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    Gambol in Vegas: A Jan Kokk Mystery
    Gambol in Vegas: A Jan Kokk Mystery
    Gambol in Vegas: A Jan Kokk Mystery
    Ebook171 pages1 hour

    Gambol in Vegas: A Jan Kokk Mystery

    By R.F. Sullivan

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    About this ebook

    GAMBOL IN VEGAS
    Formidable, lady-loving Jan Kokk, private investigator from Curacao, is at it again.
    This time Kokk finds himself babysitting a delegation of Curacaoan officials in Las Vegas there to win the lucrative Twin City title. The agreement would establish formal commercial and tourism links between Curacaos capital, Willemstad, and Fabulous Las Vegas.
    What Happens Here, Stays Here, is the Vegas credo. In Kokks case What Happens Here includes the murder of one of his delegation, three attempts on the life of a beautiful casino executive--whom Kokk promptly shelters--plus an attempt on Kokks own life.
    Solving crimes, safeguarding the Curacao delegation and--oh, yes--loving the beautiful lady--keeps our six foot four investigator on a Las Vegas-style roll.
    Viva Las Vegas!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateOct 2, 2013
    ISBN9781491818633
    Gambol in Vegas: A Jan Kokk Mystery
    Author

    R.F. Sullivan

    Living in the Hill Country of Texas, author Roy Sullivan, late of the US Army and US State Department, follows the antics of famous Curacao PI, Jan Kokk. The chase is tricky since Kokk flits from crimes in the Caribbean to Las Vegas, now back to the Caribbean. If you see the big Curacao investigator, tell Kokk his invitation to visit Texas is still open.

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      Book preview

      Gambol in Vegas - R.F. Sullivan

      ONE

      The Las Vegas Strip, also known as Las Vegas Boulevard South, is usually hyperactive at all hours, its broad sidewalks and overpasses flowing with the young and old desperately seeking a good time in this fabled city. Tourists throng along the boulevard in droves, motor traffic blares down the four-lane street and garish colored lights blink non-stop.

      But at four o’clock on this particular July morning activity had diminished to the few tourists who couldn’t sleep or those who petulantly refused to go back to their lavish and expensive hotel rooms overlooking the long, gaudy Strip. To do so before four a.m. would be admission of aging in a city proudly proclaiming Whatever happens here, stays here! Viva Las Vegas!

      Roulette table number five, inside Bally’s casino directly across the street from the towering Mirage and Caesar’s Palace monuments, was no exception to the unusual lack of early morning bustle.

      Remembering house rule number one, Vicky LeFlore smiled at the young couple, obviously tipsy, embracing in the casino entrance, then turning to stare at her roulette wheel. On duty since eleven the previous evening, Vicky still appeared fresh and professional in tight back vest (emblazoned with Bally’s four-card-suit logo), black slacks, bow tie and white shirt. Thirty-two years old, a working mother, she supported two teenagers who obstinately presumed their mother’s paycheck was commensurate with the wealth stacked on the gaming tables they sometimes glimpsed.

      Vicky shared the same vitals with many other females employed in Strip gaming rooms: attractive, tired and wary—always wary.

      Two years earlier her lackluster husband absented himself leaving Vicky to find work. She chose dealing roulette as her profession due to its glitter, apparent glamour and presumed high wages. She studied under several gaming instructors who considered her a bright, unusually fast learner.

      The quickest among her instructors also discovered to their dismay that she was business, all business.

      The young couple ambled toward her table arm in arm, lending each other enough support to keep them both upright.

      What’s this? the girl giggled, pointing at the big round red and black wheel. Looks like a big Lazy Susan. We’ve finally found that gigantic free buffet we heard about in Vegas!

      The male lit a cigarette with a flourish, squinting at Vicky through the smoke he’d just created.

      Vicky piqued their interest by triggering the roulette wheel, its white plastic ball chattering opposite the momentum of the spinning circle of colored numbers.

      Luckiest game in the house! Roulette! She leaned forward to get a better look at the young female’s diamond earrings. They looked as real as the solid gold strand skirting a sunburned but perky decolletage.

      Vicky smiled again, more to herself. Diamonds and gold? This one could easily afford to lose a few bucks before Vicky clocked off duty at seven a.m. It had been a slow session since two that morning. Her pit boss should be pleased that Vicky could attract any business on an insipid morning such as this.

      Better yet, roulette is a simple, straightforward game, Vicky intoned to the girl.

      She extended her hands invitingly toward stools opposite the revolving wheel. It’s based on chance, not skill.

      Roulette? The girl repeated, mesmerized by the spinning wheel and the circling numbers. How’d ya play it?

      Just lay a chip on the number or numbers you think the little ball will land on. If you guess right, you win!

      The girl blew her nose, then asked, How’d ya pick the numbers?

      Well, if your favorite number is seven, you put your chip on number seven here, Vicky pointed to the red seven on the table. Or, if you don’t like seven, use your age. Twenty-one for you? Vicky flashed another smile, knowing the girl was older.

      How much are the chips? The young man leaned against the table, helping the girl onto one of the stools lining the front of the wheel opposite Vicky.

