Coldstone 2: Devils West - Chapter 1

GAMING Boards, Cards and Tabletops
1

Agenda
(Attn: Capteucalyptus)

Othello Redman woke to find his once incarcerated brother, Julius “JJ” Redman, already dressed in newly purchased clothes; a silky purple iridescent suit.

“Now THIS is the new Julius, lemme tell ya.” His face shone nothing but happiness and pride. “Get yo raggedy ass up and give me the big tour, O.

The grandfather clock in the palatial penthouse clanged to life affirming what O feared; it was 9 am. Two important meetings one with a Japanese investor and one with a Security firm. Othello’s personal assistant Marcy entered the main living area. She was a beautiful young woman whose ethnicity was difficult to tell at first glance. Julius’s jaw was visibly dislodged from his skull.

“WOMAN. You cannot bust up into a room with a parolee unannounced looking all fine like that. I might have a heart attack or one of them cordial infractions.” The woman rolled her eyes.

“Mr. Redman, you have two appointments.” Marcy said in a clipped professional tone. Othello opened his mouth to speak when a blur movement caught his eyes. A short pink blur that outflanked even his quick senses. Something clutched to his back leg and peered around. Two wide, light brown eyes peered around Othello’s leg.

“Daddy, who’s that loud, crazy guy?” Lillian Aranda Redman was way beyond her mere three years of age. JJ’s eyes exploded from their sockets.

“Othello! You must be Lillian, uh huh. I’m your wise and handsome Uncle JJ. I taught your father everything he knows, cept how to dress and meet ladies. Man has to keep them secrets to himself.” The girl was instantly charmed and moved out to meet him. He scooped her up and placed her on his shoulder.

“Girl, did you know I’m the flapjack-makin’ champion of the California Penal System. That’s right…my griddlecakes is so good crackheads gave up the pipe for ‘em.” His voice trailed off as he took the toddler into the kitchen.

For a moment Othello appreciated the normalcy and then Marcy ahemed him out of his reverie.

“Mr. Redman. The first meeting is with Miyamoto Takeshi at 3pm. Reps from the Verretta Security Firm will be in around noon, but their appointment is not until 5pm.” Marcy clicked her pen in eagerness to schedule the rest of his day.

The door slammed closed and the walking wall that was his Russian bodyguard, Tima stood. He arched an impressed eyebrow at Marcy and saluted Othello.

“What today, Mr. Redman?” Seemed to be the question of the day so far.

2

Veretta Security, Inc.
(Attn: Kid Ego & Seahawk)

The private jet touches down in Vegas without a hitch. The two men speak little to the landing crew and amble to the gate. Badges flashed they are waved through security to a stretch limo waiting for them. A driver bearing a sign for “Jack Veretta and Co.” waits leaning against the side of the vehicle.

“You Veretta?” the kid snatches the luggage and heaves it into the trunk. The driver doesn’t open the door. He goes around and gets in leaving the two former law enforcement men to their own.

Once inside he asks over the intercom, “You guys cops? You look like cops. A LOT.”

3

Luck be a Lady Tonight…Tomorrow…and the Next Day

(Attn: Laugharn)

The Savannah is everything Charles Wellstone loves about casinos. It’s low-key, it’s not a tourist trap, and it’s straight up gambling paradise. He tilts his head towards one of the dealer mirrors that conceals the eyes of the establishment and sees the red saggy skin under his eyes. He checks his watch to see 9:00 am. He’s been at this for seventeen hours non-stop. The contrast of time-spent and dwindling chips isn’t very encouraging.

Shift change occurs and another dealer strolls up and relieves the one Wellstone has had for the past eight hours. Maybe his luck will change. A cocktail waitress steps up. “You ready for another drink, Lucky?”

4

Agenda
(Attn: Capteucalyptus)

Othello picks his crisply tailored Everett Hall original out of the closet and begins to dress.

“Marcy, when the Veretta people arrive set them up in the Opal room and make sure that Marcel feeds them very well. I want them good and sluggish for our meeting. Oh and make sure that I am in place no later than two-thirty for Miyamoto-san.”

He finishes pulling on the suit coat and takes the cane from it’s place beside the bed. Its weight feels good in his hand. It still misses the forty-five even after all this time. Like a cigarette smoker playing with toothpicks this is the closest he ever wants to get again.

“Call the manager at The Belaggio and make sure that JJ is on the roster. I want him warming up for their headliner in the Fontana Bar by next week. His material is ready for it. Call in a few favors if you need to.”

He begins to walk out to the office, his people attending him moving like a precision drill team.

“Tima I want your input on this security meeting at five. Have some notes on their representatives ready for me by four. Oh and one last thing Marcy, make sure to have two dozen of those purple orchids that Foxy likes on her desk by eleven and double check our reservations for eight. I want her birthday to be extra special this year.”

