by Paul W Papa
“Did you take care of the ghost?” the shaman asked.
Mayer nodded. “I found the finger in an old vase and burned it in the fireplace.”
“And Hawthorne?”
“He went up in flames along with it.”
“Free to move on to the next world,” the shaman said.
Mayer did not answer.
“How did the finger get there in the first place?” asked Cassi.
“The witch,” Mayer said. “She wasn’t just Vera Krupp’s housekeeper. She worked for Hawthorne and Pierce as well.”
“I don’t understand,” Cassi said. “Why would she put a piece of Hawthorne’s body in Pierce’s house? Wasn’t she working for Pierce?”
“It’s what they do,” the shaman offered. “A skinwalker thrives on chaos and will seek any opportunity to sow disorder. The finger would ensure that Hawthorne’s ghost would haunt Pierce. It was purposeful.”
“She had the curse on Pierce all along, didn’t she?” Mayer asked.
The shaman nodded. “Yes, once Pierce knew who she was, she would have had to kill him. She had no choice.”
“It might have been better for him,” Mayer said. His thoughts turned to Vera Krupp, her secretary Peg Westburg, and what they must have gone through when they discovered the skinwalker—the terror and confusion. If the shaman was correct, the skinwalker would have had to kill them as well to protect its identity. It would have been the perfect crime. Vera’s crazed secretary kills her employer, then turns the gun on herself.
“There’s still one thing I don’t get,” Cassi said. “Why did Pierce hire you in the first place if he knew all along he was responsible for Hawthorne’s death?”
“The suicide note,” Mayer said. “Pierce knew Hawthorne didn’t commit suicide, but he was stuck with a crime scene that showed all indications of just that and a note that would likely stand up in any court. The skinwalker wasn’t about to let Pierce destroy the note—probably why she just happened to show up that morning when he did—and Pierce couldn’t let on in front of his hired man that he helped arrange his partner’s journey to the big sleep.
“He felt his precious resort slip though his fingers, but then he came up with a plan. He knew the housekeeper had powers, supernatural powers—though likely he didn’t know to what extent. He’d also heard of the Sloan Canyon incident, which meant he’d heard of me. So he approached the only man he knew who had been knee-deep in the other-worldly muck of Las Vegas.”
“I get it,” said Cassi. “He figured you’d put two and two together, which would lead you to the housekeeper.”
“And Vera Krupp,” Mayer added. “He wanted me to discover that she and Hawthorne were having a relationship. Knowing Vera wanted to protect that land, he hoped I’d find something to implicate her in Hawthorne’s death. If he could get someone to prove the suicide was, instead, a murder, and that the supernatural was involved, then the note would be dismissed as false and he would get his resort back. I guess there was greed on both ends.”
“And he figured you’d kill the witch,” said Cassi.
Mayer nodded. “Or he’d kill her himself, which he foolishly tried. I guess he figured he could cover his tracks, or at least he was willing to take the chance.”
“How could he possibly think he could do that?” Cassi asked.
“Easy. Rich people always think they’re smarter than everyone else.”
A motion at the bar caught Mayer’s eye. Virginia had come in from the back and was now standing next to Joe. He motioned to Mayer and when Virginia looked over, their eyes met.
Mayer stood. “If you want to know what evil lurks in the hearts of men like Pierce, you’ll have to ask The Shadow,” Mayer said to Cassi. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s something I have to take care of.” He downed the rest of his drink and was about to step away when Cassi asked him a question.
“You ever going to tell me what P. M. stands for?”
“You’re a reporter,” he said. “I’m sure you can figure it out.” He took a step, then stopped. “Thanks for the help,” he said to the shaman, and then to Cassi, “You’re all right, kid.”
By the time Mayer made it to the bar, Virginia had returned to the back room, so he followed. He pushed the door open slowly and stood in the frame. He wanted to go in further, but his feet wouldn’t let him. Virginia was sitting in the chair at her desk. She turned to him, eyes heavy with the burden of having hurt someone she loved.
Mayer didn’t say a word, he simply went to her. She stood and took him in her arms. Pressing tight, she said, “I love you, Prometheus. Please don’t mistake my attempt to protect you as betrayal. If I thought there was something you could have done with those letters, I would have told you sooner. I promise.”
Mayer wanted to be mad at her, but it didn’t take. Instead, he wrapped his arms around the woman who’d willfully and thanklessly stepped in when he’d needed it most and held her tight. He stood there for quite some time—a boy in his surrogate mother’s arms—enjoying the feeling of being safe, if only for a moment, and she let him.
“Are you going to be okay?” she asked, wiping her eyes.
“It’s eggs in the coffee,” Mayer admitted. “But I know what I need to do.”
Virginia took Mayer’s head in her hands and looked into his eyes. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“No,” Mayer admitted. “But it needs to be done.”
