“Yeah,” King said again, and he sighed.
Great in the sack? Norton wished he knew. The way his life was going, he’d never find out. At twenty-one, he was probably the oldest virgin in Las Vegas.
And Susie Ash was the second oldest.
He hoped.
Norton slammed on the brakes and managed to stop before he hit the man. Even then, the guy didn’t move. Norton sounded the horn, but the jaywalker stayed in the middle of the street, less than a yard in front of the squad car.
“Out of the road!” yelled Norton.
His shift was almost over, and all he wanted was to go home. King had already gone, getting Norton to drive him there. They were supposed to sign off together, but the sergeant had been on the force long enough to bend the rules.
Norton had been thinking about Susie, and the man seemed to have appeared from nowhere. If he’d moved away, Norton wouldn’t have given him a second look; but because he remained where he was, Norton looked again.
He was wearing the most amazing shades.
They weren’t shaped like a pair of sunglasses, but more like the visor of a motorcycle helmet. At first, the lens appeared to be mirrored, and yet the effect was the exact opposite—as if it absorbed light instead of reflecting it. The surface looked black, but every colour of the spectrum seemed to swirl and shimmer within the darkness.
Although only a narrow strip, the shades effectively masked the man’s face. They were real cool. Exactly what Norton wanted. Where had he bought them?
Norton could feel the hidden eyes staring straight at him. Then the guy suddenly laughed and shook his head, stepped toward the sidewalk and turned up the next street.
It wasn’t just his shades that were odd, Norton realised. His hair was long, but there were hippies even in Vegas. His clothes were weird, too, even by Vegas standards. When it was all added together, there was something very suspicious about him.
Norton was a cop, he had an instinct for such things. He turned the wheel and drove up the side street.
The guy wasn’t hard to spot. He was dressed all in red, like some out-of-season Santa. His hair was also red. And green. And blue.
He glanced back over his shoulder, noticed the squad car was following him. That was when he started running. He sprinted for half a block before diving down an alley.
Norton smiled to himself, knowing he’d been proved right. He swerved into the alley. Narrow and dark, it sloped steeply downward. It was a service entrance, and at the bottom of the ramp there was a loading bay. The shutters were down, and nothing moved.
There was no sign of the man in red. The only red Norton could see was one of the three cars parked in front of the bay. It was a red convertible, a Jaguar.
Susie’s red convertible Jaguar.
Alongside it was a stretch limo. Norton recognised that, too. A black Lincoln with Illinois plates.
“Heck,” he muttered, as he stopped at the end of the ramp.
He reached for the mike, but the radio was dead. There were too many tall buildings all around. He climbed out of the car and drew his revolver. Twice in one day, he realised. That had to be a record.
Everything was still and silent as Norton walked over to the Lincoln. Holding the gun in his right hand, he pulled the driver’s door open with his left. The car was empty. So was Susie’s. The third vehicle was a white Chevrolet. Nevada registration. Also empty.
He climbed the concrete steps to the door at the side of the loading bay and looked in through the small window. It was too dark to see anything. Whatever the building was, this was basement level. He tried the handle. It turned. The door opened outward. He thought of going back for a flashlight. There wasn’t time. He went in.
There was a light in the distance, over by the far corner, and he slowly made his way in that direction. He kept glancing around, but there was nothing to see.
The basement was used as a storeroom. In the dark, it could have been stacked with anything. He paused for a moment by one of the thick pillars which supported the floors above. Next to him was a broken fruit machine, a no-armed bandit. Above, he realised, must be a casino.
He began walking again and almost tripped over something on the ground. Not something. Someone. He bent down, reaching out. Someone big. The Lincoln driver. Big and dead.
If there had been any light, he’d have seen more red. The driver had lost a lot of blood. As well as the gun from his holster.
Norton wiped the sticky liquid off his hand and onto his pants leg. He knew he had to go back, but he also knew he must go on.
Then he heard voices. At least two men, maybe three. Arguing and shouting. He cocked his pistol.
There were four of them. Two with their hands on their heads. Two with pistols in their hands, covering the first pair.
He stood in the shadow of one of the concrete pillars, his heart beating so loudly he thought they must have been able to hear him. His whole body was filmed with sweat, and he held his revolver in both hands to keep it steady.
When he peered around the other side of the pillar, he saw a fifth man. He was sitting on a wooden box between the two gunmen. With thinning white hair, he looked quite old. He was the one doing most of the shouting, aiming his cigar at the first two as if it were a weapon.
“Think you could kill me?” he demanded. “I’m immortal, you know that.”
Then Norton stopped listening to what he was saying because all his attention was focused on one of the men being threatened.
It was Mr. Ash. Susie’s father.
Norton wondered what to do.
Two shots, he thought, and both of the gunmen would be down.
Yeah, sure. Knowing his luck, he’d probably hit Mr. Ash and the other guy, then the gangsters would wipe him out.
Gangsters. They really were gangsters, he realised. And his pulse raced even faster.
He stepped slowly forward, out into the half-light. Mr. Ash and the other man noticed him. He raised his left index finger to his lips, but they didn’t need warning.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” said Mr. Ash, doing his best to keep all the attention on himself.
“Wrong?” said the older man. “I thought Luigi’s goon tried to shoot me. Am I wrong?”
“It was a misunderstanding, Carlo,” said Mr. Ash.
“It wasn’t a misunderstanding,” said the man called Carlo, “it was a mistake. And you made it.”
Norton drew his nightstick with his left hand and crept forward, getting nearer and nearer to the first gunman.
Until the man spun around toward him.
He brought the baton down, hard, smashing it against the man’s arm. The man shouted in pain. The gun fell.
Norton quickly stepped back out of reach, aiming his pistol at the second gunman.
“Don’t move,” he warned.
The man didn’t move. No one moved.
“Drop the gun,” said Norton.
The gunman turned his head, slowly.
Norton aimed at his head, carefully.
Carlo looked around, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw Norton.
“Is there a problem, officer?” he asked.
“Not if he drops his gun,” said Norton, and he changed the direction of his aim. From the gunman to Carlo.
“If he does,” asked Carlo, “can we talk?”
Norton nodded, and Carlo gestured to the gunman. But instead of dropping the gun, he slid it into its shoulder holster.
“Hands on your head,” said Norton. “And you.”
The two gangsters put their hands on their heads. As they did so, Mr. Ash and the other man lowered theirs.
“Good to see you, Wayne,” said Mr. Ash. “Nice work.”
“He’s one of yours?” said the old man.
“You don’t own the whole force, Carlo.”
“Where’s Susie?” asked Norton.
“Susie?” said Mr. Ash. “She’s at home, I think. Why?”