Hell's Casino Read online

  LEE GOLDBERG & WILLIAM RABKIN

  THE DEAD MAN: ALTERNATE UNIVERSE

  HELL’S CASINO

  By Bill Peschel

  Copyright © 2018 Adventures in Television, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  To Teresa,

  For suggesting the really scary stuff

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “Hell’s Casino” began as an entry in the “You Can Write a ‘Dead Man’ Novel” contest. When it didn’t win, the story was reluctantly stored in the archives (a.k.a. the Silverfish Motel) and I turned to other projects. Fortunately, a “Dead Man” manuscript proved as hard to put down as Matt Cahill. When Lee Goldberg, William Rabkin and Amazon opened the door to Kindle Worlds, I got the chance to finish Matt’s story at the Rock of Ages Casino.

  So a big thanks to Lee, Bill, and the rest of the “Dead Man” wrecking crew whose stories made me fall in love — deep and twisted, but love nonetheless — with their dark world.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  The dealer dropped a card in front of Matt Cahill.

  “Twenty-one,” she said. “We have a winner. Luck is on your side tonight, sir.”

  Matt raked in the chips and stacked them slowly on his growing pile. He would have been amused, except that he was sure something horrible would happen before dawn. He’d read it in a book.

  Which was ironic because he never read much. At least before he was buried in an avalanche and presumed dead. Pulled out after three months, he discovered he had the ability to see the rotting corruption in people’s souls. He had also acquired an enemy in Mr. Dark, who delighted in making Matt’s new life a hell on earth. Carrying his grandfather’s axe, Matt roamed the country on a quest to destroy his supernatural nemesis. Hundreds of people had died; more would have if he hadn’t thwarted Mr. Dark’s schemes. Or so he told himself.

  One side-effect of his second life was that it left him plenty of time to read. Mostly paperbacks, found abandoned in Laundromats, bars, abandoned homes or trash cans, their spines cracked and covers missing. He haunted used bookstores or library sales, but those books he read to pass the time. In his pursuit of Mr. Dark, Matt learned that the signs and clues that would lead him to his dark nemesis came of their own will.

  Which is why, at 3 a.m. on a ball-freezing February night, Matt was riding a stool at the Rock of Ages Casino, Hotel and Conference Center. He had been playing for several hours, looking for the next holocaust like a man waiting for a bus. A line from “Casino Royale” floated through his head, about the smoke and sweat of a casino being nauseating in the middle of the night, and Matt quietly nodded. Ian Fleming nailed the feeling, half a century after Bond played chemin de fer at a Monte Carlo casino. Tobacco was still allowed around the slots, but the smoke and sweat that nauseated Bond was replaced by the smell of highly processed cool air. Industrial cleansers wiped away the rest.

  Entering the Rock mesmerized him. The music was deafening, the large rooms gave the impression of entering a cathedral, and the moving crowds of gamblers, the buzz of their conversations and cheers for the winners and losers promised that there was a great party going on. Come play, he heard, luxury, glamour and wealth were just a dice throw away.

  After he got used to the lights and noise, Matt began to see the illusion. The casino’s high ceilings concealed in black paint the conduits and duct ways and ever-watching security cameras. The swirls and geometric shapes of reds, yellows, blues and blacks in the carpet hid the stains and kept the gamblers stimulated. High-def televisions on the walls and pillars broadcast concerts and sporting events. Everywhere you looked blinking and beeping monitors stared back, keeping you alert for everything except the odds of the game you were losing at. The elegantly dressed men and women of Monaco had been replaced with tattooed guys and dolls in T-shirts, hoodies, shorts and trucker caps. The best-dressed people were the pit bosses, the grey-jacketed security and the brown-shirted tenders of the slot machines.

  Matt was playing blackjack at a table in the center of a five-story hall. Over the dealer’s shoulder, he could see against the far wall the bronze statue of Elvis, on one knee, pointing toward heaven and sweeping his cape back, a dramatic gesture symbolizing the ecstasy and agony of his music. Beneath him, at the entrance to a buffet reserved for high rollers, an employee in a white, high-buttoned jacket, his hair hanging over his face like one of the Ramones, shaved the finishing touches into an ice sculpture of the same pose. Stepping back to view his work, he nodded in satisfaction and took his tray of knives and chisels into the Plankhouse restaurant behind him.

  Matt was dealt two tens. He split them, and while waiting for his turn thought about what had drawn him to the Rock. He had driven across Pennsylvania in a late ‘70s Chevy Nova whose heater had crapped out about the time Clinton was having fun in the White House. He had been restless and looking for a reason to stop. Something big was brewing. He could feel it in his belly like there were hornets there. “Casino Royale” lay face-down on the seat next to him. He had found it at a diner in Columbus. It was open to where Vesper Lynd and Bond were being shadowed by SMERSH, and she realizes her past was catching up to her. Matt was curious about what happened next.

