I started to tear up the card and toss it on the desk, and tell the asshole something about the old days, but I swallowed my anger, glanced at the card, and stuffed it in my pocket. J. Michael Fresno, Investigations. Another one.
“Well, thanks for your advice,” I said, then left, figuring to take my chances on my own.
* * *
I stopped at the hotel, checked out, picked up the briefcase, and found a gun locker where I could stash the briefcase and the phones. Then I drifted down the Strip until I found a suite with a Jacuzzi at one of the more expensive hotels, where I checked in, threw my war bag on the bed, and went to work. I didn’t have any interest in subcontracting my case to some other PI but I hoped that if I hired a cab and some help it would pay my dues into the local economy. So I gave the doorman a fifty-dollar tip and asked him to find me an independent cab or car service that would be on call twenty-four hours a day. With a driver who only answered to himself. Or almost only to himself, as it turned out.
The first car was driven by the doorman’s cousin, and the second two by guys with heavy beards and the superficial politeness of ex-cons, so I declined. Then a perfectly maintained shiny black classic Buick Invicta station wagon with heavily tinted windows pulled under the hotel’s portico. “Red’s Car Service/The Last of the True Independents” was lettered on the side. The doorman waved it toward me. As the Buick stopped in front of me, I opened the front passenger door. But somebody was already in the front seat.
“Excuse me,” I said as I climbed into the back.
“No, excuse me, please,” the shadowy figure said with a soft elegant voice, then turned to offer a gloved hand. “I’m Mrs. Eileen McCravey, and this is my son, Craig, who prefers the unfortunate sobriquet, ‘Red.’” Mrs. McCravey was as tall and darkly majestic as an Ashanti queen — so much so that I nearly kissed her hand — but her son’s face was as white as the Nevada sun except for a faint trace of freckles across his cheeks and a pair of sunglasses that were large and dark. A vague notion of pink nestled at the roots of his white kinky hair that poked out from under his soft cap. Even sitting on a pillow, Red was almost short enough to see under the steering wheel, and he had padded extensions on the pedals. I introduced myself to the McCraveys as politely as if they were long-lost family.
“How’s it hangin’, man,” the driver said, holding out a palm to be tapped lightly, then he handed me a card. “Doorman says you looking for a long-term investment in car time. You making a movie or what?”
“Or what, more likely,” I said as I placed ten hundred-dollar bills in Red’s hand. If this notion was going to work, I wanted it to work quickly. I had to trust somebody. “I’m looking for a woman.”
“That ain’t my style, man,” Red said stiffly, glancing at his mother.
I dug out my PI license and showed it to them. “A long-time stakeout, then maybe a long time tailing. Let me know when this runs out.”
Red handed the money back to his mother. “She your wife? Or she steal your money?”
“More like my pride,” I said. “She set me up to be killed.” I had no reason to be candid with this strange couple, but perhaps it was easy to be honest with them because they seemed so odd, as far outside the norm as I was.
“Killed, man? That’s cold. You gonna pop her?” Red asked.
Mrs. McCravey gave her son a hard look and a sardonic moue, then folded the bills and stuffed them into her purse. “Thank you, sir. And please forgive my son for his curious candor. He’s both cynical and excitable.”
“Whooee, that’s me, man. The excitable cynic,” Red said. “You mind if I drop my Mom off before we go to work?”
“Not a bit. It’s a pleasure to ride in a classic station wagon big enough to be a hearse.”
“Hell, man, it’s big enough to live in,” Red said.
As we drove down the Strip toward downtown, Mrs. McCravey continued, “We’re at your service, sir. The cards have been remarkably unkind for several weeks now.”
“She’s a professional poker player,” Red said proudly, “with a Ph.D. in economics from Wharton. So she knows her numbers, man. Me, I’m more a people person. I ain’t into numbers. Not like she is.”
