They got out, and the cluster of men near the ioorway hastily parted ranks to let them through.
"That's how it's going to be around here from now on!" Bolan proclaimed to everybody within hailing distance, then he turned around and stalked back into the casino.
That took care of Anders and the girls.
Now all he had to do was complete this mission and get himself out.
For the moment, at least, he was rolling nothing but naturals.
Chapter Fourteen
New blood
Time was of the essence now, and Bolan swept through the casino, loudly collaring the pit bosses and dragging them along with him. He was "high-rolling" with everything of value to his life, plus his life itself, in the stakes on destiny's crap table.
The guyr were murmuring among themselves as they tagged along and snatches of the comments were reaching Bolan'a alert ears.
"I dunno, he just said…"
"… for the new owners I guess… ."
"Hell who knows what to expect next around, this… ?"
"… name's Vinton, I think. I don't…"
"Vinton" halted the procession at the foot of the stairway to Vito's ex-joint and yelled up to the tagman.
"Max!"
"Yes, boss?"
"Round up some boys and show everybody the door. We're closing at the eight count."
A pit boss in the Bolan entourage groaned, "Whaaat?"
Keno was scampering down the stairway and fighting his way into his coat. Bolan told him, "Pass the word they can come back at midnight. Meanwhile everything in the lounge and dining room is on the house. And I want a continuous floor show! Nothin' stops but the action in the pits!"
Keno chirped, "Yes sir't" and hurried off on his mission.
A pit boss standing at Bolan's elbow reminded him, "We're just going into a shift-change, Mr. uh…"
Bolan snapped, "Mr. Vinton and you better remember it. Listen, you run back and tell the new shift what I just said. It's on the house for them too. They go to work at midnight."
The guy grinned and said, "Sure, Mr. Vinton," and took off.
The procession moved on to the counting rooms and offices at the rear of the building, Bolan bulldozing his way through the most elaborate security network on the Strip.
The people in the rear had been making preparations for the eight o'clock count, due very shortly. Bolan invited them all to sit down, and he shoved the pit bosses into a line against the wall and began his speech.
"I guess you all know by this time what's going on," he said, positive that they did not. "You all heard that Mr. Apostinni cashed out and moved on, but it ain't going to be legal until midnight. We gotta close this joint out, and I mean tidy. You get me? Tidy!
"So we're knocking off all the action, starting right now. I want all the table stakes brung in and counted, all of it, everything. No goddam balance sheets, understand? Counted! You got four hours, you hear me? — four fucking hours, pardon me ladies, to tidy this place up for the new management. I don't want a nickel left out. Who the hell is the boss in charge of the count?"
A nervous man in goldrimmed spectacles stepped forward and identified himself as "the controller."
"Awright, you control it then," Bolan growled. "We clear it out and then start over clean at midnight with a whole new deal. You got that?"
The controller assured the "new boss" that he had that.
Bolan swung a fierce gaze to the pit bosses. "Are you guys coming on or going off?" he asked.
"Going off," one of them replied.
"Wrong," Bolan said. "You're staying to help out. Don't worry, you're getting paid. Grab the other guys when they come in and break the work. When you get everything cleared out and turned over to these ladies back here, go enjoy yourself on the house."
The controller then hesitantly ventured to observe that it was customary and perfectly acceptable to open new books on the records obtained from the routine counts.
The "new boss" informed the controller, in no uncertain terms, that he did not give a good shit what was customary and that everyone would be wise to do precisely as they were told.
There were no more objections, and no questions. Bolan herded the pit bosses back to the casino floor and turned them loose. Their attitudes were now entirely jovial. It was all smiles and smirks, and Bolan's parting shot to them was, "It's gonna be a lot better around here from now on!"
Not a man present doubted the truth of that.
Vito had been a hard taskmaster.
Mr. Vinton was tough, sure, but an okay guy. Not once in sixteen years had anything, either crumb or sip, been served up "on the house" at the Duster.
The place was emptying, over the loud objections of several "hot" patrons.
Bolan climbed half of the stairs and yelled, "If they don't wanta leave, throw 'em out!"
He caught Max Keno's eye, down on the floor, and motioned him to front and center.
"You're on me now, Max," he told the tagman.
"You bet I am, boss," the little guy told him with a smile.
Instant loyalty. It was the name of the Mafia game. Off with the old and in with the new.
Max dropped into his chair and "Mr. Vinton" went into his new joint — which, briefly, he Would be sharing with a certain sleeping beauty.
The time was 8:20 and Joe Stanno was still asleep. Bolan had been quietly going through the desk and pocketing various useful items of intelligence.
He selected an entry from a list of telephone numbers, leaned against the front of the desk to keep an eye on his unconscious companion, and made a call.
"Hello, this is Vinton, who's this?" he announced as coon as the receiver was lifted on the other end.
The quietly jubilant tones of Red Evans crowded the line. "We found it, Mr. Vinton, we got the stuff."
"That's great," Bolan said, his manner entirely businesslike now. "Is it all there?"
"Yessir we think so. Two cases, we found both oi 'em. The button-collars are counting it right now. But it looks all there."
"Here's what you do, Red. You get the stuff counted, and you get two witnesses to the tally. I mean, other than the jerks. Two of your own boys, right?"
"Right, I gotcha."
"Then you tell the — who's the head jerk?"
"Oh that's Lemke, L-E-M-K-E, Lemke."
"That guy. Okay, here's what I want Lemke to do. He sets up a whole new route, I mean everything right down to the final stop. He tells nobody, but nobody, what that route is, not even the pilot. Then he puts that stuff in the chopper, and just hisself and the pilot. You got all that?"
"I got it, Mr. Vinton."
"He leaves the other jerks right there, 'cause we're going to need that room in the chopper."
"Oh yeah, I gotcha."
"He keeps that route a national secret, now. Our you-know-who's will drop out whenever they feel like it. But he keeps it quiet, you hear?"
"Oh sure, I understand that."
"What time you got now, Red?"
"I got, let's see, it's eight-twenty-one."
"Okay. You get Lemke's clock to ticking right with yours, and you shove that chopper off out there in exactly twenty minutes. That would make that eight-forty-one. Right?"
"Uh, right Mr. Vinton."
"You tell that jerk — who's that pilot?"
"That's Jack Grimaldi, Mr. Vinton. He's an okay guy."
"Okay, you tell Jack I want that chopper settling down on this roof here at exactly nine o'clock. I don't mean a minute before or a minute after, I mean exactly nine o'clock. You got that?"