Tony Scram - Mafia Wheelman by Phil Rossi - HTML preview

 50.

Scram bunked it at the Joker's Wild. A hot sheet efficiency, three blocks off the Vegas Strip. With all this loot, he could afford higher class. Instead, marooned with the riff raff. Play it safe. Below the surface.

There was something else squeezing in. Even in lay-low Las Vegas, Scram was spotted. By a few people. The snitch lines tapped. Ever since Shorty was bagged off the boardwalk, the legend continued to grow. The team, the heist, the players. The Over-The-Hill Gang. The underdogs who did shoot straight, and knocked off the man. Not only did they heist, they beat down, and bitch-slapped the Soprano's. In one fucking week. This was hall-of-fame stuff. Sure, there was a patch in the street that hooted over this one. Game over, they made it. Not so fast. The guys in charge padded the reward.

A mile away, LV badge were in another efficiency, hogging up the parking lot of The Royal Flush. Staging area supreme. It resembled the set of a Michael Mann film. Sheriff's deputies hauled in the hot stuff. Teams vested up. Thick gloves, combat boots, screened helmets.

A gun wagon zoomed in, and roosted. The deputies went yahoo. More wagons, deputies, and detectives horned in. Two-way radio exchanges. High-value target. Action Jackson. A mile up the stretch, at the good ole Joker's Wild.

Big Vegas continued the build-up. Holding up their end of things. It was still the Hoover's case. They held the dice on this one. The orders were to wait for them. A team was on it's way, buzzing towards the staging area.

Meanwhile, back at the pad, Tony dove into the kidney shaped pool. Below the surface, he went back to that stretch. The one in state, the only federal rap he banged. That one cut him to the bone. The grave digger detail. The sad and lonely, left behind, pushing up Big Mac wrappers. The same graves where the prison priest would toss a blessing, then turn his back so the guards could splash the casket.

"What difference does it make? When you’re gone, you’re gone," said his cell mate, Ollie. Tony emerged, frogging back before dipping another dive. This trip, he reeled Nicky. It always bothered him. Why the hell they had to take his kid brother like that. Tony enlisted in the early 60's, fresh off the farm. Eighteen.

Peace time. The only army in Vietnam were the advisors. Tony banged his two years, was discharged, and found his way to the crime father.

Tony decided he'd have to really scram. He never thought about leaving the country, but he'd have to. That, or head back to the big house. Thanks, but no thanks. Vegas is a good place to hole up, but it's changed. Not like yesterday.

A few laps to plot and plan. Head to L.A. Grab an Asian flight, then figure it out. Either way, time to move. Today, you could daisy-chain the money. Stashing it, like the old getaway cars on a job. Then, electronically transfer it. Computers. Novice. A cyber trail. The Hoovers are even better than the Rooskies. They'd be looking for it.

Damn it. I should have banked that hard left at Arizona. If he had, he'd be in Mexico right now. Home free. Instead, he went north. Too late now. Time to peel.

The Hoovers radioed in. Get ready to move and surround the Joker's Wild. Hang back, let the Hoovers bag. Great. Where the hell were they? The deputies skin jumping, suits wolfing Mc Muffins.

Scram hopped from the pool, and toweled himself dry. He paused. Over the hedge line, Tony spotted the dark car darting in.

No, this one wasn't a Maybach. Those meatheads already ditched the chase. No, no. This ride was totally different. It was a Crown Vic. Unmarked detective blue. He grabbed his robe, hustling off.

Through the windows, he spotted the Hoovers moving in.

The charcoal suits buzzed the gate, entering the grounds. They tucked the wheels, now on foot.

There's no way I'm going down, he thought. No way I'm going back, I'll never get out. No chance I'm givin' up Bones. No chance. Mean stretch ahead. What's it gonna be? Tony never left his mates. That was his bag. No, his soul. This was one law he couldn't break. If he gives up Bones, it's reduced grease. A chance. Scram never cooked a guy. No way I'm goin' back. Not a chance.

The gremlin. Deballed by bug house dope. Under control. No more. The bastard burned off the tonic, busting loose. Smacking Tony's brain walls. A tiger in a padded cell. I've got you now, Scram.

