The Jack Frost Box Set

  THE JACK FROST THRILLERS - BOX SET

  by Ray Hoy

  This box set includes:

  The Vegas Factor - Book #1

  A Proper Time to Die - Book #2

  Nightmare in Neon - Book #3

  ISBN: 9781581240863

  Copyright ©2014 by Ray Hoy

  Cover image by Sophie

  Published ©2014 by The Fiction Works

  http://www.fictionworks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  While his adventures take him far and wide,

  the Sierra Nevada mountain range offers

  Jack Frost the peace and solitude

  that keeps pulling him back to his

  A-frame on Lake Tahoe’s South Shore.

  “Las Vegas”

  eternal light

  of gold and neon

  glowing flame in the desert

  catching sparkles

  from the sun

  day and night

  the thing is there

  and who will you meet here?

  who and when?

  ask the questions

  when darkness

  brushes past the dawn.

  From Joker’s Wild, a book of poetry

  by Alan MacDougall (1935-1999).

  Used by permission of his sister, Barbara G. Dan,

  who owns all rights to her brother’s books.

  Table of Contents

  The Vegas Factor - Book #1

  A Proper Time to Die - Book #2

  Nightmare in Neon - Book #3

  What’s next for Jack Frost?

  About the Author

  Also by Ray Hoy

  This one is for

  the blue-eyed Indian

  Prologue

  The heavy hammering sound rolled across the infield and echoed off the concrete pit wall. Andy McGuire turned and watched as Jonathan Flynn’s racing machine glanced off the guard rail in the pouring rain, then catapulted into the air. Fiberglass shards hurtled propeller-like away from the car.

  The Lola Sports-Prototype landed hard, bounced into the air again, then flopped upright on the track.

  McGuire watched as the race car, showering sparks from the undercarriage, spun slowly in a half circle, then ground to a halt. “Oh no, please God!” he cried as he ran toward the car, dreading what he knew he would find there.

  Jonathan Flynn sat in the cockpit, still gripping the steering wheel. He felt curiously detached as he listened to the rain pound down on his helmet. So loud. How odd I never noticed that before.

  He watched raindrops splatter off the shattered windscreen, then instinctively checked his instruments. He laughed at the absurdity, which sent a bolt of pain surging through his chest.

  Felicia Martinez ran toward him across the rough, soggy infield. She tripped and fell heavily, but quickly scrambled to her feet and began to run again, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Hurry, Felicia,” Flynn said. His voice sounded hollow in the driving rain. His head sagged on his chest. So tired.

  He could feel a warm, curious movement in his chest.

  Hurry.

  Chapter 1

  Harry Varchetta leaned back in his deep leather chair, his feet on his desk. As he glanced at a bank of surveillance monitors, something caught his interest. He swung his feet to the floor and leaned forward, concentrating on the craps table action on one of the monitors.

  Varchetta could see beads of sweat on the shooter’s bald head as the man leaned over the rail and placed a stack of pale green $500 chips on the pass line. He was an old and valued client, a Texas oil tycoon who made the trip to Las Vegas twice each year.

  Varchetta watched as the big man blew on the dice and tossed them to the far end of the table. A six showed, an easy number to make, but he immediately sevened-out. The Texan shrugged as the craps dealer scooped up his chips.

  The stickman passed the dice to the next shooter, a meek little old woman who was a steady local customer.

  Thirty floors below, on the casino floor, the woman stared at the dice that the stickman slid toward her. She had been betting five dollars at a time on the pass line, as she did every afternoon. But today there was no joy in the game. The high roller had spooked her with his heavy action; she didn’t want to be responsible for his fate. She had lived in Las Vegas for twenty-five years and had never seen that much money on the layout at one time.

  She had been thirty dollars ahead before the big man had joined the table. Then, “Seven-out, line away!” quickly became a familiar cry from the stickman. She lost her thirty, and ten more, while the high-roller—a “wealthy Texan” she heard someone in the crowd say—dropped at least ninety thousand.

  Now the old woman’s hands were shaking; the game had turned ugly. She threw a four on the come-out, a hard number to make. The Texan immediately “placed” the 5-6-8-9 and 10—but she sevened-out on the following roll.

  The man laughed, seemingly unconcerned. He tossed in a generous stack of black $100 chips “for the boys,” then sauntered over to the little old woman. She started to apologize as he approached, but he quieted her with a gentle pat on the shoulder, and handed her a $500 chip.

  Dumbfounded, she watched her tormentor-turned-benefactor disappear into the crowd. Then, impulsively, she turned back to the table and placed the precious pale green chip on the pass line.

  The stickman slowly shook his head in disbelief and shoved the dice to the next shooter, a beautiful young blond who was accompanied by a doting, older man.

  “Oh, I’ve never done this before!” the young woman squealed. With two long fingernails, she plucked the dice off the green felt and tossed them toward the far end of the table.

  The old woman’s shoulders sagged as she heard the stickman cry out, “Three craps, line away!” She watched as the dealer scooped in her lovely $500 chip.

  In his upstairs office, Varchetta picked up the telephone and punched three digits. A moment later he bellowed, “Tell Anderson he’d better watch what he’s doing!”

