Tilt: Sin City, #1.5

By M.B. Miller and Jennifer Samson

Las Vegas is a city of change. Fortunes are won and squandered; love found and lost; and alliances made and broken. Everything can change with a spin of the wheel or roll of the dice.

Bill is enchanted with Marilyn, who is everything he wants in a woman -- and dating his friend Jimmy. Jimmy thinks Marilyn may be "the one," but, if so, why is he drawn to Darla?

Rising star Darla loves Jake, but she has to choose between a Hollywood career and a future with him. Jake is in debt to the Chicago Outfit, and if he leaves town, there's nowhere Chicago won't follow, even to Hollywood.

Ray wants to become a made man with Chicago, but he wants revenge against Frank Kelly more. Frank's daughter Diana presents an opportunity to drive a wedge into the family. The only person Diana trusts is her brother Tim, but their relationship is strained, leaving her angry … and vulnerable.

Rett is at his wit's end when his sister Ruby takes up with Tim Kelly, a petty criminal with a chip on his shoulder and disdain for Chicago. Even Rett's mob ties won't protect Ruby when -- not if -- Tim crosses Chicago.

Some will win and others will lose, but no one will come away unchanged.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twin Crown Press
• Release date: Nov 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781988797021

M.B. Miller

M.B. Miller has won Press Association awards as a columnist and reporter. A recovering journalist of more than a decade, she has sharpened her people-watching skills in courtrooms and backrooms. After growing up in the greater Pittsburgh area, she enjoys working in references to “nebby” and “cattywumpus” whenever possible, but struggles with non-standard verb complements. She has a degree in communications and an animosity toward the Oxford comma.

Book preview

1

Las Vegas, Nevada

Friday, April 8, 1966

He loved her, and he hated that he did.

Jake knew why he wanted her – anyone would, the way she looked, like a Miss America apple pie ideal, all golden blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. Those eyes were expressive, when she wanted them to be – when she wanted to crank his engine but good.

And good lord, how she could.

He wanted her because she was high-stepping dynamite, every bit as dangerous as the wiseguys in her own way. You could forget your own name watching her walk down the street. Walking wasn’t even the word for it, the way she moved was something halfway between dancing and a come-on.

If wanting her was all that it was, he could have her – there wasn’t a girl on the Strip he couldn’t have – and it would be done. He was accustomed to bedding beautiful women, but it didn’t take him long to get bored. Without the excitement of the chase, he lost interest and drifted off. Maybe he only chased them to prove he could catch them. A good many had problems that could only be resolved with his fists, and he quit being surprised by it a long time ago.

Hell, that was how he met Darla – a couple guys decided she would go on a date with them, whether she wanted to or not. He’d stepped in, soaked up some abuse and dealt enough of his own they decided they could get a date with less hassle elsewhere.

Darla had scolded him. What did you think you were doing? She put her hands on her hips and glared. Jumping two guys? Can’t you count? Darla held one finger up, then a second. One, two – that’s more than you!

She kept Jake on his toes, and they fought like hell, but making up made the fighting worth it. Besides, she gave as good as she got – even better, sometimes. If he tried to fix Darla’s problems, she read him the riot act. She was a thorn, a splinter, piercing so deep, he wasn’t sure he could ever get her out again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. And that infuriated him.

If there was one axiom he thought was worth a damn, it was never get attached. Caring about people gave them – and others – leverage to hurt you. People were dumb to get attached, but watching her come down the street, he understood the temptation. He took one last long draw on his cigarette, pitched it in the gutter and strode to meet her.

You look pleased with yourself, she said.

I like what I’m looking at. He wrapped an arm around her waist.

She laughed. You aren’t so bad yourself.

Darla was tall, like all the showgirls, tall enough to look him in the eye when she wore heels. And she would stand toe-to-toe with anyone. She leaned into him as they walked down the street. Her perfume was sweet and subtle. He took a deep, heady breath and enjoyed the feel of her body pressed against him.

Despite his instincts and knowing better, he made himself vulnerable. Jake was getting soft, but he couldn’t help himself. She would make him sorry, but he only resigned himself and waited helplessly for her inevitable betrayal.

