The Taurus revolver clicked empty. Heller dropped it. He palmed his Llama.45. He came up suddenly and snapped a shot at the wall in front of the head. The bellow of the big caliber went booming through the casino.
Heller bobbed up to take a look. The head was not there. But voices were.
"Here's a laundry chute."
"Well, look in it, dummy."
"Jesus. It's straight down a hunnert feet. There's nothin' at the bottom of it."
"Well, look in the God (bleeped) rooms, you idiot."
Slamming doors.
Some Italian chatter was sounding up the long corridor. Some guys up there were trying to persuade one of their number to walk down it. He was protesting.
Heller could see up that corridor all the way. He sighted carefully along the top of the Llama. He was centering on a huge glass fixture nearly a hundred and fifty feet away. He allowed for the drop of the relatively slow.45 bullet by placing the rear, fixed sight quite low. He fired!
The crash of the.45 was followed by the smashing crash of breaking glass. Showers of it cascaded down.
A yelp came from that end of the corridor.
A slug thumped into the top of the sofa, instantly followed by the sound of the shot from the corridor.
An Italian voice in the side corridor yelled, "Tell the capo the money isn't here!"
Somebody up the long corridor yelled back, "You look everyplace? He coulda thrown it down a laundry chute. Did you look in the laundry room?"
"Ignacio went down there, too. Nobody there. We looked every place. It's gone."
Silence reigned for a long space. It was pretty obvious that nobody could get into a point of vantage from which they could shoot Heller. The only way they could reach him was by a frontal charge.
Suddenly the P. A. system opened up. It said, "Look, kid. We may not be able to get at you. But at the same time, you can't get out of where you are and even if you could, you'd never be able to leave this building with that dough and arrive anyplace else. The capo wants to see you."
Heller touched his collar. "Are you all right, dear?" "Everything is fine, Jettero."
Heller raised his voice but not his head. He shouted down the long corridor in passable Italian, "You give me a hostage and let me keep my gun and we'll talk about it."
Up at the other end of the corridor, voices were arguing.
"You go."
"Why me?"
"Listen, as the son of Capo Gobbo Piegare, I command you in my father's name, go down that corridor, Jimmy Coniglio, and give yourself up as a hostage!"
A squeal. "Not me! If you're so anxious to have a hostage, go yourself, Don Julio!"
Heller called out, "I'll take the son of the capo, if you please."
A loud outburst of arguing. Then finally, "Mother of the Virgin, why can't somebody else be his God (bleeped) son?"
"You're the son. We ain't."
A body thrust into the corridor. Then, seeing there was no shot forthcoming, the person crept timidly down the wall toward the mezzanine and the sofa fortress. He stopped and yelled back, "Now, none of your God (bleeped) parlor games! Don't go shooting me or anybody else in the back!" That attended to, the person came closer.
Heller let him get within two feet. The fellow was about thirty, dressed in a silk tuxedo with a lace shirt front and a very Sicilian face. It was the same man who had been directing the shift of money from cage to cage down on the floor.
Heller, the Llama.45 held close to his chest, sat erect. He plucked a Beretta from the shoulder holster under the tuxedo and put it in his pocket.
"I think we will get along fine, Don Julio," he said. "Nobody has gotten shot, yet, and it would be a shame if you were the first. So do I have your word you will take me to your father and to nobody else?"
"Upon the grave of my father's mistress, I swear it," said Don Julio. "Would you please put that safety catch on? I might stumble. My knees seem to be a bit shaky tonight."
"Anything to oblige," said Heller and put the side-lever safety catch on, pushing the gun into Don Julio's ribs. He turned him around and with a companionable arm over his shoulders and a thumb close to a paralysis point of Don Julio's neck, he let the chief's son lead on.
They went to an elevator. Don Julio pushed the call button. They went to the second floor. Don Julio turned down a corridor which seemed to be made up, not of bedrooms, but offices. They came to the end and Don Julio knocked twice, then three times.
Somebody inside opened the door.
It was a splendid office, very large, done in what appeared to be yellow leather. An expensive rug was on the floor. Hanging plants gave the room a strange, jungle look.
A very small man was sitting at a very large desk. There were several other men in the room, hands in pockets, hats on, natty but very dark and Italian.
"My father," said Don Julio impressively. "Capo Gobbo Piegare, supreme leader of the Atlantic City mob." He glanced sideways at Heller. "I am sorry. I do not know how you are called."
"Cattivo," said Heller. "Johnny Cattivo. At your orders," he added with polite formality. He was still speaking Italian and he seemed to have their endless, involved manners down pat.
"Sit down," said the capo, waving at a yellow interview chair that had its back to the room.
"Thank you. I've been sitting too long this afternoon," said Heller. "I think your gracious son and I will stand over here against the wall."
"Just trying to make you comfortable," said Gobbo Piegare. "So, with your permission, we will get down to business. I don't know how you bribed the croupiers to always stop the wheels on the right numbers, but that's all ancient history. Where's the dough?"
"It is my take, isn't it?" said Heller.
"According to custom and law," said Gobbo, "I must allow that it is. However, I must point out, with all delicacy, that every exit from this hotel, as well as the parking lot, is covered with Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter submachine guns in the hands of very competent guards who have orders to shoot you on sight if they see a single package in your hands. They're on the roof, too."
"I appreciate your courtesy," said Heller, "but I must point out that your son and you would undoubtedly be hit by.45 slugs before the rest of the men in this room could shoot out of their pockets. And you have no idea at all where the money is, other than that it is in my possession."
Gobbo Piegare made a tent of his hands, elbows on the desk, and supported his chin. He thought for a while. Then he said, "Legally, this is what is called a 'Mexican standoff.' You have me at a very great disadvantage. You have drained the other four casinos and this one of all cash. Without that cash, finances could become embarrassing. I have a proposition. Are you open to offers?"
"If they are good ones," said Heller.
"Oh, this is a good one," said Gobbo reassuringly. "The Scalpello Casino Corporation owns, in all, five beautiful casino-hotels here, including this one. They are only eight to twelve years old. They have the most modern and fanciest fittings. The corporation also owns tons of real estate around them and a quarter of a mile of Boardwalk, two miles of waterfront along the Intracoastal Waterway, a game preserve, a yacht marina and two piers. Sound impressive, kid?"
"Indeed, it does," said Heller.
"You, on the other hand," said Gobbo, "have several million cash around somewhere. Now, I will make you the proposition. In return for that cash, I will sell you the whole corporation and every share of stock in it."
I flinched. Was Heller going to land squarely on his feet in spite of everything?