He heard the footsteps, racing the cement. A flight of steps.

Five doors down the terrace. Moving in. He could hear the heavy breathing.

Scram dug out the gun. A .38. The same version Bones blazed in that jazz lounge. Tony placed the nozzle against his temple. His finger skimmed the trigger. A deep breath. The gremlin freaked. No time to down green hornets and a sour mash chaser. Put that thing down crazy ass. You'll fry us both. Tony ignored the bugger's plea. He would point it at the Hoovers. Let them do it. Blow out the belfry, mailed to kingdom come.

What's it gonna be Scram?

Tony buried the piece. His nature took over. He's holding his ground. Let the chips fall where they land, in let it ride Las Vegas.

The suits crashed the room. The shouts, the speed, the adrenalin. Two Hoovers slammed Scram into the wall. Aggressive.

Un-Hoover like. One Hoover had Tony pinned, facing the wall. His partner reached. Not down for cuffs. Up. Scram saw the movement. It stopped. A gun to his head.

"Where's the money?" A thug voice demanded. Uneducated.

Unrefined. A few screws were missing on this one.

"Fuck you," Scram said. No answer. The raised hand went back. Barrel pointed off, tilting the butt towards the back of Scram's skull. A sharp pain jolted Tony's neck, shooting through his head. That stopped cold, when his forehead smacked the wall.

Scram bounded off the wall, dive-bombing the carpet. A slow-motion twirl. Odd. A third suit appeared through the door.

Distorted. Trapped in the sphere of carnival glass. Scram recognized him. A new version. Grayer, thicker, older, and sunbaked.

Hot Tommy Casella. At your service. In your face. What a world. Scram smacked the carpet. The room twisted, and blurred.

Hot Tommy walked over to Scram. Looking, laughing. Cohorts tossing pad, full tilt. Jackpot.

Pretty much in plain sight. Moving light, tight quarters. One of the goons pulled the gym-sized bag. Casella shut the door behind them, leaving Scram on the carpet.

Vegas badge, unleashed. The Hoovers buzzed in. No time to ribbon the pad. Three goombah's on foot. Getaway idling. The police detour fanned them out. Big badge swarmed in, blocking the escape. Hot Tommy and goons, guns blazing, going postal. Big V obliged. Howdy partners. Welcome to Las Vegas.

Scram, reeling on the carpet. The room echoed with ammo.

Casella and cohorts, crashing departures. No return tickets here.

Tony Scram, vertigo buzzing. A planet of spiders, attacking his brain. Swallowing up the gremlin. He missed him already. Tony grasped, tried moving. He couldn't free himself from the carpet.

C'mon Scram, get your ass up.

Fire trucks horning in to rinse Casella off the street. The Hoovers raced for Scram. They bolted for Tony's pad. A second wave of echoes. Wingtips wing-footing, heading straight for Scram. He heard the second wave of footsteps. Kicking in, gaining ground....

The Hoovers busted in, searching the room. Nothing. The bath. A frosted window. Popped open. A small boy, maybe. A pudgy Italian guy pushing seventy? Extra Vitalis? C’mon? One of the Hoovers stuck his head through the opening.

Sooner or later this time would arrive. He's the scrammer, remember? One step, and a few car lengths in front of the pack.

Petal to the metal, until the metal caves in.

The Hoovers, mystified, called in the scram. Meanwhile, back in the honcho room, they got to thinking. The tapping jihadi lines were now burning. We need all the guys we have. Call off the dogs. Piss on the fire stuff. Half the money's been recovered. The balance covered by theft insurance. Two guys dead, one's in custody. The one with half a lung has less life than a dog. The kind chasing cars. Who gives a shit where he is.

That only left one. His story? Anybody's hunch. Some time, sooner than later, they’d meet up again. A crew mapping the big one, looking for a wheelman. Tony, down on coin, back in the game. Some say tomorrow never comes. But what about today?

Somewhere out there. In the streets. His streets. Tony launched. Scramming deep, far, and out of reach.

THE END