A Family Betrayal, The Rourk Family Saga, Book III

Prologue

It was coming down in sheets. Visibility was near zero as the wind whipped the torrential rains diagonally across the sky outside of the Rourk penthouse. The view was nearly as bleak outside as was the mood within the confines of the luxuriously appointed high-rise apartment. Outside was the potential for death; inside, death had already swung his scythe, taking the life of the family patriarch. Las Vegas was about to find out that they had lost a legend. Lisa Rourk had just found out that she had lost her father. Sullivan Rourk was dead.

Lisa stared out into the darkened night, not noticing the distortion caused by the heavy rain against the 12-foot high glass wall that circled her home. Her tears brought about a distortion all their own. Sullivan had been so much more than a father to Lisa these past 52 years. He had been her mentor, her teacher and hero. The pain of losing him was excruciating. It was as if someone had stabbed her in the chest with a red-hot rod, searing her pain into place. At this moment, Lisa was sure that her anguish would never leave.

The paramedics had pronounced her father dead less than 10 minutes earlier. Now they had to wait for the county coroner to come and pick up Sullivan’s remains.

‘Dear God! ‘Remains’.’ Lisa thought to herself. The word seemed to take away her ability to stand. It was easier to give in to the void that sought her mind than it was to fight. Darkness came in from the outer edges of her vision, slowly at first. Her knees buckled, the room began to spin. Blackness became complete just as she hit the floor.

It was a comforting place to be. Safe.

The paramedics rushed to her side. A quick check of vital signs allowed them to determine that she had only fainted. A couple whiffs of ammonia from a crushed ampoule brought her back to consciousness with a jolt! Consciousness wasn’t a place that Lisa particularly wanted to be. The first thing she saw was the debris from the paramedic’s attempts to resuscitate her father; there were scraps of sterile packaging, syringes, oxygen tubing and tubes of gel that had been used as a conductor when they had applied the cardiac defibrillator paddles to his chest. Electricity had been sent coursing through Sullivan’s body in what turned out to be a vain attempt to restart his stopped heart. Now all that remained was the body that lay limp and in disarray amongst the trash from the rescue attempt. Lisa’s tears began to fall anew.

Why did you leave me? Lisa asked her fathers’ corpse, her fresh tears distorting her vision once more.

Sobs caused Lisa’s shoulders to heave and fall repeatedly. There was little that the paramedics could do to console the woman before them. They asked if there was someone they could call. The only one she had left was her mother. April Rourk was in no shape to provide any solace; April Rourk’s Alzheimer’s disease had ravaged her almost completely. She still lived in the Rourk suite at the Pearl Dust Hotel and Casino in downtown Las Vegas. Sullivan had been taking care of her with the help of several full time nurses. Lisa wasn’t even sure that her mother would know who she was talking about when she told her that Daddy was dead.

One of the paramedics had recalled hearing about a son somewhere and asked if he could call him for her.

He is the reason that my father is dead. Lisa replied with sober vehemence.

That statement acted as a cathartic remedy for her tears. The story of her son was one that needed to be told; one that still needed closure; one that she had to see through to its inevitable end. But these weren’t the people to tell this story to. There was only one person left to take this to. Lisa pulled herself together and stood slowly with the help of the fire department paramedics. Thank you. She spoke softly, sincerely.

Lisa needed to say good-bye to her father, but first she had to put him back together. She knew it was silly, he was dead, but she knew that her daddy wouldn’t want to be left in such disarray. She knelt down beside him and slowly buttoned his starched shirt, taking time to tuck in the tails and retie his solid red silk tie. The custom embroidered Pearl Dust logo was difficult to center in the ties’ knot, but she managed. Next, she used her long, perfectly manicured fingernails to comb his full mane of silver hair into place. He was particularly prideful about his hair; it was luxurious and always perfectly groomed. Lisa smiled as she recalled the term that her uncle Spanky had come up with to describe it: ‘Goomba chic."

Lisa leaned down and pressed her lips to her fathers’ forehead. Good-bye, Daddy.

