Chapter Six

After a highly successful West Coast swing ripping people off, Johnny Zaprado had come back to his old hang, Santa Fe. He'd done well in sunny Cali, oh, yes. He'd robbed four women's clothing stores, a retirement community in Long Beach, one in Newport Beach (big dough there), and one in Huntington Beach. Not to mention a gay bar called The Tunnel in West Hollywood.

He'd scored a lot of dough out there, and it had been a good time. But now he was back home at his ex-girlfriend's pad in Santa Fe and he was jonesing for some narcotics.

Which was easy enough to deal with. As soon as he'd taken a shower and changed into his black jeans and Metallica T-shirt, he went bopping down to the square, cruised by the Navajo and Ute Indians selling their “authentic tribal jewelry” (which they had shipped in from kid slave laborers in Hong Kong), cut down the alley behind the Historic Trading Post (replete with real Spanish artifacts made in a factory in Hoboken), and arrived at the office of his doc, Mike Franco.

Dr. Mike was away on vacation in Las Vegas, which meant that his mail—and the many free samples of narcotic painkillers—was dropped in the mail slot in his outer door. Which meant all Johnny had to do was stick his nail file in between the lock and the catch, jiggle it once or twice, and presto, he was inside the foyer and piling all the free sample goodies into his backpack.

He looked down at the nifty flat mailers.

There on the floor were three boxes of Vicodin and three boxes of Percocet, and then the pièce de résistance itself, the double big package of Oxy. Yes, Oxycontin, the very finest example of drugstore heroin.

All of these were headed for patients, most of them old-timers, with their cracked and withered limbs, but—sorry, geezer gang—these were going to the man his own self, none other than Johnny Z.

He strapped on his backpack, gently shut the door, and headed off down the alley.

A few minutes later, Johnny Boy was sipping a beer in the Turtle Bar and Grill with the out-of-work locals and five or six of the local independent villains, all of whom were his sometimes-friendly rivals. There was Lil Roger, the black hustler from Vegas who specialized in break-ins; Tommy Butler, the short-con artist; Violet and Luvleen Mc-Ghee, the twins who specialized in selling fake insurance; and Badass Billy Drexler, who was basically a stick-up artist. Though each of these fine citizens was an equal-opportunity bandit, they all liked working in Santa Fe because the people at the Blue Wolf Lodge and the River Rock Casino were mostly old folks who wouldn't give them any trouble.

After listening to his fellow criminals rave on about their latest conquests for a while, Johnny swallowed two Vikes and drank two shots of single-malt scotch. In no time he was feeling his heels lift off the Turtle floor and he was sailing above his fellow cons and thugs.

It was a great feeling, and he would have liked to hang in the bar all night feeding his high with a few more Vikes but, alas, there was work to be done.

The trouble with being a bad guy was that there was seldom a really big score that could set you up for months, much less years. No, you had to go on your merry way, finding victims whenever they presented themselves. You always had to stay where the action was, which was what Johnny was doing as he hot-wired a car and headed out on the highway toward Espanola and the River Rock Casino.

The River Rock had opened about ten years ago and it had made all the difference for Johnny. He actually thought of the whole Santa Fe area as two distinct time periods.

BTC and ATC. Before the Casino and After the Casino.

The BTC era was not a good one for a man in his profession. People came to town to get massages and to go into sweat lodges with a couple of peyote-wasted Indians in order to release their toxins and get in touch with their Inner Buffalo, but they seldom carried great wads of money. So when Johnny Boy conked some blabbering counterculture moron over the head with his ceremonial Indian tomahawk (just for irony's sake), he was lucky to clear fifty bucks.

But After the Casino, especially out in the parking lot of said enterprise, Johnny Boy was in thieves’ heaven. Oh man, it was bitchin'!

One night about a year ago, Johnny had conked out five guys and two chicks in one night and come away with twenty-three thousand freaking dollars.

That was a smokin’ night, for sure!

And may tonight be just as profitable.

Johnny walked through the glittering lights and the bling-bong noise of the River Rock Casino. Old women sat at slot machines with huge baskets of coins. A lot of them knew one another and watched out for each other as they headed for their cars with their money. Big deal. He wasn't interested in their small change anyway.

He walked toward the blackjack tables. That could be a lucrative game, no question, but if you wanted to pick a winner there you had to do a Big Prey Number. And hang out for hours. And if you didn't want to be made as some kind of criminal yourself, you had to play the games, which meant you'd probably lose money before you even got a chance to club anyone.

And another thing: he didn't know why but blackjack players were mean sons of bitches. There had been a guy around sixty-five years old that he'd had a major battle with. In the end, of course, he'd staved his head in, but it was no easy task. Plus, the guy might have identified him if he hadn't croaked.

