Empty Luck

By Paul Backalenick

On a wild trip to Las Vegas, two brothers and their two friends are looking for easy sex and money. At first, they feel lucky to find both, but soon they are plunged into the seamy underbelly of the city. Hiding from a vicious man, they get out of town, leaving him behind. But nothing stays in Vegas, and the man chases them back to their native Boston. Not only are they in danger from their relentless pursuer, but they are in danger from each other, as their collective greed, arrogance, and loyalty crash together. And through all this, they must contend with their own addictions, whether gambling, drugs, alcohol, or sex.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Backalenick
• Release date: Mar 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224992348

Paul Backalenick

I am the author of psychological mystery and suspense novels and short stories. I have published two books so far, with a third on the way. Originally from Boston, I grew up in Westport, Connecticut where my first novel, Development, takes place. After college, I lived in and around Boston and that is where Carrie’s Secret is set. At present, I am working on my third novel, a Las Vegas mystery, tentatively titled Empty Luck. I graduated from Brown University with a concentration in psychology and later received graduate degrees from Boston University and Boston College. I have had a diverse career, including working as a psychologist, hospital admissions director, information technology consultant, Internet entrepreneur, and Wall Street day trader. In my spare time, I enjoy playing piano and guitar as well as staggering around on a golf course, playing poker, and generally traveling overseas as much as possible. I am passionate about nature and the natural world inspires and rejuvenates me. That is why I support animal rights, ecology and conservation causes. I love being around woods and ponds, but oddly, after a rather peripatetic life, I am now nested in New York City with my wife, artist Karen Loew.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I HAVE DEDICATED THIS, my third novel, to Peter Gambaccini, whom I have known since we were both five years old growing up in Westport, Connecticut. It saddens me deeply to write that Peter has succumbed to Frontotemporal Dementia, a rare neuro-degenerative disease akin in ways to both Alzheimer’s Disease and Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS).

Before his rapid descent into a hellish netherworld, Peter was a wonderful reader and supporter of my work. He read an early draft of this book as well as all my others. Always generous with his time, he gladly contributed thoughtful and intelligent observations. He was an invaluable help and I am now sadly bereft of his wisdom and humor. That is why I want to acknowledge him here. I wish we had twenty more good years together.

Other early readers have been wonderful as well. Moe Shore and Chris O’Neill, my well-read, long-time friends, offered smart opinions and suggestions that helped me shape this book

I am also grateful to Andrew Kreutter who steered me through some of the plot entanglements I created. He always grounds me in reality.

Thanks as well to my group of fellow writers, the Uptown Writer’s Circle (Katherine, Marguerite, Elinol, Sandra, Tom, Mitalee, and Roy). Supportive and talented aspiring authors all, they carefully read sections and redirected my wayward prose when it lacked clarity, believability, or otherwise strayed down some other misguided path.

I wish to mention several important teachers. At Staples High School, Dick Leonard, who presided over advanced placement English, was a wonderfully supportive and open-minded advisor. At Brown University, I studied poetry with Edwin Honig who encouraged the poet he somehow saw in me. And in the unlikely environment of my graduate business program at Boston College, Anthony Athos believed in me as a writer (though not as a public speaker).

I cannot leave out my own mother, Irene Backalenick, a very talented journalist and theater critic. She is my role model for serious writing.

Finally, I want to thank my wonderful wife, Karen Loew. A talented artist and designer, her creativity and sharp eye improved my limited art skills to create this book’s cover. A terrific editor as well, she helped me navigate various challenges of plot and dialog. She spotted errors that I had managed to miss no matter how often I read them. But far more than those contributions, I treasure her unwavering belief in me which carries me through my endless doubts and droughts.

Thank you all.

Paul Backalenick

August 14, 2023

New York City

Principal Characters

The Boston Boys:

Jared Appleton – 30 year old record store clerk

Ricky Sullivan – 26 year old Boston Police rookie

Tommy Sullivan – Ricky’s older brother, 29 years old

Eric Zinkawich – Psychiatric Aide, 30 years old

The Mob guys:

Fausto D’Angelo – A Mafia captain in Las Vegas

Vinny Colucci - A Mafia captain in Boston

Gino and Lou – Two of Fausto’s crew

Jimmy McGuire – Silver Comet Casino Manager

The Palace Club:

Curly Kagan – Palace Club Manager

Jenny May Campbell – Exotic Dancer

Chelsea D’Angelo – Fausto’s 17 year old daughter

The Cowboys:

Bingo

Hawk (Orrin Standing Bear)

Wes – Leader of the Cowboys

Chapter 1

Friday, September 21 , 1984

Money is the lifeblood of Las Vegas and Tommy Sullivan was bleeding out.

