Jake Morgan, who left the Boston police force and wound up in Vegas thanks to his taste for games of chance, finds himself hitting it off with a beautiful high roller in her sumptuous suite. Then an assassin enters and breaks the lady’s bliss by popping two lead pills into her forehead.
Before Morgan knows it, he’s not only being grilled over the murder, he’s also targeted by a femme fatale and caught in the crossfire between two groups of dirty cops. Now he’s not sure who he can trust, in this action-packed crime thriller.
Jake Morgan, who left the Boston police force and wound up in Vegas thanks to his taste for games of chance, finds himself hitting it off with a beautiful high roller in her sumptuous suite. Then an assassin enters and breaks the lady’s bliss by popping two lead pills into her forehead.
Before Morgan knows it, he’s not only being grilled over the murder, he’s also targeted by a femme fatale and caught in the crossfire between two groups of dirty cops. Now he’s not sure who he can trust, in this action-packed crime thriller.
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Overview
Jake Morgan, who left the Boston police force and wound up in Vegas thanks to his taste for games of chance, finds himself hitting it off with a beautiful high roller in her sumptuous suite. Then an assassin enters and breaks the lady’s bliss by popping two lead pills into her forehead.
Before Morgan knows it, he’s not only being grilled over the murder, he’s also targeted by a femme fatale and caught in the crossfire between two groups of dirty cops. Now he’s not sure who he can trust, in this action-packed crime thriller.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781554902736 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | ECW Press |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2018 |
| Series: | The Jake Morgan Mysteries , #3 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Drawing Dead
A Jake Morgan Mystery
By Rick Gadziola, Michael Holmes
ECW PRESS
Copyright © 2006 Rick GadziolaAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55490-273-6
CHAPTER 1
"She's definitely got the hots for you, Jake."
I was dealing a lively $50–$100 Pot Limit Hold 'Em game in the posh Oasis poker room. It was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend in Las Vegas, the place was packed, and hundred-dollar bills were flying around the casino like November leaves in a New England windstorm.
The "she" being referred to was an absolutely gorgeous, middle-aged, Japanese woman who had just excused herself to visit the powder room. She had slipped me a black hundred-dollar chip, smiled suggestively, and told me to keep her seat warm and lucky, further adding to the playful innuendos with which she had been plying me for the past half-hour. Some of the males at the table believed she meant her chair, but the consensus thought otherwise.
I knew her only as "Mrs. K.," the wife of "Mr. K.," the billionaire shipping magnate and one of Vegas' top-10 "whales" who came to donate two or three times a year. She wasn't as big a contributor to the local economy as her husband, but she could still go through a million in chips faster than I could go through a bag of Lay's All Dressed.
"Ah, you guys don't know what you're talking about," I told them. "Mrs. K. is married to one of the 50 richest men in the world. I'm down to peanut butter and jelly back home and payday's still a week away."
"Not after what she's been toking you tonight," said JB, one of the young, local pros. "Look at your pocket."
"Yeah," said one of the other players, known as Stinky. "You could be havin' Special K for dinner instead, if you know what I mean."
A few of the guys laughed lewdly and gave each other the nudge-nudge, wink-wink.
"I know you're tryin' to hide it, Jake," said JB, "but you've made enough in tips tonight to get into this game yourself."
"And wouldn't I welcome that," I smiled and said, meaning it.
I finished shuffling the cards and began to deal. As I waited for the first player to make his decision of coming in or not, I glanced over to the supervisor's desk. Mrs. K. was talking to McClusky, my floor person, and the two of them were looking directly at my table.
McClusky was a throwback to the old days of Vegas and knew how to keep the customers happy. He and I had always got along, but that might have been because I was one of his top dealers at the Oasis and had been for almost three years. I'd also helped his immediate boss, Julius Contini, keep the image of the Oasis Hotel and Casino clean through some ugly incidents during the past year. McClusky listened to what Mrs. K. was saying, then he nodded his thick, square head and shook her tiny hand with one of his meaty ham hocks.