He tried to keep her at arm’s length, but she blew past his barriers without even trying. She always was laughing at some secret amusement, pleased with herself and her eyes sparkling with barely suppressed humor.

Jake wanted to be let in on the joke, make her smile and find out why her mood was so buoyant. The Strip was one cheap come-on after another, neon-lit cons and glided gimcrack dreams to fleece tourists; that wasn’t anything to smile at. You kept your guard up or you ended up in the gutter without a clue how it happened – or worse.

But Darla wore confidence like armor, and it somehow worked. Darla didn’t give an inch.

And, until he had met her, neither had he.

* * *

Darla loved Las Vegas. The night was warm and alive with light and laughter and anywhere you cared to look, people were having a good time. She snuggled up against Jake’s side, soaking in the excitement and optimism around her.

In Ohio, it was still cold three days out of seven, and snow wasn’t an impossibility in early April. She hated the cold: the piles of blankets that didn’t keep her warm; the clothes hung out on the line that never got dry, only damp, cold and stiff; huddling next to space heaters for warmth; the way the snow and slush found a way through a hole in her shoe and wet her socks and feet, not drying for days; and her wrists sticking an inch too far past the cuffs of her too-thin coat. Winter was a march of misery that reminded her daily she was dirt poor.

It never snowed in Las Vegas, and she would be happy if she never saw another snowflake all her life. She would take the desert and the scouring grit that passed for sand in southern Nevada every time. Besides, if she hadn’t gotten on that Greyhound, she never would have met Jake. Darla wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

When Jake was in a good mood, like tonight, people couldn’t keep their eyes off him; he radiated charisma. Of course, it didn’t hurt to have a strong jawline and a mouth that made you think wicked thoughts. Darla thought he looked like the Marlboro Man; Jake even was an honest-to-God cowboy.

When he was in a bad mood, he was a storm cloud poised to hit anyone who crossed him with a lightning strike. The trick was to figure out which mood he was in and manage it.

Lucky for him, he wasn’t in a bad mood around her often, or she would send him packing. He was tense lately, since the Chicago Outfit was breathing down his neck about a debt. He didn’t talk about it, and she didn’t ask. The less you knew, the better, when it came to the Outfit.

What are we doing tonight? she asked Jake.

I was going to play a few rounds of blackjack at the Brown Cow, Jake said. See if I can win some money, take you out on the town.

How many rounds? She was suspicious. Jake would claim he needed her as a good-luck charm, but sitting at the tables for hours held little charm for her.

He grinned. Only a couple. Not long enough for you to get bored.

As long as it’s not going to be too long. She pressed herself against him, delighting in his lean waist and broad shoulders. I really don’t want to share you with anyone else tonight.

He kissed her temple. I am all yours.

For now, anyway. Darla had no delusions; this would end in heartbreak … but she couldn’t help herself.

Saturday, April 9, 1966

Diana attacked her nails with a file, keeping half an eye on the baseball field. Going to the Las Vegas High game wasn’t about watching the game. It was about being seen and seeing who was there with whom and what they were doing and wearing.

What’s eating you? Grace said. Diana’s best friend wore mint-colored capris and a matching headband that had Diana green with envy.

Diana shrugged. Nothing.

Grace’s lips thinned out in disapproval over the lie, but the team trotted onto the field, and Grace leaned forward, intent. Grace had her eye on the starting pitcher, Darin Collins, and hoped he would take her to Helldorado Days. Diana wrinkled her nose and refocused on her nails. She wouldn’t be caught dead at the rodeo; it reeked of horse shit.

She didn’t want Grace to push, but she didn’t want her to back down so easily, either. She could have made Diana work for it and make Diana think she cared.

Diana sighed and watched Darin scuff the mound until he was satisfied. She wasn’t a baseball fan. Baseball was stultifyingly hot nights with WMAQ wavering in and out through static and the Cubs losing yet again, while her father drank and Diana shrank as small as possible and watched the clock, hoping someone would come home so she wasn’t alone.

When he lashed out, their mother would sigh and say she had to work and couldn’t Diana stay out of his way? Frank Kelly was a natural disaster, and you couldn’t avoid a natural disaster. Her mother knew better, and Diana saw the truth in her mother’s eyes before she looked away and changed the subject, her voice artificially light and brittle as glass.

