The casino was almost deserted that night. Only a few souls remained—those who were either extremely lucky, foolish, or crooked. A few were playing the slots. Several others were still at the craps and roulette tables.
But most were at the poker game, either participating or watching. This round was highly intriguing to them, as the same four had been playing for hours, each time raising the stakes a bit more. By this time, two of the players had been forced to drop out, and it seemed that one of those remaining was about to lose as well.
The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead as these two gamblers stared hard at first the cards and then each other. At last one of them laid his hand down. It was a very good hand, and those observing were impressed. No doubt he would win. He had been the winner against every other opponent there.
But this opponent did not seem concerned. He watched stone-faced before setting his cards on the table and calmly announcing what he had. And instantly everyone there knew that he was the winner instead.
The former winner glared, cursing as he got to his feet. "There has to be some mistake!" he cried. "You cheated, didn't you? Everyone does it, but I won't lose because of a cheater!" His voice boomed out as he made his accusations.
The current winner looked up at him coldly and with a dead calm. "I don't cheat," he replied, shuffling his cards together. "And if you do, you deserved this. Face it, you lost and now you're a washed-up has-been, just like Baby Face Morales."
His opponent slammed his hand down viciously on the table. "Just like Baby Face Morales, huh?" he snapped, his eyes flashing with dark amusement over something that he knew which the other man did not. "Baby Face was on a rampage tonight, you know. The guy killed at least four people and made off with the Boyer stash. If I'm not mistaken, you've had your eye on that for some time now." He began to smirk in satisfaction, especially when he saw the look of anger coming across the features of the winner. "Face it, he's not a has-been, Tony. He's still as successful as he ever was, and moreso than you've been at anything other than poker."
Tony Ferano's eyes flashed. Though he had managed to stay calm and collected during the game, being compared to his former associate was not something he relished at all. In fact, he downright despised it. "The guy waves a gun around and thinks he's a big shot," he muttered. "But not all of us have the kind of short temper he does. People are afraid of him instead of respecting him, the way they respect our gang."
Tony made it a point to not kill unless necessary, and though he could be rough with his enemies, he did not lash out at random people with murderous fury the way Baby Face did. He did, however, wish that he could eliminate Baby Face once and for all. Some part of him still lived in the fear of the crime lord returning again and wanting to take over the gang. And if that happened, Baby Face was certain to know of Tony's insubordinations. He would make sure to retaliate when Tony least expected it.
Tony feared Baby Face's temper to a certain extent. When he had first entered the mob he had not cared, but as time had gone on and he had seen just how violent the embittered criminal could get, his opinion had changed. The other members of the gang were not exempt from his fury, and Tony himself had been a recipient more times than he cared to remember. Once he had been beaten nearly to death, and for something he had not done at that. He told himself that he was not afraid, and yet he knew in his heart that he was.
Could it be that part of the reason was because he saw in Baby Face something that also existed in his own heart? The hatred, the anger, the bitterness that drove Baby Face to lash out at people was something that Tony himself had also felt for many years. He had taught himself not to unleash it, as he knew what a destructive force it could be, but that did not change that it was still there. He and Baby Face were more alike than Tony wanted to acknowledge—and that, more than anything else, was what frightened him.
"Hey!" Vince exclaimed suddenly. "I heard about that heist on the radio, right before your game started. They said that Baby Face got himself shot by the cop who was leading the chase."
Tony perked up at this, raising an eyebrow. "He did, huh?" He could not control the sense of fulfillment that he felt at this news. It sounded very much like poetic justice to him. Part of him wished that it would have been a fatal shot. Then the thorn in his side would be successfully removed. But knowing Baby Face, he would not go down that easily, and so Vince's reply was not a surprise.
"The cop said that he only got him in the shoulder, and that he got away." The heavyset man crossed his arms, wondering what Tony would do with this information. He could already see the wheels turning in his friend's head.
Slowly Tony set the cards down on the table as he eased himself out of the chair. "He'll have to go into hiding for a while," he mused. "Even if he doesn't think he was hurt that bad, it won't do to have one of his arms virtually useless."
Vince gulped. "You're not thinking of doing what I think you're thinking about doing, are you, Tony?" he asked.
"Well, why not?" Tony grunted. "It has to be done sometime."
His poker opponent stared. "Just because he's injured, he's not helpless," he exclaimed.
Tony glared at him. "I know that," he snapped. "And I know we'll have to be careful. But this is the perfect time to make sure he gets bumped off." He looked around at the other members of his gang. "Are you with me?"
Vince gulped, but then nodded. Tony was the current leader, after all, and in general Vince liked him much better than Baby Face. They were friends, and he was willing to try to see that Baby Face died because of that, but he was afraid that it would not go well. After all, surely Baby Face realized that Tony wanted him dead. In fact, Baby Face probably already wanted to kill Tony. And he would not spare the other members of the mob, either. If they wanted to get the first strike, they would have to be extremely careful. Baby Face could be watching them at any given moment.
