Lucky needed to…not panic. He tried not panicking for awhile, but his heart was racing a mile a minute. He decided to think, instead. Okay, so he needed to make some calls.
Several calls. How many, exactly?
Three.
But who first?
Phyllis? His wife Gwen? Mob boss Carmine Porrello?
Phyllis’s cell phone went unanswered. When he called her office, a cop said, “This is Detective Scrapple. I’m logging calls for Dr. Willis. Could you state your name, please, and your relationship to Dr. Willis?”
Lucky hung up. He knew it was a stupid thing to do, since Phyllis’s cell phone records would show he was the last person she called before her murder. Assuming she’s dead.
Assuming?
Of course she’s dead! Or she’d have called him.
Damn good thing I can prove I was in Jamaica when it happened, he thought. Of course, the details of his affair with Phyllis might come to light. Then again, beyond the cold shoulder he could expect from Gwen, a public affair could enhance his reputation as a lady’s man. A plus, in a town like Vegas.
If Lucky was anything, he was lucky. He calculated the odds of surviving Phyllis’s murder relatively unscathed, and put them at 12 to 1.
Connor Payne was a different matter.
Did Phyllis tell him about Lucky’s connection to the device? If so, Lucky and Gwen were both in danger.
Lucky called Gwen’s cell.
No answer.
He tried their home.
No answer.
This was a problem. If Gwen’s cell phone was operating, her voice message would have come on. He caught himself wishing he’d taken Gwen to Jamaica. It would’ve been nice to have a friendly face here, but he’d wanted to sample the local talent. He didn’t get far with the Jamaican women, though. In fact, he never got started. Because by the time he landed he was already shitting blood through his shorts. After gagging everyone in first class and then baggage claim, Lucky caught a cab and went straight to the hospital. After a day of tests and prep, they scheduled his colonoscopy. Welcome to the Islands, indeed, Lucky thought.
His third call got a response.
Mob boss Carmine “The Chin” Porrello couldn’t wait to take Lucky’s call. He’d been trying to infiltrate Lucky’s sports betting empire for years. But so far, Lucky had managed to resist the charms of doing business with the mob.
“What’s up?” Carmine said.
“You know this hit man, Connor Payne?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Really?”
“Really. Why you askin’?”
“He might be after me.”
“Sounds like you got a problem.”
“I need a body guard.”
“If your boy’s for real, none a’ my people are gonna want the job.”
“I just need a name. Who’s the best hit man in the business?”
“By business, you mean the family?”
“No. In the world. Is there someone who’s considered the best in the world?”
“Only one can be the best. But you’ll never get him.”
“Why?”
“He don’t need the money.”
Lucky said, “You give me the name, I’ll get him to work for me.”
“Things like this ain’t free.”
“You can’t give me a flippin’ name?”
“Not this name. Not for free.”
“Fine. How much?”
“Ten.”
“Ten grand? For a name?”
“Yeah, that’s right. But it’s a helluva name. Someone asks you for it, you can get your money back.”
“Yeah, but ten g’s?”
“Ten. Nothing less.”
“Fuck. Okay, done. What’s the name?”
Carmine’s voice went low. “My part ends when I say the name. You don’t tell no one I gave it to you, capisca?”
“Fine. What’s the name?”
Carmine paused, as if looking around before saying it. “Donovan Creed,” he whispered.
“What’s his number?”
“What? You think I know his fuckin’ number?”
“What’d I just pay you ten large for, if not his number?”
“His name, asshole.”
“How am I going to find his number?” Lucky said.
“That’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
“Five more.”
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“Let me tell you somethin’, Lucky.”
“Yeah?”
“When someone wants this man’s name and number, they’re humpin’ their last chicken.”
Lucky paused. “I don’t have any idea what you just said.”
“Ah, shit. I’m gettin’ old. There’s an expression in there somewhere. I just can’t remember the fuckin’ thing. You want the number, or what?”
“Yeah, fine.”
Carmine gave a number.
“What’s this, his cell phone?”
“No. Sal Bonadello’s.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Lucky said.
“The guy that can get you Creed.”
III
It costs Lucky another ten grand to finally get Donovan Creed on the phone. When he does, it goes like this:
“Mr. Creed, this is Jim Peters, from Las Vegas. My friends call me Lucky.”
Dead silence.
“Are you there?”
“Sorry, I thought you were making a speech.”
“Where are you, Mr. Creed? I mean, are you in the states?”
“Mr. Peters, I’ll be glad to tell you where I am, but it’ll cost you an ear.”
“A…what? Did you say an ear? What are you talking about?”
“You want something personal from me, I get something of yours in return. Since you asked, I’m in—”
“Shit no!” Lucky screams. “Don’t tell me!”
The voice on the other end is calm. “Fair enough. Why are we speaking today?”
“Ever hear of a guy named Connor Payne?”
“I have.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s one of the most lethal people in the world. Why do you ask?”
“I have reason to believe he murdered a friend of mine a few hours ago.”
“A close friend?”
“Well…yes. I mean, she was the Medical Director of a corporation I invested in. I’m the majority stockholder.”
“Wow. So Connor Payne murdered your friend.”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Me? I…well…I mean, I’m trying to do something about it right now. By calling you.”
“Did you have sex with her just the two times, or has this been going on awhile?”
“I—what? No. I mean, we did business together. We had a professional relationship.”
“Are you telling me Phyllis Willis was a hooker?”
“What? No, of course not. I mean, wait—how did you know her name?”
“It’s my job to know. By the way, were you able to keep your polyp?”
“My…polyp? What polyp?”
“The one Dr. Gayle cut out of your colon this morning.”
“He…I mean…what?”
Creed made a tsk, tsk sound. “Let me guess: he told you there was nothing in there.”
“His exact words were, I was clean as a whistle.”
“He keeps them, you know.”
“Polyps?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Makes necklaces out of them. Sells them on the Broomilaw.”
“The Broomilaw?”
“When it ices over. Between bear fights.”
This conversation has completely gotten away from Lucky. He starts over. “Mr. Creed, I want to hire you.”
“You want me to get your polyp back?”
“I want you to protect me from Connor Payne.”
“Whew.”
“Excuse me?”
“Thank God you’re asking for something simple.”
“Simple?”
“Compared to getting your polyp back.”
Lucky was getting frustrated. “Are you sure you’re Donovan Creed?”
“Pretty sure.”
“The Donovan Creed who kills people?”
“Are you recording this conversation?”
“Of course not!”
“Too bad. I’ve been working on my tough guy voice. I was hoping to hear how it comes across over the phone.”
“Mr. Creed.”