“Actually, it was just a master’s,” she explained. “And a long time ago. When I tried to go to work on the Street, my race and my gender seemed an insurmountable problem. Or if surmountable, certainly not worth the effort on my part. So I went back to Detroit and another sort of life altogether. Then moved down here on the arm of a second-rate Sammy Davis wannabe.” She paused, smiling like a woman who had enjoyed this other sort of life as well as she could. “Mr. Milodragovitch — is that right? — have you been in the investigation business for a long time?” she asked.
“Except for forays into the bar business, I’ve been a PI since I got out of law enforcement thirty years ago,” I told her.
“But you have no Texas in your accent.”
“Texas is a fairly new vice,” I admitted. “I grew up in Montana. Meriwether.”
“You must have known Big John Reynolds?” she said.
“Sure. John owned the game at the Slumgullion, where I made my first foray behind the stick. He and my father were cronies. I can’t remember when I didn’t know John.”
“I played against him a few times down here,” she said. “He was charming, but lord was he tough. There aren’t too many players like him anymore.”
“He was a great friend,” I said.
“So what can we do for you?”
“There’s this mailbox place over on Trocadero,” I said, handing her a picture of Molly Molineaux. “Maybe we can park somewhere around there until she shows up. Then follow her home.”
“Then what?” Mrs. McCravey wanted to know.
“Then I try to talk her into going back to Texas with me,” I said.
“I’ve seen this woman somewhere,” Mrs. McCravey said as she handed the picture back. “And it is not my impression that she was exactly a hooker. If she is, she’s one of the few true freelances in town. Which means she’s either very connected or very tough.”
“If she’s expensive, maybe she’ll respond to money,” I said as we parked in front of Benion’s. “That would make it easier,” I said, “if she’ll talk to me for money.”
“Be cautious, sir, and remember that everything in this town turns on money,” she said, “but not always the way you want it to turn out.” Then she climbed out, and walked into the front door as I climbed into the front seat.
Driving to the Strip, Red prattled at me. “Hey, man, I thought about bein’ a PI. Hell, driving a cab, that’s a perfect cover. ‘Course my ride is more like a bus than a cab — the longest production station wagon in Detroit history — but I got two other classic cherry rides. A Checker and one of them English hacks. ‘Course in Vegas, between the cops and casino security, a PI license ain’t all that easy to get.
“‘Course I got a little record back in Detroit to deal with, too,” he continued. “Did a little collecting for a shy named King Kong Elmo. You ever hear of him? No. Well, he is big, man, so big now he’s almost legit. But that should count for me, you dig, collecting. Some of them people are tougher to find than a whole peanut in a pile of elephant shit. But you just gotta know how to ask the right question, you dig?”
I had to agree. “Didn’t we just drive past the place?”
“Oh, shit,” Red muttered, then popped a U-turn that parked us right down the street from the mailbox drop. When I saw the light bar on the police unit behind us fire up, I thought Red was about to get a ticket. Until the unmarked unit pulled in behind the marked one.
“Maybe if you just drive away,” I said as I stuffed another ten C-notes into his hand and opened the door, “they’ll be satisfied with me.” Then I added, “See what you can dig up, man. I’ll call when I get out of jail. Now go.”
Willow didn’t even bother getting out of his unit until the two young officers had patted me down thoroughly and cuffed my wrists tigh
tly behind me.
“No weapons, huh? I would have thought an asshole as dumb as you are would surely be carrying a piece,” Willow said.
“Didn’t seem necessary,” I said. “This looks like the kind of place where I could shake a piece off the first skateboarder I saw, or buy one off the nearest cop. Who turned me?”
“What makes you think that little albino asshole McCravey didn’t burn you?”
“He doesn’t hardly seem the type.”
“If you weren’t going to use the doorman’s cousin, man, you should have given him a C-note, you cheap asshole, because it’s going to turn out to be an expensive economy,” Willow said.
“I guess I haven’t kept up with the price of graft in this shithole,” I said.
“This is a family town,” he said. But he didn’t say which family.
