The Big Adios

By Barbara Lawrence

Lagunita is a lively casino in the Caribbean where the tourists have so much fun they hardly notice a murder or two; maybe its all that rum or those steel drums that play 24-7. While a transplanted Vegas gambler and his cheating wife get caught up in the fallout of a murder investigation the double-crossers get double-crossed big time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Lawrence
• Release date: Oct 21, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458018397

Barbara Lawrence

About the AuthorBARBARA LAWRENCEAfter spending her teenage years and her twenties inmovies and television, Barbara Lawrence retired to marryand have four children. Those children are now grown andshe just recently became a grandmother. During her “free”time she studied writing at UCLA and became aninternational public relations account director withaccounts in the U.S., Italy, Mexico and Caracas. (She ispictured in Mexico during her five years there.)Returning to the States, she found the writing bug hadcome with her and she decided to try her hand at writingnovels - some reflecting her own travels abroad and allreflecting the excitement she found placing charactersin danger and watching them try to get out of it. “Enjoy."

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THE BIG ADIOS

Acknowledgments

A Big Thanks to:

Bill Peniche for Editing

Stanley Rubin for Story Development

Elise St Clair for the Book Cover and Formatting

Published by Barbara Lawrence at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Barbara Lawrence

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: The Strip

Chapter 2: Done Deal

Chapter 3: Making It

Chapter 4: Steel Drums

Chapter 5: Latin Lady

Chapter 6: Guess Again

Chapter 7: Strange Cargo

Chapter 8: Think It Over

Chapter 9: Encounters

Chapter 10: Grabbed

Chapter 11: The Alley

Chapter 12: The Crash

Chapter 13: Who’s Who?

Chapter 14: The Phone Call

Chapter 15: Big Surprise

Chapter 16: Scavengers

Chapter 17: The Far East

Chapter 18: The Switch

Chapter 19: The Deal

Chapter 20: Last Laugh

Chapter 21: Decision Time

Chapter 22: The Surprise

Chapter 23: Pleasure Palace

Chapter 24: The Big Move

Chapter 25: Different Strokes

******

Prologue

In the moonlit water off a deserted beach of swooping palms, a small boat bobbed in offshore waves that washed the sand like soft kisses. The palm-shadowed isolation hid three men scuffling in and out of the darkness, the measured thuds and grunts of a physical beating bringing a grim syncopation to the cheerful music of a steel drum band in the distance.

As the bloodied victim was held upright by a muscular assailant with a professional fighter’s flattened nose, a black man was pummeling him into unconsciousness. Finally collapsing, the man’s body was dragged into nearby scrub brush and a small stick of dynamite was shoved in his mouth.

If the unconscious man could have heard anything, he might’ve heard the scrape of a thumbnail on a match. Or the muffled sounds of running in the sand, or the sound of a boat’s motor as it sped away. Thankfully, he didn’t hear the explosion either, nor did anyone else: the man’s head had absorbed the brunt of the blast, sounding no louder than the thud of a coconut when it fell from a tree into the sand.

******

Chapter 1

The Las Vegas Strip was an out-of-body experience. As if by magic, Big Ben, the Eiffel Tower, The Statue of Liberty and the Venice Canals had been transplanted to Sin City. At any one time, the tourists drawn to the dazzling neon displays on hotels and casinos along both sides of the four-mile boulevard would equal the population of a small country. Some said the only man-made structures that could be seen from outer space were the Great Wall of China and the Vegas Strip.

Downtown Las Vegas was a different story.

Inside Settlers Hotel & Casino just off Fremont Street, the payoffs from penny and nickel slots brought as much whooping and hollering as the ones on the Strip, but it took a calloused palm to get a return big enough to pay for a Vegas-on-the-cheap drink. Old photographs and paraphernalia from wagon trains, rodeos and trail drives eliminated the need for costly décor in the poor man’s pleasure palace.

At one of the felt-covered blackjack tables in the casino’s block-long gaming room, enthusiasm was particularly high at a table that indicated one-deck play and a five-dollar minimum. Schmoozing with the players, the dealer - in a white shirt, black tie, and a nametag that identified him as J. Slade - cracked jokes and a new deck of cards as he stood across from five players seated on long-legged chairs around his table. Able to laugh at the corny jokes they exchanged even though his shift was almost over and it had been a long day - or night - Slade having forgotten if the sun was supposed to be up or down... And that was the whole idea in Vegas.

Dark-haired with strong features and jokes for the jokers, Jason Slade collected losing bets in the dealer’s chip tray and offered the cut of a new deck to one of the players. After showing the top card, he burned it on the bottom of the deck; signaling the need for the next shuffle when the card showed up again.

During a quick distribution of cards to players before their bets could be made, a redheaded cocktail waitress - with a makeup job to rival any showgirl on the Strip - replenished players’ drinks and handed Slade a glass of seltzer. Thanks Debbie, he said with a casual smile she hoped meant more than it did.