He threw his losing cards onto the felt, muttered Fuck this! and stormed out of the Silver Comet poker room.

Tommy wasn’t good at much, but he believed he was good at poker. At a card table, he felt like a king. An aggressive bettor, he usually pushed the other players around, but today, they didn’t back down and instead, turned him into a pauper. It was intolerable.

Out in the main casino, he shoved his way through the noise and the crowd and escaped to a quiet bathroom stall. He didn’t need the bathroom, only the silent isolation it afforded. Fully clothed, he sat down on the seat and tried to collect himself.

Not long after settling there, he heard someone enter the stall to his left. A mossy cigar smell filled the air and Tommy wrinkled his nose, turning away from the pungent odor.

With a shake of his head, he glanced down at the man’s black wingtip shoes that poked out from under a pair of deep blue dress pants. Just some rich prick taking a bathroom break, he thought.

A series of grunts followed by heavy labored breathing emanated from the man. That was enough for Tommy and he stood up to leave. But as the man’s pants fell to the floor, Tommy heard a whoosh and saw a fat black wallet drop to the tile.

He sat back down and stared at the wallet, his breath quickening. Nothing happened for a moment. The man did not seem to notice it lying there. Then, like a snake seizing its prey, Tommy’s left hand shot out and snatched it up, pulling it into his lap. There was no reaction from the owner. Cradling it in both hands, Tommy squeezed the soft leather, testing its heft. He opened it to reveal a thick sheaf of hundred dollar bills.

Whoa! Any second this guy will notice. Put it back! But he could not let go of it. What if I keep it? He won’t know. Hell, he can afford it. Hurrying, Tommy closed the wallet, stood up, shoved it into his back pocket, and bolted from the stall.

In the bright bathroom glare, he glanced once at his flushed face in the mirror and ran out into the lively casino. Slow down! He stopped and looked around. Gamblers and waitresses scurried past him. Excited tourists rushed by. The place was abuzz with people talking loudly and having fun. No one paid any attention to him.

The wallet felt like a heavy stone in his back pocket, pressing against him, prodding him forward. I could still give it back. No, I already took it.

Standing there, he felt a powerful urge to look again at the money. Not here. They have cameras. Plus the guy could come out any minute. Get outta here right now!

He walked quickly to an exit and down a long carpeted hallway. He would not run, but the abstract red, yellow and orange rug screamed at him. Hurry! At the end of the hall, he came to an elevator for the parking garage.

Standing alone and breathing hard, he tapped his right hip rapidly and watched the floor indicator move at a glacial pace. At last the elevator door opened and he rushed into the cab. He was surrounded by mirrors. Everywhere he turned, he saw his stocky body bobbing up and down, arms twitching. The shock of red hair on his head looked like fire above his black clothes. As the door opened, his arms tensed, ready to battle anyone who might confront him.

Fighting came naturally to Tommy. Throughout his childhood, he fought with his father. In school, he bullied other boys and disobeyed his teachers. Then in his teens, he fought with his girlfriend and later, he fought with his boss. For Tommy, life was a battlefield.

At the third floor, he walked out into the concrete stillness of the cool, dark parking garage. When a distant car started up on another floor, he jumped and quickened his pace. His eyes darted everywhere, scanning the wide space. With no one in sight, he rushed up to his rented Ford Fiesta and unlocked the door.

Sitting down in the driver’s seat, he exhaled a long breath. A tremor ran through his arms and he put both hands on the steering wheel to steady himself. He could smell the sweat under his clothes.

In the tight confines of the small car, he twisted around and pulled the wallet out of his back pocket. Opening it again, he saw the money and felt a tightening in his chest. He took a deep breath. This is trouble, he thought, but he shoved that thought aside. It’s yours.

