Ray Hoy - Jack Frost 01 - The Vegas Factor Read online

  I let myself into my cabin and pushed the door shut behind me with one foot, already peeling off wet clothing with both hands. Ripper flopped in front of the fireplace, knowing full well I’d light it at the first opportunity. I got it going, then adjusted the flame and dropped a couple pieces of wood on the grate. Within seconds they were crackling and burning fiercely. I shut off the gas and walked away, hearing Ripper’s contented sigh as he stretched out on the rug.

  Twenty minutes later I stepped out of the shower and groped for a towel. After scrubbing myself dry, I carefully examined the big man who stared back at me from the full-length mirror. He certainly looked fit enough: highly defined muscle structure, clear eyes, steady hands.

  But the scars! Both knees were crisscrossed with reminders of several knee injuries (Vikings vs. Bears and Vikings vs. Lions). White scar tissue ran across the bridge of my nose (Vikings vs. Green Bay), and another one ran the length of my right jawbone (shrapnel). My left bicep looked like someone had used an ice cream scoop (made-in-Russia semi-automatic rifle). Finally an ugly white scar meandered across my belly, just above my groin, courtesy of a snake-mean little bastard with a switchblade (New Orleans, after Katrina).

  After donning a clean sweatshirt and jeans, I sat down and pulled on fresh sweat socks and deck shoes. I gave my hair a couple of licks with a brush before I walked back into the living room and over to the wet bar.

  I mixed a Rusty Nail, then settled into my old rocking chair. I bought it at a garage sale about five years ago, and since then the various women who have visited my place have urged me to throw the thing out. Their reasons ranged from vague to totally unreasonable. But I like it, so it stays.

  My cell phone rang. I glanced at the caller I.D. “Hello, Jilly,” I said.

  “Jack, can you come over?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Now would be good.”

  “I’m on my way.” I clicked off and swirled the ice in my glass with a fingertip, looking at Ripper without really seeing him.

  I had a feeling it was all starting. I felt a strange tingle of apprehension—or perhaps it was anticipation.

  * * *

  “What’s going on, Jilly?”

  The old man grunted and stirred his drink. He downed half of it without hesitation. “Nothing good, Jack.” He paused, his face bitter. “Nothing good.”

  He walked to an entertainment complex, then turned and stared at me with bloodshot eyes. “I record every phone conversation that comes into or goes out of this house. An old habit, and a good one, I think.” He turned to the recorder and pushed a button. His voice was weak. “Listen to this.”

  The expensive speaker system filled the room with the sound of the receiver being lifted, and Jilly’s gruff “Hello.”

  “You have a cute wife, Jilly,” a man’s oddly high-pitched voice said. “Send Felicia Martinez back where she belongs, and she’ll stay cute. If you don’t, you won’t recognize her the next time she comes home.”

  The speakers faithfully reproduced the caller’s laughter, and Jilly’s reply: “You sick, depraved bastard!” I listened to the rattle of Jilly’s phone being slammed down on the cradle.

  “I know who that is,” Jilly said. “His name is Benny Florentine, and he’s Varchetta’s main muscle. He’s huge and scary, and dangerous as hell.”

  Varchetta had gone straight for Jilly’s soft spot. Only the most ruthless or desperate kind of individual targets a man’s family. “Has Felicia been out of this place since the funeral?” I said. Jilly shook his head without speaking. I went on: “But Vi has?” He nodded. “Has she had any problems with anyone?” I said.

  “No, but she left late this afternoon to go shopping. She’s out there somewhere right now.” I could see the fear on his face. He tilted his glass and let the golden liquid run down his throat. He poured another and glanced at me, his eyes hard. The fear was suddenly gone. “If Varchetta harms her, I’ll—”

  We were interrupted by the slamming of the front door, downstairs. Jilly rushed to the top of the steps. “Vi, is that you?” he bellowed down the stairway.

  A very upset Vi Evans answered: “I’ve never been so angry in my life!” Her voice grew louder as she stomped up the stairs. I stood as she brushed past her husband and into the room, a frightened Jilly on her heels. Her hair was plastered to her head, and the front of her dress stained. “Look at me!”