In the first seat at Slade’s left, a tanned and muscular middle-aged man in a relaxed suit and cowboy hat joked with an inebriated woman to Slade’s right whose cleavage had swallowed a necklace of pearls. A giggly pair of newlyweds and a single neatly stacking a few chips for his bet filled out the table.

Bets down, please, Slade said, the players pushing their chips into their betting circles as he dealt two cards to the players and himself. The players’ cards were face down, and Slade’s last card was up: A seven of hearts.

Lay one on me! Cowboy said, signaling for a hit with a flick of his cards. Slade dealt him another card. Cowboy got a look at the King of Spades and turned up his down cards: a three and another face card. Slade gathered in the crusty guy’s chips and got a good-natured complaint.

Don’t you pay twenty three anymore, Slade? Thank God I got a sense of humor. I can even laugh about that thoroughbred I bought last year for a million bucks!

Winking at the tipsy woman while deftly countering the plays being made, Slade said, I heard his horse got an incurable disease.

The poor darling, she slurred. What was it?

Smiling at Cowboy, Slade answered with a racetrack joke, A bad case of the ‘slows’.

Cowboy’s laugh was hearty. I hope you didn’t bet on the son-of-a-bitch! If you did for Christ’s sake, don’t sue me.

Collecting chips from the bride and groom, Slade continued a discreet flirtation with the voluptuous woman next to him. Knowing just how far the sound of his voice would carry over the din of the room, he spoke with barely moving lips, Couldn’t you find that dress in your size, Mrs. Orsati?

Squeezing her arms together until her breasts looked like satin pillows, she teased, Don’t you like it?

That depends on where Mr. Orsati is?

Shifting her gaze from the table, she looked over Slade’s shoulder and spotted her husband: the tuxedoed Casino Manager, Nick Orsati, strolling through the room with smiles and glad-hands for the regulars. He’s kissing ass, where else? she said, turning back to the game.

With a glance at her exposed flesh, Slade murmured, To answer your question... I like it a lot. Raising his voice, The bet’s to you, Mrs. Orsati.

With a quick flick of her hand, she said, I’m good. She turned her head in an aside to Slade, "Make that very good, if you know what I mean."

I’d bet on that, he murmured, "Except we’re not allowed to bet, and I could lose more than my job... like everything in my lap if you know what I mean."

With a seven of spades showing, Slade turned over his second card, a Queen, Pay eighteen.

Doubling the winners’ chips, Slade put his tips into the table’s drop-slot remembering when they would’ve bought him a new car instead of a roll of stamps.

After a couple of hands and with more good-natured jocularity to cover any hint of losers at his table, Slade was tapped on the shoulder by the shift manager with another dealer standing beside him ready to take over.

It’s that time again, announced Slade, the players objecting... Don’t go yet. You bring me luck, Slade! Just one more hand! It’s still early.

Isn’t eight hours enough? he responded, mocking the time-card requirement of his job, briefly listening to the ‘single’ who grabbed his arm to share a joke. Hilarious, Slade responded dryly, patting the man on the shoulder as he hurried to get the hell outta there, losing himself in the midst of a crowd that was looking for a hot table.

On his way through the casino to the employee’s locker room Slade squeezed between Debbie, the redhead who’d kept his customers fortified with booze, and another waitress who was old enough to be the girl’s mother with a long-forgotten embarrassment at being in one of the casino’s low cut and kitschy cowgirl outfits. The women had been chatting and were standing together steadying drinks on their trays against the likelihood of a stumbling drunk.

How’s it going ladies? Slade asked, giving Debbie a thrill as his body brushed hers. She watched as he walked away and was disappointed she hadn’t thought of something clever to say.

Don’t waste your ‘hots,’ hon, the older waitress told her. He attracts females like catnip. Haven’t you seen Karen Stahosky?

Debbie, whose heavily penciled eyebrows arched even higher, was impressed. You mean the showgirl at the Royal Caravan? What about her?

She’s his wife. She thinks she’s some sort’a star. Ha! The ego of these people.

"She is a star! She’s gorgeous. I knew he was married but I didn’t know it was to her. How come a hot guy like that isn’t working on the Strip?"

He used to. But he didn’t show up one day and was gone for more than a year. It ain’t easy to waltz back into this town whenever it suits you and get your old job back.

Did Karen leave with him?

No. But he wasn’t alone.

Yeah? said Debbie, the time spent for gossiping beginning to melt the ice in the drinks on her tray causing the glasses to sweat.

He took a case of tequila with him.

Wow! He sure doesn’t look like a lush.

Warning a foursome of inebriates jostling them as they tried to pass, the older waitress frowned, Watch it! The men gave her exaggerated looks of stupidity and fearful sounds, Ooooooo! Oooooo! Please don’t spank us mama!

