Geronimo nodded, scrutinizing the hit men.
Blade eased his Bowie away from Mario’s neck and straightened.
“There. Now let’s see if your word is worth anything.”
Mario gingerly rubbed his sore neck with his right hand, and when he withdrew his hand there was a trickle of blood on his fingers. “That’s some knife you’ve got there,” he mentioned.
Blade wiped the Bowie on his pants leg. “I’m fond of it.”
“I’ll escort you down to the casino,” Mario said. “You can wait there until Don Pucci comes down. And don’t worry. We’re not about to attack you in our own casino. Business would suffer.”
“What do you mean?” Blade asked.
“The casino is our drawing card, so to speak,” Mario elaborated. “Our rooms on the upper floors are always filled to capacity because our customers know they can gamble here in safety. They know Don Pucci runs an honest house, unlike some of the other Dons. Whenever you have a shooting in a casino, business suffers. The customers shy away for a while.
We don’t want that.”
Blade walked over to Geronimo and took the Commando. “We’ll wait for Don Pucci, and you have my word that we won’t start shooting unless you start something.”
“We won’t,” Mario assured the giant. He moved to the wall and pressed a red button, then looked at Helen. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. But you must understand my position. There are a lot of people who would like to see Don Pucci dead, and I would give my life to protect him. So would everyone else in his Family.”
“Why did Don Pucci kidnap my daughter?” Helen asked bluntly.
“He didn’t,” Mario replied.
“I know better,” Helen stated.
“You can talk to the Don in person,” Mario said. “Then let’s see how you feel.”
The inner door to the elevator slid open as the elevator arrived on the second floor.
Mario entered.
The Warriors backed into the elevator, their weapons aimed at the mobsters in the corridor.
Blade breathed a slight sigh of relief when the door slid shut. He gazed down at the throngs of gamblers as the elevator descended, spying a long bar on the south side of the enormous room. Anyone approaching the bar from the gaming tables and the slot machines would need to cover 20 yards of open space. The bar was an ideal spot to await the Don.
With a scarcely perceptible jolt, the elevator stopped.
Mario exited first, standing to the right of the open doors.
“We’ll be waiting at the bar,” Blade said as he emerged.
“Give me ten minutes,” Mario said.
“Five,” Blade amended as Geronimo and Helen joined him.
Mario shook his head. “I need ten. You’ll understand the reason when you see the Don.”
“Ten, then,” Blade said. “But one minute longer and we’ll tear your casino apart.”
Mario stepped into the elevator, closed the doors, and nodded at the Warriors as it climbed.
“I don’t trust him!” Helen opined. “Why did you agree to this nonsense?”
“Sometimes a Warrior must rely on his or her intuition,” Blade answered. “My intuition tells me to trust Mario this time.”
“I pray you’re right,” Helen said. She scanned the patrons at the nearby tables, her features downcast. “All I want is to find Mindy and return safely to the Home. Is that too much to ask?”
“No,” Blade stated. He headed in the direction of the bar, alert for an assault.
“If it’s any consolation,” Geronimo commented, staying abreast of Blade on the right, “I agree with you.”
The Warriors skirted the gaming tables and the slot machines, winding toward the south side of the casino. The laughter, the tinkle of glasses filled with liquor, and the smiling customers were an odd contrast to the deadly mobsters running the establishment. Blade observed the patrons heartily enjoying themselves, and he remembered the words of the woman at the diner. The Organized Crime Families had controlled Las Vegas for over a century, and the citizens and tourists all seemed content with the status quo. Why? How could they allow their lives to be run by the Dons?
Was it because life under the Dons was better, in a materialistic sense, than life elsewhere in the country? Was it because the Dons were no more oppressive than the government which they had supplanted? Or was it because the Dons and Las Vegas were made for each other? They both flourished in an atmosphere of permissiveness and they naturally attracted others of a similar persuasion.
The bar appeared ahead.
Blade ceased his reflection and walked up to the middle of the bar.
“I wonder how Hickok is doing,” Geronimo commented.
“As soon as we finish our business here,” Blade said, “we’ll go get him.”
“If anything happens to him,” Geronimo pledged, “I won’t leave Las Vegas until I settle accounts with Don Giorgio.”
“Look!” Helen declared. “The elevator.”
The glass elevator was descending.
“Here they come!” Helen said excitedly. “Now we’ll learn where Mindy is!”
A party of men left the elevator and moved through the customers, coming toward the Warriors.
Blade’s superior height enabled him to see the party clearly, and his forehead furrowed in confusion when he spotted the head of the group.
“Don Pucci better turn Mindy over to us!” Helen was saying.
Blade stared at the floor, deep in thought.
“What is it?” Geronimo inquired.
“You’ll see in a moment,” Blade responded.
The party of mobsters came even closer. There were ten men, eight of whom were armed with machine guns. The ninth was Mario. And the tenth was a man with gray hair, a man with a thin face and a pale complexion, a man in a beige suit with a red blanket covering his lap because he was seated in a wheelchair!
“What the hell is this?” Helen snapped.
The eight men with machine guns fanned out around Mario and the man in the wheelchair, forming a protective semicircle.
Mario pushed the wheelchair up to the Warriors. “Allow me the honor of introducing Don Anthony Pucci.”
“Hello,” Blade said.
“This is the Don?” Helen inquired in shocked disbelief.
Don Pucci’s piercing blue eyes belied his physical condition. He critically inspected each of the Warriors, then focused on Blade. “Mario has been telling me about you,” he stated in a deep, vibrant voice. “I don’t often leave my private quarters anymore, but I decided to make an exception in your case.” He looked at Helen. “What is this bull about my kidnapping your daughter?”
Helen was completely confounded. “You can’t be the Don!” she blurted out.
Don Pucci grinned. “I assure you I am. Ask anyone.” He caught sight of one of the bartenders behind the bar, busily tending to a customer. “Hey! Arthur!”
The bartender glanced up, saw the man in the wheelchair, and instantly hastened down the bar. “Yes, sir! What would you like?”
“Arthur, would you tell this woman who I am?” Don Pucci requested.
Arthur gazed at Helen. “He’s Don Pucci. Everybody knows that.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” the Don said. “How’s the family?”
Arthur, a hefty man with a mustache, smiled. “They’re fine, sir. Bobby has a birthday in a week. He’ll be ten.”
“Expect a little gift for him,” Don Pucci stated.
Arthur beamed. “Thank you, sir! He’ll really appreciate a present from you!”
“That will be all for now,” Don Pucci said.
Arthur returned to his customer.
Don Pucci glanced at Mario. “Make a note. Send a gift to the kid. He’ll be ten, so make it a toy fire engine. The biggest you can buy.”
“Consider it done,” Mario said.
Don Pucci stared at Blade. “Now to business. Out of courtesy I came down to meet you. I don’t want any trouble in my casino. And I understand you believe you have a grievance against me.”