Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (tools of titans ebook .TXT) 📗

making someone release a one handed hold is by gripping around the outside of the hand, with your fingers curling around the meaty part of the palm leading to the thumb and then turning sharply outward. This puts undue pressure on both the thumb and the wrist and results in the grip being released or bones breaking. I learned that move when I was sixteen from a Brazilian fisherman off the coast of Norway. He was fighting a smelly Basque with one eye and a terrible temper at the time. It was an instructive fight.

I was considering the move as Big Milk pulled me off the padded bench when I saw the top edge of a room entry card in his shirt pocket. I decide not to go for the thumb and instead pushed against his chest with both hands. It was like trying to shove a bulldozer.

A sharp looking guy with slick black hair and a two thousand dollar suit came up to us and nodded his head at Big Milk.

“Let him go, Sal,” said the man. He said it quiet, but there was no doubting the authority behind that voice. Big Milk let me go and stepped back. One of the guys from his table came over and clapped him on the back, saying “Nice, Sal, you’d a mopped the floor with him.” They went back to the table and sat down.

I straightened my shirt. “Thanks,” I said. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” I looked over at Big Milk. “And I certainly didn’t expect to get beat up.”

“I’m sorry. This is a private party. We’re closed to the public until ten o’clock. A sign should have been posted.” He was polite, straightforward, but I noticed he didn’t say, “sir” as the waitress had. He handed me three black chips, worth a hundred bucks a pop, and put a hand on my shoulder, leading me out of the restaurant. “Please accept these in way of apology. Why don’t you head over to the bar and I’ll have your order brought out to you. On the house of course.”

“Thank you,” I said. He was about thirty, slim but not skinny, and looked to me like he might be more of a handful in a fight than Big Milk would have turned out to be. It would take this kind of man to control a guy like Mr. Spock. “So what is going on in there?”

He hadn’t smiled, and he didn’t now. He just looked at me for a second. “A family get-together.” He spread a hand toward the bar. “Have a nice breakfast, and good luck at the tables.” He turned to go. I stopped him with what I said next.

“Would that be the Bugsy Siegel family or just the Cosa Nostra in general?”

When he turned back to me any hint of pretended civility was gone. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of the Franklin family.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Should I know them?”

I pulled out the red poker chip I’d taken from Pimple’s house and flipped it to him. He caught it like he’d been doing it all his life. Probably had.

“I took that chip from one of your boys.”

He didn’t even look at it, as though he could tell its make and worth by feel alone. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Does the name Kevin Burbank ring a bell?” I smiled waiting for his reaction. It didn’t come.

“No. I’ve never heard of him.”

“Really? And I suppose you’ve never heard of Tom or Amber Franklin either? Or Shane Franklin, who was murdered?”

He stared at me for about ten seconds before he spoke. “What’s your name?”

“I think you know my name. I’m sure your hired hand told you all about me.”

“My name is Nick Carlino. My family has been in Colorado since the early twenties. I’m the CEO of The Mills Casino and Hotel, as well as two other casinos in Colorado. These people back here are friends and family and business partners. We run a legitimate business and obey all city, state and federal regulations. I know nothing of the people you have mentioned or of the unfortunate circumstances you have related. And I do not know who you are.”

“All right,” I said. “We can play it that way. But it could get messy.”

He held up his hands, the model of innocence. “All we play here are cards and slots. Enjoy your stay.” He turned and walked back to the dining area. A cool character.

I went out to my car and looked at the entry card I clipped from Big Milk Sal. It was to a room right here at The Mills.

Imagine that, getting lucky at a casino. What are the odds?

32

I waited ten minutes, took off my gun, badge, spare magazines and door-popper. Then I tucked in my shirt and hoped the slight change in my appearance would act as a makeshift disguise.

The front desk answered on the first ring. What service.

“The Mills Casino and Hotel may I help you?” It was a young sounding guy.

I held a couple of Taco Bell napkins, I found in my center console, over the mic to imitate static and did my best Italian tough guy imitation. “Yeah, this is Nick, what room is my pal, Sal staying in?”

“Nick who?”

I shook my head. “Nick Carlino, what, you don’t know your own boss?”

The change was immediate. “Oh… sir… I’m sorry, sir. It didn’t sound like you.”

Everyone’s a critic.

“Yeah,” I said, “bad reception here. What room?”

“Mr. Sal Palladino is in room four-seventeen, sir.”

I hung up. A few minutes later I was standing outside Sal’s room. I knocked real loud. No answer. I slipped the card in and out. The red light went to green and I turned the handle. The door opened into a short hall, with the bathroom to the left. There was a big room with a seventy-two inch flat screen TV, plush couches, a fancy table with chairs, thick, maroon carpet. Double French doors opened to a