There was business to attend to. Wrongs that could never be righted had to be brought to account. There was an old world style of justice that her father had used in times of dire straits. She would use that same style of justice now in order to punish the betrayal that had brought about her father’s heart failure. The very knowledge of it had been too much for him to take.

Chapter 1

Six years earlier…

Happy birthday, Lil’ Spanky! Sullivan Rourk spent more time with his grandson than any other person on earth. His love for the boy was unequivocal. This was the boys’ 16th birthday. Sullivan had been waiting for this day with a greater sense of expectancy than Frank Lil Spanky Rourk had. Today was the day that Sullivan would be handing over the keys to his favorite car, a classic 1968 Corvette.

Sullivan Rourk also spent a great deal of time right here in his office at the Pearl Dust. This was the crown jewel of his little empire. Since taking control of the resort casino some twenty plus years earlier, Rourk had expanded his sphere of influence to a half dozen other downtown casinos in Las Vegas. He was the reigning king of this gambling Mecca. And he was grooming Frank to be the crown prince.

Frank didn’t look anything like his impeccably dressed grandfather, and for good reason. Fifteen years earlier, Sullivan had killed Frank’s biological father; a man who had been hell bent on destroying Rourk and everything he held dear. In fact, Sullivan had also been involved in the killing of Frank’s paternal grandfather. That had been many years earlier. It seemed like there would be no end to the generational vendetta that plagued Sullivan Rourk.

It had all stemmed from a stint that Sullivan had served in Soledad prison following his conviction for possessing explosives in California. Sullivan had been targeted by the Aryan Brotherhood to do a hit in the Administrative Segregation Unit of the prison. Sullivan didn’t care much for being ordered around, so he stuck the homemade shank into the belly of the messenger who had brought the knife to him. It was a stupid move on his part, but one that the gang members seemed to find honorable. Enough so that they turned Sullivan loose to the main-line yard with the keys to the white-boy car. Their only demand was that he run their drug and extortion rackets, making sure that they got paid their fair share of the operation. It was that, or death. Sullivan chose to live.

The real problems began when Sullivan paroled from prison. He had fully expected to be rid of those people. He was mistaken. The Brand, (the nickname that the Aryan Brotherhood used in recognition of the shamrock tattoo that each member had branded into their skin) decided that Sullivan could be of use to them on the streets as well. They sent a couple of skinheads to his Palm Springs area home to deliver their message, a violent message that said that they weren’t finished using Sullivan Rourk.

Sullivan had other plans. He fled the area with his wife and daughter and eventually got his life back on track. It wasn’t until he turned up in Las Vegas to revamp the ageing Pearl Dust casino that the Brand tracked him down again. This time they kidnapped his daughter, Lisa. It had been Frank’s grandfather, A. B. Whitey White, who had engineered the kidnapping. Sullivan, with the help of several friends, tracked down Whitey and his associates, taking their lives as retribution for their crimes.

Again, Sullivan had thought that he was beyond the reach of the Brand. After all, he had put the ones involved in their graves.

What Sullivan hadn’t figured on was Whitey having sons who would pick up where their father had failed. One son had been David Keith, Nevada State Assemblyman, and Lisa Rourk’s husband. The other had been Frank’s biological father, Adolph White. Both of these men had brought pain and death to the Rourk Empire. For their crime, Rourk and his associates meted out their own style of swift and sure justice. There were no appeals; no technicalities; only death that was deemed by law enforcement to be justifiably self-defense.

After Adolph’s timely demise, Lisa decided that the only way to end the cycle of violence was to step up and provide the last of the White’s with a loving and nurturing home. She adopted the then nearly two-year-old son of Adolph, changing his name to Frank Zigan Rourk, in honor of her uncle who had given his life to save hers and many others from a bomb that Adolph had planted. Uncle Spanky, as he was always called, had wrapped his arms around the bomb and run into the parking lot in order to save the people that were gathered in the hospital lobby. He died instantly when the bomb exploded.

