And I thought it would make a nice little surprise."

Othello smiles at that."It is indeed." Marcy hands him a red manilla folder and leaves the room. Othello slides it across to Virgil. "This is what I called you in for."

Virgil opens the folder and his gaze is immediately caught by the picture of a woman. He looks up from the folder. "I suppose she's in trouble?"The pretty looking blond stares up at him from the picture.

"Yes. She's one of my cocktail waitresses. She's hoping to break into singing. She missed work on three occasions, very unusual. One of my managers notified me that she was being beaten up by her boyfriend."

Virgil lets out a sigh, in which he puts all the disgust he has in him for these men."Pretty standard issue. What's the boyfriend doing?"

"I believe he's in construction. No steady work. His name is in the file as well as a picture I pulled from one of our cameras. Needless to say, he has been banned from the property of any of my businesses."

Virgil takes in all the info."Right. So what you want me to do? Full work or do I let him off with just a light maimin'?"

"Talk to the girl. I'll leave it for you to work out with her. I'll cover all expenses of course. Marcy has a suite for you. We'll do lunch tomorrow and you can tell me what you find out? I've got her doing some light office work until the bruises heal. Marcy can tell you how to find her."

"Fine by me. Only other thing I may need is some tools, if you see what I mean. I'll tell you when they'll become necessary." Virgil slams the folder shut. "Alright, I'll do the job. I just wanna make it quick, I hate to leave Natalie alone for too long."

Othello nods in understanding. "Whatever you need my man, you tell me, Marcy, or Tima. Sure I can't convince you kids to move out here? You've got a solid job with me anytime."

Virgil ponders Othello's words. "I might have to think about that, business is flailing as of late. The scum of LA is starting to know that there's someone in town who messes with women beaters. I haven't got as much businnes recently as I used to." He lets out a yawn". We'll discuss it tomorrow anyway. If you'll excuse me, the drive was quite exhausting, and I wanna rest a little. I'll go see your girl tonight."

Othello stands and they exchange a warm handshake. "Of course. Rest well."

Virgil smiles at Othello. "Don't worry about anything, she is in good hands. I'll see you tomorrow, O".

He leaves the office and follows Marcy to his room.

Veretta Security Inc.

They had found three listening devices. And they quickly realized how important they were. Dahl thought back to his snapping of the driver's hand. He felt a little off having done it and they may have hurt thier chances, but for the moment, they were in good graces. They made thier way onto the floor as the spoke in the drumming of the voices going from high to low as winnings and losings were given out.

"You remember I was telling you about Charles Wellstone a couple of months ago?"

The guy who predicted the effects of weapons of mass destruction. A government spook was his basic run down. He looked at numbers and death tolls and every detail of an attack. Dahl couldn't do that. He prefered to make the attack.

"Take a look over there."

Dahl slowly swings his head, eyes catching the man they spoke of. Wellstone was here and now Thomas knew things were interesting. You didn't have a top level governmental spook in the middle of Las Vegas, in the middle of a fucking gold mine for nothing.

"Do me a favor, follow him. Find out what he's up to and who he's after. Be careful....and thanks."

"Should I be worried about this tool?"

Veretta responds quickly, "It's not him I'd be worried about. He's a friend. It's his entourage. Don't do this sloppy, go get a piece, I'll watch him until you get back."

Dahl nodded, putting a cap on his anger from the incident before. He headed to the room, entered, and said nothing. Quietly, he snagged his Beretta from his case. He put it quickly in his shulder harness and buttoned his coat to cover it. Dahl left the room, locking it and headed downstairs.

He slipped through the crowd, his grey suit and tie attracting some looks from the ladies. He nodded and smiled, getting some giggles from the girls.

~Just fucking me for my money is what they doin'~

He slowly made his way towards the bar, stopping to small talk with some the young and more inoccent groups of ladies that dotted the floor. If he wasn't in the buisness, he'd have fucked, pleasured, measured and feathered each one in a moment. Every few moments he would quietly glance to Wellstone. Whoever he was, he wasn't smart. The pictures and files were laid out in the open. Any jackass could look and start in on the small man. He excused himself from the group as the ladies groaned that sweet little groan and Dahl almost wanted to castrate himself for what he was doing.

But damn if doller signs don't shit up your romantic life. The former NYPD man made his way so he could glance at the file folder. What he saw made him frown.

