Murder in Vegas: New Crime Tales of Gambling and Desperation

by Michael Connelly

  “Shee-it, I found out Gerald done everything for that boy when he arrived from back East, ‘bout six years ago. Seems the kid, twenty-one-years old at the time—Randy Nimoy’s his name—had the showbiz bug real bad. He tried his hand at stand-up, got to where none o’ the freebie lounges or funny rooms wouldn’t even let him in no more. So he went to Gerald for some magic tricks and illusions, which he got. Hay-ell, Gerald even sent him to a school for magicians. The kid promptly failed the course. Dandy Randy Nimoy was not destined for stardom. He blamed bein’ at the bottom of the bucket on his well-heeled, well-connected cousin, who refused to go the ex-tree mile. Dandy Randy is still in showbiz, though. He handles the karaoke nights in a coupla tough dives on Boulder Highway.”

  “Why don’t we each take a handful of Gerald’s notes to read as tonight’s homework assignment,” I suggested. “In the a.m. we’ll catch the reading of the will at attorney Finegold’s office, then tomorrow evening we can drop in and catch Dandy Randy’s Karaoke Show, wherever it happens to be.”

  “Rita’s,” Howie added. “T’morra night he’s at Rita’s. Bad place, that is.”

  “Bad is best,” Kam chimed in. “I think I’ll take the night off, wouldn’t want to miss anything bad.”

  Two-thirty that morning Howie knocked on my bedroom door. “Pete, take a lookee here, at this,” he said, handing me the notes he had been reading. Several of the paragraphs were flagged with neon stickums. They described Gerald’s first foray into showbiz with a partner named Zachary Richter. Zachary, according to the notes, was talented but a slacker, and a bit of a lush. After about two years of trying to pull the act together for a push at the big time Gerald had enough and ended the relationship. Zachary disappeared without a trace, abandoning his wife and two-year-old son. After he vanished, Polly Richter and Gerald had an affair for about a year, then parted ways. Polly remarried, and after some legal wrangling, her new husband adopted her son Leon. The same Leon who had been apprentice and assistant to Gerald. Polly never told her son anything about his real dad. She instilled in Leon a love of all things magic, and on Leon’s eighteenth birthday she contacted Gerald and asked if he would employ him. “If he can cut it,” was the reply. Leon came to Vegas, tried out for Gerald, and made the cut in spades. The relationship between Polly, Zachary, and Gerald, by agreement, was to be kept secret.

  I looked over at Howie, who had sat down next to me on the bed.

  “Do you know where Polly Hastings lives now?”

  “I believe its somewhere’s in Indiana. It shouldn’t be too big a problemo to find out.”

  “Find out, call her, and fly her here, if she’ll come. I’m still not too sure about Leon not knowing anything. Too convenient.”

  “Kin it wait until mornin’?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Kin I stay?”

  I scratched my head, wrinkled my brow, and said, “Wellll … ,” as I leaned over and turned off the light.

  There were two items in Gerald’s Last Will and Testament.

  (1) To my cousin Randy Nimoy, I hereby bequeath One Dozen Rubber Chickens and One Dozen Rubber Turds, as an award befitting the biggest Chicken-Shit I know, and I request Attorney Finegold send this press release to the entertainment editor of the Review-Journal:

  The late Gerald Tannon, of Magic Sanctum fame, has bequeathed to his cousin Randy Nimoy, “One Dozen Rubber Chickens and One Dozen Rubber Turds, as an award befitting the biggest Chicken-Shit I know.” Gerald’s estate is being handled by attorney Jacob Finegold, who has been charged with delivery of the aforementioned prize.

  (2) There will be a contest held to determine the recipient of my estate. The contestants, who are listed below, are to design a trick, illusion, or stunt, which costs less than five thousand dollars to produce. They must deliver it to Mister Finegold no later than five o’clock on the thirtieth day after the reading of this will. Mister Finegold, whom I have chosen as executor of my estate, will in turn choose three judges, who must agree unanimously on the winner.

  The contestants are:

  Abe and The Babe

  Dandy Randy Nimoy

  (I’m still giving him a chance at the family jewels.)