  His eyes widened. “Anderson, Anderson, Anderson, dammit! He was handling that old broad’s crummy action, and he couldn’t even do that right! He was so busy watching that asshole from Texas that he forgot to take her money when she sevened-out one time!”

  Varchetta leaned forward in his chair. “Yes he did! He did too, you moron! I saw it happen twice! And it’s your job to see to it that he doesn’t make mistakes!”

  He slammed the phone down, then jumped to his feet and began pacing. He ran his hands through his thinning black hair as he tugged vigorously at his right ear. He stopped for a moment to pour a drink from a crystal decanter. Tossing the liquor down, he quickly poured another.

  Once again he felt uneasy about Felicia. She was a potential source of embarrassment—even worse if she talked to the wrong people. He was the butt of too many jokes already, a man who couldn’t hang on to his wife. That didn’t bother him all that much, but the rumors from higher up made him nervous.

  He sighed and tried to shrug off the dark thoughts. What the hell! I’m one of the most powerful men in Vegas! Then, aloud, he said, “Yeah, I got nothing to worry about,”

  Picking up a TV remote, he clicked impatiently through the channels. Then he saw it. His eyes went wide as he watched the footage of a spectacular car crash. The commentator’s voice over the scene was somber: “Jonathan Flynn, last year’s Formula One champion, was killed late this afternoon while practicing for a race at Las Vegas International Raceway
. A favorite with fans and the motoring press alike, Flynn will be missed.”

  With a triumphant laugh, Varchetta tossed the remote into the air the way a winning tennis player tosses his racquet. “So, Flynn finally got his. That sonofabitch finally got his!”

  Thinking aloud, he said, “Felicia will be at Flynn’s funeral, which will probably be held in Reno. Perfect!”

  Varchetta buzzed his secretary. “Get Benny Florentine in here, right now.”

  He slammed the phone down and began pacing his office again. After a few moments, he walked to the window and stared down at the Strip, far below. Then he heard the high-pitched voice behind him: “Boss, it’s me, Benny.”

  Varchetta turned to face the huge granite wedge in a rumpled business suit. The man’s eyes were gray and dead behind drooping eyelids. His short blond crew cut glistened with perspiration, and his massive forehead jutted over his eyebrows, adding to his simian appearance. His neck bulged over his collar where the necktie was knotted.

  “Sit down, Benny.”

  Varchetta felt comfortable when the brute was around. He was a reminder of the Good Old Days, when muscle was the way to get things done: six-seven, three-hundred-forty-five pounds of brute force and solid muscle. Varchetta realized that a lot of that muscle rested between Benny’s ears—but at least he was reliable.

  “I want you to find Felicia and bring her back.”

  Benny nodded, concentrating on the boss’s instructions, but the voice in his head distracted him: Mr. Varchetta don’t like screw-ups. The last time, he took all the girls away for two whole weeks! Remember that? He nodded gravely at his unfortunate loss.

  “What the hell are you nodding at?” Varchetta barked. The hulk began to mumble an explanation. Varchetta cut him off with a look of disgust. “Christ, Benny, sometimes you give me the creeps!”

  Varchetta wrote down an address, then repeated his instructions to Benny several times, slowly and clearly. He took a sheaf of bills from his inside coat pocket. “Here’s enough money to do the job. And Benny, don’t let Jilly catch you or your ass will be in a real sling.”

  “Don’t worry about Jilly, boss. He’s old. He won’t give me no trouble.”

  Varchetta’s eyes widened and he slammed his fist on the desk. “Jilly’s old, but I pity you if you think he won’t give you trouble! And he’ll probably have help of some kind.”

  Ain’t nobody gonna stop me, said the voice in Benny’s head. Jilly won’t be no trouble. Just grab Felicia and bring her back. It’s gonna be easy.

  Chapter 2

  “He looks so natural.”

  I glanced at the old woman, so properly dressed in black lace, and wondered how anyone could think that a man in a casket looks natural.

  Jonathan Flynn looked dead. The undertaker had done his best, I suppose, but makeup can’t capture the look of life, that “natural” look that people like the little old woman in black swear they see.

  The heavy smell of flowers permeated the little chapel, adding to the gloom. Mourners filed by the casket. Most of them were business associates of Jilly Evans, Flynn’s foster-father and one of my oldest friends. Some I recognized as Jonathan Flynn’s friends and competitors, great and near-great race car drivers. They were a curious bunch. Each man shared an obvious, common trait—a detachment, a denial of the finality of the funeral rites. This was something they had to do now and then when a friend made a mistake, but it certainly did not apply to them. In this instance, it applied to Flynn. Next week or next month perhaps, it would apply to one of the other drivers in their elite circle—but never to Number One.

  Andy McGuire, Jonathan Flynn’s friend and car owner, sat alone, well away from the open casket. His head was bowed, his shoulders stooped. He was the picture of a broken man. Andy had tried, but was ultimately unable to bring himself to walk to Flynn’s casket and look down at the face of his dead friend.

