Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two Read Free Page B

Filigree said. “I like it.”
    “Well, I can’t hear a thing―only see,” Roscoe said. “And something else―you better bring the eye back.”
    “Absolutely,” Filigree said.
    Felix winced. “It does not hurt, Mr. Roscoe?”
    “Only when I want to wink.” Roscoe covered the empty socket and pointed to the door. “Get moving, Filigree. Go and get your story.”
    “With pleasure!” Filigree puttered off and hurried to the casino.
    Betty stared at Roscoe. “Are you sure that was a good idea? What if he gets caught with your spare eyeball? How’s he gonna explain that?”
    “He’s a pro,” Roscoe said. “He won’t get caught. And it’s the best option we have.” He covered his other eye, the one remaining in his skull. “Now please be quiet, sister. Let me concentrate on what I’m seeing.” He stared out from the eye in Filigree’s breast pocket, and let the silent images wash over him.
    Filigree walked into the lobby, and headed over to the gaming hall. Roscoe felt like a button on the tabloid hound’s shirt. Filigree moved past the banks of slot machines and their occupants. It was weird to see the one-armed bandits plying their trade, their panels rolling as their levers cranked, and not hear any of the whirring sounds or the clank of coins. He moved past all of them, over to one of the gambling tables. He approached a dealer, a fellow in a red vest and bowtie with a broken nose and dark hair split down the middle. They played a few hands of Blackjack. Filigree pushed constantly and always lost. Roscoe waited as the gambling continued for a while. Eventually, the dealer nodded toward the far wall.
    Felix’s voice interrupted the little drama. “Mr. Roscoe? What is happening?”
    “Something interesting―finally,” Roscoe said. “Hold on, kiddo. Let me see how this plays out.”
    The dealer left from the table, waving to someone else to replace him. Filigree played a single hand with the new dealer before he walked. He went to the bathroom and met his friend again. They talked. Roscoe had a front row seat to a view of the dealer’s chest. They talked for a while. Filigree handed over a fat bundle of cash and the dealer pocketed it. The dealer motioned for Filigree to follow him. They left the bathroom and entered a long hallway. It wound away from the gambling hall, eventually coming to the kitchens. Filigree and the dealer passed chefs in their whites, hacking up turkey and steak for the buffet before going through another door into a featureless gray hallway.
    This was the behind-the-scenes part of the Sandpiper, where tourists didn’t go. At the end of the hall, a small stairwell led to the bottom floor. Two of Craddock’s men, gorillas in suits, sat at a small table by the stairwell, playing cards and smoking cigarettes. The dealer walked up to them and said something, then pointed down the hall. The gorillas got up, left their card game half-finished, and raced down the hall.
    Filigree and the dealer headed down the stairs. They stopped at a cement hallway before a massive vault door―like something that belonged in a bank. The dealer walked over to the door and knocked on it in a careful pattern. A few second later, the door slid open. Filigree and the dealer went inside―this was the money room, the place where the Sandpiper Casino counted up its green. The stacks of dough rested on long tables, set in a wide, barren room with smaller safes in the walls. Men in shirtsleeves counted the money and tallied it up. A goon in a maroon suit overlooked them. He made a beeline straight for the dealer, who spread his hands and talked, distracting the boss. While his attention was elsewhere, Filigree slipped out.
    He walked past the counting room and entered the next chamber. This place looked like it belonged to a bookie. Chalkboards stood in the corners, with the names of horses, fighters, and sports teams written out next to odds. Telephones rested in neat rows by folding chairs. Nobody