  Leon Hastings

  The Cunning Carsons

  The Magnificent Millicent Blaire

  My estate’s value as inventoried in this will, and certified by Noble, Knoble & Nobull, CPA’s, is six-million-seven-hundred-fifty-one-thousand dollars and eighteen cents. Go figure!

  Finegold looked up over his spectacles and said, “The contestants have been notified and will be here for the official reading at four this afternoon.”

  I placed a manila envelope containing Gerald’s autobiographical notes in front of Finegold. “Sir, what can you tell us about this?”

  He took the contents from the envelope. “How did you come by these notes? The last I saw of them, Gerald picked them up here at the office after I had finished reviewing them for possible libel, and was going to place them in his fire safe. Where in the world were they?”

  Howie detailed to his attorney the events that led us to the discovery of the labyrinth. Amazing: Howie’s speech was actually beginning to sound lyrical to me.

  “You know something strange, Mr. Pansy?” Feingold said. “Someone broke into this office two nights before the murder, but nothing is missing, and nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Do you think it could be related?”

  “At this juncture I’m inclined to say yes. But how is a crapshoot.”

  We left the office and headed back to Kam’s. Howie’s mission was to locate Leon’s mom. My Southern California tan was fading, so I intended to catch a few morning rays of Vegas sunshine, and Kam had some business at the Federal Building. Tonight we would confront cousin Randy, and tomorrow my article would be on the stands.

  Three o‘clock, Howie came by with a shit-eatin’ grin on his face to say Polly Hastings would arrive in Vegas tomorrow morning. She had asked him not to say anything to Leon because she would very much like to tell the story herself, in person. Good work Howie!

  Fifteen-after-five my cell phone rang, it was attorney Finegold. “Mister Pansy, I believe I now know who broke into my office, and what was done.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well … before I could read the part about Randy receiving the Chicken-Shit Award, he described to all present the gist of it. Said that he and Gerald had conjured it up as a great publicity stunt, if something were to happen to Gerald.”

  “Is that not possible?”

  “No, it’s not. Gerald originally had left everything to Randy, but changed his will over a year ago. Gerald told me he had no contact with his cousin since he made the change. He asked me to handle the document with the utmost secrecy. He even quipped, ‘I would love to give my bequeath to Randy before I die. He still thinks he’s the beneficiary.’ Does that sound like someone who would let on to his prank? I don’t think so. No. Randy is trying to save face. Do you think he’s the murderer?”

  “I couldn’t say so with any degree of certainty. Let’s just say he’s high up on our list of one.”

  Rita’s is not the sort of club that comes to mind when you think of Las Vegas. Kam described the décor as early gauche. The three of us caused a stir just by showing up well groomed and in clean clothes.

  There’s an adage that states, “Never carry a gun if you don’t intend to use it.” We were there to light a fire under Dandy Randy, not to shoot anyone, so we weren’t packing. Except for Howie, who was wearing that quick-draw knife-throwing outfit under his doe-suede bomber jacket.

  Randy came from backstage and started the show within a few minutes of our arrival. Not bad, actually. He was a song stylist rather than a singer, and did a bit that had Johnny Carson interviewing Marilyn Monroe and J.F.K. He had lifted the routine word-for-word from one of the Headline acts on the Strip. He spotted Kam and announced over the mike, “Wow folks, guess who’s visiting Rita’s tonight? It’s the screamingest Queen th
is side of the Strip, Faggot Kam the Female Impersonator, and it looks like she’s brought two of her sisters with her. Arnold, why don’t you go greet our guests?” Arnold came walking over from the bar. Six-two, maybe 325 pounds, and wearing the most grotesque Hawaiian shirt I had ever seen. All the measurements for this guy were big numbers, except that Arnold’s hat size and IQ were the same.

  “You the pansy?” Arnold asked Kam, while putting his index finger on Kam’s forehead.

  “No, I’m the Queen, he’s the pansy,” Kam answered, while pointing at me and grinning.

  “What do you think of my gay, colorful shirt, faggot?”

  “That’s why all elephants wear gray, Arnold. It makes them look so slender.”