He removed the wad of currency. It looked to be all hundred dollar bills. He counted three thousand, three hundred dollars. Staring at it, he said aloud, "These are the spoils of war." He separated ten bills, a thousand dollars, and put that in his own wallet. The rest went back into the man’s wallet. He was about to lock it in the glove compartment when he stopped, curious to know more.

He opened it again and riffled through cards and photos, extracting the owner’s license. It showed a dark haired man named Fausto D’Angelo, a Nevada resident, date of birth June 6, 1938. Brown eyes, it read, and five feet eight inches tall.

Tommy studied the photo for a moment. All right, this is the man whose money I took. Fuck him. It’s mine now.

He put the license back, closed the wallet and this time, locked it in the glove compartment. Looking at his face in the rear view mirror, he took a deep breath and puffed out his chest. He was a gladiator, a conqueror, defeating a powerful enemy.

Ricky, my choir boy brother, would never have the balls to do this.

Chapter 2

Friday, September 7 , 1984

Two weeks earlier, in the small living room of his South Boston childhood home, Tommy watched his mother prepare for a party. It was a big night for his younger brother, Ricky, who had graduated that afternoon from the Boston Police Academy.

At 26, Ricky still lived with his mother. Erin Sullivan knew it was past time for her son to get on with his life and move out of the house. The party was her idea. It was her way of sending him off with love. Neither said it aloud, but both knew it was time for him to go. Once he started getting regular paychecks from the department, he would get his own place.

With suggestions from Tommy, Erin had invited Ricky’s neighborhood friends and his poker buddies. The crowd would arrive soon.

On a sideboard in the living room, Erin filled a big glass punchbowl with various fruit juices and a liberal dose of rum. She set out a tall stack of red plastic drink cups and considered pouring herself a drink, but instead, she turned and headed into the kitchen.

At the center of the kitchen table, she placed a wide sheet cake decorated with sugary depictions of a police badge and a jail. Above these images, she wrote in green frosting, Congratulations Officer Ricky.

Tommy wandered into the kitchen. He hadn’t seen the cake before and he suppressed the intrusive thought that his mother never made him a special cake. Maybe I didn’t do anything worth celebrating. He shook his head. Forget it. I don’t need anyone to make me a cake. I’m not a little punk like Ricky. He shook his head again. All right, give the kid a break. It’s his big day.

Tommy wished his brother well, even if the dumb twerp was going to be a cop, of all things. With a twisted smile, he nodded his approval of the cake. His mother noticed the slant to his mouth but returned a smile. She wouldn’t let anything ruin this day.

They both turned as Ricky arrived in the kitchen freshly showered and dressed head-to-toe in his new uniform. Looking at his mother and brother, he could not hold back a silly grin.

Tommy rolled his eyes while his mother placed both hands on her younger son’s shoulders, beaming at him. I’m proud of you, she said.

Twenty minutes later, Ricky’s friends began to show up. They naturally divided into two groups. His friends from school, men and women he had known since childhood, congregated in the kitchen. His poker buddies were a little older and gathered around the punchbowl in the living room. That group surrounded the new policeman, toasting him with glasses of punch and raucous laughs.

Tommy grabbed the cap from Ricky’s head, held it high in the air, and paraded it around the room, leaving the new cop feeling naked and exposed. Ricky tried to grab it back or catch his brother’s eye, to no avail. Finally, Tommy placed it cockeyed back on his brother’s head. Ricky blushed and grinned and everyone applauded.

Tommy filled a glass with punch, tilted his head to one side and studied his little brother. Congratulations, he said, raising a toast, To the only virgin on the force.

Ricky’s already reddish cheeks grew a shade brighter. He straightened the cap and waved a hand at Tommy. Don’t make me arrest you, he said, trying to add a tough, authoritative tone to his cracking voice.

Yeah, you wish, Tommy smirked.

Ricky was three inches taller than Tommy, but he felt smaller. He always had. He had a much slighter build, tall and gangly compared to Tommy’s stout muscular frame. Ricky was easily cowed by his big brother.

Billy Kowalski, the only other virgin in the room, placed a big hand on Ricky’s shoulder. A large, kind man, Billy said earnestly, You’re just waitin’ for the right girl.

Ricky stared at Billy for a moment and nodded. Then he looked at the women through the doorway, in the kitchen. He had known all of them for years. They were friends, nothing more.

Wait’ll he busts a hooker and she offers him trade, said Eric Zinkawich.