  I sighed and looked around. The church had an odd effect on me. I found myself examining the high beamed ceiling. I noted dust on the pews, and a piece of lint on the collar of an old gentleman who sat in the pew in front of me. I found myself wondering why Catholic funerals are so long.

  I snapped back to the present when I realized mourners were beginning to leave. At the front of the church, Jilly led Vi, his wife of many years, to the casket. She looked very frail. I stood and quickly walked up next to her.

  She never noticed me. Her beautiful seventy-year-old face sagged with a weariness I had never seen before. I watched her go through the pain of saying farewell to her son.

  Leaning against Jilly, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, a wistful smile appeared on her face.

  “Oh, Jilly,” she said in a voice so soft I could barely hear her, “I just can’t say good-bye.” Her voice trailed off and she stood there with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Jilly wore a dazed expression as he stared at his son’s face with horrible fascination. He patted his wife’s arm, shaking his head in disbelief as he did so.

  Finally, Vi leaned over her dead son, her gloved hands resting on the edge of the casket. As she kissed him, tears dropped onto his face and she dabbed them away with her hankie. She straightened, then stood for a moment staring down at the marble face, not wanting to leave.

  Jilly swallowed, then touched his son’s cheek. His hand recoiled; he took an involuntary step back from the casket.

  I sympathized with him. I knew only too well the eerie feeling of cold flesh.

  Vi turned and looked up at me, surprise on her face. “Jack, oh thank you for coming. I . . . we appreciate it very much.”

  She turned toward her husband. I caught Jilly’s eye and made a “Come along, please” motion with my head, and with a quiet sigh of relief saw that he comprehended. He straightened, and a bit of color came back into his ashen face. He put his arm around his wife, and together we walked slowly away from the casket.

  Outside, I accompanied them down the great wide stone steps leading to Jilly’s limousine, which was parked behind a black hearse. The line of cars in the funeral procession stretched two city blocks.

  Jilly’s driver opened the rear door of the limo, and steadied Vi as she slowly got in and sat down. The blue funeral flag on the car’s antenna popped in the wind. I touched the driver’s shoulder to let him know that I would take care of closing the door. But before I did that, I leaned down and looked in. Vi sat quietly, her mind elsewhere. “Jilly,” I said softly, “I’ll take care of Felicia.”

  His face took on a shocked expression, and for a moment I thought he was going to burst into tears. “Oh my God, Jack . . . I forgot about her!”

  He was close to losing it. “It’s okay, Jilly, just look after Vi, okay?”

  My old friend nodded, his face stricken. He took one of Vi’s gloved hands in both of his and began the impossible task of trying to comfort her.

  I closed the limo door and stood there for a moment. Then I took a deep breath and turned and walked back up the stone steps.

  I walked into the church, which was now eerily quiet. Felicia Martinez stood by the casket, a peaceful look on her face. Her fingertips trailed over Flynn’s face. She touched his eyes and traced the bridge of his nose. Her fingertips paused on his lips. A slight smile appeared on her face, and she gently caressed his hair, as if remembering some long-ago act of love. Then she leaned over and kissed him, a gentle good-bye kiss.

  She looked up at me. Her eyes were wet, but she was in there. “He’s safe now, until I can be with him again.”

  We made the somber trip to the quiet little cemetery, just a few miles from Jilly and Vi’s home, and there we buried Jonathan Flynn. Afterward, we drove away, a limousine full of people with nothing to say, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

  Chapter 3

  As Jilly’s black limo swept us down the streets of Reno, I was filled with misgivings about accepting his invitation to go back to their home for coffee. If it were me, I’d have to be alone. But I had a feeling my ol
d friend wanted to talk to me about something very important.

  Jilly Evans had enrolled in the brutal school of the underworld forty years earlier, a hungry, tough young guy determined to make it to the top. He got there in record time, climbing over God only knows how many dead bodies—figuratively and perhaps literally—in the process. Somewhere along the line he had gone legitimate, or at least semi-legitimate. Now he lives a safe, comfortable life as a member of The Establishment.

  When we got back to Jilly’s mansion, he managed to talk Vi into going to her room to rest. I hugged her and tried to say something meaningful, but couldn’t find the words. She patted my hand, and quietly left the room.

  I turned to Jilly. He stood in the middle of his living room, a drink in one trembling hand, eyes brimming with tears. He was a stocky, muscular man with a bulldog look emphasized by heavy jowls. His hair had receded long ago, leaving patches of gray on the sides of his head.

  The words poured out of him as he paced: “Jonathan and Felicia fell in love years ago. He was one of the top drivers on the Grand Prix circuit, and she was a beautiful Puerto Rican entertainer with a great voice. She was making a big name for herself in Vegas. Jonathan loved her . . . God, how he loved that woman.”

  He paused and swallowed hard. “She loved Jonathan, too, but his profession just terrified her.”

  Telling the story took its toll, but he gamely went on: “Jonathan demolished his car during a practice session several months ago. He wasn’t badly hurt, but for her it was the last straw. She told him she loved him, but couldn’t stand the waiting and wondering and . . . she left him.” Jilly shook his head, “They were both devastated.”