Murder in Vegas: New Crime Tales of Gambling and Desperation

by Michael Connelly

  “You do that again,” Rossi said but didn’t finish the threat, gagging now, sniffing back blood. The New York accent was gone. So was the smile.

  “So what’s your fucking name?” Harry put the gun to his temple.

  “Top desk drawer,” said Rossi. “In the Triple A packet.”

  There was a 9mm Glock guarding the drawer. The real wallet was curved black leather. Another thousand was tucked in the fold; these bills were new, crisp hundreds. The driver’s license belonged to a Norman Stone. Norman had a Visa, MasterCard, American Express. Norman was an organ donor. And Norman had a private detective’s license, too.

  “They’re using P.I.s now?” Harry said. “They don’t have enough thugs on the payroll?”

  There were photos below the packet, six or seven, grainy exposures from a cheap zoom lens. Harry and Anne sitting and talking in the Dealers Lounge, driving in Harry’s car. Harry coming out of Anne’s room …

  “What are these for?”

  “Take a real wild guess, Harry.” He struggled back into the chair. His mouth was bleeding now, too. “Get me a goddamn towel, will you? And some ice—they usually fill the bucket by now—”

  “How much have you told them?”

  “Christ, Harry, I think you broke my fucking jaw—”

  “How much?”

  Rossi wiped his hands on the drapes. “The real question here, Harry, is how much has she told you? Because you’re doing her, aren’t you? Unless you’re playing Scrabble in there at night. Or Monopoly. You playing Monopoly with her, Harry?”

  “Leave her out of this.”

  “Little Miss Anne Turner, our fearless leader …”

  “I said leave her out of this.”

  “Jesus … I get it,” said Rossi, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You think I’m here for you, don’t you?” He was laughing now. “You crazy fucker. No wonder I couldn’t trace you. What’d you do, steal somebody’s lunchbox?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Her name’s not Anne Turner, Harry. It’s Myra Hendricks. And the last guy she played board games with disappeared. As in quote unquote disappeared.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve been following me, asking questions about me—”

  “Only because you’re with her, Harry. Believe me. Before Tuesday I never heard of you in my life.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “And normally, quite honestly … I could care less what you believed. But since you’re pointing a gun at met …” He shrugged. “Like I said, her name’s Myra Hendricks. And she’s not from New York, not originally … she’s from downstate Illinois.’

  “I know where she’s from. She told me that.”

  “Did she also tell you about her husband?”

  “She’s divorced.”

  “Well, that’s one way of putting it,” Rossi said. “Jack Hendricks felt the sudden need to take a midnight stroll eighteen months ago. No one’s seen him since. Myra got the money. Or rather, she will get the money, in another month, when they finally declare the husband dead. After that I doubt we’ll ever see Myra again.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  Another shrug.

  “Who’s paying you?”

  “That’s confidential.” He paused. “A family member. But everything’s public record. Check the papers, knock yourself out.”

  “I still don’t believe it.” And most of him didn’t. But a part of him couldn’t decide … the part that had kept him alive these past ten years, the toughened, calloused part … that whispered anything was possible, anyone could betray him. And remembered every hesitation of Anne’s, every reluctance to answer simple questions.

  He stood up, gripped the Luger in his palm. He’d have to hit him harder this time, enough to knock him out, give Harry a head start … .

  “You thinking of living with her, happy ever after?” Rossi said. “Be my guest. Buy a house in the burbs, raise lots of rug rats.

  “But I wouldn’t go for any late night strolls if I was you,” Rossi said.

  She was waiting for him in the secluded spot they’d both chosen, sitting on the bench like a schoolgirl waiting for a bus.

  “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind,” she said. “I packed but I don’t really have the clothes for Mexico, maybe we could stop somewhere—”

  She stopped, seeing something different on his face. He didn’t try to hide it.

  “Rossi’s name is Norman Stone,” he said. “He’s working for your father-in-law.”

  “What?”

