Cold War Copa by Phil Swann

Author:Phil Swann [Swann, Phil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cygnus Road
Published: 2020-06-14T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

I was mugged once before, but it wasn’t in Vegas. It was in Indiana, of all places. Although I don’t recall the exact date, I do remember it was a Saturday night, sometime in March, the year was 1956. I was fourteen, and without Pop knowing it, had hopped a bus to Bloomington to hear Miles Davis play. After the show, a guy jumped me outside the Greyhound station. I don’t think the ruffian was much older than me, but he got away with my last two dollars, my bus ticket, and my latest edition of Down Beat magazine. I had to reverse the charges when I called Pop to ask if he’d come and get me. I’m not sure what angered the old man more, the fact I ran off to Bloomington without telling him, or that I got my butt kicked by a city boy. Probably the latter.

After Barnard dropped me off at my car, I drove back to The Strip because, believe it or not, The Strip is probably one of the safest places on the face of the earth. In fact, contrary to what you might think, Las Vegas in general boasts one of the lowest crime rates in America—for the regular Jane and Joe, that is. The reason for all this tranquility is exactly why you’d think. It’s based on an arrangement happily, if not blindly, accepted by all, including the police, who apparently have made it policy to look the other way regarding certain things. If, however, you’re not a regular Jane or Joe and instead happen to be somebody looking to cause trouble for one of the grand poobahs who quote, protect this town, end quote, then more than likely there’s a lovely little hole in the desert with your name on it. Or so I hear.

This was why I needed to talk to someone who operated outside those rules. Someone who was a troublemaker but had successfully avoided the backlash of being one. Someone who wasn’t your average Jane and Joe, but understood the average Jane and Joe like no other. As it happened, I knew someone who fit that description to a T.

First, I popped into the Sands and reconfirmed with Rosie she had indeed seen Lydia coming out of Ray’s Market. The Silver Queen was in full swing, and Rosie didn’t have time to chat, so I simply asked the question, got my confirmation, and left. I then bounced down to the Riviera, because if memory served me, that was where my troublemaker would be. Memory did serve me, and I found Stanley O’Malley siting in his office—otherwise known as the keno lounge.

“Stan-o,” I said, coming up to the table and sitting without an invitation.

“One moment, my young friend. The last numbers are coming up.”

I hushed and waited as he checked off his spots.

Stanley O’Malley was a large, red-faced Irishman with a big voice and even bigger personality. His trademark fashion was a double extra-large white linen suit and straw Panama hat.

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