  He found his sign on the highway to Harrisburg. Billboards featuring a beautifully dressed couple cheering at the roulette table announced that he was approaching the Rock of Ages casino. A ripple of dread fluttered through him, and he knew where he had to go. By midnight, he had pulled into the city, driving south with the dark runway of the Susquehanna on his right. Following the directions, he turned onto the bridge and got off on an island in the middle of the river, and pulled into the vast, mostly empty parking lot. He found a spot on the rim, near the truckers who had parked their big rigs, their engines still running.

  There in the silence, the Nova clicking and cooling, Matt stretched his legs and rubbed his face. It had been a long day, but he decided to check out the casino, then crash in his car. Tomorrow, assuming he didn’t freeze to death, he’ll cross the bridge on foot and haunt the city’s restaurants for work. There was always one that was short a man to do the busing and washing, willing to pay in cash and leftover food. If nothing happens here, he’ll fuel up and get back on the road.

  Matt got out of the car. The wind cut through his denim jacket, and he pulled his wool cap down over his ears. Off in the distance, the hot lights of the Rock blinked its come-on. Turning around, he walked to the edge of the lot. Beyond the ring of trees and the wide Susquehanna squatted the buildings of Harrisburg. The fluorescent lights hummed in the buildings. Green spotlights bathed the capitol dome in the color of money. Its people had spent the day’s worth of heartbeats working the levers of power for their own benefit. Then they hit the bars and restaurants, pairing off, wanting to
pair off, or regretting who they paired up with. Sadness washed over him. Losing his wife Janey to cancer was a blow he thought he couldn’t outlive. Many men died within a year of their partner’s passing, as if they wanted to follow their love to the undiscovered country, a phrase Matt picked up last year in a half-torn copy of “Macbeth.”

  In a way, he was one of those men. Except that he was chosen to come back, on a quest to defeat Mr. Dark. That was hard enough. To do it without his Janey was torture. Before him the dark river seemed still, like he was standing at the edge of the world, preventing him from reaching the promised land. He never felt more alone.

  A scraping noise, like card brushing the nap of a gaming table, caught his ear. He turned. A crumpled piece of paper rolled like a tumbleweed across the asphalt in front of Matt. A piece of paper that looked like money.

  He walked over, picked it up and unfolded it. He expected to be disappointed, that the bill would turn out to be fake, a disguise to lure the desperate to read a religious tract.

  It was a fifty dollar bill.

  Matt turned it over underneath a light pole, alternating between Ulysses S. Grant and the Capitol building. He climbed into the Nova and held it up to the dome light that glowed like a dying firefly.

  Real.

  Matt blew heat into his hands and thought. He could use the money for gas. Or, he could walk to the Rock and try his luck. If he won, he would take a room at the hotel. A warm bed and a shower would be a welcome change from the freezing cold, dirty blankets and whore’s baths in the sinks at McDonalds’.

  Since he died and came back, Matt didn’t believe in luck. He saw patterns in the world. A sudden decision to take a job, to stop at a place, to walk down this road instead of that path. Remembering a line from a spy novel. Everything came with consequences. If someone wants him to draw a card, he’ll pull it.

  He slammed shut the door and headed for the light.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In his fifth-floor office bathroom at the casino, a naked Victor Cross washed his hands at the sink and craved meat.

  He worked the brush around his cuticles, humming a song from “Sweeney Todd.” He hungered for a cheeseburger, so rare that it would give a vegetarian a coronary. French fries, tongue-searingly hot and crisp and coated with a horseradish and melted cheese sauce. And chicory coffee, fresh-made.

  That last item was important. It’ll give him time to finish cleaning up.

  He placed his order from the phone on the conference table while checking out the floor action through the smoked-glass picture window. Usually, he relied on the bank of monitors by his desk, but he loved this God’s-eye view, with Elvis directly below and the tables spread before him. He tracked the movement of the pit bosses and security guards among the whales, the minnows, and the looky-loos.

  A thought crawled across his brain: This is the last time I’ll have to do this. And what will happen next aroused him again.

  He checked the wall clock by the pair of matched samurai swords that hung over his desk. He was cutting it close, but that was part of the thrill, too, wasn’t it? Let everyone else drift through the world, dreaming small dreams and treading water before time scattered them into dust. What was the point? Dream big and die, that was his motto.

  But, first, out with the old.

  Cross opened the office door and walked past his secretary’s desk, feeling the cool air roaming his skin. She had draped her coat on the back of her chair, and he remembered that her purse was in the bottom right drawer. He’ll have to order her replacement tomorrow, then checked himself — he won’t have to, won’t he?

  He listened at the door to the hallway before opening it. The laundry cart he had positioned an hour before was still there. He rolled it into his office and locked the door behind him. Snapping on rubber gloves, he positioned it outside the bathroom door and went in.

  She was slumped at the bottom of the cubicle shower wearing only her silk scarf. He frowned, remembering his first day as vice president of casino operations three years ago. It was a top position, and they had given him facilities that were clearly inadequate. His bathroom should have been three times as large, with a walk-in shower and floor-to-ceiling nozzles. A deliberate insult, no doubt, a signal from the CEO that he intended to keep Cross in his place. Maybe it was then that he thought of the plan that was going to come to fruition very, very soon.