  “He’s on to you, Anne. He told me everything. But I don’t care.” Driving over here he’d realized, it’s better this way. She would understand him better. They would leave Rossi far behind, just start over, both of them, clean and fresh and it would all be okay. “Whatever happened … I just don’t care.”

  “Harry, what did he tell you? What are you talking about? Because you’re scaring me again. Sit here, with me. Slow down.”

  “There isn’t time—”

  “Harry, whatever he told you, it was a lie to get away from you. Don’t you see?”

  She reached for his arm. Her face blank somehow. He bent down to kiss her.

  “Harry …” It was Rossi. Stepping out from behind a fence. A different gun in his right hand, military stance …

  The ball bounced

  “Move away from her, Harry,” Rossi screamed, “I can’t get a clear shot.”

  The wheel spun

  Harry felt the first shot whiz by him.

  “Shoot him, Harry,” Anne said, clinging to him. “For God’s sake, just shoot him, now.” Looking into his eyes …

  She is not who you think she is, Harry …

  There were shots that sounded like popped balloons. One of them stung Harry’s left arm, the one closest to Anne, and she screamed, and turned towards him. She was saying something, over and over, and it took a few seconds for Harry to understand.

  “I can’t go back with him, Harry. I can’t.”

  He was sitting on the ground, the sun in his face, his chest on fire.

  Last bets, everyone …

  “Harry!”

  He tried to talk but there was just a gurgling sound …

  The wheel slowed …

  He raised his own gun and emptied it into Rossi.

  “Harry … my God, Harry, hold on,” Anne said. Everything was spinning now. His last sight was of Anne. Crying, holding onto him. He couldn’t feel her, though. He couldn’t feel anything. There was just her perfume. And the dealer smiling, saying he had won.

  And then the wheel finally stopped.

  THE END OF THE WORLD (AS WE KNOW IT)

  LISE McCLENDON

  I knew he’d lost a couple though. He couldn’t stop whining about it. I didn’t know how my sister put up with his incessant carping: The pool was too cold, the room was too small, I left hair in the sink, the drinks were watered down and weren’t delivered fast enough. I knew he’d lose at the tables, and I knew he’d complain about it. But the telegram was the last straw.

  Send Lawyers Guns Money Stop

  Shit hitting fan Stop

  Herb

  Couldn’t somebody stop Herb? I handed him back his rough draft.

  “Cynthia will know what to do,” he muttered, folding it into his pocket.

  “She’ll know you’re on your Warren Zevon bender again. She’ll just call. She won’t send money.”

  She better the hell not. That would mean I had to stay longer in Vegas. And I was fried. “Look, Herb. Just get on the plane tomorrow and go home. She loves you.” Why, I had no idea. She obviously didn’t love me, her only brother, because she sent me with her wacky husband for four whole days to Las Vegas. I took a breath. The heat was brutal. I was losing it. “Nobody sends telegrams anymore. If you want to talk to her, just call.”

  Herb stalked through the big brassy doors of the casino, out into the drive where taxis and limos waited for their sorry clients to quit losing money
. Vegas was a beautiful dream when I first arrived, the gorgeous weather, the dry heat flattened out my hair, the blue pools to cool off in, great restaurants, a show or two, some with topless showgirls. Even the beeping and blinking of the casinos had been charged with excitement at first. The endless gambling tables, skimpily clad cocktail waitresses and bars around every corner ready to pour you whatever your heart’s desire, had seemed like a wet dream. Not exactly satisfying but good for a few rushes of adrenaline.

  That high lasted three days and two-and-a-half nights. Now the cards that refused my mind-meld, the parched, smoky air, the incessant ringing electronic gadgetry, and Herb Monroe, accountant, duffer, and whining machine, had made me change my mind. Not to mention that I, too, had lost a thou.

  Where the hell was he going? I followed him outside, worried that in demoralized angst he might walk in front of a car. “Hey, come back here!” He was halfway down the block, walking through those mist machines that cool passersby in cafes along the sidewalk. I caught up with him in front of New York New York.

  “Western Union. That’s where I’m going,” he said firmly, taking long strides south. “She’ll help. She knows.”

