A Proper Time to Die

By Ray Hoy

Jack Frost is not one to turn the other cheek. He and his anti-social Doberman, J.T. Ripper, head for Las Vegas to settle a very personal account with Harry Varchetta, CEO of one of the Las Vegas Strip’s oldest and most famous resorts. But waiting for them in Sin City is James Red Sleeves, a full-blooded Apache Syndicate en-forcer.
“A hold-your-breath page-turner!” — Patricia White, The 79th Prince

• Language: English
• Publisher: Misty Mountain Productions
• Release date: Jul 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781581240832

Ray Hoy

A hopeless romantic, chaser of rainbows, lover of dogs, and reluctant realist, Ray Hoy has been a professional writer, editor, publisher, and producer for six decades. During his long media career he also managed to spend twenty years as a casino marketing consultant working with major Nevada gaming properties. He retired from the "casino wars" in 1997. Jack Frost is a composite of three Special Forces men Ray met when he was in the casino business. Those men are gone now, victims of their chosen profession. They were amazing warriors doing an amazing job. Frost's sidekick, J.T. Ripper, is based on a real Doberman by the name of Scorpio. Ray was introduced to that monster dog by a friend who knew he was in the process of creating a Doberman character for his Frost books. Scorpio is gone now, too (as so many real warriors are), but J.T. Ripper carries on. The Ripper that Ray created gets more fan mail than Jack Frost does. Ray has no idea why, because the Ripper he created was born pissed, and he pretty much hates everyone and everything - everything except an occasional shooter of Scotch. And Ray defends Ripper's Scotch habit: "We all know that dogs should be kept away from alcohol of any kind, but since Ripper is not of this world, he can do whatever he damn well pleases, and believe me, he does. Truly a fun dog to write about."

Book preview

Shore.

Chapter One

Las Vegas, August 15, 5:30 a.m.

I came thrashing out of a sound sleep and found myself staring into J.T. Ripper’s ugly black face, just inches from my nose. I groaned and stretched, then glanced at my watch. Five-thirty. God, how I hated morning. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I want to come back as a bat, or with a little luck, a vampire.

I got out of bed and padded naked into my rented RV’s kitchen. I rummaged through the cupboards until I found the tin of coffee. I popped the plastic lid and groaned. Empty. McDonald’s again.

I brushed my teeth, then pulled on an old pair of sweats. I shuddered at the thought of putting in five miles of roadwork. When I opened the door, I cowered for a few moments in the bright sunlight, my hands over my eyes. When the little sparklers finally went away, I said, Okay Ripper, let’s go.

Unlike me, Ripper loves to get out and run. A big, evil-tempered dog needs a lot of exercise. A bored Ripper is a pissed Ripper, so I work him every chance I get.

We went down the RV steps together. Ripper trotted on ahead, while I began a slow shuffle, a shuffle that gradually began to resemble jogging. As I plodded along, I looked around at the scrub desert and realized how much I missed my Lake Tahoe A-frame, and running on the beach in that clean, cool mountain air.

Summer temperatures make running in Vegas a real bitch. A lot of people love to run. I hate it, even though I’ve been running for twenty years. I run to stay in shape, nothing more. The first mile is the hardest, and this one was no exception. Then, as any runner will tell you, something magical happens. You feel the first wave of energy surge through your body, and all of a sudden you can run forever.

Three miles later I was still waiting for this magical state of euphoria to make its appearance. I chugged along in agony, cursing the sun, Ripper, the aging process, Nevada, jogging, and anything else that came to mind. Ripper, on the other hand, trotted beside me, in front of me, behind me, and between my feet, making himself a general nuisance. So I cursed him for the remaining mile while he smiled up at me, content that he was doing a fine job of making me miserable.

I squinted at a cloudless sky and a blazing sun that was doing its best to beat me into submission. My mind drifted back to Virginia City, four months earlier, back to where Felicia Martinez had lost her life and given the world Jonathan Flynn’s baby in exchange. Back to where she’d been murdered by a creep sent by Harry Varchetta, the CEO of one of the oldest, most respected casinos in Las Vegas. He was a man who needed killing.