      Only one dollar a chip.

      What would I win if I played that red seven? Pointing, the girl leaned forward to touch the circle.

      Thirty-five to one, if the ball stops on number seven.

      Wow! Thirty-five to one! Gimme some money, she nudged her companion.

      What if she bets two numbers?

      The payoff falls a bit, but it’s still eleven dollars for each dollar you bet.

      Gimme a hundred for chips, Jerry, she pleaded as the boy scratched his peroxided ponytail. As a clincher, she added, You haven’t bought me anything all night! I just know I can win here!

      The money changed hands and Vicky shoved a hundred chips over to the girl.

      Don’t bet it all at once, Shirley, Jerry warned, grimacing at the lightened billfold in his hand. To reassure himself, he gave a final pat to the ponytail.

      The girl made fists, posing like a boxer. I’m putting five chips on number red seven and five more on number black eleven.

      Replacing the billfold in his pocket, he hiccuped. Why those numbers?

      The girl held out her hand. "That question just cost you another hundred dollars. Tomorrow’s my birthday, stupid. Thanks for forgetting. I’ve never forgotten yours."

      All bets down, Vicky announced, activating the wheel with a light touch.

      The spinning wheel caused the white ball to spin oppositely, noisily clicking across the frets dividing the thirty-eight numbered and colored positions of the wheel.

      Vicky eyed her customers. Both the youngsters craned forward, holding their breaths in unison as the wheel began to slow. The chattering ball finally stopped on a number.

      Twenty-four wins, Vicky announced. Automatically, she swept Shirley’s losing chips aside, then poised her hand over positions seven and eleven. Want to re-bet your birthday? Maybe this will be your lucky spin and you can throw a big birthday bash today!

      We should call it a night, Shirley, the young man pleaded. Now that you know how the game’s played, we can come back later, maybe after breakfast.

      Shirley rubbed her palms against her bosom. That’s for luck. I’m betting the same again. She placed five more chips on seven and eleven.

      All bets down, Vicky spun the wheel. Moments later, Winning number is twelve.

      Damn! Just one number off! Shirley wrinkled her nose, reaching for the slightly diminished stack of chips.

      Her optimism rebounded. This is fun! I’m bound to hit seven or eleven this time. She edged ten chips onto the board again.

      If you lose this time, we’ve leaving! Jerry backed away from the table.

      Shirley shot back immediately. What happened to that big show at the Bellagio you promised me?

      All bets down. Vicky could feel the weary monotone in her own voice. Had she ever worked so hard for twenty bucks?

      Lately a thought kept recurring. I need a new and better job paying real money. My rent’s going up next month. What about college for my kids?

      Winner is number eleven. Surprised, Vicky squinted at the white ball resting in the black eleven niche before paying off the bet.

      Wow! Shirley was ecstatic. I won! I won! I won! She raised her arms and did a giddy pump and grind against the table.

      In thirty minutes her stack of original chips augmented by the win with black eleven had evaporated. As the number of her chips diminished, the exchanges between the young couple became louder and more vitriolic.

      I told you we should have left while you were ahead, a red-faced Jerry argued.

      She yelled, You even forgot my birthday! What a bummer!

      He pried her hands from the roulette table. Let’s go to the room. You’ve had enough to drink.

      Gimmee another hundred, idiot. This is Vegas! I’m trying the slots next. They’re a sure thing. I can feel it!

      Still quarreling, they stumbled toward another section of the casino. Vicky watched them go as she re-stacked and re-counted her chips.

      She exhaled wearily. What I need is a rich, far-sighted old man, she thought, glimpsing movement toward her table.

      Wondering if this was the one, she winked at an approaching older male.

      Don’t move a muscle! The florid man in wrinkled suit and tie returned her wink and trotted over.

      I’ve got a trick to show you, sugar! Hope you have plenty of chips ’cause I’m going to win ’em all!

      Overweight, five foot ten, bald in the back and about sixty, she calculated. A businessman, maybe from Provo, she concluded, smiling again.

      TWO

      I’m Earl, the bulbous stranger held out a red hand across the table.

      Sorry. She ignored the sweaty hand thrust at her. Must save my fingers for spinning the wheel, she explained. Remembering the house rule, she smiled ruefully, but not enough to encourage familiarity with this new player.

      Dollar a chip, sir. One hundred dollar limit.

      That’s too slow for a man like me, honey. Can’t you raise the ante so you and I can get out of this place a little quicker and enjoy my winnings?

      Dollar a chip, sir, she repeated, shifting weight on her aching feet. House rule for this table is one dollar per chip, sir. One hundred dollar limit. Over there, she pointed, are the high stake tables.

      The man loosened his tie. I like your looks, sweetheart. I intend to give you all the benefit of my personality and moolah. He beamed as he handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

      Will that buy me a little of your attention? He heisted himself onto the stool directly opposite her.

      She nodded, passing the chips to his position, wishing her relief dealer, usually late arriving, would be on time for once.

      I’m going to show you how to play roulette, doll. And win, win, win! Don’t pout now if I take all the marbles!

      With a flourish the man moved ten chips to the red

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