  “What does that mean? She knows what?” Cynthia was an accountant too, in the same firm. “She knows what a stubborn ass you can be, Herb.”

  He kept walking, sweat beading on his forehead. His khakis were loose on his hips, but his new Vegas-bright shirt featuring hula dancers was stuck to his back. He squinted into the sun. “She’ll know what to do, Aaron. She knows the particulars.” He stopped suddenly. “There it is.” He stepped off the curb and barely missed being hit by an SUV the size of Indiana.

  “Watch it!” I felt strangely reluctant to plunge across twelve lanes of traffic. He darted and jumped, avoiding carloads of children in minivans, Humvees ready for the next suburban war zone, and the elderly in slow-motion Cadillacs. I let out my breath as he reached the far side. “I’m going back,” I hollered.

  He trooped across the strip mall parking lot toward the tiny U-Pack-M with the Western Union sign on the window, swinging through the door. If the Morse code floated his boat, that was his problem. Herb was an adult. My stint as babysitter was officially over. My sister had taken me aside at the airport and made me promise to keep an eye on her husband. Yes, she’d paid my ticket, but enough was enough. Besides, I was close to the Bellagio, and I hadn’t had the chance to see the famous Picassos.

  The hike up to their door was long and hot but punctuated by fountains. Inside it was cool and not as loud as the other casinos, although I’m sure losing money was just as popular here. A quick tour around the lobby and the chi-chi restaurants, a gin and tonic at one of many bars, and a peek at Pablo’s cracked view of human beings, and I was ready for a nap. My flight didn’t leave until morning, I had already lost more money than I should have, and I had a headache even gin couldn’t touch.

  Slapping on the sunglasses, I wandered back through the wall of heat to our hotel. Herb would probably try to recoup his losses. He’d been at that since the first night. The room would be quiet, I could pull the drapes and nap. In the elevator a heavily botoxed woman of indeterminate age gave me the eye. I must be getting old because all I wanted was that nap.

  Two aspirin and an hour later I was called from a dream reminiscent of a Hunter Thompson orgy by the telephone. Before I woke up all the way I thought Herb had learned to do impressions. But it wasn’t Herb, it was a Vegas cop. He told me Herb was in the hospital with a skull fracture or something. They’d found my name on his courtesy charge card. Hit by a car crossing the Boulevard? No, more like a tire iron.

  The cop met me in the emergency room in the hospital not far from the Strip. Herb had been bushwhacked coming out of the U-Pack-M by some guys who really did pack ’em. They pistol-whipped him in the parking lot and were run off by a mailing clerk. Herb was unconscious.

  “Does he have enemies in Las Vegas?” the cop asked me.

  “I don’t think so.” I tried to think. “Have you called his wife yet?”

  They left it up to me. Thanks, guys. Cynthia was in the office in St. Cloud, working late. When I told her Herb had been beat up, she began to cry. That delayed the tongue-lashing she gave me for not protecting him by about five seconds.

  “He’s a grown man, Cynthia. Why would he need protection?”

  She sniffed. “What about the money?”

  He hadn’t told her. “What money would that be?”

  “The money he won. He told me yesterday he won six thousand dollars at blackjack.”

  “You don’t win six though at blackjack, Cyn. At least I don’t, and Herb sure doesn’t.”

  She gave a little moan. “He wouldn’t have it on him, Aaron. In your room. Isn’t it there?”

  Just to get her off the phone I told her I’d look in the room when I got back. I waited a couple hours in the ER for him to wake up, but the nurses finally told me to bag it and come back around nine that evening. I drove the rental car, world’s sexiest white Dodge sedan, to the Hard Rock Café for a burger and a beer. It was only seven so I went back to the room for my third shower of the day.

  The light on the phone was blinking when I got out of the bathroom. I listened to the message: “Aaron, it’s me again. You know the song, ‘The end of the world as we know it.’” Cynthia sang the old R.E.M. tune. She had a great voice, one I always associated with her being fourteen and singing for my high school band before Dad found out what she wore. “Well, it is and it isn’t—the end of the world. I got the telegram and the money. Thanks for taking care of everything. Can you get him home okay? It’s important. Okay, love ya, brother.”