A few minutes later, McClusky arrived at my table with a couple of empty plastic chip trays and another dealer.
"Rack up Mrs. K.'s chips, Morgan," McClusky grumbled. "New dealer comin' in, gentlemen."
"Oh, oh, somebody's in trouble," said Stinky.
"What's up?" I asked. "My shift isn't —"
"Don't argue," McClusky said. "There should be $5,100 there. Mrs. K. said to leave a hundred for the chip runner when she comes by. Bring the rest to my office." He did a 180 as gracefully as a guy in a size56 jacket could do, and trudged off with the weight of the world on his wide shoulders.
I began separating, stacking, and counting the lady's chips, wondering what the hell I was being called up on the carpet for. Despite the nice little cash-out I'd have for the night, I couldn't afford to be docked time or lose this gig. After all, there were loan sharks with spoiled kids in private schools depending on me.
"She's probably just not feeling well," JB said, noticing my concern.
Stinky snorted. "Maybe she's gonna claim sexual harassment or some-thin'."
"Don't be such a horse's ass. Jake didn't do anything wrong."
I finished racking up, placed an empty tray upside down over hers, and said thank you to the players; then I walked down the corridor toward the office like a schoolboy on his way to see the principal.
"She wants what?"
"I just told ya," McClusky explained. "Take the chips up to her suite. Spend a little time with her. Have a drink. Be nice."
"What about her husband?"
"He's back in Tokyo or someplace. She's flying solo and wants to have a good time."
"But what if Mr. K. found out? You don't want to lose the guy. He's a whale."
"Not so much the last year or so. He's been spreading it around more than we like to see. Anyway, she's the one who prefers to stay and play here. Maybe next time he'll spend more time here keepin' an eye on her. Besides, I get the feelin' there might be a little problemo in the old matrimonial department."
"I don't know about this...."
McClusky pulled back his left jacket sleeve and looked at his watch. "It's almost ten. Socialize with her for an hour or so. I'll put you on triple-time all the way through to eight in the morning. What's the big deal? It happens all the time. We gotta take care of the high rollers."
Now it started to sink in. "Jesus Christ! Are you saying ... you mean you want me to ... son of a bitch, you want me to be a gigolo? Hold the phone. That's not in my job description!"
McClusky punched something into his electronic organizer, then he glanced up at me and raised a bushy eyebrow. "Don't go turnin' gay on me, okay, Jake? I remember that showgirl broad you were bangin' last year. Man, was she built," he reminisced. "What the hell was her name again?"
"Rachel," I told him, exasperated. "And I'm not turning gay. I'm just saying...."
Damn. Why did he have to bring Rachel up? It had been almost a year and I'd just recently gotten over her. The worst part was, she was the last one I had been intimate with, and the absence of a warm and willing female body had already started to drive me up the wall.
"You're just sayin' you don't want to spend a little time with a sexy, wealthy woman who's got the hots for you and wants to get to know you better. I'm startin' to worry about you. You know, Siegfried's looking for a new partner."
"That's not what I meant. But what about the escorts the casino keeps for times like this? There must be at least ten boy toys you can call in from the bench to pinch-hit. What about Raoul, that good-looking kid from the Dominican who just started?"
McClusky shook his head. "He's tied up with some movie star tonight. Some guy who was up for Best Supporting Actor this past year."
"Actor? As in male actor?"
"Yup. Apparently Raoul's a switch hitter."
"Great."
"It don't matter anyway. Mrs. K. specifically asked for you. I don't know what you're so worried about; she didn't say anything about sleeping with her. Maybe she just doesn't want to go out by herself."
"But why me? I don't get it."
McClusky shook his head. "Who knows what goes on in the minds of women nowadays? I gave up tryin' to figure 'em out a long time ago. Now when the old lady goes on and on, I just listen and nod and sing 'MacArthur Park' in my head till she leaves the room."
I stood there for a moment and tried to assimilate the situation. I'm not a prude by any means, nor am I against getting together with a beautiful woman for friendly fun and frolicking. But I like to be the one in charge. The way this scenario was unfolding reeked of me being treated like a piece of meat at an auction. Admittedly, a small part of me was flattered, but that was the part that was always getting me in trouble.
