The room is hot, stifling, oppressive even. This is Las Vegas, it's a dry heat, the kind that makes a man thirst for a belt of scotch and makes a dame wet in the unholiest of places. I'm on the job now so booze is out of the question, at least until the big hand strikes four and the little hand strikes six. The best I can hope for is a cold soda. I ankle to the cooler, where the boys are shooting marbles and betting clams. They're all here. Chumlee, Fat Back, Johnny. One palooka dumber than the next. Chumlee is dumber than a box of rocks and twice as ugly. These are the kind of mugs that would doublecross their own mother for a sawbuck. I keep them around for muscle when things get hot.
I take a slug of soda and loosen my tie, surveying my domain. Timepieces, choppers, cheaters, jalopies out back, lighters in the case under me. All items pawned for a quick buck. Pawned by rag-a-muffins, dewdroppers, and four-flushers. I clean them up, fix them, then flip them for green. Someone once said a sucker was born every minute. Most of the time they come into my shop. Rubes looking for a deal. The bell rang on the shop door.
The broad that waltzes through my door isn't a rube. At least she doesn't dress like one. To the nines is what I'm saying. She wears a slinky white dress like a priest wears a collar - tight and with confidence. Something told me she wasn't the religious type though. I'd seen the dress before, sitting in the window of one of those high class boutique joints down on the Strip. Either this broad is from money or she's found herself a sugar daddy with deep pockets.
The dame has gams like a flamingo in repose - long, thin and sure to ruffle a few feathers. I don't mind staring at them. She minds even less. She is trouble.
"You keep sucking on that bottle and I might get jealous," she says.
"For a minute I mistook you for a class act. You come here to banter or trade your wares? 'Cause I don't think I can afford either."
"You're cute, Mister..."
"Harrison. Rick Harrison."
"Well Mister Harrison. Jokes aside. I'm looking for a man who knows a thing or two about wood."
"I know it's hard or soft. Sometimes it gets wet."
"As much as I'd like to chew gum with such an obviously smooth operator, I'm here with business. An acquaintance informed me that you're a spotter, Mister Harrison."
"Depending on your acquaintance, I could hit on all sixes or be a real wet blanket."
"He said you're keen. Ever see one of these?"
The skirt pulls a wooden canteen out of her black leather bag. Of course I'd seen one before. It was a Civil War relic, hard to come by and worth a lot of lettuce. If it was real. I've seen a lot of two-bit phonies come through the door. I flip the piece over in my hand. There is a name etched in the side. It reads "William Tecumseh Sherman." Old Uncle Billy himself, the man who inspired Patton and got a Kraut-killing tank named after him. A real American hero.
"This the Real McCoy?" I ask.
"It sure is, Mister Harrison."
"Then you're looking at a lotta simoleans."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
Then the dame does something I should have seen coming, if I weren't distracted by those baby blues and a short hemline. She pulls a heater out of her bag and points it in my general direction.
"Mister Harrison, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."
"Sorry, toots. I don't make house calls."
"Try to make an exception this one time. Some important people need your expertise, and unfortunately it's not exactly... legal."
I felt a warm sting on the back of my neck and dropped to my knees. The room dances around my eyes like a gimp in a gin joint. I fall on my back, see Chum standing above me. The big twit is more crooked than a gimp in a gin joint. I should have suspected. I don't pay him enough to be loyal.
"Chum, you're a real killjoy, ya know."
"Sorry Rick, we've gotta go see a man about a dog now."
His curled right hand slams into my pretty mug. The last thing I see before the room goes dark is that big mope shaking his stinging knuckles.
TO BE CONTINUED?...
The broad that waltzes through my door isn't a rube. At least she doesn't dress like one. To the nines is what I'm saying. She wears a slinky white dress like a priest wears a collar - tight and with confidence. Something told me she wasn't the religious type though. I'd seen the dress before, sitting in the window of one of those high class boutique joints down on the Strip. Either this broad is from money or she's found herself a sugar daddy with deep pockets.
The dame has gams like a flamingo in repose - long, thin and sure to ruffle a few feathers. I don't mind staring at them. She minds even less. She is trouble.
"You keep sucking on that bottle and I might get jealous," she says.
"For a minute I mistook you for a class act. You come here to banter or trade your wares? 'Cause I don't think I can afford either."
"You're cute, Mister..."
"Harrison. Rick Harrison."
"Well Mister Harrison. Jokes aside. I'm looking for a man who knows a thing or two about wood."
"I know it's hard or soft. Sometimes it gets wet."
"As much as I'd like to chew gum with such an obviously smooth operator, I'm here with business. An acquaintance informed me that you're a spotter, Mister Harrison."
"Depending on your acquaintance, I could hit on all sixes or be a real wet blanket."
"He said you're keen. Ever see one of these?"
The skirt pulls a wooden canteen out of her black leather bag. Of course I'd seen one before. It was a Civil War relic, hard to come by and worth a lot of lettuce. If it was real. I've seen a lot of two-bit phonies come through the door. I flip the piece over in my hand. There is a name etched in the side. It reads "William Tecumseh Sherman." Old Uncle Billy himself, the man who inspired Patton and got a Kraut-killing tank named after him. A real American hero.
"This the Real McCoy?" I ask.
"It sure is, Mister Harrison."
"Then you're looking at a lotta simoleans."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
Then the dame does something I should have seen coming, if I weren't distracted by those baby blues and a short hemline. She pulls a heater out of her bag and points it in my general direction.
"Mister Harrison, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."
"Sorry, toots. I don't make house calls."
"Try to make an exception this one time. Some important people need your expertise, and unfortunately it's not exactly... legal."
I felt a warm sting on the back of my neck and dropped to my knees. The room dances around my eyes like a gimp in a gin joint. I fall on my back, see Chum standing above me. The big twit is more crooked than a gimp in a gin joint. I should have suspected. I don't pay him enough to be loyal.
"Chum, you're a real killjoy, ya know."
"Sorry Rick, we've gotta go see a man about a dog now."
His curled right hand slams into my pretty mug. The last thing I see before the room goes dark is that big mope shaking his stinging knuckles.
TO BE CONTINUED?...
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