  Before I could figure that out, the front desk called and told us they were comping our room for the four days. “Because of the—why?”

  “For our loyal customers. Just say thank you, Mr. Nelson,” the clerk said, laughing. So I did.

  I set down the phone and tried to clear my head. Was I still asleep? Did I need another shower? I shivered in the air conditioning. What the hell were Cynthia and Herb up to? I pulled on my jeans and started to search the room. When I was an MP in the army I never had to do searches, but I knew how it went, cushions, drawer bottoms, mattresses. But the room was clean. No money, no telegrams, no answers. Herb’s suitcase was standard issue JC Penney with his dashing polyester wardrobe to match.

  I tried to call my sister again but got her machine. I told it, “This’ll be the end of the world, all right, if you don’t tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  Herb was groggy when I finally found his room in the hospital. The nurse left us alone, said I only had a few minutes. I got to the point.

  “What’s this about money you wired home?”

  He moaned and shut his eyes.

  “Herb, who hit you?” He moaned again. “What the hell is this about? Are you in trouble?”

  His eyes popped open and he murmured an affirmative. “Casino,” he whispered.

  “Have you been counting cards or something?”

  He gave one last dramatic groan and promptly fell asleep. Even as mad as I was I couldn’t shake him awake, not with his bandaged head and IVs going in and out. One side of his face was purple and swollen. I backed out, wondering if the man with the tire iron would give it another go. It seemed unlikely in a hospital. The nurse told me Herb was still in serious condition with a traumatic head injury and I wouldn’t be able to take him back to Minnesota for at least a week.

  In the lobby of the hotel I plugged quarters into the pay phone instead of the slots. I needed to talk to Cynthia but she wasn’t home again. What the hell? It was past midnight there. I left another pissed-off message that wouldn’t make her call me but made me feel better.

  The hotel’s gambling halls were thick with tourists, nicotine-stained fingers checking cards, rubbing felt, massaging temples. Plump ladies flushed with excitement; young kids kicking the slots. I ordered another gin and tonic and watched the mass of humanity go about what had to
be one of our stupider pastimes. Had Herb been scamming the casino somehow? He was a terrible gambler, in my humble opinion, although I didn’t play with him all the time. I got bored with blackjack and would watch craps for awhile or spin the roulette wheel. When I got back to the table, Herb would have moved around, found a dealer he thought was luckier, and usually told me he was down a few hundred and trying to make it back. Hey, weren’t we all.

  No, Herb hadn’t won a bunch of money gambling. He wasn’t a good enough actor to hide that from me. I’d known him since he and my sister started working at the same firm, a couple years after I got out of the service. In my real estate office I sent him clients now and then, and there hadn’t been any complaints. Before our divorce my wife and I socialized with Herb and Cynthia a couple times a month, barbecues, movies, dinner. Herb treated my sister pretty well, considering she could be a raging banshee when she got wound up. She used to whale on me when she was a teenager, like when we had to can her from the band. If only she hadn’t worn those black leather hot pants.

  That REM song she sang me ran over and over in my mind. What did she mean, the end of the world? Was she running away from Minnesota, from her home, with Herb or without Herb, with whatever money he had wired her? And where was that from anyhow? Would she be at Mom’s? Doubtful. At her friend Louise’s in St. Paul?

  Something about her response to Herb’s getting thrashed bugged me. Was it the money she was worried about—or Herb? She hadn’t offered to come take care of him, even though he was in the hospital. Those of us who loved her realized practical jokes and gruesome Halloween costumes are more her style than maternal instincts. My little sister. She made you want to sigh sometimes.

  Instead of sighing I opted for drinking. I couldn’t leave on my flight in the morning anyway. It was going to cost me something to get that changed. I hit the payphones again and called the airline, begging for understanding. I must have sounded pathetic because they left the tickets open, to use when Herb recovered.