"I don't know...."
McClusky tapped the eraser end of a pencil against his computer keyboard. "You know, Morgan, Mr. Contini would be very disappointed if a high-profile client like Mrs. K. was made to feel unwelcome here at the Oasis by one of his employees ... especially such a highly regarded employee like yourself."
"Ah, man, don't bring up Big Julie ... please. Whenever he asks me for a favor I end up getting shot, drowned, punched, and kicked. Every time I help him out I wake up in some hospital room suffering from broken bones or a concussion."
"True. But don't forget what he's done for you, too. He paid all the legal fees for your girlfriend Rachel when she was in jail, paid all your hospital bills every time you did fall on your ass and hurt yourself, and he even took care of your apartment being redone when those two bozos shot your place up last fall. Hell, Mr. Contini even gave you a suite at the Oasis for the month while the work was being done."
"Jesus...." Julius Contini was the owner of the Oasis Hotel and Casino. He, too, was a bit of a throwback to the old days, but he wasn't a bad guy and he was a real straight shooter. A no-bullshit kind of guy. And McClusky was right. As much as I may have done for him, he had done back for me. This little assignment couldn't end up all that terrible no matter how badly I screwed it up. Outside of having too much to drink, not being able to perform, and maybe waking up with a wicked hangover, how bad could it be? I just didn't like not being in control.
"Okay. What room?"
"Atta boy, Jake. Suite 2221. Take one for the team!"
"Yeah, right."
"Come to think of it, take the rack of chips to the cashier's cage and get an orange one. I don't want you walkin' around with all those chips. Some old lady on her way to Bingo might see you in the hallway and roll ya."
"Very funny."
"And speakin' of the cage, when you get the $5,000 chip, register it under my name, put it right in your pocket, and give it to Mrs. K. as soon as you get there. Capice?"
"Yeah, yeah." The truth be known, I could sometimes have a problem walking through a casino with five thou in my pocket. It was like the tables were crying out to me.
"And don't get any funny ideas, Morgan. I know the way you are. I'm going to have Security watch you on camera all the way from here to the elevator. Don't even look at a gaming table on the way. This is business."
"Yeah, some business," I told him as I made my way to the door and opened it. "I feel like some kind of ho."
"Hey, I know what you mean," laughed McClusky. "Vegas makes ho s of us all sooner or later."
CHAPTER 2"Ah, Mr. Morgan."
She was still wearing the stunning summer dress she'd had on down in the poker room, but her hair was freshly brushed and the air around her carried an intoxicating bouquet. The sounds of light riffs of jazz came from somewhere deep in the suite. Dim lights and candlelight were the choice of the evening.
"Uh, my boss asked me to bring you your money."
I dug into my pocket, proud that I hadn't spent her token, and handed the $5,000 chip to her. She took it and smiled. It was one of the most beautiful smiles I'd ever seen in my life. Not a great big, beaming, open-mouth number, but one where the corners of freshly glossed lips turned up ever so slightly, causing two sexy little dimples to send a shiver down my spine and elsewhere.
"Thank you. Won't you come in, Mr. Morgan?" She stepped back to allow me entry.
"Only if you call me Jake," I told her. I walked inside and took a deep breath to calm my nerves. "That's a wonderful perfume you're wearing."
"Thank you," she replied, as we entered the formal living room. "It's my favorite. A creation from back home called Sakiwai: a blend of rose, lily of the valley, jasmine, and lilac. I'm glad you like it."
Mrs. K. had one of the most prestigious suites the Oasis had to offer — not as large as some, but probably at least 1,500 square feet. It was done up in Americana, with a touch of Shaker, lots of hardwood, and deep pile carpets. A small library and dining room were off to the left, and I guessed the bedroom was to the right behind two closed French doors. A balcony that stretched the width of the room offered a view of The Strip, and part of the sheer curtains blew gently outside through the open sliding glass doors.
"Very nice," I said, struggling for something to say.