He settles into the daily routine with as much relish as he did any battle.

5

Hardcase

(Attn: flyers)

George McClure stands in the men’s restroom on the 7th floor of the Clinton Federal Building in Coldstone. He hasn’t slept for a good three days. He splashes cold water across his face. His skin draws tight a bit giving the illusion of rest. The door swings open and slams hard into the wall. His “partner” Special Agent Hannity stands there with shit-stains on the corners of THAT grin. George can’t help but think of the word ‘douchebag’ whenever reminded of Hannity.

“George, Chief wants to scream at you for awhile. You fucked up big time, ‘Kennedy’” Hannity delights in saying as he uses finger quotes around George’s nickname. McClure walks into the chief’s office.

“Do you have any idea what it is like to receive prank calls from this,” he raises his glasses to read a piece of paper, “Paulie DiVialoso. He made you. He made us. He made 4 months of investigation into a nice lump of shit.”

McClure stares, mind wandering, at The Family tree they’ve pieced together. There are so many variables that can’t be connected and not much in the way of hard evidence. The Chief snaps his fingers in McClure’s face.

“Snap out of it. I’m cutting your operating budget and staff. You got Hannity. Make a case or you can go down to fraud to bust hot check writers. And get some sleep.” The Chief walks to the door and opens it. “Now get out.”

George McClure needs to make something happen.

6

The Arrival
(Attn: Fett & Logan)

Frank waits in the back of his BMW as his driver fetches Roman’s “guest”. He tries to mentally fan away any irritation by the fact that Roman is keeping things from him. He taps on the window console and checks his watch, 20 minutes late.

Viglio lands and deplanes exactly on schedule. He walks down the gateway and immediately catches sight through the throng of people his name, Viglio, brightly written in red marker on a white board. Not the alias Roman promised in their correspondence.

7

Number One Fan
(Attn: Rath & Burke)

Wesley sits across the street from The Times office. He muses to himself how cheap information is. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls the crumpled paper. He dials the number and waits for the phone to ring.

It’s early evening as Elmore Pantuso sits hunched at his keyboard. The newsroom is virtually empty save for himself and Rosita, the cleaning lady. He leans back in his chair sending his spine into a mini-orchestral maneuver as it pops and cracks. He has 4 hours to make the early edition. He shuffles through his mail. Then is sudden caught startled as his phone rings.

8

Number One Fan
(Attn: Rath, Burke)

“Pantuso here. I’m on deadline. If this isn’t one of Paulie DiViaslo’s insanley beautiful strippers, I’m hangin’ up…”

9

the arrival

Frank glances at his watch. He is extraordinarily impatient, especially for him. He leans forward and turns on the radio.

‘…as the city faces the prospect of new tax hikes in exchange for the increased police activity…’

He flicks the switch off, and looks out the window.

Where the hell is he, he thinks.

10

Number One Fan
(Attn: Rath, Burke)

The stillness was razor sharp. A cold whisper entered the phone.

"all men have chains. chains of obligation. chains of honor. chains of family. break the chains and you break the man.

you… interest me."

CLICK

11

Hardcase

George Kennedy strolls out of the office, ignoring the cold stare of his Chief. He stops by the secretary’s desk, pours himself a cup of coffee. This should be good for another day out, he thinks to himself.

McClure walks down the long, white hallway and yells into the open door of Special Agent Hannity’s small office, “Yo Hanjobity, we’re going out, get your briefcase and enema and get in the fuckin’ car.”

McClure continues his stroll down the hall, nodding at Joey and giving a sly wink to Barb. As he exits the elevator on the first floor of the Clinton Federal Building, he chucks the empty cup into the trashcan and paces to the door.

McClure takes out the keys to the van, thinks twice about it, and then puts them away. He takes out the keys to his Volvo, and when he reaches the parking garage, he pops open the trunk to his Volvo and pulls out a license plate. He hears Hannity yelling about some shit in the distance, but undeterred, he switches the current license plate with one he took out from underneath a blanket in his trunk. As he screws it on, Hannity reaches the parking lot. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m just messing around, so shut the fuck up, Hannity.”

McClure gets into the driver’s side as Hannity fumbles to close the door. “Where are we going, ‘Kennedy’?” Hannity asks.

McClure ignores him and starts up the car. He turns the radio on and gets on a rap station. McClure isn’t crazy about it, but he knows it pisses off Hannity, so he keeps it on.

They drive in silence, McClure slowly swaying to the beats of the Neptunes. They come to a stop as Kennedy eases into a spot.