Frank noticed that he didn’t carry any family resemblance to the Rourk’s. He often looked into the mirror and wondered why he didn’t have the thick hair of his mother and grandparents. Why they all shared features that he didn’t possess. His grandfather was an old man, yet his good looks still turned the heads of young women on a daily basis. Frank, on the other hand, had a stocky build and a protruding Adams apple. Where everyone else in the family had thick hair, his was thin and brittle. His mother and grandmother had green eyes, grandpa had brown, and he had blue irises.

Grandpa Sullivan was 6’3 and in great shape. Frank felt like the Spanky from the Little Rascals due to his short stature, only 5’5 tall, and already weighing in at 200 pounds.

Frank had asked several times about his father, and all he ever got was that he died from a fall off the balcony of the Turnberry penthouse. There were no photos displayed of David Keith, the man he believed his father to be. His mother wouldn’t allow any of them to be brought into the house. Nevertheless, Frank had a collection of photos stored on his computer that he had retrieved from the Internet. There was only a slight resemblance through the eyes as far as he could tell. There were so many questions running through Frank’s mind; questions that no one in the family was willing to answer.

Frank was irritated, though Sullivan didn’t notice. There was a darkness behind the boy’s eyes; something not seen there before. Malevolence could be discerned if one looked into the dark blue irises. Almost as if the varying shades of blue were ever so slowly spinning in a storm cloud that circled a vast dark void.

Sullivan didn’t notice. It was something that no one who loves a person on the verge of insanity ever notices. They don’t want to see the darkness that exists within the soul of someone that they love. To acknowledge that touch of evil would require an admission that they too could be but a moment away from a place far different than the one they currently enjoy.

The birthday boy stepped over and embraced his grandfather. It was his habit. It was expected of him. Frank Rourk always did what was expected of him, at least when people were watching.

Come on and let me take you to your present! Sullivan was enthusiastic.

Frank’s momentary step to the precipice passed. As with any 16 year old, a present from a wealthy grandparent was something to be excited about. He was expecting a car of some sort, but when they stepped out of the elevators a few minutes later, he was overcome with delight when he was handed the keys to the bright yellow classic Corvette parked in a roped off area reserved for Sullivan and April Rourk.

No way! The surprise was unmistakable in his voice as well as on his face.

Sullivan was pleased with himself. If you don’t like it, I can always take it back and get you something else, he joked.

Frank turned quickly towards his grandfather and assured him that this was the only car he ever wanted.

The boy was on his way toward becoming a man. Sullivan Rourk was pleased by that thought. An empire needed to have a succession. Lisa was the next in line to control Rourk Enterprises, but Frank needed to be groomed to take over once his mother was ready to pass the torch. And Sullivan would provide the necessary tutelage to insure that his own wishes were carried out long after his passing. Take it for a spin.

Lil’ Spanky didn’t need any more prodding. He climbed in behind the wheel, slid the key into the ignition and gave it a turn. The motor roared to life, echoing thunderously in the underground garage. The rear wheels chirped as he pulled out of the parking space and headed toward the exit.

Sullivan Rourk stared toward the exit long after his grandson had disappeared around the corner. He hadn’t thought about the day he had been forced to take the life of Frank’s biological father in a long time, but he found himself doing so now. He had gone to Adolph’s home with the intention of killing him. He was going to commit murder; and would have, but Adolph had allowed Sullivan the opportunity to take his life while claiming self-defense. Sullivan had shot Adolph several times during a gun battle, and thought he had killed the neo-nazi. But when a cop soon arrived and Adolph fired a burst from his machine gun, killing the officer instantly, Sullivan Rourk then turned a gun once more in the killer’s direction and fired at point blank range. It made no difference to the investigating officers that Adolph’s weapon was empty. He was a cop killer and deserved to die.

Sullivan shook off the bloody thought and headed back into the casino. There was work to do.