"Hey," exclaimed the man who had lost the poker game, "didn't you say something once about some guy that looks exactly like Baby Face? You guys'll have to be careful that you don't knock him off instead." He was actually not a part of Tony's gang, or of any other gang, but merely a great fan of poker who frequented the casino where they were now. He was one of Tony's friends—or perhaps "informant" would be a better word—and he often provided Tony with needed information for various capers.
Tony rolled his eyes in annoyance at the memory. He knew now that it had been Micky whom he had encountered on the street one day and Micky whom he had later tried to gun down in front of a local police station. But there would not be any other such mistakes. "The next time we strike, we'll get the real Baby Face," he vowed. He would tail the double too, if he had to, in order to make certain that they did not attack him. Tony was annoyed that he had been fooled by Micky, when Micky had later impersonated Baby Face—but he was not so annoyed that he hated him and wanted to kill him, as Baby Face did.
xxxx
It was late the following evening when Micky regained consciousness.
As his eyes opened he gazed around the room in awe and confusion. Where was he? And why was he wherever it was?
He frowned. This waking up with memory loss was becoming too frequent for his liking. At least this time he could see where he was, he decided as he tried to shift position. A boring, bare room that smelled like medicine. . . .
He let out a gasp as excruciating pain shot through his body. He froze, not trying to move anymore. Now it was all coming back.
I'm lucky to be alive at all, he realized. I thought I was a goner for sure.
Sleepily he gazed around the room. The other three Monkees were sitting on chairs by the bed. Mike was in the middle and Peter and Davy were unwillingly dozing, having laid their heads against Mike's shoulders. All of them looked exhausted. Probably none of them had gotten much sleep since finding him. Maybe if they realized that he was awake now, they would be able to feel more at peace about going to sleep.
"Hey, guys," he said slowly. He wanted to sit up more, but such an action would be a serious mistake under the circumstances, so he remained where he was and leaned a bit more into the pillows.
Instantly the others snapped to attention. "Micky?" they burst out with one voice.
Joy filled Mike's heart as he took in the scene. "It's good to see you awake, Shotgun," he declared.
"We were worried you weren't going to make it!" Davy added.
"I knew you would," Peter smiled.
Micky blinked at him, brushing unruly bangs out of his eyes. "Yeah?" he said in confusion, but before Peter could explain himself further, Davy was talking again.
"Micky, how are you feeling?"
Micky gave a weak grin. "Well, I guess I could feel worse," he replied ruefully.
Mike shook his head. "Baby Face really did a number on you," he proclaimed. "He shot you in four places!"
Micky winced. "Yeah, I remember. Did he get away?"
"He sure did," Peter frowned. "But it's okay. He'll get caught eventually, because crime never pays and evil never wins." He smiled assuredly and leaned back.
"But how many people will get hurt or even die before that happens?" Micky pointed out.
Peter looked down. "I didn't think of that," he confessed, and shuddered. Micky had almost died, and there were certainly plenty of others who had, or else Baby Face would not have gotten the title of the "most vicious killer in America." And the people he had killed had probably had families and loved ones who missed them. Peter could not stand to think of any more deaths at Baby Face's hands.
Micky patted him on the shoulder.
Now Micky remembered Peter's earlier remark. "Hey," he said, looking to the bassist, "why did you say that you knew I'd be okay, Pete?" he asked.
Peter turned his gaze back to Micky. "Because you told me," he replied, "and anyway, I knew you wouldn't want Baby Face to win."
Micky continued to be confused. "But Pete, I didn't tell you anything," he answered. "I've been kinda down for the count."
Mike stepped forward. "Yeah, well, Peter thought that you'd woken up at some point and talked to him," he explained, bewildered himself.
Davy nodded. "Mike and I went out to try to find Baby Face and Peter said he'd stay here with you while we were gone. When we came back, he told us this about you." He leaned on the railing of the bed as he spoke. Did Micky simply did not remember because he had been so ill at the time? Or had the incident Peter mentioned not actually happened at all? It looked like they would never know for sure.
"But I know I wasn't sleeping!" Peter cried. "This really happened!"
Now Micky reached over and laid a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Just because I don't remember it doesn't mean it didn't happen," he said, not being obnoxious for once. Peter had been just as worried about him as Mike and Davy had been, and he did not feel like teasing Peter or being sarcastic at the moment, despite his perplexity over the tale. "But oh well, it really doesn't matter, does it?" he went on. "Whether it was real or not, it gave you comfort, and hey, I am gonna be okay." He smiled slightly.
Peter smiled too. "And then everything will be back to normal," he proclaimed.
"We can hope so," Mike remarked.