“Want company?”
Mayer shook his head. “No. This is something I need to do alone.”
Virginia turned and took a bottle of Planter’s Punch from a top shelf. “Here,” she said. “You may need this.”
Mayer forced a smile and took the rum. He kissed Virginia on the cheek then headed back to his apartment, waving to Joe with the bottle as he left. He stepped across the salt threshold and turned on the lights. He’d clean the salt in the morning—or maybe the day after. After draping his coat on the back of a chair and tossing his lid on the table, Mayer went to the kitchenette and found a relatively clean glass. He filled it with the rum Virginia gave him and set the bottle on the table.
One snort turned into a second, just for good measure. When the glass was empty, he filled it a third time and put the bottle down next to his mother’s letters. All he’d ever had was her diary. The notes of a scientist, documenting clues and examining evidence, not heartfelt emotion from one friend to another. He ran the tips of his fingers across them—a voice from the past, waiting to be heard. Mayer wasn’t sure he had the courage to listen, but he also wasn’t sure he had the courage not to. He picked up the letters and examined the twine holding them tight.
He suddenly understood why the cigarette case had so much meaning to Pierce. It represented something to him—something powerful: the love he believed he shared with a woman. But it was a woman he could never have, so instead, he clung to the representation of that love. Even if neither the love, nor the case, were his to begin with.
Mayer took the letters to his bed, sat on the edge, and just stared at the addresses, both to and from, in her handwriting. Mayer had the worst handwriting possible—he left the tops of his a’s open, and almost never dotted his i’s. It was a constant source of frustration to his mother. And why wouldn’t it be? By contrast, her handwriting was perfection. More like art than something utilitarian. The writing was perfectly straight, as if she held a ruler below her pen as she wrote. Her l’s curved effortlessly, at the exact same height, slightly slanted forward. Her g’s looked like g’s and her j’s, j’s.
She tried to teach him, but it didn’t take. He was far too busy with life to learn how to do something as useless as write properly.
A tear escaped down his cheek, followed by another. He downed the last of the rum, hoping it would steady his hands. It was now or never. He set down his glass, untied the twine, and opened one of the envelopes. After he removed the letter, he sat there holding it for the longest time—not able to unfold it. The rum hadn’t worked. Finally, w
ith a gut full of courage, he took a deep breath, carefully unfolded the letter, and began reading.
Epilogue
MEN BELIEVE THEY are so smart, that it is so easy for them to outthink a woman. She had encountered it many times, both in business and in marriage. Foolish boys. It had been an exceptionally long day and Vera was looking forward to a hot bath. She pulled off her boots and laid them by the bed in her secret room, then she went over to the tub and drew herself a bath. As the water warmed, she dumped in a capful of lavender-scented bathing liquid into the tub and watched as it foamed. Then she popped the cork on a bottle of St. Emilion Bordeaux and poured herself a glass.
After she set the glass and the bottle by the tub, she went into the closet where she removed her scarf and shirt, then took off her slacks and socks. She removed her bra and panties, then slipped into a sheer covering and a pair of fuzzy slippers.
She was about to turn for the bath when she stopped. At the back of the closet was a rack of long evening dresses that were not used as often anymore. Pushing the dresses aside, Vera reached for the dial on the wall safe. She turned it to the right, then the left, and then again to the right, before turning the handle and opening the heavy door. She reached inside and pulled out a piece of jewelry that had once caught her eye. A strange piece she had managed to sneak past her husband.
What she thought was a necklace, she now knew was an amulet—one with special powers. Thanks to Mr. Mayer. The Seal of the Seven Archangels. She traced the outline of the star with a finger. The thought of Mayer not wanting to search the room brought a smile. Men can be so easily manipulated. She placed the amulet back into the safe and secured the door, then headed for the tub.
She laid her covering over a chair, and placed her slippers at its clawed feet. Then she climbed into the warm, soothing waters. As she rested her head against the side, wine glass in hand, she decided it was time to learn just what that amulet could do.
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About the Author
Paul W. Papa is a full-time writer and ghost writer who has lived in Las Vegas for more than thirty years. He developed a fascination with the area, and all its wonders, while working for nearly fifteen years at several Las Vegas casinos. In his role as a security officer, Paul was the person who actually shut and locked the doors of the Sands Hotel and Casino for the final time. He eventually became a hotel investigator for a major Strip casino, during which time he developed a love for writing stories about uncommon events. When not at his keyboard, Paul can be found talking to tourists on Fremont Street, investigating some old building, or sitting in a local diner hunting down his next story.
