Chapter 8

In 1940, Las Vegas was a dinky little town of eight and a half thousand. By 1950 the population was almost twenty-five thousand. Immediately after the war, it was swelled by gangsters and physicists to around ten thousand actual inhabitants. Such a combination ... guns and nuclear weapons. The single shot execution of one and the multiple murderers of thousands.

The visitors ... from all over the country sent the weekend population soaring up in the fifty thousands.

Even then, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Still, it was a little town. Small town America ... with Chicago morals.

They flew in to the North Vegas airfield on a sunny day in late November, 1946. It wasn't exactly hot but it hadn't snowed. The Spartan was a much admired airplane ... E'veen was a much admired redhead.

Bill came prepared, Hertz had been in business since 1918, but not in Las Vegas. Bill bought a used 1940 Ford coupe for a hundred bucks. He planed on giving it to some highschool student when they left town. On the way into town, they passed a Justice of the Peace.

"Well," he said to E'veen, "there's a JP ... shall we?"

""Might as well," she said.

"Yup, can't dance," he replied.

"Too wet to plow," she quipped.

"And the old lady's ragging'." he grossed.

"Am not!"

Bill made a U-turn and they pulled in, parked, but before they could ring the bell, the door opened and a jovial lady came to the door.

"Married?" she asked.

"Nope." E'veen replied.

"Want to?"

"Yup," said Bill.

"His honor is washing the dishes."

"That's a good habit for a husband to get into," giggled E'veen.

Mrs. Jovial grabbed papers from a desk and a couple of pens.

"Have a seat, fill these out."

They did ... she checked to make sure all the blocks were filled in.

Then a man in a clean white shirt and black pants came through the door.

"Mother," he said, "are you satisfied with the paperwork?"

"Yes."

"Dearly Beloved" ... right on through to "Kiss her, you fool."

"I pronounce you..." and that was it. "We'll file the papers Monday."

"Mrs. Sutherland?" inquired Mr. Sutherland.

"Mr. Sutherland?" responded Mrs. Sutherland.

"Stay and gamble or go see Mina?"

"Oh, Mina for sure," said E'veen, "but let's spend a little time at the tables."

El Rancho Vegas offered horseback riding, a large swimming pool, and top shows in its theater called the Opera House. When it opened, El Rancho Vegas's dining room was the largest in Las Vegas. The casino consisted of four table games—two blackjack tables, one roulette table, and one craps table—and seventy slot machines. (WIKI)

The Flamingo wasn't finished ... almost ... but the opening wasn't for another month. E'veen chose the El Rancho because the bridal suite was available and they had a heated pool, they also had horses. E'veen had used horses and their marvelous motion to keep her raging hormones in check.

Even though her ID claimed she was 22 she was really just 19 ... or 20. When she hid in the Lysander she was 16, with her Violet conjured ID she became 18. 18 years old and then three or four years as a Junior US deputy Marshal, meant she was 21 or 22 when they resigned.

Time travel can real screw up birthdays. If you went by the date she was originally born, E'veen was turned ten in 1946. Then again, Bill, by his physical birth, was just five months old. A pair of cradle robbers.

A little time at the tables turned into a ten days stay while E'veen got used to the fit and feeling of Bill's Excellent Eleven ... she was hard to get out of bed ... even to eat. Bill, on the other hand, was hard in bed and E'veen was a taste treat.

Eventually, they visited the pool where E'veen's modest bikini created a sensation. Covered where it counted, she was far more erotic than the near naked showgirls Revue. E'veen 'shaved, ' and that was wildly out of touch with even Vegas morals. Five feet two inches of green eyed redhead, she was much admired ... until the 2 inches shy of seven feet tall Bill scattered the romeos.

One of the flock of sunbathing showgirls inquired about the interesting part just over E'veen's right temple.

"What on earth made you decide to do your hair like that?" she asked.

E'veen brushed her hair back with her right hand and showed the scar. "It was a nine millimeter ... close, huh?"

"You were shot!?" the nearly six foot tall blond exclaimed.

"Yup ... interesting experience ... I don't recommend it."

"Who ... why ... what happened?"

"Oh ... I shot back ... right between the eyes. Took the back of his head off ... really made a mess." E'veen inquired, "is there a range near here I can use?"

"You shoot?"

"Well, I haven't for about a month and I'll bet I'm pretty rusty ... but, yeah, I shoot."

"Listen ... I know I'm asking a lot ... but ... a showgirl's life can be a dangerous one. There are guys that think because we're nearly naked on stage that we're easy ... and some of us are. I'm just eighteen and at a hundred and fifty dollars a week, take-home ... this is a good paying job.

"I want to go to college but I'd like to have study time and not have to waitress in some hamburger stand ... so, a year or two here and I can pay for my degree ... could ... would ... can I ask ... would you to teach me to shoot?" she finished in a rush.