"It's Early American," she said. "I can't get enough of it. So different from back home."
"My condo is Middle Bachelorhood."
"Really? I'd love to see it. Have a seat, Jake. Can I get you something to drink?" She made her way to a bar built into a Hoosier cabinet.
"Yeah, sure. Whatever you're having."
What she was having turned out to be Scotch. And even through the thick crystal of the glass and the ice cubes, I could tell it had to be at least a triple. I went to sit in a leather wingback chair, but she directed me to a seat beside her on the sofa. We clinked glasses, smiled at each other, and drank.
And drank and drank and drank. We discovered we were both going to hit the big 4-oh this year, and after some small talk about where we each grew up, went to school, and our early dating experiences, the conversation swung around to her absent husband. I noticed when she handed me the last drink that she wasn't wearing any wedding rings. I also noticed she had ten to fifteen fingers on her left hand. As I struggled to grasp the rotating glass, I gave my head a shake as I tried to reduce the effects of the whiskey.
She told me that the two of them had fallen out of love years ago, yet his passion for his businesses seemed to have escalated. She said she had kept count of the days he was away and those when he was home. A year later, when the first exceeded the latter, she told her husband she wanted a divorce. He was furious and told her that she was his wife and should know her place. That was four months ago. Now she was in Vegas trying to get her head together and talk to an American lawyer who assisted their legal firm back in Tokyo. She was meeting him here at the hotel in two days.
We were on our fourth round when she asked me if I would stay for dinner.
I was feeling no pain. "Uh, yeah, sure," I stammered. "Why not?"
She laughed at my hesitancy and sat there for a moment and we looked into each other's eyes. I saw a world of loneliness and sorrow in hers, and I wanted to reach out. I couldn't imagine what she saw in mine, except for some bloodshot veins that might be coming on. She brought out that special little smile again, leaned over, and gave me a soft kiss that lingered for just a second or two.
"Yes, by all means," I said with authority. "I will stay for dinner, Mrs. K."
"If I am to call you Jake, then you will call me Kyoko."
The next kiss lingered twice as long, and as our mouths were about to part, she broke the contact. She was trembling ever so slightly and her eyes became moist.
"Perhaps we could discuss dessert over dinner," she finally said with a laugh.
I gave her my answer with the biggest grin I'd had in months. "Definitely."
"Well, if you can amuse yourself for 15 minutes, I spent most of the day shopping and I would really love to have a quick bath. If you don't mind?"
"Only if you promise to put more of that Suzuki on."
"That's Sakiwai, silly," she said. "And I'll be sure to put it on." She smiled seductively. "Everywhere."
"Mmm. I'll drink to that."
She found that funny and laughed. "We'll order room service when I get out."
"Sounds good," I said, feeling tipsy but becoming more confident in the situation. "I'm all yours."
She had reached the French doors, opened them, and stepped inside. As she closed the doors she called out, "And I'll drink to that."
I fiddled around with the plasma-screen television to check on the baseball games I had bet a few bucks on. I had won two of the early games and the last one was in extra innings. This would normally have me glued to my seat, but I was antsy and instead got up and went out onto the balcony with a glass of cognac to take in the sights.
Neon filled the horizon for as far as I could see. Down below, car horns tooted at each other as The Strip filled with visitors driving in for the weekend from California, Arizona, and faraway places.
I reflected on my three years out in the desert and wondered how things were back in Boston. I supposed the Beantown police force was getting along fine without me. I had left a lot of good friends, lost loves, and too many tragic memories behind, but I wasn't interested in going back any time soon.
I didn't like the direction my reflections were headed, so I gulped back the rest of the drink, left the glass on a patio table, and went back inside.
Just as I returned to the sofa, the bedroom doors parted and out she stepped, wrapped comfortably in one of the Oasis Hotel's white terrycloth bathrobes. Her hair was up and the floral perfume hit my olfactory senses and tripped my heart rate to about 140 bpm.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Drawing Dead by Rick Gadziola, Michael Holmes. Copyright © 2006 Rick Gadziola. Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
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