Free Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel by Dave Stanton Page B

hundreds of people employed by Pistol Pete’s reported up to a dozen senior managers responsible for their own respective departments (slots, card tables, security, dining, entertainment, etc.). These managers worked directly for Vic Severino.
    It was late afternoon when John took a break. Though his role didn’t require any real decision making, he found himself spending an increasing portion of most days involved in the routines of the business. This was by choice, he realized. Still in his fifties, John had no desire to be retired. His habits were those of a professional businessman, and he enjoyed learning the nuances of Pistol Pete’s operations, and applying himself, if only to a minor degree, to the successful running of the company. And there was no mistaking his role was to be minor—Vic Severino had made it clear John was to remain outside of the enterprise’s true inner workings.
    John turned on the Yankees game and dialed the number for the young, talkative prostitute he’d taken a liking to. She was also a Yankees fan, and he’d bought her dinner once, after she hung around in his office and watched a game with him. He felt his genitals react to the thought of her arrival—she was a wonderful piece of ass—but he also looked forward to her bubbly company. He got her voice mail and left a message.
    When he called an hour later and she didn’t pick up, he headed out to the sports book, disappointed and fighting a surge of irritation. As usual, Denny Totaglia and Carlo Bianchi were parked at the mostly empty bar. Denny’s massive flab hid the bar stool, making it appear as if four steel posts were shoved up his ass.
    “Gentlemen,” John said, sitting next to Carlo, who was wearing a powder blue polo shirt that looked a size too small, the sleeves tight around his pumped biceps.
    “Johnny, have a drink, baby,” Denny slurred, his eyes red and hollow. “We were just talking about that time in the Bronx when we ran the Caluso brothers out of town. Those rat bastards. Goddamn, remember that?”
    John glanced at his watch, then at Carlo. Denny loved reminiscing about the old days, but usually didn’t do so until late in the evening, after a number of drinks. It was only four, but Denny’s heavy jowls were flushed and his eyes were slits in his fleshy face.
    “Severino around?” John said.
    “He’s in Reno for the night.” Carlo pointed at Denny with his thumb. “He’s celebrating his absence by getting ripped.”
    “Goddamn right,” Denny said.
    “Let’s go across the street to Caesars.” John stood and patted Denny’s shoulder.
    “Why?”
    “You want Severino to know you’re soused this early?”
    “What do I give a shit?” Denny said, but he glanced nervously over his shoulder.
    “The walls have eyes. Be smart, Denny.”
    Before Denny could respond, Vinnie Tuma walked into the sports book flanked by two bimbos. Vinnie was wearing a gray suit with wide lapels, and his feet were wedged into shiny two-toned loafers, as if he was a gangster out of the fifties. A smarmy smile was plastered on his face, interrupted by frequent drags off a cigarette. Despite his youth, he already had a noticeable potbelly beneath his shallow chest. The women with him, in high heels and short dresses, were obvious hookers. One was a curly-haired brunette with cannonball-sized breasts, and the other a slender blonde. Both wore a shiny gleam in their eyes, like they’d just been worked over real good in bed, or, more likely, were blasted to the gills on cocaine.
    Vinnie acknowledged the men, pointing and winking, and sat with the women at a center table. John tried to ignore them, but the brunette had a shrill voice, and Vinnie began babbling loudly about his system to beat the roulette wheel.
    “Jesus Christ, look at that fucking clown,” Denny said.
    A burst of laughter erupted from the table, and John turned and saw Vinnie bury his head in the brunette’s cleavage. Then Vinnie reached in his pocket and