Kissing Persuasive Lips

  KISSING PERSUASIVE LIPS

  INTRODUCING MICK LORD

  By Dale Wiley

  Copyright © 2015 Dale Wiley

  All rights reserved.

  Distributed by Smashwords

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  DEDICATION

  To Mary, Sara and Matt. My universe.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Kissing Persuasive Lips

  About The Author

  Other Books

  Connect With Dale

  An Excerpt From: Sabotage

  KISSING PERSUASIVE LIPS

  The Wynn Casino in Las Vegas is not flashy; at least not in comparison to the spastic neon and LED displays you find elsewhere along the strip. Its elegance and earthy style seem almost out of place. It may have vibrant red carpet running throughout the casino floor, but the shock of regal red is covered by the acres of indoor trees (real, of course), baffling the noise and calming the senses. At times, compared to the rest of the city, it feels like an oasis of calm and gentility.

  A Tuesday afternoon in Vegas is like a Friday midnight anywhere else, but it was not usually the time for a high-stakes game like this one. But Michael Andrews Lord, known to the rest of the world as Mick, had prevailed upon the powers that be to open a blackjack table just for him, and had gotten them to agree to set the table minimum at $50,000 and the limit at one million dollars per hand. He had never played that much in one hand, but the opportunity was there.

  Mick didn’t look like your typical high-roller. His wardrobe was strictly well-heeled beach bum. That day he wore a blue linen shirt, which brought out his eyes, a nice pair of Silver jeans and loafers without socks. That would come close to describing him on most days since he had sold his banks and converted to his new life.

  Most people would call Mick handsome, although he knew having money didn’t hurt. He was six-two and a little on the skinny side, with light brown hair a little bit wavy and cut fairly short. He had a short beard he had grown six months earlier and become kind of fond of. Tabloids gushed and wondered who his next woman was. Mick was revolted by this, considering how recently his life had so dreadfully changed, but he knew that playing an absolute fortune in a blackjack game in this open fashion wasn’t going to calm any rumor mill. Sometimes his wants and his actions didn’t match up.

  Although they couldn’t say as much out loud, The Wynn was not in the habit of losing as much money as they had lost to Mick over the past six months. His streak was almost uncanny; he might lose the smaller hands, but when he bet big, hundreds of thousands of dollars, his winning percentage was far above normal at the amounts he was playing. The casino was by no means ready to shut down, but the winning was taking its toll on all those in charge of keeping losses in line with industry guidelines. Frankly, the winning was raising eyebrows up and down the strip; it was unusual if not unheard of for someone to have a sustained winning streak at such large amounts.

  And that Tuesday, with every blackjack player within earshot standing a respectful distance back, but watching intently, Mick was winning again. He had to be up close to half a million.

  He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “I’m about done,” he said to the dealer and to the floor boss who had joined him. Mick knew they were probably worried about their jobs, although he would go to whomever he needed to and make sure they knew it was not their fault.

  Mick looked around. There were the Vegas old-timers, clutching oxygen tanks and playing cards, working girls scanning the crowd for possible play, two French men who looked like they had walked off the set of Miami Vice and numerous tourists, wearing knee-length shorts and fluorescent t-shirts. A shoeshine man named Frank, whom Mick knew and often took care of, was off to the side, clearly rooting Mick on. Some of these people he knew and liked, most of them just liked the action. Mick was giving it to them.

  “Here we go,” he said in the middle of a yawn. “Let’s play for some real fun and then be done with it.” His mouth smiled and his eyes didn’t.

  He pushed all the chips in front of him to the middle of the table.

  The dealer looked at the pit boss. He had dealt some big hands, but this was by far the highest stakes he had ever dealt. The floor boss said something into the microphone in his cuff, then nodded. The dealer indicated that there was $512,000 in play.

  “Hand me twelve of that. Let’s make it simple math.”

  The dealer pulled off chips totalling $12,000. As the cocktail waitress who had brought him his gin and tonics all afternoon approached again, Mick took that money and handed it to her.

  “Something for you and Charlie,” he said, referring to her three year-old son. Mick asked about and remembered almost everybody. The smile reached his eyes this time.

  Her eyes doubled in size. He had already tipped her very well, a hundred dollar bill every time she brought him a drink. “I can’t…” she started, but his look stopped her.

  “Mike, tell her it’s okay,” Mick said to the floor boss. Mike nodded and she took a deep breath and looked at the money that was now hers. She wanted to say something, to cry, to leap in the air, but she felt the tension of the moment too. She didn’t want to leave, but she still had a job to do, and Mick had turned back to the table.

  “Five hundred thousand it is.”

  The dealer gave Mick a nine and placed his own card face down. He next dealt Mick a seven, giving him the worst possible blackjack hand, a sixteen. He turned over a ten. Mick exhaled loudly.

  “Great hand,” Mick rolled his eyes. He wanted to stay on the hand, but even with his agenda, he knew that he would stick to his system. Anything else, any random play, would be highly suspicious. He tapped the table. “Hit me, Carlos.”