  “What the hell happened?” Jilly said.

  She turned to face Jilly. She was still angry, but her voice was mixed with fear now. “I was walking to my car, and found this huge man leaning against it. He was holding a big cup of Coke, or something, in his hand. When I asked what he wanted, he threw his drink into my face and then walked away, laughing! What kind of person would do something like that?”

  Jilly’s face went white and he fought to catch his breath. I put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

  Vi brushed at her stained dress, frustrated. She stomped a small foot angrily, then spun on her heel and stormed out of the room.

  Jilly sat down and put his hands over his face. “My God,” he said. He looked up at me, a stricken expression on his face. “Are you available, Jack?”

  “Damn right, I am!”

  “Thank you. You’re hired as of now.”

  “Hired! Now don’t piss me off, Jilly.”

  “I want to pay you.”

  “If you must, okay. My price is a nice dinner out somewhere after we get this settled.”

  My old friend gave me a weak smile and just nodded. “Okay, Jack, a dinner it is, then.”

  Jilly had a history of heart problems going a long way back. I felt a nagging need to take some of the pressure off his shoulders. “Maybe you should send Vi on a little vacation,” I said. “Say, for two or three weeks, enough to buy us some time.”

  I had his attention.

  “You won’t have to worry about her being here at ground zero, and she can get away from this gloomy atmosphere, which will do both of you a world of good.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Jilly said. He paced the room, his empty glass clutched in one hand. “But where?”

  “Mexico City is beautiful this time of year. Doesn’t Vi have a sister who’s married to an oil company executive down there?”

  Jilly nodded, warming up to the idea. “She’s mentioned wanting to visit her, more than once.”

  I knew she had, too. Vi briefly spoke of her sister one night over dinner. “Jilly … I know you haven’t told Vi about this phone call. If we can get her to go away on her own, there will be no need to tell her about it.”

  Jilly nodded without answering. Suddenly, I realized just how tired he really was. “Okay, I’m going to get going,” I said. “Keep me posted.”

  I could almost hear his sigh of relief. He walked me to the door. “I’ll call you in the morning, Jack.”

  Chapter 6

  The ringing of my cell phone pulled me out of a fuzzy sleep. Jilly spoke softly and slowly, and it was clearly a coded message. I listened and nodded in agreement, as he spoke. I finally said, “Sounds good, Jilly. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He was a careful old man. Without giving away a thing, he’d asked me if I could drop something off for him the next day. I assured him I would deliver his package safely.

  * * *

  Early the next afternoon, I drove away from a Hertz rental agency in a brown Chevrolet, and headed for Jilly’s place. I was anxious to get Vi out of town.

  Felicia was my main worry. How long can you protect someone? I suppose it all depends on how badly someone is wanted by someone else. In this instance, I had the feeling she was wanted very badly indeed.

  I pulled into the private entrance behind Jilly’s home. High walls and thick shrubbery blocked viewing from the street.

  After coffee, and a few awkward minutes of strained conversation, it was time to leave. I stowed Vi’s bags in the trunk and got her into the car. Jilly stood in the doorway, looking old and shrunken as he waved good-bye
to his wife.

  * * *

  Jilly insisted, so against my better judgement, I moved into his rambling mansion, bringing Ripper and a few things of my own. But after just two days it became apparent that the arrangement wasn’t going to work. Ripper was miserable, and when he’s miserable, he sees to it that everyone else is, too. He missed the cabin, and he snarled often at Fred, nearly scaring the poor old man to death when his, “Nice doggie, nice doggie!” peace offering didn’t work.

  An equal opportunity employer, Ripper also terrorized the maid, keeping her sitting in Vi’s upstairs sewing room for an hour before I stumbled onto them. She quit on the spot.

  While I was quietly trying to figure out how to solve this sticky situation, I heard Jilly’s voice behind me.

  “Maybe Felicia should move into your place, Jack.”

