CHAPTER SEVEN
Blade was extremely pleased.
None of the pedestrians paid any attention to the four Warriors. The hustling crowds flowed to and fro, from casino to motel or liquor store, a frenetic swirl of humanity composed of frontier types in buckskins, Las Vegas residents and tourists in shirts and slacks or shorts, and dapper sorts in three-piece suits. Machine guns, rifles, and handguns were in abundance.
The Warriors fit right in.
Blade did notice the stares Helen was receiving from many of the men.
But dozens of beautiful women were strolling along the sidewalk, each one the focus of masculine interest. The women wore skimpy tops and short, short skirts, and they flaunted their sexuality with a pronounced swaying of their hips and the suggestive contours of their breasts.
“Hey! Look!” Hickok said. “That sign.”
Blade halted in midstride in front of a liquor store. To the right of the entrance was a large white sign with black lettering. “Let’s read it,” he stated.
They crossed the parking lot and walked up to the sign.
The recreation capital of the Western Hemisphere! If we don’t have it, you don’t need it! All establishments are open twenty-four hours a day for your enjoyment and convenience. Precious metals and jewelry are accepted at any Exchange Center in every casino. Prewar currency is also acceptable at the current rate of exchange. Firearms are permitted, but the killing of unarmed tourists is strictly forbidden. Las Vegas thrives on its tourist trade. Any violations will be dealt with by the Enforcers. All questions will be courteously answered at any of the Information Booths. Thank you for vacationing in Las Vegas! We hope to see you again next year!
“Friendly folks hereabouts,” Hickok remarked.
“Who are the Enforcers?” Geronimo queried.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Blade responded. “Let’s keep moving.”
The four Warriors turned.
Just as the front door to the liquor store opened and five men walked out. All five wore suits and three wore hats. Two of them carried Uzi submachine guns. The apparent leader was a stocky man with a pockmarked face who was wearing a blue pin-striped suit and a white hat.
In his right hand was a bottle of whiskey. He started to take a swig as he headed toward a parked red sedan. His brown eyes alighted on the Warriors and he stopped. “Whoa! What have we here?”
“Uh-oh,” Geronimo mumbled. “We’ve got trouble.”
The man in the white hat cocked his head to one side, lustfully gazing at Helen. “Do you see what I see, Reggie?”
One of the men with an Uzi, a tall man in a tan suit, nodded. “I see her, Franky.”
Franky took a sip of whiskey and walked toward the Warriors, flanked by his four henchmen.
Blade was standing slightly ahead of his companions. He took a stride forward, the Commando held at waist height. “Do you want something?”
Franky halted, lowering the bottle and warily studying the giant. “This doesn’t concern you, buddy!”
“I think it does,” Blade stated.
Franky nodded toward Helen. “I want a few words with the fox.”
“About what?” Blade asked.
“That’s between the broad and me!” Franky declared testily.
“What do you want?” Helen spoke up.
Franky smirked. “I want to show you a good time, gorgeous. Why don’t you dump these assholes and come with me? You’ll see the sights in style.”
“No, thanks,” Helen said politely.
Franky’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“Nope,” Helen replied. “And I don’t care.”
Franky seemed insulted. He glanced at the one named Reggie. “Tell this bimbo who I am!”
“You don’t want to mess with Franky, lady,” Reggie warned. “He’s connected.”
“Connected to what? That bottle?” Helen retorted.
Franky hissed and angrily tossed the bottle to the pavement. The bottle shattered, spraying whiskey in all directions. “I’m a made man, bitch! Does the name Giorgio mean anything to you?”
“Should it?” Helen rejoined.
Blade suddenly recalled the matron at the diner mentioning Don Giorgio. What had she said? Something about Don Giorgio being the head of the second most powerful Family in Vegas.
“Do you know who my old man is?” Franky asked belligerently.
“I do,” Blade said. “And we don’t want any trouble with you.”
Franky grinned cockily. “Oh, really? Well, Jerkface, you’ll have more trouble than you can handle if Sweet-Cheeks doesn’t come for a ride with me.”
Hickok abruptly stepped to the right, slinging the Henry over his left shoulder.
The four men with Franky shifted their attention to the gunman.
Hickok’s hands dropped to his sides and he grinned.
“What’s so funny, Ugly?” Franky snapped.
Blade tried one more time to prevent bloodshed. “We don’t want any trouble with you. Just let us walk away in peace.”
Franky snorted contemptuously. “The only way you’ll leave is in pieces.”
Blade realized pedestrians had gathered on the sidewalk and were watching in fascination. He saw the two henchmen with Uzis fingering their weapons. The other three had swept their jackets aside to reveal pistols stuck under their belts. With a sinking feeling he knew there would be gunplay.
“So what’s it going to be?” Franky demanded. “Do you hand over the vixen or do we whack you?”
“How do you do it?” Hickok unexpectedly queried.
Franky stared at the man in buckskins. “Do what, hick?”
“I’ve never seen anyone with your talent,” Hickok mentioned.
Franky moved the right side of his jacket aside, his hand moving to within an inch of an automatic. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ve never met anyone who could fart out of their mouth before,” Hickok said. “How do you do it?”
Several seconds elapsed before Franky’s alcohol-benumbed mind perceived he had been insulted. With a snarl he grabbed for this gun.
Hickok was the first to fire. The Colts flashed from their holsters and boomed, the twin shots as one.
Franky took both shots in the head, one in each eye, his cranium bursting outwards, his brains and blood gushing over the asphalt as he was flung backwards.
Hickok swiveled before Franky started to fall, planting two more shots into one of the henchmen.
Reggie swung his Uzi toward the gunfighter, but he died before he could squeeze the trigger. A burst from the giant’s machine gun ripped into his abdomen and nearly tore him in half. He crumpled to the ground, the Uzi slipping from his fingers, his consciousness slowly fading, agony wracking his body. Doubled over, on his knees, shock overwhelming his senses, he saw the fight end as swiftly as it began. The giant spun and took out Lou with another skillful burst to Lou’s chest, even as the Indian and the fox shot Berk and Clemens. Reggie sagged, blood spouting from his gaping mouth, his eyes glazing. A pair of moccasins appeared in his line of vision and he craned his neck upward.
“Howdy,” the man in the buckskin said. “Your pards are done for. Any last words before I put you out of your misery?”
Reggie used the last of his strength to spit out, “Get screwed!”
Hickok shrugged, extending both Pythons. “I figured you might want to make your peace with your Maker.” He cocked the Colts. “I reckon I was wrong.” He fired, the Pythons blasting, Reggie’s forehead caving inward as the two heavy slugs plowed through his brain.
Reggie toppled onto the asphalt.
Hickok glanced at his friends. “Anyone hit?”
“I’m fine,” Geronimo answered.
“Ditto,” Helen said.