The trial had been short enough to embarrass anyone who believed in due process. Varchetta appeared in court before the best judge money could buy, maintaining that Benny Florentine — the man who murdered Felicia Martinez — had worked for him for many years but had quit several weeks prior to her death. Benny had always lusted after Felicia, Varchetta testified, and whatever he had done, he had done on his own.

So here I was in Vegas, Varchetta’s town, with little going for me except a desire for revenge that burned deep in my gut. I lived the nightmare all over again as I jogged through the searing desert, the memory of that dreadful experience in the mine shaft raging in my mind.

We finally arrived back at the RV and coasted to a halt. I opened the door and Ripper pushed past me into the cool interior. I got out of my sweat-stained clothes and headed for the shower.

Chapter Two

I walked through the main entrance of Varchetta’s lavish casino resort and stood for a moment listening to the sing-song chant of stickmen, the babble of thousands of people trying their luck, and the ever-present soft female voice paging one guest after another. There were no clocks in this, or any other casino, to remind the customer of the real world that existed outside. This was a glittering Disneyland for shut-ins.

I knew I wouldn’t have to find Varchetta — he’d find me. There are few places in the world under more strict scrutiny than a casino. The electronic eye in the sky, hidden behind the one-way glass in the ceiling over each row of gaming tables, keeps tabs on employees and customers alike. No one trusts anyone in the gambling industry.

I’d been shooting craps for about thirty minutes when a player stepped next to me. I happened to be looking down at my chips when he placed his manicured fingers on the rail.

I instinctively knew Varchetta’s man had found me.

I turned and looked into the deep black eyes of a handsome, full-blooded Indian. He was about six-two, with a trim, muscular build and slick black hair. I doubt if he had two ounces of fat on his entire body. Under that tailored suit, I knew that I was looking at a very deadly athlete. The man radiated wealth and confidence. He wore the expensive clothes and gold jewelry comfortably, which told me he’d grown accustomed to those little luxuries long ago.

Mr. Varchetta would like to see you, Mr. Frost, he said in a soft, confident voice.

I gathered my chips and dropped them into my pocket. The Indian turned away and I followed him. We walked past long rows of blackjack and craps tables, and finally past the lounge where Felicia had once sung — so long ago now, it seemed. A few minutes later we left the main casino floor and started walking down a long, carpeted hallway.

I believe you know the way, he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I believe I do.

Over a year ago, I had plucked Felicia out of this velvet prison right from under Varchetta’s nose.

We stopped in front of an elevator with no identifying markings. He stepped in front of me to block my view as he punched in a code.

I smiled. Varchetta had beefed up his security. Not like the last time, when I had easily gotten up to his thirtieth floor penthouse.

The door opened and we stepped into the elevator. As the door shut, I turned to the man and looked him over. Navajo? I said.

Apache. There was a hint of defiant pride.

I judged him to be in his early thirties. My instincts told me that this very smooth, very civilized-appearing fellow should be treated with great respect. He moved with the grace and power of the better male dancers. And I suspected he was well trained in the martial arts.

The Indian smiled. Still have the ugly black dog?

I nodded. Ripper will make a feast of Varchetta’s ass one of these days.

The Indian laughed. I would pay to see that.

We haven’t met.

How rude of me, Mr. Frost. he said. James Red Sleeves.

We did not shake hands.

We got off the elevator at the top floor and walked to the ornate door at the end of the carpeted hallway. Red Sleeves knocked, then opened it without waiting for a reply.

Varchetta stood with his back to us, peering through the window blinds at the Strip below. He turned and stared at me.

I’d forgotten how ugly the little bastard was, a thin, wiry, weasel of a man, perhaps fifty-five or so, with oversize ears, small yellow teeth, and a narrow, pinched face. He had a long hook nose and tiny black eyes set close together under bushy eyebrows. He wore an expensive dark pin-striped suit that had been in style about thirty years