Amused by the men, Debbie dug for more dirt about Slade. So when did they get married?

Wait a sec, the gossipy waitress cautioned, checking the crowd for the table-hopping manager. If we start looking like part of the scenery, Orsati will get unhappy. We better move.

Debbie followed her to another place in the room and continued pumping her for one of the town’s favorite scandals. When did Slade and Karen get married?

When he got back. And believe me it’s ‘til death do they part. Karen would have his legs broke before she’d let him walk out on her again. She used to be the number one barracuda in this town until she met Slade. He turned her every which way but loose. She even gave up a coke habit for him. And, she said, leaning closer, I heard that during her current show - you know the one about sultans and harems and all that shit - some big wig from one of those weirdo countries went to the show for a week straight and had a note delivered asking her to be one of his wives. Can you believe it? Like he was buying a horse!

With a demanding wave of his hand, a patron at a nearby craps table caught Debbie’s eye. Responding to the man’s impatience with an ingratiating smile, she turned to the other waitress, Gotta go. He’s a hick but he tips good! See ya. Walking away, she wiped the sweat off the cocktail glasses on her tray.

~~~

The Settlers Saloon was loud and lively and the cloud of smoke was so thick it could calm your nerves without the annoying need to buy cigarettes. Tables and a long bar gave losers a chance to reconsider their gambling strategies, and a five-piece jazz combo played on a small stage in the back of the room.

Changed from his black and white casino garb, Slade strode into the lounge looking sharp in desert casuals.

Passing some of the bar patrons who acknowledged him by name, Slade went directly to the small bandstand where the musicians greeted him without losing a beat, Hey, man! What’s cool, baby?

A black musician took the mouthpiece off his saxophone. As he handed the instrument to Slade, its burnished brass reflected soft onstage lights onto the animated faces at small tables in front of the bandstand. Slade replaced the mouthpiece with one from his own pocket.

Joining the group in mid-session he started pretty good but when it was time for his riff, Slade’s fingers wouldn’t keep up. After a couple of squeaks, he laughed and gave the sax back to the ‘pro.’

Don’t look for another gig just yet, he chuckled.

It wasn’t all bad, man.

Walking out of the saloon and around the corner onto Fremont Street, Slade stood for a moment to look for the moon; it was a ritual of his and also a waste of time: The blinding light-displays of the gambling joints outshone the moon while they snagged casino-hoppers like lizards snag flies.

Hailing a passing cab, it crossed five lanes of traffic to make a turn-around and take him to the Strip.

~~~

In the massive Royal Caravan nightclub, the stage was filled with faux stone columns, gushing fountains, draped shimmering panels and all things Arabian Nights - a sultry setting for parading showgirls in rhinestone-decorated turbans, see-through harem pants and the tips of ostrich plumes cupping their bare breasts. The beautiful women strode to an orchestrated version of a cobra-handler’s seductive flute.

Holding their arms outstretched as if to balance themselves, none of the girls was more beautiful - or as unlikely a member of a harem - than Karen Slade. All platinum hair, lipstick and legs, she found a spotlight wherever she stopped during the choreographed routine.

The nightclub was packed with a loud and appreciative audience who’d been served neat rows of backup drinks because liquor wasn’t served during the show and most guests over-ordered in case somebody wasn’t drunk enough.

At a table-for-one near a shadowed exit in the back of the room, a fair-haired middle-aged man with a European look to his slim nose, upright posture and cashmere jacket, sat alone and lit a skinny cigarette rolled in black paper. His eyes were following Karen Slade whose onstage movements had taken her to where she would soon be making an exit. Her smile hardened at what she saw offstage: Jason Slade laughing with a sexy singer who was waiting for her musical cue.

As the finale took the showgirls to the middle of the stage, they surrounded a turban-wearing bare-chested male singer being lowered on a Vegas-style magic carpet; Karen’s face, once again, was transformed by a freeze-in-place smile that would last until the showgirls exited for another costume change.

The heavy curtains had closed and the girls hurried offstage to their spacious dressing room of costumes and makeup tables, already disrobing for their next body-glorification of satin, sequins, and see-through chiffon.

Laughing at a whispered joke from another showgirl, Karen ignored Slade who had been left alone as the pretty singer ran to join a musical number onstage. Although she would’ve liked to trip the singer into a pratfall of an entrance, Karen decided to play it cool and sauntered by Slade who grabbed one of her arms as she passed him without acknowledging his presence.

Not so fast, lady, he said gruffly, pulling her close, his eyes narrowing to a suspicious squint. We got a report there’s a couple of bombs in this joint. Whatcha got in that bra? Reaching inside the cup of an ostrich plume, he grabbed one of her bare breasts.

Karen wasn’t amused. If I see you hittin’ on Nadine again, you’ll find some bombs... but they won’t be in my bra!

"Now Miss Omaha,