Also by Paul W. Papa
Hard-Boiled Noir
Maximum Rossi
Rossi’s Gamble
Non-Fiction
Desert Dust
Read on for a sneak peak of Maximum Rossi
“A companionable mob tail, enjoyable unserious and dramatically immersive.” ~ Kirkus Reviews
“This is an excellent hard-boiled mystery: cleverly written, smoothly paced, and with a protagonist who’s compelling enough to sustain a series.” ~ Publishers Weekly
“To find a modern pastiche of the noir/hardboiled novels of the 40s and 50s this good is quite rare. This is a really decent homage to the age of Chandler and Hammett, and it’s a pleasure to read.” ~ Booksplainer
“A wildly pleasurable and perfectly written gritty crime drama.” ~ Indies Today
Chapter 1
I WAS TWO eggs into a three-egg omelet when my breakfast was interrupted by a man who slid into my booth across the table from me. He wore a gray broadcloth sack suit, loose at the waist with narrow shoulders. His shirt was white and his collars button down. He sported a striped, tie and the wisp of a white handkerchief tucked into his top pocket. The man brought two goons with him. One was just shy of a mountain, the other a molehill.
His name was Salvatore Manella. His friends called him Sal. I didn’t let that stop me. “Nice to see you again Sal,” I said. “Please, join me.” Sal was a New York mobster sent to Las Vegas to get a hold on things after the Siegel debacle of the 40s. He was a lemon of a man, sour as they came.
While the Molehill stood by his boss, the Mountain moved over to my side of the booth, blocking my exit, and, had we been outside, the sun as well. He wore a long suit that a family of three could fit under in a rainstorm. A Stetson hat, its brim curled in the back, sat precariously atop his voluminous head. He had a buzz cut high above his ears, a crooked nose, and a mouth to match. I took another bite of omelet.
“You’re still here,” Sal said, his puss fitting his demeanor.
I gave him a toothy grin. “Why yes I am,” I said. “Thank you for noticing.”
He leaned forward. “I thought we discussed you leaving?”
“No, you discussed my leaving. I don’t recall being involved in the conversation.”
I had come to Las Vegas several months ago from Boston for a friend’s bachelor party. When it was all over and done, they left, I stayed behind. What can I say? The fat city enamored me. Blinking lights, free cocktails, great entertainment, oh yeah, and showgirls, lots of showgirls. I was hooked. There was nothing for me in Boston anyway, except, of course, the family business.
A waitress came and offered coffee. I moved my cup for her to top it off, but the Mountain sent her away.
“I’ll ask you again,” Sal said. “Why are you here?”
“I like the food.”
It wasn’t the answer Sal was looking for. It wasn’t the answer the Mountain was looking for either. He reached in and placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Manella asked you a question,” he said. His New York-tainted speak was slow and steady. He squeezed just enough to get his point across. Had I been a watermelon, I would have burst.
I met his gaze. He did not look away.
“Tell Mr. Manella,” I said to the Mountain, “it’s a free country and, more to the point, an open town.”
“Then you plan on starting business?” Sal asked. “Family business?”
I turned my attention back to my uninvited guest. “I don’t have any plans,” I admitted. “But if I did, you’d be the last to know.”
The Mountain squeezed harder. I tried not to flinch.
“Want to call off your dog?” I asked.
Sal looked to the Mountain and nodded. I smiled. The Mountain released me but kept his hand close just in case.
“I’m sitting here out of respect to your father,” Sal said. “But my respect goes only so far. Las Vegas might be an open town, but you know who owns it and it ain’t Boston.”
“From what I hear, it ain’t New York either.”
Sal smiled. “That what you hear? Maybe you should ask Lansky or Luciano.”
“I’ll get right on that, seeing how it went so well with Siegel.” It was an unnecessary jab, but I took it anyway.
Sal grew solemn. “There’s no room for you here Rossi,” he said. “Why don’t you just leave?”
“What, and miss the free buffet?”
“Always the wise guy,” Sal said. “Maybe you should hit the clubs.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” I said. “We done here? I’d like to finish my breakfast in peace.”
That made the Mountain tense up. I could feel his hand only inches from my face. If he could, he would’ve socked me one right in the jaw.
Sal dead-eyed me for quite some time, contemplating his options. I kept his gaze. Finally, I spoke. “If you’re not going to leave, then make yourself useful and pass the sand.”
Sal smiled. He took t
he sugar and emptied it into my cup until it spilled over the sides.
“Shit,” I exclaimed, throwing up my napkin to create a dam for the liquid. Luckily the sugar was absorbing most of it.
Sal put the canister back down and slid out of the booth. He stood at the end of the table for a moment straightening his tie before he shot his cuffs, revealing links engraved with an “S” and an “M.”
“If we have to have this conversation a third time,” Sal said. “I may not be so pleasant. In fact, I might just send Vito here to do my talking for me.”
I looked up at the Mountain. He grinned.
“Get out of town Rossi, before you get hurt.” Sal said and walked away.
I looked at the mess in front of me and pushed the plate with what was left of my eggs across the table. My appetite had left with Sal.