~The fuck is this...oh well shittity shitiity fuckery~

The pictures of Redman, himself, Veretta and someone he had never seen before. An eyebrow went up. If that didn't take the fucking cake. Slowly, the NYPD man turned and struck up a conversation with one young lady that had stayed with him after he had moved. He faked suprise, he'd known she was there. Either she like him or wanted his cock. He engaged in smalltalk, keeping one eye on Wellstone and the other on the young thing in front of him.

Veretta Security Inc.

After seeing Dahl take over the trail of his one-time acquaintance, Carlone strolls casually over to the Blackjack tables and sits down.

"Change two thousand," he says as he slides some money onto the table, only to be quickly swept up and counted sloppily by the dealer.

Veretta shakes his head in frustration and looks up at the table camera. Fuckin' amateurs.

Cards dealt, Carlone whittles away his time at the table. The meetings not for a couple of hours, I'm sure Redman will let me know when he's ready.

Signaling to the busty waitress, "Water. No lemon."

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

The names with the faces contained in Wellstone's folder were merely the tip of the iceberg. A proverbial who's who of organized crime played in to this. The this in question, however, was still a complete unknown. It had something to do with Veretta Security, that was obvious, but it also may have stemmed from events in a city called Coldstone, Redman's old stomping ground.

Wellstone packed up his supplies and was ready to head out; he was going to investigate a few other prime locations in Sin City, locations he'd been dozens of times before but now shined in a new light. On his way to the exit, he nearly bumped in to a man sweet-talking a vivacious brunette. The man was tall, well built, blonde, and incredibly familiar.

Without turning back, Charles bolted for his Cutlass. That man, he realized, was Thomas Dahl.

Veretta Security Inc. and Agenda
(The following is an edited transcript of an I.M. conversation RP'd between capteucalyptus and myself, and babysat by Katanga.)

Carlone Veretta returns to his suite to await his meeting with Othello Redman. After killing several hours in the casino, he wonders about Dahl. Keeping his partner in check should have been his first priority. He quietly damns himself as he sips calmly on a glass of lime-water, staring out the window toward the brightening lights of the Belaggio and New York New York. A gentle rapping on the door rouses him from thought. Upon opening the door he sees Marcy Davenport, for the first time, without her trademark PDA.

"It's time for your meeting, Mr. Veretta. I'll escort you." She winks and takes a step back waiting for him to follow.

Veretta pats himself down to make sure he's not carrying, a habit he's gotten into lately. He smiles warmly, "Thank you. It would be my pleasure." He picks up a black, leather briefcase and walks after her.

Marcy strolls down the passageway. She halts and matches Veretta's pace.

"Have you enjoyed your stay?" she asks politely.

"It's been an interesting trip so far. I've learned a lot, as usual. Las Vegas never fails to amaze me."

The lady just oozes charm. She touches Veretta's arm and smiles, "Me neither."

Noting the flirtation, he responds professionally, "So, how long have you worked for Mr. Redman?"

"Two years and some change." The pair break apart a pair of french double-doors and make their way across the main gambling floor. Veretta spots a dealer tilting his hand. He shakes his head and grins imperceptibly. Marcy and Carlone enter another set of doors and continue up a flight of stairs.

Security check points everywhere. They finally turn a sharp corner and almost plow into Tima. The tall, thick Russian winks at Marcy and nods to Veretta.

"He is waiting." Tima says as he pulls wide the doors to the glass conference room. He immidiately takes a stance behind Othello.

Carlone smiles widely as he surveys the room in a fluid motion and bows toward Mr. Redman, extending his hand. "Mr. Redman, I've been looking forward to meeting you for a long time now."

Othello remains seated and does not offer a hand in return. "I'd like to say the feeling is mutual. Have a seat."

The big man reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a cigar which he begins to chew vigorously.

Carlone takes the snub in stride. He places his briefcase flat on the table and sits in the posh leather chair nearest him, crossing his legs professionally.

"You need to keep that puppy on a leash. He cost me five large."

"Understood, sir. I can repay that damage and offer a replacement if you'd like. I can assure you, his actions weren't deemed appropriate by me. I also hope that the shortcomings of my colleague haven't hindered our opportunities with you."

"And yet you did nothing, offered nothing, said nothing until I expressed dissatisfaction." Othello is expressionless. "Well, enough about that. I will deal with the situation and bill you for any costs I incur." He puts down the cigar and smiles with his mouth only. "So, what do you have for me?"

Veretta smiles back and nods, "If I may..."