When she couldn’t hide the bruises from her brother, Tim raged, but there was nothing he could do. Confronting their father made things worse, and there was nowhere to go. The cops would drag her back, because their father hated to be defied. Being underage sucked.

Tim was arrested last night, but managed to get out just in time to give Diana hell about the way she dressed. Tim talked about how she should dress and act – like a dowdy wallflower – but he liked bold girls in short skirts just fine. Tim hollered, but he didn’t do anything. He went through the motions because big brothers fussed and he should pay lip service when they crossed paths.

That was Tim: big plans, but no follow through. The one time he actually had tried anything, the Chicago mob came down on him with both feet. Tim ended up in the hospital with a shredded, bloody face full of metal and swathed with bandages.

The hospital room had been claustrophobic, she had carried the stink of antiseptic – carried the hospital – with her everywhere, and her mother’s voice rising and falling in prayer had been nails on a chalkboard. Her chest had been tight, she couldn’t breathe and all she wanted to do was run away from the unrelenting white of walls and sheets and the murmur of the machines hunched around her brother’s bed, as if in anticipation of something awful.

Tim hurt and unconscious brought back bad memories: bottles tumbled across the floor, broken glass everywhere and water spilling across cracked linoleum; their father’s voice raised in anger and his eyes alight with violence; fear making her fingertips tingle and the bright taste of copper blooming in her mouth; her brother’s face set in a defiant snarl; their father’s arm rising and falling until exhaustion and soreness robbed him of strength; Tim sprawled across the floor, only the fall and rise of his ribs indicating he lived; and a pool of blood that widened more and more, no matter what she did to stem the flow.

Diana hissed with pain; she had filed down to the quick without realizing what she was doing. She sucked on the offending finger, and the taste of blood only sharpened the vivid memory.

Tim had taken a beating meant for her, and their father almost killed him. Years later, the scars refused to fade. Tim tried to hide them, but Diana saw them, both the physical reminder scrawled across his back and the hate and anger that drove him.

She might be the only one who could see past Tim’s scars. Diana had seen people turn away when they saw his face and what the Outfit did to it. The scars across his back were easier to hide, but harder to forget. Tim wore them because of her.

How could she doubt her brother, when his love was written in his flesh?

* * *

The house was dark and only the blue glow of the television in the front window indicated someone was home. Diana had stayed at Sill’s later than she should, until her friends had gone home and the weight of the older men’s eyes became too frightening. That fear, tinged with deep unease, drove her away from the restaurant’s bright lights and sent her running home.

She crept up the porch stairs, skipping the one that creaked, and took off her boots before easing the screen door open. She was an old hand at sneaking in – and out.

Her father was in his BarcaLounger, unmoving, the television’s glow making his pale, sallow skin look green. He looked dead. She wished it was true, then felt ashamed. She ought to love him, but she couldn’t. Maybe something was wrong with her that she couldn’t love her father.

She crossed the living room quickly, careful not to get too close, half-afraid he was feigning sleep and would reach out and grab her if she passed too close. She paused by Tim’s room, glancing inside. It was as stark and devoid of personality as the prison cell of a con anticipating parole.

He wasn’t there. He had gone somewhere safe and left her alone again. Hot tears pricked her eyes, and she bit the insides of her cheeks savagely to keep them from falling. Holding her back and shoulders straight and breathing evenly, as if a deep or uneven breath would shatter her composure, she continued stiffly down the hall.

She knew he wouldn’t be here. She knew, but she had hoped.

It didn’t matter. Diana didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. She could take care of herself.

She was alone, and she would deal with it – and anything else that came her way.

* * *

Jake snarled; Darla was as good at getting under his skin as she was at getting in his head. He didn’t like either. It was a day that ended with y, so they were fighting. He would say she drove him crazy, but it had happened long since.

They had spent a lazy afternoon in one of the rented rooms above Rett Gordon’s bar, brought to an abrupt halt when Jackie, one of Darla’s friends, came hunting for her. One of the girls dancing the dinner show at the Silver Slipper was sick, and they wanted Darla to sub for her, although she wasn’t supposed to dance until the late show.