Ricky turned and looked down at his wiry little poker buddy and gave him a friendly shove. Not gonna happen, he said, still blushing and hiding his face behind a big cup of punch.

Cops get a lotta perks, observed Todd Baron, another member of their poker crowd. You’ll have your choice of women.

Oh, I don’t know, said Ricky.

To the new Ricky, Tommy chuckled, holding up his cup again. Virgin turned sex fiend.

Ricky shook his head. This gentle joshing from his big brother was vastly better than Tommy’s usual barbs.

Eric’s long blond hair flew from side to side following his animated hands. Well, I think we should do something about that, he said.

Oh yeah, like what? laughed Ricky. He never took Eric very seriously. And he had no interest in a hooker, if that’s what Eric had in mind. He would wait until marriage, he thought.

We should go to Vegas. Get you laid out there, Eric urged, before you’re a real cop.

Yeah, right. Ricky glanced at his fellow poker players. They were all around him, holding their drinks and watching him.

Tommy chimed in. Good idea. Keep the party going.

Jared Appleton thought about it. Las Vegas was very tempting. He loved his local poker game with this group and he jumped at any excuse to gamble, but Vegas was dangerous. It was too easy to play craps and lose what little money he had. He felt anxiety bubble up from his stomach. He did not need to add more stress to his already tense life, but Vegas is a chance to escape. It would be fun.

Why not, he said with a rapid clip to his voice. Give Ricky a Vegas send-off. I’d go, play some craps, poker. He noticed Ricky’s anxious eyes. It’s okay, Jared assured him, despite his own anxiety. We’ll gamble, relax. You don’t have to get laid if you don’t want to, but you could check out the Palace Club with us. You might like that.

The Palace Club was a strip joint the others had visited on previous trips. Ricky had never been to Las Vegas, let alone a strip club. He shook his head. Gambling was bad enough, but a strip club, never. Lust was a sin. He shook his head. He would not go to the Palace Club.

Sounds good, said Tommy, ignoring his brother’s reaction. He looked across the room at his longtime girlfriend, Catherine Cat Whelan. The dark haired woman stood by herself, leaning against a bookcase. She nodded her head, a miniscule movement, imperceptible to all but Tommy. She wouldn’t stop him. In fact, she would probably encourage him to go, he decided. She believed in him, in his ability to win at poker, and her faith in his skill bolstered his belief in himself, Let’s do it, he said. Nothin’ keepin’ me here.

Todd Baron shook his head. Not me. I have to work. With a noticeable limp, he walked to the sideboard and carefully poured himself one half cup of rum punch.

Same here, said Billy.

Dick Morgan, another of the poker players and a junior high school science teacher, said Nah, I can’t go.

Well, the four of us then, Jared said. Ricky, you wanna? he asked.

Ricky shifted his feet and glanced shyly at the group around him. He loved these guys, even Tommy. Especially Tommy. He felt pulled in two directions. Gambling and sex were troubling, but this was a celebration, a special occasion.

In fact, this was probably a good time for him to go, he realized. He might not get another chance for a long time. His start date on the Boston Police Force had been postponed a few weeks. There was some sort of turmoil in the Department, problems with bussing black students from Roxbury to white communities. There were cries of police brutality in the press and the whole force was on edge, irritable and explosive. Because the top brass were still organizing their response, Ricky’s start date had been postponed for three weeks.

He had gambled before, played slot machines in Atlantic City. He enjoyed it. Moderate gambling wasn’t a sin. His friends had all been to Las Vegas. He was curious. Why not keep the party going? I don’t have to sleep with a hooker or anything. Why not? he said aloud, but no hookers.

Yeah, okay, Tommy laughed. I’ll set it up. We’ll go in two weeks and we’ll stay a week.

Chapter 3

Friday, September 21 , 1984

Two weeks later, at one in the afternoon, TWA flight 1611 from Boston landed at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. Tommy, Ricky, Eric, and Jared picked up their bags, found their rental car in the bright glare, and now sped toward the Roundup Hotel and Casino.

One of the older hotels on Las Vegas Boulevard, the Roundup was shabbier than the gleaming buildings that towered nearby. But it was a bargain. The foursome felt lucky to get a large suite right on the Strip. From there, they could easily walk to nearby casinos or drive to any of the others.