  When I turned to face him, he caught the look of relief on my face. He laughed, and I did, too. “Good idea, Jilly,” I said. “She’ll be safe there and Ripper can revert back to his old, unlovable self—but at least he’ll be controllable.”

  * * *

  An hour later we were headed for my place in Zephyr Cove. I had to admit it felt good to be going home. The drive was beautiful but quiet—exceedingly quiet. Felicia never said a word. She just stared out at the passing scenery, her arms wrapped around the overgrown puppy on her lap. Now and then she hugged Ripper fiercely, her eyes tinged with tears.

  I gave a sigh of relief as I drove down the tree-lined lane and pulled up next to my Land Rover, which was parked behind my lakeside A-frame. I helped Felicia out of the car, then carried her single suitcase up the steps and unlocked the front door of my cabin. Ripper tore through the open door and got busy checking things out. Finally satisfied that everything was in order, he flopped in front of the fireplace with an exaggerated sigh of accomplishment.

  Felicia stood just inside the door, looking uncomfortable. I motioned toward my rocking chair. She sat down, hands in her lap, and looked at me with those big dark liquid eyes.

  Suddenly I was at a loss for words. Finally I said, “I’ll fix some coffee,” and walked quickly into the kitchen.

  While I clattered the coffee pot together, I shook my head in wonder at the way she made me feel like a flustered schoolboy. Me, a veteran womanizer who has never been in love—not even close—in my thirty-four years of whoring around.

  I finally got the coffee going and walked back into the living room. She still sat in the rocker, staring at the lifeless fireplace. I lit the gas log and threw some wood on the fire. The room immediately became a more cheerful place. Ripper rolled over on his side, and groaned. He stretched, his legs straight out, inches off the floor, pointing toward the fire. Then he relaxed, lowering his legs slowly to the rug. His chest rose and fell with even breathing.

  “Be careful around him,” I warned. “He’s arrogant, insolent and temperamental. And as the old joke goes, those are his good points.”

  “Ripper and I will get along just fine,” she said quietly.

  Relief flooded through me. She was actually engaging in a conversation.

  “Well, I hope you’re right, but this dog was born with an innate sense of right and wrong—he’s right and everyone else is wrong. He doesn’t even like me.”

  “He likes you,” she said.

  “He does?”

  She looked around. “Where will I sleep, Jack?”

  I pointed toward the bedroom. “In there. I’ll sleep here, on the couch.”

  She stood and walked through the bedroom door. She stopped and looked around for a moment. “I’d like to take a bath and get unpacked.”

  “Sure thing.” I carried her bag into the bedroom and pointed toward a door, next to the bed. “Bathroom. You’ll find towels and everything else you need. Take as long as you want.”

  I left her standing there and walked back into the living room, closing the bedroom door behind me. I could hear the coffee perking. I strolled into the kitchen and turned off the gas under the percolator. I poured two cups and walked into the living room. I stood with my ear to the bedroom door for a moment, and heard nothing.

  “You okay?” I called out.

  “Yes,” came the muffled reply.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d prefer a glass of wine.”

  I stood there with coffee in each hand, my brain racing. Wine? Wine? Somewhere I must have an old bottle of wine stashed away. “I’ll see if I can scare one up,” I said.

  “If you can, bring it in please.”

  I heard the sloshing of water as she moved in the tub. “How do you know you can trust me?”

  “Because Jilly said I could trust you.”

  “Well that is a miserable reputation to have!” I muttered. I sipped coffee from one cup as I walked into the kitchen. I poured the other one down the drain. Eventually I found a half bottle of Chablis. I poured a glass and carried it to the bedroom door and knocked. I could hear splashing.

  “I’m coming in,” I said. “I’m coming in now.” I pushed the door open wider and entered the bedroom, then walked cautiously to the open bathroom door. “Again, I’m coming in, Felicia … okay?”

  I heard a small, amused laugh. “Yes, it’s okay, Jack.”

  I entered, keeping my eyes averted, exaggerating the movement somewhat so she’d know I was trying to live up to my stellar reputation.

