Free Cool Heat by Richter Watkins

room—modeled after the famous one in Tombstone—the world’s greatest poker players will be in the world’s biggest cash game.”
    With all of the Vegas Strip glowing below them, the brightest lights in all the world, he toasted once again to the fruition of his grand dream.
    He turned to the Chinese gentleman and his small entourage. “It must be very satisfying that a relative of those who labored to build the great railroads that opened the Sierras and linked the country are soon going to own them.”
    More laughter. Thorp was on.
    “Show us this famous gun you have,” one of the Silicon Valley investors said. “I heard it was the brother to the pistol that killed Lincoln.”
    He pulled out the Derringer, laid it in the palm of his hand, and then passed it around for the investors to see.
    “A piece of history. This baby is the brother pistol to the one that killed Lincoln at Ford’s Theatre. Man that made them, Henry Deringer, made them in pairs because they only shot one bullet. Each pair had a specific bullet mold.” He retrieved the gun and held it up. “Black walnut stock, checkered grip.”
    “It authentic?”
    “This is the real thing. Cost me a fortune to get hold of it. It’s been going around. The original is kept by the U.S. Park Police in Ford’s Theatre. They authenticated it about ten years ago as the second of the pair. I heard that it was out there three years ago, and I had some people run it down for me. Paid big.”
    “How can you be sure that’s the one?”
    “Forensics and science. You check the rifling pattern, tool marks, shading, the grain. The metal of these single-shot percussions is chemically browned iron, and you can check the age, which I did. Look at the barrel—see how it’s flattened and slotted on top for the blade front sight. You have engraved German silver. Lock plate and barrel stamped with Derringer Philadelphia. His named was Deringer, with one R, but the gun was called a Derringer, using two Rs. Made in pairs, the double-R makes sense.”
    “You ever shoot it?”
    He put the gun in his pocket. “Not yet. But I’m sure that day will come.”
    That brought a big round of laughter. It was at that moment, as he was raising yet another toast, that he got a shoulder tap by his lawyer.
    Thorp finished the toast, then followed Richard Rouse, his attorney, business partner, and life-long friend out onto the balcony.

16
    “What’s the problem?” Thorp demanded. He was quickly sorry he asked. And it got a lot worse when Rouse told him about the shooting at the hatchery, about Cillo’s nephew saving Jesup, and how he was out there somewhere as well. Then the most distressing news of all.
    “Looks like the fool who jumped the gun was Shaun.”
    “How do you know this?”
    “I’ve been talking to everybody who knows anything. It really looks that way.”
    Thorp’s incredulity turned instantly to anger. “That’s…that’s insane. That bastard. Jesus Christ.”
    Thorp stared down at the flow of lights on the Vegas Strip as he tried to process the idea that his moronic cousin, a lowlife piece of crap, would take it upon himself to do something like this. It was almost unfathomable.
    “Media have this?”
    “No. So far she hasn’t reported anything. Probably to protect her cousin at the hatchery. This is potential disaster.”
    “What are we doing about it?”
    “The guy I told you about, a plane will bring him in tomorrow.”
    “This guy from New York?”
    Rouse nodded. “They say he’s top of the line. I’ve been told his specialty is that he’s a suicide expert. He doesn’t whack people in the old Italian way. He’s a new breed. Quiet, quick, and very effective in what he does. You won’t even know he’s in town.”
    “I want to know he’s in town. I’d like to talk to him, make sure he understands that we can’t afford any kind of negative publicity. How can I meet this guy?”
    “I don’t know that’s a good idea.”
    “I didn’t ask