“Okay, listen. You’re going to walk up to the corner, make a right hand turn, and walk ‘till you get to a place called Tony’s Tiger. I want you to go in and get a girl and ask for something private. They’ll tell you they ain’t got nothing, but that’s when you start slippin’ them bills, all right pal?”

George reaches under his seat and pulls out a stack of cash.

“Where’d you get this?” Hannity asks.

“Don’t worry about it, all right, this is fucking important so save me the bullshit questions. I want you to go in, find the best lookin’ girl in the joint, get something private, then just ask her questions. About her life, how she got her, how she likes it. Don’t be a fucking jerk about it either, treat her nice.”

“The hottest girl, though? Which one’s that?”

“Sinthia Slater. No one else, hear me? Now get outta here and go do your job.”

12

The Arrival

A cool gust wafted out of the walkway tunnel as the all-too-chipper flight attendant propped the glass door open. His “Welcome to Coldstone” was quickly worn by the time it hit the third groggy passenger to stumble out into the airport.

High rollers, distant relatives, and a collection of college kids filter slowly into the waiting room. Eventually, the inept wheelman finds himself alone.

Had he missed Viglio? Was he at the wrong gate? Why did he down that enromous Coke on his lunch break?

The driver gave into his urge, and darted quickly for a nearby restroom. No sooner had he located a urinal, then he unleashed the flow. Like God flooding a wicked earth full of sin, the grateful pisser whittled the blue deodorant puck into oblivion.

Three full minutes passed in the proccess. He finally shook and tucked, then went for his zipper. With a sigh that only a relived man can utter, he returned to an upright posture. Whistling, he turned to spot the pick up sign, which reminded him of the immediacy of his mission.

A quick wash at the sink counter was all he could afford–he’d have to skip the soap. He looked to the worn metal bin holding the paper towels, struggling with wet hands to free a full sheet.

As he tugged, the driver failed to notice the side-mounted A/C panel silently shifting behind him on the back wall. The oaf bent down to pick up his arrival sign, huffing heavily. “Tobiasi’s gonna kill me,” he uttered quietly, turning to exit through the open-rotunda entrance. With an unexpected crackling noise from behind, all went black…

Nearly twenty minutes had passed while Frank stewed in the back seat of the car. More than once the defacto crimelord had pondered getting out. Airport security knew better than to tow his car, despite being parked in the loading zone.

Then finally, movement woke him from his irritated trance. Shapes passed around the side of the car and opened the trunk. A moment later, the driver’s door opened. As the driver settled into the seat, Frank began to notice his employee had indeed returned alone.

Before he could utter the words, the driver turned to face him. A stranger–a set of stinging-cold eyes–peered back at the passenger. Frank thought about moving for his weapon, but quickly began to put it all together.

Without a word, the new chauffeur produced the tattered call sign, with the bold “Viglio” marked on across the front. He handed it to Frank with a swift extension of the arm.

Tobiasi felt the engine hum to life as he flipped the waiting sign over. Written in bloody fingerpaint were the words “Dr. Frank Cannon”. The red marks were no doubt the last traces of his former driver.

Viglio sat silently, waiting for directions out of the airport.

13

Veretta Security Inc.

A smile creeps across Carlone’s face, as he ponders the driver’s remarks. Asshole doesn’t even know who he’s fucking with.

He clicks the intercom button, “You think cops dress this nice? Just take us to the Savannah, gaki.”

“Sure thing, Officer”

Carlone chuckles to himself as he glances sharply to his right, catching the fuming eye of his partner. Dahl, less than 8 months fresh from NYPD Homicide, looks like he’s ready to turn this kid inside out.

“Hey, bein’ a cop’s not a bad thing…unless you’re in our business…don’t sweat it.”

As the technicolor lights of the Strip splash across his face, Carlone quietly ponders the details of yesterday-evening’s meeting with Takeshi.

It’s been a a few long years since he’s felt this amount of anticipation.

14

the arrival

Frank takes a tissue out of the rear glove compartment and begins to wipe his hands of the blood. He smiles slightly, impressed at Viglio’s boldness, and a reminder of times past.

‘Well if you’re going to be my chauffeur, you’d better straighten your fuckin’ tie, kid. This ain’t Kyoto.’

He rolled down his window and discarded the tissue.

‘Drive east into the city. I feel like a pizza.’

15

Number One Fan
(Attn: Burke, Rath)

The “Big Man” sits in silence. He’s covered wars, assassinations, trials, fought back from a car accident, and faced down some of the most intimidating criminals the world has to offer. He’s seen it all, and written about it.

Nothing scares him, nothing has. Until the voice at the end other end of that phone. A voice he had heard about but never thought he would hear himself.