Cautiously, he opens the briefcase narrowly and reaches inside. He removes a playing card from the briefcase and places it in front of Othello. On the back, it is marked Savannah Hotel & Casino. It is the King of Diamonds.

"This was palmed from your blackjack table number fourteen, by me. I was unhindered."

Othello leaves the card laying on the table. "Go on."

"Sir, over the past several hours, I have noted over 15 security violations by your employees, and nearly 10 blind spots in your camera layouts. This is simply from walking through the gambling floor. I have doubt that this is a surprise to you. I've also noticed symptoms of blatant drug use by at least 2 of your waitstaff, and given leave, I'm sure I could locate many more infractions that seep money from the only place it should be...your pockets."

"Not surprising," Redman's face remains neutral. "I suppose you can fix all of these things for me?"

"Currently, on walk-thru inspections of three major casinos here in Las Vegas, I've noted only half of these problems. Your casino, Mr. Redman, with ALL due respect for you, is in horrible shape security-wise, and in dire need of renovation."

Veretta pulls out a folder and sets it on the table alongside the card. "Here is a list of casinos, and other legalized gambling facilities that we have renovated over the past five years. The bulk of these were worse off than this one. They are now in the top 5% safest and most secure casinos, in the world."

"I agree, I inherited a mess. You should have seen how it was when I first arrived here." This time Othello's smile is more genuine. "I am certainly interested in hearing about all that you have to offer."

"We also provide other services that may interest you and your other business ventures. We specialize, of course, in these kinds of renovations, but also have professionals in other markets. I, myself, was in the Information Procurement business back in the early to mid-ninties when the IT boom hit, and I still have employees in that scope. We also specialize in, how shall I say, 'wet-work', for private and commercial entrepreneurs such as yourself and your partners.

"Having founded the company, and keeping a tight reign on its scope, I have the fortune of being able to make my own schedule. Your casino and other interests, have my full attention. I, sir, and my company are most definitely at your service." Veretta says as he smiles warmly across the table.

"Very well. I apologize for my initial demeanor. I have not been my usual self today. It has been a little stressful and it's my wife's birthday. We can most definitely use your services. We will coordinate further over the next few days. You and your cohort will join me for dinner tomorrow?" It isn't really a question. Mr. Redman stands and extends his hand.

Carlone, standing, takes his hand in his own noting the firm handshake, a sign of a truly respectable man. "It has been my utmost pleasure to meet you, Mr. Redman, and I look forward to our possible business together." He waits for Othello to release his hand.

Othello holds on, "Oh and I trust you will discuss your friend's actions with him and make the proper corrections? I would hate to have to take care of that for you." This time when he smiles it gives even Veretta a slight chill.

"I assure you, it will be taken care of, sir."

"Very good." He releases Carlone's hand and looks at Tima. "Show this gentleman out." He looks back at Veretta. "Enjoy your stay and I will see you tomorrow."

"Thank you." Veretta bows respectfully and exits quickly taking his briefcase but leaving the card and file on the table.

He follows Tima back to the floor where he bids the man well and continues on his way to the room. Feeling a bit relieved, Carlone Veretta reaches into his coat pocket to retrieve his cell phone.

"Fucknut." He speaks into the receiver. It dials Thomas Dahl's cell phone.

HARDCASE

(The following is an edited transcript of an in-character AIM conversation between myself and RathBandu.)

Elmore shuffles over to Paulie's table, taking the Jester's nickname in stride. He makes sure to salute Lurch as Paulie stands and slaps Elmore on the shoulder. "You always did know how to treat the help right, Pants!"

"Something I picked up in Europe," Elmore says, taking a seat.

"I picked up somethin' in Europe too, but a few shots and it was gone!" Elmore laughs, a big, hearty laugh, and shakes his head. Paulie chuckles back as he sits back down again. "Get you somethin’?"

Elmore waves off the invitation – suddenly he’s all business. "I'd love to stay and have a drink, but I’m on deadline. Something has come to my attention. Understand you had a little trouble here today."

Paulie's eyebrows scrunch in confusion. "Trouble? What the hell you talkin' about?"

Elmore stabs a thumb towards the big glass window up front. "Your window's been recently repaired. I heard someone threw a brick into it."

Paulie laughs. "Slow news day, huh? What, nobody die?" His laughter sounds a little forced, even for him.

"No. Not yet." He leans in, and says in almost a whisper, "Are the feds hounding you again, Paulie? Off the record."