  Carlos gave him another card, almost wincing as he did. It was a deuce. The crowd sighed. He had an eighteen. Not a great hand, but still in it. Mick waved off any other cards. It was Carlos’ turn.

  Carlos took his ten and used it to turn over his next card. Everyone watching strained to see what was underneath. They gasped as they saw a five. The game was still alive. This was good for Mick.

  The crowd wanted Mick to win. To a man. He may have had the life that almost all of them envied greatly, and for some that envy could at times be malignant, but you never root for the house in Vegas. Even if you work for them. And the people who actually knew Mick found him to be even-tempered and kind to them, even in the midst of what had to be a hellish year in which his wife had been killed and his life had been turned into a spectacle with all that had entailed. They all knew he had turned to gambling, and they all knew he was winning and was parading a bevy of starlets through his bedroom, coping with his grief in a public, uneven manner, doing things that even he admitted he didn’t like.

  Several men called out, “face!” More than half the deck was his friend now. Carlos nodded and pulled out another card. An ace.

  Everyone groaned. Carlos looked like he had killed an old woman. Was this going to be one of those hands where the little cards mounted up and won the day for the house yet again?

  He turned over the next card. There it was: Jack of hearts. The room erupted. Mick had just won half a million dollars!

  Mick didn’t crack a smile. He looked unsteady. He turned to the floor boss. “One more hand? Winn
er take all?”

  The guests couldn’t believe their ears. A true million dollar hand?

  Mike spoke into his collar. Even though it was marked as a million dollar table, he wanted to check with his superiors. This was obviously a big deal to everyone involved. He nodded. They would play for the million.

  Carlos took another deep breath and fetched a card from the shoe. He gave Mick an ace and then dealt his hole card. He dealt Mick another ace. Everyone gasped. His second card lay face up, a six. Advantage: Mick.

  Mick looked at Mike. More cuff talking. There was no need to ask what Mick wanted. He wanted to split, which was the only thing to do in his situation. Problem was, he obviously didn’t have an extra million dollars on him. Both people knew this was just a formality, that Wynn would gladly spot him the money in hopes of finally winning some back. Mike nodded. He was good for it.

  Carlos pulled the next card from the shoe. An ace of clubs. The crowd erupted. He would get to split again. Holy cow! Mike spoke into his sleeve. The answer was clear but everyone had to wait. Finally, he nodded. The casino would lend him two million dollars.

  Carlos arranged the aces a similar distance from each other, and the crowd moved in a few inches more. Some of the tourists had video cameras on. They could sell this video if they could get a good shot. Mick Lord was always newsworthy.

  Carlos lay down a ten of clubs on Mick’s first hand. Twenty-one. The crowd screamed. A king of spades was next. Twenty-one. Finally, the dealer gave Mick a six on his third hand. Soft seventeen. Mick pondered his next move. He always played the cards the same way, although he didn’t want to. He hit it anyway, Ten of hearts. Hard seventeen. Mick waved the dealer off.

  Carlos had one hand. He could tie Mick on two hands, beat him on one. Carlos flipped up his hole card. He showed a five.

  This drew a gasp from the crowd. Now a ten, the highest probability in the deck, would set Mick back a million bucks. Mick had never heard such a quiet crowd in Vegas. Couldn’t remember a single time.

  Carlos thumbed the next card, slid it across in front of him and turned it over. It was a four. He now had fifteen. Once again, the odds had shifted in Mick’s favor. Carlos drew his next card. It was a seven.

  Twenty-two.

  The Wynn erupted like you’d expect in a World Cup match. They jumped and cheered and hugged in a show of solidarity rare anywhere, especially rare in Las Vegas.

  All except Mick.

  He had desperately wanted to lose.

  * * *

  The Wynn knows its clientele. They are showy, they are precise, and they are rich. On the first floor, out of the main traffic, there is a Ferrari dealership. Penske Wynn Ferrari. Famous names, all associated with one type of speed or another. Anyone can walk in, and most leave with Ferrari key chains or the occasional leather jacket. Given his continued damn good fortune, Mick had another idea. Despite his money, he had always been fairly conservative as far as cars went. They were very nice, but not showy. As a general rule, he didn’t want to flash his wealth around more than was necessary. Sometimes it happened, like when you’re playing blackjack for a million dollars on the floor of a Vegas casino, but he generally tried to be more discreet. But now a Ferrari sounded like what he needed. It was, after all, a very dangerous car.

  As soon as he could shake all of the well-wishers and push through the crowd that had developed, he headed downstairs. He had a little voice running commentary in his head. He made himself laugh thinking about old-time car dealership commercials, the kind with the dealer telling you he owned his building and lot with a sports star or washed-up actor bolstering his shaky credibility. Now, he imagined leathery Steve Wynn on the screen, imploring customers, “Come on down to Penske Wynn Ferrari! We’ll treat ya right!”

  Mick was sure his friend Spider Boulder would roll his eyes at the Ferrari, so he told him to wait behind. Spider rolled his eyes at being told to wait. Mick sometimes got tired of the eye rolling, but not of the friendship. Mick skirted the main entrance, and came in through the plaza. The afternoon was typical Vegas hot.