  Arnold made a move on Kam, and a few of the bigger guys in the crowd started to move toward us. Before the hulk at the next table could get to his feet, Kam had broken Arnold’s pointing finger, thrown him to the floor, stomped on his groin, and rendered him immobile. I backhanded the hulk from the next table after he stood up, and broke his nose. Howie jumped up onto our table screaming at the top of his lungs, getting the crowd’s attention. While they watched him, and in a blazingly fast move, Howie retrieved a knife from the holster behind his neck, threw it, and scored a bull’s-eye on the dartboard hanging some 30-odd feet away. His next throw stuck in the wooden plank floor between the feet of a dude every bit as big as Arnold. The place had become so quiet you could hear the knife vibrating like a tuning fork. Howie looked over the crowd and asked, “Next?”

  I leapt up onto the stage and threw Randy down onto the dance floor.

  “Don’t move, you chickenshit bastard, just listen. I know you know about the labyrinth under the Magic Sanctum, that you’ve been there and probably committed the murder. I also know you broke into Attorney Finegold’s office to sneak a peek at Gerald’s will. I can’t prove it yet, but as Little Bo Peep is my witness, I will.”

  Out in the parking lot Kam said, “That was quite a show, Howie. I think they got the point. And Little Bo Peep as your witness? Peter, that was a stroke of brilliance.”

  “Thanks, just seemed like the thing to say.”

  Howie looked at Kam and shook his head, “Damnation, I ain’t never see’d yer tough-guy side.”

  “I’m just a powder puff,” Kam replied.

  “Yeah, fer sure, man. But you gotta be talkin’ ’bout gunpowder.”

  Leon’s mother arrived from Terre Haute at 10 the next morning. I picked her up at McCarran International and figured a stop at IHOP would break the ice before going to the house. No dice. Polly Hastings wanted to get right down to it. Polly Hastings is a beautiful, well-tailored, intelligent woman, whose profession as a news anchor on a major TV affiliate in Indiana led her to a straightforward, no-nonsense approach in her personal life as well.

  She, Kam, and I sat down in the living room over a snifter of Gran Marnier, and it was she who started the conversation.

  “Just how does my son figure into all of this intrigue, gentlemen?”

  I answered, “What I find hard to believe, Mrs. Hastings, is that anyone as bright as your son could work as closely as he did with Gerald, for as long as he did, without learning of the existence of the labyrinth beneath the Magic Sanctum.” Then I filled her in on everything that had transpired to this point.

  “Gentlemen, Leon’s dad Zak, Gerry, and I were called ‘Two Lads and a Lady’ when we first started on the showbiz trail. Gerry was the brains behind the outfit, I was window dressing, and Zak supplied comic relief and chatter while the stunts were happening. He was quite jealous of Gerry’s acclaim and top-banana status, and became vocal about his displeasure.”

  “Describe vocal,” Kam said.

  “Name-calling in public, yelling for no reason, drunken behavior on stage during the act. Gerry attempted to work around and overcome Zak’s imagined misgivings to no avail, and after about two years the act split up. I had left a year earlier to embrace motherhood. I have not seen nor heard from my disgruntled ex-husband since he disappeared over two decades ago. But something Mister Pansy related has given me pause. Zak did a perfect impersonation of Gerry as part of our act. In fact, even off-stage you’d never know if it was Gerry or Zak on the phone or at the door.”

  “Unt zoe … .” Kam spoke in a caricature German accent. “Vot vee now haff iss a phantom zuspect who hass not been zeen in tventy yearz. Veddy interesting.”

  “Please let me call and meet with my son and fill him in on the past. Then I’ll bring him here for you to question. I do not think my boy would lie to me, or to you. And I definitely do not think he is capable of murder.”

  “No disrespect intended, ma’am, but that’s what Al Capone’s mother said,” quipped Kam.

  “I think that would be a terrific next step,” I said. “And please call me Pete, and call Mister Laugh-A-Minute over there Kam.”

  “Call me Polly. May I borrow a telephone and a car?”

  Kam answered his phone. It was attorney Finegold asking that he come to the office, no explanation given. Kam said sure, and left. I went out and picked up a copy of the paper that contained my article. Howie was there when I got back; he had also picked up the paper. “How in thunderation kin you git away with makin’ up shee-it like that?”