"I can do that ... but you know ... can you use it if you have to? Wounding a guy is pretty stupid ... they get all bent out of shape ... what? What did I say?"

"Bent out of shape ... I never heard that before ... but it fits how they act if you hurt their feelings."

"If you have to shoot can you shoot to kill?"

She looked shocked ... then she narrowed her eyes and hollered at one of the girls, "Bernice? Come over her a minute."

Bernice was a stunning brunette but she was wearing HUGE sunglasses.

"Bernie ... take off your glasses."

"The shiner was huge when she first got it."

"I had to take three weeks off ... my nose will never be perfect and ... well ... he raped me." Bernice started to cry, "he was such a little guy ... I figured I'd be safe ... I wasn't. He really hurt me."

The statuesque blond asked, "Bernie? If you could have defended yourself ... would you have shot him?"

"In a heartbeat."

"Want to learn to shoot? Red, show her your scar, please."

"What on earth?"

"I was shot. I defended my self. He's dead and I'm not." This was not the time or the place to reveal the how and why ... especially the deputy Marshal status.

Nothing would help it but a trip to a local pawnshop. Junk ... nothing but junk ... Saturday Night Specials and worn out pistols. One of the girls remembered a store off the Strip.

If you really try ... and you're really friendly, you can fit five Las Vegas showgirls and a tiny redheaded Irish girl in a 1940 Ford coupe. But it ain't easy.

Tommy Edwards Gunshop and Firearms Repair was invaded by six beauties. Mr. Edwards looked up from his work and thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

E'veen was carrying a small case. It looked like it was aluminum. She stepped up and asked, "Is there a pistol range where I can teach these ladies to shoot?"

Tommy admitted the existence of such a place.

"Everybody is over eighteen ... what can you show us that would be suitable for women?"

The first thing he did was calculate just how much he could get ... the second thing he did was notice E'veen's stance and a suspicious bulge ... barely noticeable under her jacket.

In his mind, he said, 'she's a shooter ... and she's good at it. She stands ready ... like an FBI or Secret Service special agent ... they don't hire women. She's had training.'

"What are you looking for?" he asked. "Something like you're carrying?"

"Mr. Edwards ... you don't have anything like what I have."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Show me."

E'veen carefully raised her jacket, slipped her hand inside and slid her personal Glock out of her custom made nylon webbing shoulder holster. She dropped the magazine and ejected the chambered round.

Tommy picked it up... 'it's plastic... 40 cal? there's no safety ... but she carried it with a round chambered.' He handed it back and picked up the magazine. '16 rounds? What a great idea.'

"I have never seen such a weapon. There's no safety."

"There is one but it's different. I can show you but a range would be necessary."

"There's one in the building out back. I would love to see this shoot."

"Combat range?"

"What's that?"

"I'll give you a hint ... targets that turn sideways ... pictures of bad guys, some with hostages. the targets turn face-on at random distances and times. Kill all the bad guys ... don't shoot the civilians. I'm sure you can work it out." E'veen said, "this is going to be so much fun. Do you have earmuffs?"

"Yes, although most people don't bother."

"I like my ears. They've saved my life more than once. We'll all take muffs."

"They're expensive ... five dollars."

"I have my own. I'll pay for five pair." She opened a side pocket on her jacket, hauled out a roll of hundreds and peeled one off. "Come on girls ... let's go shoot."

At the range, E'veen showed the girls her pistol. While she was at it she explained the workings to the gunsmith. He took copious notes.

"Some training first ... when you draw your weapon from it's holster your finger is laid on the side of the frame ... not on the trigger..." Over the next hour, E'veen gave her standard 'I've never shot a gun before, ' lecture. She drew sight pictures and explained the proper sight alignment.

Edwards was impressed. He ran out targets when asked. Each girl got one bullet, she was shown how to raise the weapon to the target ... not the movie pulldown to the target.

Each girl actually hit the torso target, each first shot was reasonably centered.

E'veen suggested they count between shots, "one- two- shoot on three. It's not fast but it makes you concentrate. A nervous shooter seldom hits with the first shot ... except at social distances."

Then they got three cartridges in the magazine. All the girls hit center mass with all three bullets. Then each girl got a full magazine and they all shot center mass.

"My turn," said E'veen. "Tommy, run out all five targets ... different distances please." She laid three magazines on the counter. "Tommy? You got a stop watch? Time me from 'GO' to the pistol on the counter please."

"It was like listening to a submachine gun," Tommy told his brother. "The noise never stopped until the pistol was on the counter." Tommy's brother was a Las Vegas police detective. "She never missed and every hole was in the head. She said, 'head shots don't shoot back.' when I asked why. And that pistol ... Harold, it was plastic. Glock ... from Austria. I sold every one of those girls a pre war Walther PP in .380ACP. She said that was the minimum acceptable cartridge ... and this E'veen paid with pre depression hundreds and never blinked an eye."