* * *
Even in the middle of the afternoon among the scrubbed walls of the jail, even empty, the holding tank didn’t look like any place I wanted to be. And I knew it wasn’t going to get any better as the sun fell. At least the other prisoners wouldn’t be fighting over my clothes: everybody’s jailhouse sweats and slippers would be the same. I didn’t know how long the Vegas police thought they could hold me before letting me make a call, but I assumed it would be a considerably uncomfortable length of time, so I found a corner where I could pretty much cover my back, slid to my haunches, and pretended to sleep, while I tried to figure out what the hell was going on.
The confusion must have started fifteen or twenty years before, either with the death of Dwayne Duval or the failure of Enos Walker’s last cocaine scam. Already three people were dead, one was still in the hospital, another was on the run, and I didn’t have the faintest idea what I’d done to stir up this ancient hornet’s nest of death and disaster. And I couldn’t even begin to guess why the hell somebody had sent the Molineaux woman to charm me and a cop to kill me. And how the hell did Betty end up in bed with the McBride woman before I did? Just to steal her piece to shoot me with? And what the hell did Sylvie Lomax want with the Molineaux woman? Shit, I thought as I went back to pretending to be asleep. At least I could do that.
It was a long pretend, broken only when they allowed me my telephone call.
The first customer to try me was a drunken college kid about midnight who poked me on the thigh with his foot and asked, “Whattcha you in for, old man?” I ignored the first kick, then the second, but when the third came, I dropped the kid with a leg-lock, rolled up his body, kneed him hard in the crotch and jammed a thumb against the kid’s eye.
“First jailhouse lesson, punk,” I said softly, “people don’t like being in here, so you’ll want to leave them alone. First lesson’s free. Second one costs you an eye.”
“You best pay attention, gringo,” growled a huge, tattooed Chicano from the far corner.
I moved back to my corner, leaving the crying kid curled in the middle of the cell. Things actually stayed so quiet that I drifted off about three A.M., and only woke when I heard my name being called just before six. A sleepy young man in a rumpled sport coat stood beside one of the jail-house bulls.
I rose slowly, too long on the cold floor, creaked to the cell door, only able to say “Yes” very quietly.
“Let’s get your stuff and get out of here,” the sleepy man said.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Me? Me, I’m the unfortunate son of a bitch who went to law school with that fucking Thursby,” the young man said as he handed me a card. “Byron Fels,” he added, “but don’t shake my hand. Please. I don’t want to catch whatever you caught from Chief Willow.”
“He’s not a pleasant fellow, I take it.”
“He’s a mean son of a bitch,” Fels said. “And such a degenerate gambler that if he wasn’t a cop, not a single casino in the state of Nevada would let him in the door.”
“So I guess I don’t get to file a complaint or anything, huh?” I said without any real hope of getting even. Legally or otherwise.
“Charges are dropped. Paperwork has disappeared. Just get out of town as soon as you can. And don’t come back until Willow is retired or, preferably, dead.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Can I get a ride back to the hotel?”
“What do I look like? Taxi service?” he grumbled, but gave me a ride anyway.
“Send me a bill,” I said as Fels dropped me at the hotel.
“Forget it,” he said. “I owe that fucking Thursby.”
Thanks to the wonderful twenty-four-hour ambience of Las Vegas, I found a quiet lounge where I had three slow drinks until Fresno’s office was open, when I called to make an appointment with the boss as soon as possible that morning. Then I climbed into the Jacuzzi. Half an hour later, after some stretches Cathy had shown me, and a light breakfast, I was almost human again. I called Red. He came over, filled me in, and we agreed to meet that afternoon.
* * *
On the way to Fresno’s office I took a quick detour by the safe locker to pick up the Glock and call Carver D. He did a bit of Internet sleuthing for me, then I stopped at a bank before I went to the courthouse, where I discovered that George Donald Willow was married to one Patricia Kay Fresno. Interesting but not unexpected. Fresno’s offices were in a glass cube set among a landscaped greensward. Inside they looked more like law offices than the lair of a tough, intrepid investigator. Obviously, there was more PI work in Vegas and it paid better, much better than Meriwether, Montana, or any other place I had ever worked. J. Michael dressed like a successful lawyer, but the diplomas framed on his wall suggested a more violent education: Navy SEAL, State Department Security Service, Clark County Sheriff’s Department. J. Michael was somewhat larger than his brother-in-law and looked considerably more fit and he seemed to have a smaller greedy gleam in his eye and no smug little smile.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Milodragovitch?”