The Roundup had its own small casino located at the front of the complex. It held a few blackjack tables and slot machines, but none of the four wanted to gamble there. They preferred to go where the action was, the big, hotels with huge casinos. The Roundup was only a place to sleep. Behind its sad little casino stretched the hotel. The two story building rambled a hundred yards to the rear.

They checked in and drove toward the back, parking in the lot that paralleled the building.

After dropping the luggage in their rooms, Tommy pulled his bucket hat onto his head and collected the other three. Let’s go, he told them. They willingly followed him out the door. He drove down the Strip heading for the Desert Inn, but then changed his mind and headed back toward their hotel. He pulled into the garage of the Silver Comet, the big casino next door to the Roundup. Jared wondered why Tommy chose the Comet. They could have walked there from the Roundup, but he gave it no further thought

Every game in the casino had its devotees and each of the four men had his own preference. Ricky never learned the table games and played nothing but slot machines. He enjoyed the repetitive routine, the simplicity, win or lose with every spin.

His older brother played poker exclusively, claiming it was the only game where the odds aren’t against you. Eric usually played blackjack. He could take or leave gambling, but when he played, he found he most enjoyed the rhythm of blackjack. The game calmed him.

For Jared, all gambling was alluring. Since getting sober a year ago, his interest in gambling had only grown. He enjoyed all the games in the casino, but craps was his favorite. And now he was excited at the prospect of finding a lively craps table.

Tommy found a spot on the third level of the parking garage. He tossed his hat in the back seat and they all got out. Their anticipation was like an electric current charging their walk as they entered the giant throbbing Silver Comet casino. They were immediately surrounded by slot machines and Ricky planted himself before one. The group left him there and walked on.

Eric grinned at every cocktail waitress they passed while Tommy scanned the distant walls for the poker room. When he finally spotted the word Poker in block letters in a far corner, he trotted toward the sign, leaving his friends to catch up.

Eric and Jared stopped at the entrance to the poker room and watched Tommy wend his way to the sign-in desk. Poker had its own separate space filled with dozens of low tables and quiet serious card players. The two peered in and Eric shook his head. There was better fun to be had elsewhere in the casino. Looks boring, he said. Jared agreed, for now.

Moving on, they arrived at a row of half a dozen blackjack tables. The first one called for a minimum bet of one hundred dollars. Aside from the dealer, the table was deserted. Next were two twenty-five dollar tables. They each had two players and five empty chairs. Eric and Jared walked on and arrived at the busiest tables, those with a five dollar minimum bet. Eric found an empty seat at one and squeezed into it. Jared noticed the other six players grudgingly moved aside to make room.

As he settled in, Eric asked a swarthy young man to his right, How’s it going?

Eh, up and down, the man shrugged. This is a pretty cold shoe.

Eric grinned. Time for a change then. He took out two twenty dollar bills and slid them over to the dealer. A crisply efficient Asian woman, she immediately spread the bills apart, counted out eight red five dollar chips in two neat piles and placed them in front of Eric.

Good luck, she said automatically as she dropped the twenties into a slot next to her.

Eric placed two red chips in the betting circle and received a four and a ten. Jared saw him lose the hand and promptly bet another ten dollars. Eric watched the cards intently, his hands lifting and dropping his chips. Each player seemed to slowly consult their own thoughts and either hit or stand. Blackjack lacked the camaraderie and energy of craps. Eager to see the dice fly, Jared tapped his friend on the shoulder. I’m going to play some craps. See you later.

Eric responded with a brief nod. Concentrating on blackjack was one of the few activities that could keep Eric’s normally agitated body relatively still, except for his hands. They never stopped moving.

For some reason, the craps tables were hard to locate in the big casino. Jared walked faster. He rushed past roulette and baccarat tables, the wheel of fortune, three-card poker and other table games he didn’t recognize. People sat before all of them, watching, talking, or cheering.

Normally Jared liked walking around the casino, soaking in the lively atmosphere. Like an alcoholic in a bar, he simply enjoyed being there. But today he felt a charge in his step. Where are the tables? He lit a Marlboro and continued his search.

At last he spotted them. There were four craps tables, each a long oblong well, rimmed with a thick rail where players kept their chips. Jared felt the energy radiating from the knot of players around some of the tables and he sped up his approach. But he stopped and forced himself to watch, to get a sense of