He spins around in his chair and reaches for a book on his shelf. The international bestseller Gone By Dawn . He knows exactly where to look.

To find out what it said, keep checking the Coldstone 2: Fear And Loathing thread.

16

Veretta Security Inc.

Thomas Dahl, former NYPD officer was not happy. More to the point, he wished he had his Louisville Slugger in his hands right now. And there would be blood across the pavement if he had his way. He’d done it before, he’d do scum again. But the man to his left was the one in charge for the moment. If he started pulling shit, Dahl would start throwing it.

“You think cops dress this nice? Just take us to the Savannah, gaki.”

“Sure thing, Officer”

Thomas just shakes his head slowly and mentally checks his pockets and possesions. All there, thank the mighty good Lord. If this was New York, someone would be crying to the stars. But this was Las Vegas. You didn’t play life or death, you played a betting game. Veretta looked to him, sensing the rage building inside his partner.

“Hey, bein’ a cop’s not a bad thing…unless you’re in our business…don’t sweat it.”

Dahl smiled a grin, his eyes flashing. There was much need for action from cop who’d been bashing heads for 24 years. His smile broadend as he thought and planned how he would end the life of the man in the drivers seat.

“Better be a one hell of a ride to make up for the start of this shit…”

17

The Arrival

In “made” circles, “Lio Leo” was a name that was no longer spoken aloud, rather it was carefully whispered. For Viglio, however, the temptation of ego qas quickly quelled. The young assassin had learned respectful patience. Where a lesser man would have scoffed, Viglio was content to play “chauffeur”.

With deference to Tobiasi, the new driver deftly moved the vehicle out of the airport terminal, and carefully into traffic. Sharp eyes took in everything about the city skyline. As Coldstone sized up its most recent guest, the newcomer was likewise making his own analysis.

The wheel slid effortlessly between his gloved fingers, and after a few navigational checks, the car was on course as directed. Requiriing little additional word from Tobiasi, Viglio instinctively found the side streets necessary.

He casually brought the vechicle to a gentle rest, parking next to a bright orange “Luigi’s X-Tra Crust” pizza delivery van. The aroma of oven-fresh pepperoni seeped into the car, as Viglio awaited the next instruction.

18

Luck be a Lady Tonight…Tomorrow…and the Next Day
(Attn: Laugharn)

“Lucky? I wish. Nah, it’s just another night of old Charles Wellstone being crushed beneath the wheel of karma.”

*checks watch again*

“Besides, I got a bitch back home who’s probably worried sick right now.”

“You married?” Lonnie, the cocktail waitress asks.

“No, I was talking about Patches, my dog. Work is probably the only thing I’ll be married to in this lifetime.”

“Oh yeah? Where ya work?”

There was a muzak cover of Luck Be A Lady in the background, the 4th time it’d come up in the past 17 hours. Charles took note.

“I’m a statistician.”

“Oh.”

“A top secret statistician.”

“Oh yeah, what’s a top secret statistician do?” Lonnie rebuttled with a giggle.

“Currently doing calculations on potential casualties in the event of a WMD attack on the Eastern Seaboard.”

“Well that sounds… kinda dismal.”

“Well that kinda sums up my life.”

And with that, Lonnie left, another life made just a tad bit more miserable. He paid his tab and walked out in to the harsh Las Vegas sun, just a few thousand dollars lighter than when he’d entered.

He got in to his 1992 Olds Cutlass, turned the key, and pulled out on to the strip. Luck Be A Lady was on the radio.

“Confluence.” He muttered under his breath.

19

Veretta Security Inc.

“Better be a one hell of a ride to make up for the start of this shit…”

Dahl had settled back in his seat and opened his file folder and had started to review the information he had in front of him. It was limited and nothing that wasn’t basic knowledge of the current climate in Las Vegas. It was a interesting read, but it wasn’t as concerning to Thomas as was the pace they were making to the Savannah. He calmly clicked on the intercom.

“Hey, little man. Can you pick up the pace here? We’ve got a meeting with you fucking boss man and I have a feeling his shit ain’t gonna be pleased we show up late on your crusty fuckard driving…”

There was no response on the other end. The cop turned private citizen turned to Veretta as he turned the intercom off.

“You believe this shit? Bastard won’t even talk! I say we screw his legs two ways to Tuesday and let him know we ain’t no slow ass Ms. Daisy.” He hit the intercom radio once more.

“Hey, mothershit! Get your hand out of your ass and on the wheel!”

20

Veretta Security Inc.

Carlone cocked a sly grin toward Dahl. He understands. He was feeling a little impatient himself, and he knows the driver’s cracks earlier were eating away at his companion.

He laughs to himself as they creep slowly by the Bellagio in the Las Vegas morning traffic.