Paulie leans in as well. "You know damn well I know they're ain't no such thing as 'off the record.' And if the Feds have reduced themselves to tossin' bricks through my window, then they really gotta be scrapin' the bottom of the barrel." Paulie leans back. "You ask me, probably some workin' stiff who got stiff and then got turned down by one of the girls."

Elmore laughs again, leaning back in the seat. "The Feds are just like me....always looking for a good story."

"Yeah, only you actually find one now and then."

Elmore checks his watch. "Well, I gotta go. Guess it was nothing." He stands and watches the dancers for a moment.

Paulie rises to stop him. "Aw come on, stick around. Sinthia is gonna be on in a bit."

Elmore turns around, dead serious. "Paulie, I grew up in this town. Men like you built it. If you need anything...well, you know where to find me. And I guess I know where to find you." He shakes his head, as if the seriousness was fleeting. "Maybe I will stick around."

Paulie nods knowingly and gestures to Elmore's seat. "You've always done good by me. Stay. Have a drink or two, on me."

He gestures to Lurch, then points to Elmore and nods. Lurch nods back and starts pouring.

Elmore grins. "You got any of those world famous ribs still on the grill?" he says as he sits back down. "You know, I helped make those ribs world famous...."

Paulie rolls his eyes in mock dismay. "Yeah, I'm so sick of those fuckin' things, I could get rid of every girl in the joint and they'd still come for those things. Not that I'm gettin' rid of the girls any time soon," he adds with a wink.

Lurch walks over with a ice cold bottle of Killian's for Paulie and a glass of straight JD for Elmore. "Slab of ribs for the man, Lurch, lay the sauce on thick like he likes it." The big man nods and trundles off to the kitchen.

Elmore smiles. Like the other survivors of Silent Spring, Paulie is trying to make good. And that's all one can ask for. He takes a long sip of his JD and fixes a sly gaze on Paulie. "So, how are things with the 'little lady'," he asks.

Paulie nearly spits out his beer. "'Little lady'? Hey, there ain't no ring on this finger! Look, it is what it is -- she fucks me 'cause I help her make money, I fuck her 'cause, well, I'd have to be dead not to. We ain't pickin' out china patterns any time soon."

There's a pause, and Elmore can almost see the gears working in the Jester's head. Something's coming. Paulie takes another sip of his Killian's. "So you were pretty quick to assume it was the Feds did my redecoratin'. They up to somethin' in town?"

"Might be. Not sure." He pauses, not sure if he should go where he's about to. But something in Paulie's eyes tells him he's better not knowing this alone.

"There is...something else."

Paulie's eyebrows raise slightly. "Do tell."

"I trust you read my second book, one that was butchered into a movie? It talked about McCready, remember?"

"I skimmed it lookin' for mentions of my name, yeah."

"Well, maybe you heard this name, too. Wesley."

For a moment, Elmore is sure he sees fear wash across Paulie's face, just a fleeting instant, before it's replaced with the usual jokey bravado the Jester always wears. "Wesley? Heard it mentioned around, usually like our version of the boogey man. Pay your boss or Wesley's comin' to get ya."

"Yeah. Well, when I talked to McCready, he was just a rumor. Or so I thought."

"So what's the big deal? He comin' to Coldstone?"

"Could be. Could be he's already here." Elmore pauses -- this is it. Put up or shut up. He leans in again. "He called me at the office tonight."

Paulie frowns, which looks odd on him, and Elmore can tell it's more to hide his feelings than to show them. "He called you? What the fuck is he callin' you for?"

"I don't know. He said I ... interest him."

Paulie pulls a pen from inside his jacket and quickly jots a number on a napkin. He slides it over to Elmore. "That's my cell. He calls again, you call me, you got that? And if I start gettin' calls to change my long distance company, I ain't gonna be happy."

Elmore pockets the number inside his heavy jacket. He claps Paulie on the shoulder. "You're a good man."

Paulie tucks the pen away. "And you know better than that. Don't fuck me on this, Pants. Yeah, maybe I'm a little worried about you being involved with this guy, but it's my own skin I'm most concerned about."

"Don't worry about it. You're gonna make me a star again, remember?"

Paulie sits back and laughs. "Pants, a star ain't nothin' but a big ball of gas, and you're there already!"

