H ARD C ASH
by
M IKE D ENNIS
THE JACK BARNETT / LAS VEGAS
SERIES
This book is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, or persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without
permission in writing from Mike Dennis.
Published by Mike Dennis
Copyright 2012 by Mike
Dennis
Cover
designed by Jeroen ten Berge
Edited
by Harry Dewulf
Bought by Maraya21
kickass.so / 1337x.org / h33t.to / thepiratebay.se
Run for
your life from any man
who tells
you that money is evil.
AYN RAND
I
T here's this place in Las Vegas they call the Neon Boneyard.
It's where a lot of the old casino and hotel/motel signs are stored. They call
it a museum, kind of like the city's version of the Guggenheim, but the place
is really nothing more than a big walled-in outdoor lot in a pretty creepy
neighborhood on the north rim of downtown.
You go there and you'll see those old neon giants
sitting on the ground, unlit, ghostly shadows of their glorious selves back
when they towered majestically over bustling boulevards.
I took a guided tour of the Boneyard one cold
February afternoon, and somewhere near the end of the tour guide's spiel, I
split myself off from the rest of the group to explore on my own. I wandered to
a remote corner of the lot where I stood alone under the chill blue sky,
without the chattering guide. Dwarfed among the enormous signs, I could feel
the spooky silence. Like they were awaiting resurrection.
I wanted to soak up a little local culture. I've
been living in Las Vegas ever since I moved up from LA almost two years ago,
back in the spring of 2001. All I really knew about this city was what I'd
heard, so I thought I'd get out and see some history, or what passes for
history around here.
A town like this, you don't have to dig too deep
to uncover the past.
≈≈≈
Following the tour, I
stepped out of the Boneyard lot onto the sidewalk. As I climbed into my car
half a block away, I heard a sudden, violent thump to my immediate left. I spun
around to see a man tumble hard to the pavement not fifteen feet away. The tan
cargo van that hit him squealed wide around the corner, weaving across both
lanes of Wilson Avenue, and sped toward Maryland Parkway, where it would
eventually melt into northside traffic. I caught printing on the side and back
of the van, but I couldn't grab the plate number.
I rushed to him. Blood streamed from his right
ear, and he struggled for breath. When I pulled out my cell phone to call 911,
he clutched my forearm as best he could, gasping for words. With thinning black
hair, he appeared to be middle-aged, of slender build, maybe Hispanic.
By the time I finished the call, he had reached
into the inside pocket of his jacket, unsteadily digging out a thick white
envelope. Quaking, he handed it to me. I saw writing, but I didn't stop to
look. Desperate brown eyes begged me to listen as he tried to speak. I cradled
his head. In the background, I heard a couple of cars passing by. No one
stopped.
"G-g-give … to … " He hacked and moaned
in pain.
"Give this to who? To who?" Without
thinking, I stuffed the envelope inside my shirt. I looked around. No
pedestrians anywhere on this back street.
His eyes rolled upward into his head and blood
kept pouring out of his ear, flowing across the cold asphalt toward the gutter.
"Who? Who?" I shouted.
His labored breath tried to form words. "Bla
… Bl …" He exhaled once, and I knew he was gone.
I departed the scene ASAP. Once the cops got here
and caught sight of a corpse, I wanted to be far, far away.
Because I'm Jack Barnett,
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