Chapter 2

For the past 16 years, L.A. Michaels had been looking every bit of his 75 years of age. There was something about losing a spouse to violence that aged a person rapidly, in L.A.’s case, overnight. However, the physical effects of losing his wife to murder hadn’t diminished his mental faculties one bit. There was a genius beneath the nap of white hair. The old black man remained Sullivan Rourk’s closest friend, as well as the Pearl Dust’s chief of security. It was a position he was particularly suited for, considering his background as both a computer expert and a former agent with the FBI. L.A. kept things at the Pearl running securely and honestly, for which, he was well compensated.

As part of his daily routine, L.A. would review the security tapes from the night before that covered the high interest areas of the casino, mainly the vault entrance and the twenty-five card tables that were scattered about the casino gaming areas. Without fail, the card cheats and scammers would, at some point, stop and stare at one of the places that held the vast sums of money that they hoped to steal from the casino. There had been some especially tense moments caught on the video surveillance tapes over the years. Twice there had been brazen robbery attempts inside the Pearl Dust. The first had been thwarted by two little old ladies that happened to be standing at the cashier cage when a man in a ball cap and sunglasses stepped in front of them and pulled a gun. It wasn’t so much that robbery offended these two women as much as the fact that they had won nearly fifteen thousand dollars at the blackjack table and had to cash out quickly in order to catch their flight back to Columbus.

The women both swung their heavy-laden purses at the would-be robber’s head, rendering him unconscious before security had even acknowledged that a gun had been pulled in the casino. The two women were provided with a free ride home on the Pearl Dust’s private L-1011.

That was L.A.’s favorite moment caught on tape. Those same two women were back at the Pearl. They were easily recognized on the tape being reviewed. L.A. was so caught up in the memory of that event that he nearly missed another event unfolding just beyond where the women were standing at the cash machine.

The security system allowed L.A. to manipulate the video images in any number of ways, including zooming in on any person or object that entered the property. He rolled a track-ball his right, pressed several keys on his computer keyboard and was suddenly looking at the faded blue ink of a tattoo that was emblazoned across the throat of a six-foot tall White male who was dressed in khaki pants and a blue Pendleton shirt. The man had close-cropped dark brown hair with a touch of gray at the temples. He looked like a man that had recently been paroled from prison.

L.A. focused on the tattoo. Upon closer inspection, he decided that it wasn’t faded after all. It was covered up with what appeared to be some sort of make-up. This guy seemed to be experimenting with Cover Girl in order to hide his ink. Another couple of keystrokes enhanced the tattoo enough to read the Old English lettering.

NLR. The three letters brought a chill to L.A. They represented one of California’s most notorious prison gangs; the Nazi Low Riders. They were a group that had caused L.A. and Rourk a considerable amount of trouble in years past. Every time the NLR showed themselves near the Pearl Dust there was trouble, there was death.

L.A. first dialed Sullivan Rourk’s cell number. It only rang once before being answered.

What’s up? Rourk asked in lieu of a greeting.

Maybe nothing. L.A. began cautiously. Then again, we may have some serious trouble brewing. I think you better find your way up to the surveillance office PDQ.

On my way. Sullivan hurried through the casino toward the elevator that would take him up to the main security center.

By the time Rourk arrived, L.A. had assigned three technicians to the task of tracking the movements of the Nazi Low Rider. He had also began running the facial recognition program that the Department of Homeland Security had provided to all of the casinos following the bomb blast that had rocked the Pearl Dust nearly 15 years earlier. That particular event had involved California prison gang members. Somehow, Sullivan Rourk, even after receiving a Governors pardon, couldn’t escape his prison past, it seemed to intermittently come back to haunt him.

The first thing Rourk saw when he entered the room was a close up of the enhanced tattoo emblazoned across the largest video monitor in the room. The letters were blown up to nearly 100 times their actual size on the 72" LCD screen. It was enough to stop Sullivan cold.

Yeah, I had the same sort of reaction. L.A. claimed.

What’s the story? Rourk wanted to know.

I was looking… the senior surveillance technician interrupted L.A.

Sorry, Sir. But we have your man tracked through the casino for approximately three hours before he left via the employee parking garage.

Sullivan asked, And what the hell was this piece of shit doing in my casino?

The technician