  He knew what he wanted before he got there. If his good luck was going to keep up, he would have to push it in some other way. He’d give the Wynn some of their money back. He figured this was as good a place as any to do it. By the time he hit the door, he quickly announced:

  “I’ll take that red Berlinetta over in the corner.” He pointed, but he didn’t need to. “Take it out of the money from today.”

  The salesman was taken aback. Most times a sale this big had to be massaged. Sometimes it took more than a massage. This man was ready to leave. “How long will it take to get it ready?” he asked, looking around nervously. He was done with Vegas for now.

  “I can have it ready in an hour,” he said, not used to this exact request coming this quickly. He knew who Mick was despite the fact that he had never even considered walking into this place, but he took down a little basic information.

  Mick nodded. “That’s good. I’ll grab a bite to eat. Can you get my other car home to LA?”

  The salesman nodded. With every sale of a $312,000 vehicle, he was happy to throw in a four-hour driver. Mick smiled and handed him the keys to his Audi.

  Mick walked three steps, already thinking about the cheeseburger he was going to inhale, when he turned back around. He collected his car keys back from the dealer, and said, “On second thought, I’m gonna need these.”

  * * *

  He was going to give his old car, a beautiful 2013 Audi he had driven to Vegas, to the cocktail waitress. Why the hell not? He could probably buy a thousand of those if he wanted. And she would just about die. And Mick would feel good and happy for a few minutes. At this point in his journey, that was worth almost any price.

  Even the thought of doing this put a spring in his step. He threw the keys in the air and caught them like he might have done when he was sixteen. That was part of why the punch caught him completely off-guard. He was looking up when it happened.

  The man had hidden around the corner. He knew his powerful left hook would send Mick down when he had no idea it was coming. Mick was in good shape and could handle himself in a fair fight, but this was the opposite of fair. The man had planned it that way. And once it happened, he watched Mick fall, obviously unconscious. The man smiled, then pinned Mick’s arms to the ground. He knew he wouldn’t have much time, but he had timed what he would need.

  Mick wouldn’t be out long, he thought, and sure enough, his eyes started to flutter. He would say what he intended to say, pull the gun out of his waistband, shoot Mick, then himself. But he had a need to tell Mick why he was being shot, just like a monologuing super villain. Mick had ruined his life, and he needed to know who was pulling the trigger and why.

  The assailant didn’t count on the man who had been watching the whole thing across the plaza. Spider hadn’t listened to Mick, given that his friend had just made a spectacle of winning millions of dollars. It made sense that someone in that crowd would at least have some thoughts of harming him. Mick didn’t think that way, and it was why Spider loved him. But sometimes it made it hard as hell to keep him safe. Spider could make himself almost invisible, and he was sure Mick didn’t know he had been followed. He was always watching Mick, who needed watching right now.

  Spider came out of the corner where he had been blending in. It would take a couple dozen steps to reach the man. He waited half a beat until the man was kneeling to take his position, then took him down with a tackle worthy of the fiercest middle linebacker. The attacker flew off of Mick with an exaggerated expression of surprise on his face, like someone caught in super slow-motion.

  Spider was on top of the man in an instant, and immediately found the gun. He threw it clear. It skittered and scraped along the concrete. Then he buried his forearm into the man’s windpipe.

  Mick saw lights and colors and felt really nasty. All he could think about was the cocktail waitress and the car. He didn’t know what was going on, but he instinct
ively knew he needed to throw Spider into neutral. Mick had seen what he would do to people on Mick’s behalf.

  “Hold up, dude.”

  “Excuse me? He had a gun. He was gonna kill you.”

  “Fucking right I was, you house stealing bastard!” The man was hoarse from Spider’s treatment and had some blood around his mouth. He was trying to get free, but that was just making Spider madder.

  Now Mick was confused. And in so much pain. House stealing? Did he say house stealing? He loved to steal the show, and he could be accused of stealing many girls, but he knew of no houses he had stolen.

  “Let’s figure this out,” is what he meant to say, and he said enough of it for Spider to know what he was saying, but he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Mick wasn’t built for surprise attacks.

  * * *

  Mick came to when they were putting him on a stretcher. He still wasn’t fully thinking correctly, but he would be damned if he was going to the hospital. He rolled off and landed on the pavement.

  “Don’t take me anywhere,” he said forcefully.

  “Sir, we need to have you checked out.”

  “I’m fine. It’s 1919 and the Black Sox scandal just cost me my farm,” he said. It sounded funnier in his very painful head.

  The paramedics weren’t amused. They hovered over him like something out of an episode of Emergency.

  “Spider?” he half-yelled, getting concerned. “Spider! Don’t let them take me!”

  Spider emerged, nursing his hand, which might have drawn a couple more blows after Mick asked him to stop.

  “Let me look at you, pardner,” he said.

  “Pardner? I’ve never heard you call me pardner. What the hell is that?”

  “He’s okay,” Spider said. He said it with such authority one of the paramedics took a step back.

  “I think we…”

  “No you don’t,” said Spider, making the gesture of rubbing his knuckles look downright menacing. “Don’t think. It isn’t helping anything.”