  He hoisted her damp body on his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and maneuvered her around the cramped bathroom, careful not to strain his back.

  Back in the office, he checked at the clock and quickened his pace. Lay her on the couch among their clothes. Redress her. Dump her in the cart and move the filthy towels to cover her. Toss in the coat and purse from her desk. He worked mechanically, without thinking. At first, dumping the body was thrilling. The deep planning, the rehearsals, the unexpected encounter, the relief he felt once it was dumped: He had it down to a science. Then there were the revisits to check on the victims he left exposed, his personal Body Farm. But it palled with repetition. This time, he won’t have to do anything. He found the perfect hiding place, and if all goes well, a perfect victim for next time.

  Back in the bathroom, he washed again. He slid on a fresh shirt, wound and knotted his silk club tie, then pulled on his bespoke suit coat from Saville Row. He dumped his old clothes in a plastic bag and tied it off. He changed his socks and slid his feet into his custom-made alligator shoes, built from a polymer cast the cobbler took of his feet and kept on file. Dress above your job was his rule, and Victor always took careful pains that his appearance would leave no doubt that he was in charge.

  He dumped the bag down the garbage chute. He rode with the cart in the freight elevator to the basement and rolled it into the repair shop, where he used a duplicate key to get in. He laid her out in one of the storerooms and slid a small bag of marijuana in her purse along with the key. They had smoked a joint before making love, so if anyone bothered to investigate what she was doing there they’ll assume she snuck off for a toke.

  Back upstairs, he found his dinner waiting for him at the conference table by the window. The smell of the seared meat awakened his senses.

  His smartphone rang with the theme from “The Sopranos.” He grimaced at the caller’s name on the screen: TWIST. Another problem that will be solved tonight.

  “You there?”

  Cross sighed. “Yes, I’m here,” he said.

  “You got the money?”

  “Yes, I have the money.”

  “Good. We’re on the way. We’ll meet up by the back entrance in an hour.”

  Cross broke the connection and blocked the number. He flicked through the to-do list on his phone and reviewed the tasks to come. Jerry Dott should show up within the next 30 minutes.

  If he stays true to form, he’ll be on time to the minute. Cross chuckled as he stepped through the rest of the list. Once Dott arrives, the fun will really begin.

  He had delayed his pleasure long enough. He quietly raised his coffee cup in a toast to himself and his bright future.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wendy took a deep breath and stretched her hips forward to relieve the pain in her lower back. Focus, she told herself. Do your job. Do as you’re told. You’ll be all right.

  “Ready, ladies and gentlemen? Place your bets. The deck is hot tonight.”

  From the clear plastic shoe cradling eight shuffled decks she slid out each card, flipping it in front of each player with long-practiced ease.

  “Six . . . ace . . . suicide king . . . a deuce is loose . . . one-eyed jack and seven-come-heaven.” She flipped her up card, then dealt the players their second card face up with the same polished patter before dropping her hole card face-down.

  Against the far wall, the elevator doors opened and her heart fell. Above the group of boys in their shorts, hoodies, and turned-back caps waiting to get on, she could see a comb-overed head. The boys flowed into the elevator, revealing Victor Cross in all his preening glory and
walking her way.

  She had not been getting along with him, particularly because he made it clear that he wanted into her pants. It got so bad that she transferred herself to the overnight shift to avoid him. That had worked just fine, up until tonight.

  She focused on the game, hoping to look so busy that he’ll ignore her. Fortunately, five of the six seats were full, and the players were having a good time. At first base was Tony, an older guy, nearly bald, whose thick fingers kept arranging and rearranging the chips like it would help his luck. He had been a regular at her table for months. Next to him was the handsome guy with the wavy hair and nice smile. He’d introduced himself as Nick and kept giving her the eye. He looked nice in his suit, except he had forgotten to remove his badge that identified him as a hotel concierge. Then there was the quiet man with the calloused hands who didn’t say much. At the cap was Don and Donna, a long-married couple who kept the table lively. Donna had been doing most of the talking, mostly about their trip out west. She was a cop thinking about retiring, so they had rented an RV to try out life on the road. It had gone well, until they reached New Mexico.

  “We were somewhere around Albuquerque, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold,” she said. “Don’s tum-tum doesn’t take well to the chili sauce, and it took awhile for the Imodium to start working.” Don’s thick face reddened. Donna seemed oblivious to his discomfort. Then he caught the concern in Wendy’s eye and winked, as if to say, It’s just her way. She was reminded of how much she missed that forgiving closeness. The pain of losing her husband and son in the divorce lingered under the surface of her skin, beyond reach of any cure.

  “By the time we reached Gallup, he couldn’t take it anymore. The desert winds were making the RV sway like a college kid on spring break. We had to stop at a little motor court outside of town. That’s where we met the trooper who told us about the axe murders at Blood Mesa, right Don?”