Jake and Darla were supposed to have dinner, but she blew him off and agreed to go in early. Jake ground his teeth; she didn’t think twice about leaving him in the dust. They didn’t give a shit about Darla down there. She was one of dozens of dancers, and she wouldn’t become a star dancing there, no matter what she thought. It was a foolish pipe dream.

Darla insisted she had to get ready for work. Jake mentioned he preferred she did anything other than dance. The assholes slavering over her, the skimpy costumes, the suggestive moves: It all drove him crazy.

He suggested she quit, and she told him to go to hell. Darla didn’t back down from anything – and that included a fight.

If I don’t go to work, how am I supposed to pay my bills? Darla had pulled a pair of blue jeans over her dance costume and grumbled while she did it, but he didn’t like her running around Rett’s roadhouse in her dancing costume. Describing the crowd here as rough was more polite than this group of two-bit criminals deserved.

You should come stay with me, instead of living over at that boarding house, Jake argued.

Moving from motel to motel, living out of a suitcase? Darla pulled a face. No thank you. You get a place of your own and I’ll think about it. Maybe. She crossed her arms.

He struggled with his irritation. You having someone over that I don’t know about?

She rolled her eyes. Don’t be ridiculous. You know Miss Clayton doesn’t allow men at the boarding house. Besides, I have a car loan – you should remember, since you drive it more than I do!

Jake scowled. He was so deep in debt to the Chicago mob that they took any rodeo purse he won, and they wouldn’t look kindly on large purchases. He would be in debt to the Outfit until he died – not that he regretted stopping Carducci’s bullshit, but Jake wouldn’t have killed him if he saw the bill first. Probably. Why do you want to shake your ass for a bunch of drunk tourists?

It’s not shaking my ass, it’s dancing. Every word was cold enough to burn. And it’s easier than making up hotel beds, working as a sales clerk or waitressing. I’m good at it, and I’m going to keep doing it.

A dark-haired girl with a lost expression came down the stairs and they broke their staring contest for a moment to move out of her way.

Do you think I don’t know what those assholes are thinking, when they’re watching you up on stage? When they’re coming in night after night? When they’re sending flowers and candy to your dressing room? Champagne?

I can’t help that, Jake, and you know it. It’s not like I encourage them.

What about meeting with the whales? He flexed his hands and clenched his fists. He would love to get his hands on those bastards, with their leering faces and eager hands.

Jake, it’s part of my job to meet a high roller if he wants. She crossed her arms. I don’t like it, but the casino bosses want to keep them happy and spending. What am I supposed to do?

Say no, Jake spat.

Yeah, I do that, and I’m dancing backup and at the matinees. She sighed. I don’t like it, either, but you’re not working steady.

He clenched his jaw. Darla wanted him to clock a nine to five working construction or with the water company, but it was just a way to die slow. He tried to imagine himself coming home every evening after the factory whistle. Hell, he tried imagining Darla as a housewife, meeting him at the door with a beer and hot plate, and he couldn’t. A picket fence fit them as well as pants fit a dog. She only wanted it because she thought she should. Besides, he had his fill of following orders in the Air Force. I’m breaking horses for Rett, he said. Training, too.

Only when he’s got horses that need broke or trained. Rett’s ain’t a big stable – he only has a handful of horses. That’s not steady work, Jake. Maybe if you get on at Housel’s …

They aren’t hiring. Jake knew – he went to Kev Housel, hat in hand, and asked for a job after the last rodeo.

Jake, I’d like to give you a job, since you know your way around a horse, Kev had said. Wouldn’t mind you riding for us, either, but … you’re in trouble with Chicago, and we don’t need none of that trouble here. He said it like they were strangers, like Kev’s best racer wasn’t studded by Double or Nothing and Jake hadn’t introduced Kev and Cash Connell, Double’s owner, plus got Kev a deal on the stud fee.

Not in trouble, Jake said. Just owe them a bit of money. If I can get a steady job, I get out from under it all the quicker.

Kev shook his head. I would like to help you, but we can’t even have a whiff of that around our stables. People might think we were fixing races. I’m sorry, Jake.

Jake hadn’t been sorry when he slashed Kev’s trailer tires.