Lurch arrives with a massive slab of ribs, hot and smelling like a million bucks. The meat barely clings to the bone. Paulie closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

"Ah, a little slice of heaven." He downs the rest of his Killian's in one long swallow and rises. "You sit and enjoy those, and I'll make sure Lurch keeps that glass full. Got some business to take care of." He winks. "And don't ask me her name!" He walks off, leaving to Elmore dig into his ribs and watch slow gyrations of the dancers.

Number One Fan
(Attn: Burke)

Wesley stared at Avery's proffered hand as if it was a maggot-riddled piece of meat. The monster turned his gaze upward, memorizing every curve, every line. The whisper came out..."This is not how I do things. There are rules. You've broken them. I never forget. All my fans are dead."

Steadman Avery relaxed. His body language spoke to Wesley, caressing him with warmth and calm. "Our methods may have been unorthodox, but we were unable to go through your usual channels. Avery began to reach as if to put his arm around Wesley's shoulder, thought better of it and lowered his hands. "Listen... I have a business proposition for you. Just hear me out; I'm certain you'll be interested. Please, won't you join me in my "office." Avery gestured to the helicopter, it's blades as quiet as the grave.

Wesley played the human's game, allowing Avery to believe that he could manipulate the monster. So easy to fall into the cowed persona, let this "big man" think that he was the manipulator. So easy...

Palooka nudged Wesley to enter, almost touching the monster's back. Wesley whirled on the man, giving him his jailhouse stare. Palooka backed off, showing respect. The one thing the monster appreciated.

Avery broke the silence. "James... What did I tell you about touching Mr. Wesley? Apologize to Mr. Wesley for your behavior."

Palooka looked the iceman in the eye. Nodded his head.

"Good," smiled Avery, clapping his hands together. "We're all in the same business, no reason why we can't get along. Now shall we get on board." He gestured again to the chopper.

Wesley followed Avery on board the gunship, Avery's words still ringing in the monster's ear... "I'm your number one fan." Who had been giving this "buisnessman" information???

The Arrival

"You must be Mr. Armstrong," Viglio nodded in recognition of his alias. His contact had arrived--a short, wiry fellow, perhaps Filippino in descent, wearing glasses and a sweatshirt.

"Name's Will," the young man offered his hand, "I work in the I.T. department here. Let me give you the quick tour."

Viglio followed quietly, absorbing everything he could about American casino culture as the two of them paced the grounds of the hotel. Underneath his calm exterior, he wondered to himself if any of the tourists and retirees would ever see "true" Monte Carlo.

Will proceeded to kindly detail what he could, surprised at his guest's lack of questions. They eventually wound their way into the behind-the-scenes portion of the casino. Viglio was certain to learn every point of procedure possible--both the technical side that his guide offered, and th security side which the assassin monitored.

Things would no doubt be similar at the Savannah.

The tour ended, and Will escorted his companion to the entrance once more. The young man was obviously curious to know if his tour had offered any useful information to his Italian guest. "Mr. Armstrong... any questions? I hope I didn't bore you..."

"No," Viglio offered respectuflly. "You have been very informative, Will. Thank you."

As an afterthought, Viglio held back his next question. His guide was quick to recall what remained. Will fumbled in his pocket for a small envelope.

"Oh yeah, this is for you."

Viglio claimed the envelope and pocketed it quickly inside his jacket, bowing a bit in gratitude.

"Enjoy your stay," Will offered a parting thought, then descended back toward the hidden hallways of the casino's nerve center. He turned one last time to offer a wave, but "Mr. Armstrong" had vanished.

Veretta Security Inc.

Dahl had been talking to the young lady and admiring her in more ways than one and he also had been keeping another eye on Wellstone. He had the appearence of a man out of his league. But appearences in Vegas meant jack shit. He started moving and bumped into Dahl, and the look on the government spooks face gave everything away.

"Hey, I'm talkin' here!" Thomas growled out as Wellstone quickly made his way out. Apologizing to the lady and giving his card to her, he quickly and briskly walked, following the man. He snapped up his cell phone and called the front desk.

"Pull the car for Dahl please."

The line clicked dead as the former NYPD officer slipped through the crowds, keeping his eye on Wellstone. For a small guy, he moved quickly enough. In a moment, he was out in the front, his 2003 Chevy Caprice pulled up. It paid to send a car ahead. Really paid. Tipping the driver, Dahl slipped into the car, running his hands over the wheel. A cop car by name, the Caprices had lost out to the Crown Vic's and now the Chevy Impala was making a comeback. He watched as Wellstone got into his oldsmobile, a car that even Thomas could respect.