  One soapy hand reached out for the glass of wine, and I passed it over. “Thank you, Jack. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  I closed the bathroom door behind me, feeling jangled. I walked into the living room, and found myself looking around with a critical eye. “What a dump!” I said aloud.

  I’d never noticed the clutter before. This was the home of a man who clearly lived alone.

  * * *

  “Do you understand, Felicia? Don’t leave this place without Ripper.”

  She stood in the open doorway, looking up at my stern face. Then, deadpan, she said “Yes, Jack.”

  I know when I’m being humored. She pushed me out the door. “Don’t forget the pork chops.”

  I walked to the Jag, shaking my head. I was beginning to feel like a married man. “Don’t forget the pork chops,” I said.

  She was a great cook. For the first time in my life I found myself eating at home, a welcome change of pace. I am prone to taking the easy way out. When I’m hungry, McDonald’s and I are old friends. I break up the fast food routine, now and then, with a real dinner at a real restaurant—usually one of the casino places.

  I had to admit it was nice coming home and finding the place warm and clean, and the smell of dinner cooking. Even Ripper’s disposition improved—not a lot, but still …

  I shared Jilly’s relief, mixed with apprehension, at the lack of any attempt by Varchetta’s goon to grab Felicia. Vi had called from Mexico City. She was comfortable and having a good time.

  It was getting more difficult to keep my defense mechanisms at full alert, thanks to too much home cooking and too many evenings in front of the fireplace listening to music, or watching television together.

  I began working out more, jogging more. I wanted to be away from the cabin, but that worried me, even with Ripper there. Thankfully she showed no desire to leave the place. I suspected it was a haven to her.

  She usually wandered around the cabin in one of my old Vikings sweatshirts while she fixed dinner, cleaned the place, and rearranged this and that. The woman was blessed with flawless brown skin, fantastic gleaming black hair, and perfect white teeth. And her eyes, my God, they were enormous! While she lived in her own little world, I did not. I always knew where she was in the room, and what she was wearing, try as I might to concentrate on my book or TV show.

  Occasionally, she lapsed into long periods of silence. I never intruded. She was somewhere with Jonathan Flynn. I knew that and respected it. I found myself hoping that the passage of time would eventually make the loss more bearable, would blur the painful, vivid memories unt
il one day she would find that, like it or not, she was actually getting on with her life.

  It’s a concept I’m familiar with.

  I came home from jogging one afternoon, and found her sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. She was crying, and obviously had been for a long time.

  Ripper’s head rested in her lap. He pawed at her now and then, and whined. An open book lay next to her on the floor. I didn’t have to look to see what it was. I cursed myself for having forgotten it was in the cabin.

  I’m an auto racing buff, have been all my life. I subscribe to all the magazines, buy all the yearbooks. She had run across my automotive library and found a picture of Jonathan Flynn, laughing and alive as he stood next to a Grand Prix Lotus, talking to a big man with a shock of red hair, mane-like eyebrows, long mutton chop sideburns and a fantastic flowing red mustache.

  I sat down next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. She folded against me, sobbing. Her body shook. After a while she fell asleep.

  I felt sorry for her, yet I envied the intense love she and Flynn had experienced, even if it was a tragic, painful affair. Some things are worth whatever they cost.

  * * *

  Felicia never got over that unfortunate day. The periods of silence became longer, and the gloom in the cabin deeper as the days dragged on. I’d come home to find her just sitting in the dark. Ripper was her constant companion. Gone was the aroma of dinner cooking, music playing.

  I missed it. And I felt more helpless than ever. A cold feeling settled over me. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake it. I wasn’t big on premonitions, but she was. During her brief period of healing, just before things started coming apart, she had told me she was part witch. I can still conjure up her exact words: “I am part witch, you know. Jonathan knew it, too. He kidded me, but he knew it was true.”

  She had smiled at the time, but I remember thinking that she appeared to be dead serious. I also remember the chill it had given me when she said, “I see things, now and then. Numbers, for instance, at a roulette wheel. Not always, of course. If I saw them all the time, I wouldn’t do anything else but sit at a roulette wheel. But it happens often enough to be spooky.”