He wasn’t sorry he told Carducci to back off the kid, either, and he wasn’t sorry he killed him, although it was an accident. Carducci was a bastard, trying to get a dumb teenager to be a drug mule. The idea was twisted, but not without merit – Al was part of the background, no one noticed him, and he didn’t have anyone to look out for him.

Jake went farther than he wanted – he lost time, he did that sometimes – and Carducci had to disappear into the desert, like many before him. That didn’t stop the Outfit from knocking at Jake’s door. He had no idea how they figured out it was him. There was no use denying it; unlike Tim Kelly, who Outfit boys had walloped in the face with a baseball bat, Jake was fond of his teeth.

He shouldn’t have gotten involved. The kid was a half-breed who followed the rodeos, saddling and currying, mucking and hauling, in the hopes of enough tips to pay rent on a by-the-week motel and a hot meal. No one knew who or where his parents were or how old Al was. Al didn’t talk about himself – he didn’t talk much at all. But anyone could see Al was desperate and barely hanging on. Show a weakness and this town would eat you alive.

Jake shouldn’t have gotten involved in the Outfit’s business, but there was something about the kid, the way he looked at Jake with an expression of perfect trust.

It reminded him of Ritchie.

Ritchie had been dead for two decades, and Jake hadn’t protected him worth a damn.

Ritchie had been four; somehow he opened the basement door, then fell through the space between the risers and the railing, fell an entire story to the cement floor below.

Jake had been in elementary school, and by the time he stepped off the school bus, the hearse had come and gone. Ritchie was removed from Jake’s life quickly, completely, surreally.

Their mother’s eyes had been red, puffy and haunted when she sat down with him.

Something bad happened, she had said.

Ritchie had died. Something bad didn’t begin to cover it.

Ritchie had been small, but the coffin was tiny, too small to hold Ritchie, who was a whirlwind of good-natured mischief and laughter.

Watch me, Jake! Ritchie’s feet barely reached the tricycle’s pedals, but he aimed it at the bottom of the biggest hill on their farm.

Jake chased him with his heart in his throat and Ritchie’s screamy laughter, half-triumphant and half-scared, in his ears until they ended up in a tangle of boy and bike at the bottom, both of them laughing in relief.

Again! Ritchie said. His eyes gleamed with excitement, and his overalls were muddy with red Alabama clay over his bare chest.

No way, Jake said. We gotta clean you up before Mom wakes up from her nap.

When Jake turned the hose on him, Ritchie laughed and danced under the spray of water until both of them were doing their best rain dance and war-whooping so loudly they woke up their mother.

Ritchie never got old enough to learn caution. Ritchie never learned all the ways the world could fuck you up. Maybe it was better that way.

There wasn’t money for a tombstone, so their mother put pinwheels on his grave: shiny, cheerful and cheap. They hadn’t lasted long; by the time their mother left for good a few months later, they were faded and tattered junk.

The last time Jake was out there, there only was a battered tin sign: Richard Lee Wheeler Oct 1 1942 April 6 1947. Letters were missing, but Jake knew what it said.

Maybe a hundred people remembered Ritchie lived and died. Jake would never forget, and, sometimes when he was bad drunk, he wondered how Ritchie opened the basement door. It was always locked.

Halfway across the country, a teenager who wasn’t born when Ritchie died reminded Jake of him so strongly he did something stupid. Maybe it was the confidence or the unasked-for trust.

Something reminded him of a dead little boy long ago and far away, and he stuck his neck out.

He still shouldn’t have done it.

* * *

Darla planted her hands on her hips and returned Jake’s scowl with one of her own. He could screw his face up like a wet dishrag for a month of Sundays, and it wouldn’t scare her. Jake was meaner than a junkyard dog and didn’t think there was a problem he couldn’t pummel into submission, but he never laid a hand on her. His sharp tongue and cruel games did enough damage.

The hell of it was he thought he did right by her, as long as he kept his hands off her.

He snarled some excuse about Housel not hiring. The real problem was Jake hated committing to so much as a job. It was why he drifted from place to place, never staying anywhere long. The longest time he stayed put was the Air Force, until he got into a fight with the wrong person and was dishonorably discharged. Both sides were glad to be done with the other.

Jake wasn’t known for sticking around, so it gave her a perverse sense of pride to hold on to him. She didn’t know