Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay Gordon Carroll (readera ebook reader .txt) 📖

by limiting the types of games casinos can offer to blackjack, poker and slot machines.

But hey, gambling’s gambling. And you can make your maximum bet as many times as you want. So… stop people from getting addicted to gambling… what are the odds?

The organized crime part is what interested me though. Mr. Spock had hinted at mafia or mob involvement — Pimples works for Mr. Spock — Pimples had been in Black Hawk recently — Pimples has a thousand bucks in poker chips from a casino in Black Hawk — Pimples got bonded out from jail by lawyers that represent that same casino in Black Hawk — where gambling be, organized crime shan’t be far away — and last but not least Shane Franklin was mixed up in something that was serious enough for him to be tortured and murdered and for his father and sister to be kidnapped. The casinos raked in over a billion dollars in Colorado last year. I consider that serious money.

It took me about forty minutes to drive to Black Hawk from my place. It’s pretty high up there, about eighty-five hundred feet. Nosebleed country.

I passed the Ameristar and pulled up across from The Mills Casino and Hotel. It was a little after eight in the morning, not exactly gambling time, but as I parked I saw a stretch limousine drive up in front of the casino and three big guys got out, followed by a little guy that reminded me of Joe Pecsi in Good Fellows. All were dressed in what I would think of as typical gangster suits, some sporting ties, others gold necklaces, and I thought, no way, it couldn’t be this easy, what are the odds? The limo drove away and the three men went into The Mills. As I was about to move farther down the street another limo, this time white, and even stretchier than the last one stopped in the vacated spot. Five guys got out, all of them big and heavy and the spitting image of the sons of Vito Corleone. They all went inside.

Sitting there for the next hour I saw eight more limos drop off a total of twenty-seven, very Italian looking men, all dressed to the nines and at least a couple packing heat. The breeze was out of the north and a few of their coats blew open exposing pancake holsters and shoulder harnesses. Sheesh, I was beginning to feel under dressed.

I finished parking up the street and walked back to the casino. It was a warm day in Denver, but up here the wind still held a nip that felt good after the long ride in the car. Long rows of Columbines, their white and lavender petals open wide, bracketed the automatic entrance doors to the casino. The gambling establishment paying homage to Colorado’s State Flower.

Inside I saw a bank of slot machines stretching in both directions. Straight ahead was the registration desk and diagonally to the right was an enormous bar and a giant spread of poker tables. I decided to head that way.

Looking about I saw security cameras everywhere, along with those big mirror domes that everyone knows are even more hidden security cameras. The bar was elaborately finished in black and mahogany with antique brass foot rails and a black granite top. Sitting on a six inch raised platform it stretched at least twenty feet long, with a ten-foot high mirror behind it.

There were maybe thirty people playing the slots and two people at the bar: one man, one woman. The guy looked like he’d been up all night and the woman looked like she’d just woke up.

Beyond the bar and around the corner the room opened to a medium sized restaurant. There were a lot more guys than I’d seen get out of the limos, so some of them had to have arrived before I did or were staying at the hotel already. They sat in little groups, some drinking coffee, some whisky, and one great big guy, a tall glass of milk. Waitresses, all wearing short tight skirts, and tight white shirts, with killer high heels, ran about serving them plates heaped with eggs, biscuits, omelets, steaks, pancakes, waffles.

Breakfast stuff.

Smelled good.

I sat down at an empty booth, smiling at a group of five across from me. They all stared at me like I was road kill, or soon would be.

A pretty waitress with too much makeup walked over to me.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but the dining room is closed.”

I looked around at all the suits and smiled at her. “What about them?”

She looked nervous. “It’s a private party. I’m very sorry, but I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

The big guy drinking milk looked over at me.

“I’m really hungry,” I said. “Do you think I could maybe just get a couple of quick eggs and maybe a piece of toast and some coffee before I leave?”

The big guy stood up. He walked over.

The waitress looked even more nervous. “I’m sorry, sir, but…”

Big Milk broke in. “Private means private, hit the bricks, bub.” He wasn’t a local, that was for sure. The accent was Bronxish.

The guy was huge. He had some fat on him, but there was a lot more that wasn’t fat. I didn’t miss the telltale bulge under his left armpit either. His face was big and thick and he had dark curly hair and long eyelashes. He reminded me of that bronze statue of Atlas in front of Rockefeller Center. Actual size. The guy looked like he could chew billiard balls.

I looked up at him and smiled. “What have you got going on here? Some kind of Good Fellows convention?”

The room got very quiet.

Big Milk pushed the waitress aside with a hand the size of a goalie’s mitt, and grabbed me by the front of my shirt. He picked me up out of my chair — with one hand.

The thumb is the weakest part of the hand, and the easiest and surest way of