Excerpt

Prologue

Atlantic City, New Jersey June, 1990

Matt Houston pulled back the black, weighty chair in front of the slot. He wondered why they made them so heavy. Perhaps to keep frustrated gamblers like himself from smashing them into the machines. He took a crisp hundred dollar bill from his suit coat and put it in the one-armed bandit. Betting the max could win twenty-five grand. A small dent in what he owed the mob: $100 Gs.

His wife, Emily, would be upset as usual that he hadnt come home for dinner, or bothered to call. But neither she, nor his twelve-year-old son, Tony, were on his list of priorities. Matt ran his fingers through his short black hair and tried to block everything from his mind except winning.

Ding! Ding! Ding! The machine lit up announcing he had the hundred to spend. He pushed the button for bet max and watched as the pink roses and purple bars spun by eating up fifteen of his hundred. Why was gambling such a high, the ultimate rush from which he had no defense? Why had he fallen under its spell like a seducing woman whispering sweet nothings in his ear til he was too weak to resist? But he didnt have to search for the answers; it had started after tasting the sweet lure of the big wins five years ago, enough to hook him forever. The stark reality was hed lost more than he could ever hope to recoup. Then the loans from the sharks had begun loans to finance his gambling, make the house payment, pay bills, and buy groceries. But the big boys werent kidding around. Just days ago, Frankie Vanetti and Carlo Pinto had pushed through the back door of his home as he was having dinner with his family and made it clear: pay up, or else. It had been the most panicked moment of his life, not to speak of humiliating. Hed witnessed the hurt in Emilys eyes that he had let her down. Tony hadnt bothered with rhetoric, just turned his disappointment around and went to his room.

Another push on the slot and thirty was gone; then forty-five. Matts enthusiasm wilted as quickly as crisp lettuce smothered in hot bacon grease. With trembling hands, he reached for another bill and watched the machine gobble one, after another, after another.

By the time Matt left the establishment at two in the morning and stepped through the heavy glass door to the warm, muggy air outside, his body was as drained as someone who had just finished a grueling triathlon. He felt inside the breast pocket of his suit coat, not sure how much money was left. Earlier in the evening hed done all right playing poker. Perhaps it was enough to get him and his family out of Dodge. Maybe head to Salt Lake, a sanitized place compared to Atlantic City: no drinking, no gambling His mind was rattled and filled with fear of the unknown as he started the engine and headed towards the main drag.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by panic. There was no mistaking the black car that pulled in behind him at the red light, or Frankie Vanetti sitting in the passengers seat. Matt had grown to detest the five-foot-eight man with the thick head of black hair, pocked face and pilot-style glasses. And it was hard to miss the menacing narrow face of the driver, Carlo Pinto, a face hed seen in his recurring nightmares.

Matt stomped on the accelerator and ran the light, praying hed have enough time to get to the industrial area where he could get lost in the maze of tight streets and alleyways.

Speeding and weaving through traffic like a driver in the Indy 500, he saw the shadowy silhouette of the large buildings and whipped into the industrial area. After several quick lefts and then a right, he skidded into an alley behind a three-story building. His heart was pounding out of his chest, his hands slick with sweat, his mind filled with horrific images of what the mob does to people who cross them.

It was pitch black as though death had sucked all the light out of the world. Seeing a large dumpster, he parked behind it and cut the engine. He looked to the left and then to the right. No sign of the black car. Hearing only the sounds of his heavy breathing, he tried to pull himself together. He needed to thinkfind a telephone and call Emily tell her to bring Tony and meet him. His legs barely held him as he slipped out of his vehicle and quietly shut the door. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he spotted a door slightly ajar in one of the buildings. Perhaps there was a telephone inside. Before he got ten feet, Matt froze like a deer in the headlights. Carlos car came from out of nowhere, impacting the software salesmans body with the force of a huge meteor smashing to the ground. His mangled body flew through the air and landed with a thud twenty feet from where hed been hit. Frankie quickly exited the vehicle and rolled the barely-breathing man over on his back. He quickly unzipped the lining of Matts suit coat and confiscated the envelope containing the money. Then he propped the bloodied man up in a sitting position, pointed a nine millimeter at the back of his head and fired.

Matt Houston was finally at peace