Almost. He pulled out of the parking lot, slowly and methodically tracking each movement from the car ahead. Keeping at least two cars behind, Dahl managed to keep an eye on the goverment agent while also trying to get an idea of where he was. Suddenly Wellstone accerelrated and turned right. Raising an eyebrow, Thomas pushed his Caprice forward and turned quickly as he tracked the agent. He was smart, but he wasn't thinking. And then all hell broke lose.

The Oldsmobile suddenly burned rubber, sending a screech into the air. Dahl startled slightly. It had been a slow chase, until now. His right hand drifted down to the lights and sirens he had installed as an added option. Pulling it back to the wheel, he screamed off in pursuit, pell melling it around the corner. The car handled well and under the smooth hands of Dahl, it kept up with Wellstone as they screamed through the streets of Las Vegas. Suddenly, Wellstone took a left on a red light. Two cars tried to avoid him, but ended up smashing into pieces.

Directly in front of Veretta Securities Thomas Dahl. He swerved as the rear tires squeeled across the pavement, the car losing control. The back bumper missed one car by in inch as the front end bounced off the curb. The movement ceased and Dahl cursed everyone from Wellstone to his mother in one quick step. Slamming the car into reverse, he slipped through the wreck, bumping on of the drivers to the ground. Screaming through several more interesections, he kept his eye open for the Oldsmobile. He passed the Golden Nugget and did a double take. Wellstons Car was being parked.

But not by Wellstone. Dahl threw his car into reverse on the road, sending several drivers into a panic as another three car wreck turned into a five car and then into a ten car pileup in ten seconds flat. Jumping the curb, the black Caprice landed directly next to the parking man, who was wideyed as it was. Dahl jumped up, flashed his badge and growled.

"Move the motherfucking car, I will motherfucking move your ass to your mouth in short order."

Dahl took off into the Casino, catching a glimpse of Wellstone. Several ladies, these ones not so innocent made thier way towards him. He smiled and slipped around them, almost in a dance manuver that several of the drunks at the bar picked up on and marveled at. They had tried that.

And failed. Dahl looked up once more. And found no Wellstone. He scanned the crowd again and again. Whoever was working with Wellstone, they were damned good. And Dahl really wanted to fuck them up the ass.

"Motherfucking bitches...and bastards."

Growling, he made his way back to his car, finding it still there and the young man turned to him and startled.

"You car...sir."

Dahl nodded, handed him a twenty doller bill and sat down in the drivers seat and started the car.

And waited.

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

Wellstone raced out of the Savannah and hit the road. He tried to remember what'd he'd learned about losing a tail in the past, but all of said memories came from The French Connection, and it's probably not a good idea to emulate that. The only other thing he could think of was to stay calm. He tried that, and it worked for a block or two... but then he paniced. He saw Dahl's Cutless in his rear-view mirror and he peeled out. "This... this is bad." Wellstone told himself as he reached for his standard issue Nokia 7210. "Call Dewey."

"Dewey here." It almost sounded like he knew the circumstances of the call before Wellstone said a word.

"What the hell have you gotten me in to?" He replied.

"Chuck, is that you?"

"You know damn well it's me. I'm in a fucking car chase through the heart of Las Vegas!"

"Sounds like fun."

"It's not fun! I'm a fucking statistician, not a field agent! I don't mean any disrespect, but this has got to be the sloppiest operation ever."

"That hurts, y'know? Who's following you?"

"Dahl."

"Ah, the wild card. I don't like that kid. Listen, can you get on to Freemont?"

"Not legally. Hold on." Wellstone made a left on red, forcing two cars to unsuccesfully avoid incident. "Fuck. I nearly killed those people."

"Don't worry, we'll take care of it. Listen, a few blocks ahead is the Golden Nugget, a place I know you know well. Valet the car, head inside, and lose any potential tails on the floor. After about an hour, head for the front desk. You have a room waiting for you under the name of Raymond Christie."

"Clever."

"Thanks, I thought of it myself. Now, make your way up to room 724. You'll have a new suit, a briefcase containing $5000, and further instructions. Call me when you're there."

"Okay, I think I can do that. And Dewey?"

"Yes?"

"No disrespect, sir, but the next time this happens I will bludgeon you with a chair leg."

"Duly noted."

He hung up the phone and entered the casino. Against his better judgement, a smirk of what may be described as satisfaction came to his face.