Thank God for small favors.

After that one, Johnny had ruled out blackjack players.

He cruised the big game room and found what he was looking for. His favorite game and the one that attracted the highest percentage of rich losers.

Yes, the craps table.

Johnny surveyed three different tables for a while and finally found the one he wanted to go with.

Table numero uno, the one with a skinny old guy wearing an Arizona Cardinals football shirt that said “Warneron” the back. This was the kind of guy he liked. Guy must have been pushing eighty, veins popping out of his fragile frame, wrinkles growing wrinkles, eyes half-closed from years of smoking, and there he was with five piles of chips. Serious dough. And the dude was on a roll. One of the “girls” who “just happened” to be standing next to him was Johnny's only rival. She was obviously a hooker and if she got the old duffer up to a room before Johnny could get him to walk to the car . . . well, that just wouldn't do. Not at all.

Johnny stepped up to the crowded table and began to root for the old guy, whose name he quickly found out was Les. People were screaming as Les made pass after pass.

“Go, Les, baby ... do it, babe.”

Everyone was betting with the old guy now, who took a drink from the girl next to him. She smiled and Johnny saw the lipstick on her teeth.

“You are the man, Lester!” she screamed in a baby-voice falsetto.

He looked at her and smiled. Tossed the dice and won again.

Johnny moved closer as a couple of people left the table. After the next winning roll he was right up next to Les.

You have really got lady luck singing tonight, Les, man, Johnny said.

Les smiled at him and Johnny saw his upper plate jiggle a little.

He won again, on a point six, and the crowd at the table went crazy.

Bets, please, the croupier said.

But Lester pulled away from the table.

“Time to cash in,” he said. “Never want to push your luck too far.”

The girl next to him followed him away from the table. Johnny trailed along with them.

“Baby,” she said, “with all that money, won't you buy me a little drink?”

He laughed and handed her a twenty.

“Here you go, darling,” he said. “You take this and buy your own drink.”

The girl pouted and stomped her foot like Betty Boop.

“Don't you like mama? If we go up to a room, I can show you a very good time.”

“I don't think you can, baby,” the old-timer said. “My thing don't work no more. Not even with a case of Viagra.”

“Oh, that's what they all say until they roll with Shirl, babe.”

The old man seemed to be enjoying the banter.

“Well, if I win some more moolah I might get me an operation to get the ol’woodpecker working again. Then I'll come and see you for sure, sweetie.”

He gave her another ten and headed off to cash in his chips. She leered at Johnny as the old man headed for the door.

“How ‘bout you, tough guy? You look like you need a good spanking.”

Johnny gave her his semiwarm smile and said, “Can't think of anything better, baby, but I got a date with my wife.”

“Unlucky you, she said and moved on”.

Out on the macadam, Johnny Z watched as Lester limped toward his big Caddy Escalade.

Mother is probably weighed down by all the cash on one side of his pants, he said under his breath, talking tough to himself so he could work up a little hatred for his new vic.

He slipped by some parked cars and was relieved to see that there was no one around. The old man opened his door and started to slide into the driver's seat.

Hey, wait a minute, Les, Johnny said, in his most country-club friendly manner.

“What?” Lester said.

He turned his head, and Johnny pulled out the nice little blackjack from his coat pocket. He slammed it down on Lester's head and heard a dependable crack, the bones in his forehead breaking up like uncooked pasta.

Lester made a terrible noise and fell backward right into his car.

Johnny started to fall on top of him but was surprised by Lester's foot coming up in his groin. The pain was like an electric shock, and Johnny fell back on his ass into the parking lot.

“You fuck,” Johnny exclaimed. “Fight dirty, huh?”

He started to get back up but was surprised to see Lester coming out of the car, swinging his big, bony fist at his face. Fortunately, the jack blow had caused blood to run down into the older man's eyes and his swings, though violent, were several inches short. As a result, Johnny thought, the old guy looked comical, like a cartoon Mickey Mouse fighting a giant.

Johnny got up, waited for a big swing to miss his face, then smashed the jack back toward Lester's mouth, this time splitting his upper lip and mashing his nose into a bloody pulp.

The old man went down next to his car and his head flopped over to one side.

Johnny approached him warily and when he was satisfied he was out cold, he rifled through his pockets.

He found the big wad of cash, stuffed it into his own pocket, and left Lester lying there in a rapidly growing pool of blood.

Seconds later Johnny was headed for the parking lot exit, seven thousand dollars richer.

Not bad for a night's work, he thought, though the pain in his balls told him a different story.

What he needed, he thought as he headed back down to Santa Fe, was a big one. One that would set him up for a good long while. He really was getting a little too old for this kind of work.