  “Easy. English is such an incredible language for making nothing sound like the obvious.”

  Twenty after two, Polly and Leon came driving up.

  After two hours of questions and answers, and becoming comfortable with Leon and Polly, I felt assured Leon was innocent. Leon seemed sincere in his grief and guilt. He thought if he had been more attentive he could have prevented the murder. Gerald had taken great pains to keep his secret from the whole world, and as good as Gerald was, why could I not believe he could keep it a secret from his assistant? An assistant who played by the rules, and always did as he was told. A bright guy, Leon: He just had no street smarts. Howie concurred.

  My sister Angelica reached me on Kam’s house phone.

  “Peter darling, someone has called and asked for a way to get in touch with Mister Nucase. He left a cryptic message that he said you would understand … ‘Tell Mister Nucase someone wants to talk with him about the underworld, and that the word underworld should be written in capital letters.’ Whatever does that mean?”

  “Bingo. Jackpot. Blackjack. We’ve got a shark on the line. Give him my Nucase cell phone number, and tell him to call at anytime. Oh, and Sis, I owe you big time.”

  “Haven’t I heard this before? Well, good, I’ll collect big time. Be careful, you nutcase. Underworld in capital letters doesn’t sound like a fun game.”

  Kam arrived in a new Hummer 2 with a footlocker-sized crate in the back. “This, my fellow Americans,” he said, presenting the crate like a prize on The Price Is Right, “and what’s in here,” pointing to his head, “will lead directly to our culprit.”

  “Hey Pete, I’d be willin’ ta bet ya any amount you kin count, and give twenty-to-one odds, that both them there containers he jest pointed to are empty.”

  “Funny, sonny. You guys help me in with this thing.”

  It was heavy. When we set it down in the music room, and opened it, Kam started performing again.

  “Lady and Gentlepersons, we have before us Dandy Randy Nimoy’s entry into the Estate Contest. Does it seem strange to you that it was completed only two days after the reading of the will? Okay, it did to me too. This dandy little stunt was stolen from the labyrinth, and we can prove it. How, you ask?” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a set of plans. “These plans, for this trick, were taken by me from the labyrinth. The tricks for all of the other plans I found were still down there. Only this trick was missing.”

  Leon chimed in, “I recognize some of the parts! I ordered them for Mr. Tannon.”

  “And, Lady and Gentlepersons, as far as the contents of this other empty container … .” Kam went on to say that after he realized what he had, he’d gone over to Randy’s house. No one was home,
so-o-o he did what the police can’t, or shouldn’t do: He made himself a guest. Inside, he found the notes and drawings that were used to pull the stunts on Howie.

  “Where is Randy appearing tonight?” I asked Howie.

  “Back at Rita’s. This should oughta be fun.”

  Kam was swaggering, “Let’s celebrate first. Dinner on me at Lombardi’s.”

  We agreed to meet at Lombardi’s at nine.

  The call came through halfway through dessert.

  “Meet me at Mount Charleston Lodge in forty-five minutes,” the unfamiliar voice said. “Drive out 95, take a left on 156, then drive the loop to 158 and 157. Be alone, no cops, and no ridealongs. I’ll be watching and signal you. I have info on what’s going down, Mr. Nucase. If you want it, don’t betray me.”

  “How do we handle this one, Pete? You’re not going up there by yourself,” Kam said.

  “I can handle this creep. Whoever he is, he believes he’s dealing with a reporter. So I’m going to finish dessert, take a little mountain drive, and catch me a two-legged varmint. You and Howie go on out to Rita’s to check if our caller is Randy.”

  “Could be a accomplice,” Howie added. “It don’t have to be Randy hisself. Possible six million dollars, a feller might go lookin’ fer some help.”

  Mount Charleston and the Lodge are right around the corner from Vegas. Mostly locals go there. It’s rustic and wooded, and at almost 12,000 feet the peak is above the snow line. In the old days, it was the only source of timbers for the mines in the area. Now it’s the Toiyabe National Forest. Beautiful place to catch a murderer.

  We were all so busy plotting and planning no one saw Leon leave the table. Damn boy, he had hot-wired my Jag and took off for the rendezvous alone.