I tossed a certified check face down on the desk.
“You know who I am. Let’s cut the shit,” I said.
“I understand that you’re looking for somebody. And that you’ve done some investigative work yourself,” J. Michael said smoothly, carefully ignoring the check. “So I’m certain that you understand the high risk of failure and the cost of such an investigation —”
“How much would you want for a retainer?” I interrupted.
“Five thousand,” J. Michael answered immediately. “Surely your client can afford that.”
“I’m the client in this matter,” I said.
“That’s unusual,” he said. “In that case, I suspect my retainer should be more substantial.”
“At least I don’t have to worry about my client lying to me,” I said. “I’ll give you two grand.”
“It’s my understanding that you’ve already spent one night in jail over this,” J. Michael said. “I wouldn’t think you would want to bargain over something as unpleasant as that?”
“You know,” I said, “I’ve been a PI off and on for years. And I did some shit I didn’t particularly like. For the money. Protected people and things I didn’t particularly approve of or care for. Committed the occasional misdemeanor, but lately I’ve had cause to suspect that as bad as I’ve been, some of my fellow PIs are truly pieces of shit.”
“I’m sorry to hear that —” he started to say, and for a moment he sounded sincere.
“For five thousand dollars, asshole,” I interrupted, “I can make you and your loser of a brother-in-law disappear into the desert.” I signed the back of the check. “This is a cashier’s check for two grand made out to cash. Pick it up, call Willow, and let’s say ‘so long.’”
“I don’t —” he started to say.
“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t,” I said. “You’re not the only asshole in the world with a computer. Don’t let your bulldog mouth overload your bullfrog ass. Like you did in Reno last year. How old was that guy who kicked your ass with his cane? Seventy-two?”
“Goddammit, he was a kendo ma
ster.”
“Whatever,” I said.
J. Michael put the check into his desk drawer, called Willow to tell him that we had a deal, then turned to me, saying, “I hope you realize that this isn’t my idea. But I’ve got to keep my sister out of the poorhouse. Maybe I can actually help you find this person?”
I almost believed him, but I was already mad. “Buddy, I wouldn’t trust you to find the fucking men’s room.”
* * *
After lunch I followed Red’s directions out into the desert a few miles off the Interstate up Highway 93, where I turned on a dirt road that led behind a stony, brush-smudged ridge, then to the edge of a deep wash. When I got out of the Mustang, Red climbed out of the station wagon dressed in a rumpled camouflage suit covered with faded paint ball spots, a floppy bush hat covering his hair, large dark goggles protecting his eyes, and his facial skin slathered with sunblock. His mother sat in the front seat, cool and elegant in floral gauze over silk and a floppy straw hat, a painted fan in her hand.
“Where in the world did you get this tank?” I asked as I admired the classic station wagon.
“Out of a junkyard, man, brought it back from total death,” he said proudly.
“Beautiful,” I agreed.
“And clean, too. Dude it’s registered to don’t know he owns it. And in the right clothes, man, I just look like another fancy redneck.”
“Perfect,” I said. “You get the ammo?”
“Right here,” Red said, holding up a small duffel bag. “Targets already pinned up down the wash. Brought my piece, too, man. Hope you don’t mind?”
“No problem,” I said.
“Craig, you take the gear on down,” Mrs. McCravey said quietly, then stepped over to me and placed her hand gently on my arm. “Mr. Milodragovitch, can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” I said.
“I am in your debt,” she said, “that is for sure. Your infusion of cash has turned the cards around for me. You must know how it is. Sometimes one hits a slump and, for no valid reason, loses one’s confidence. That no longer seems to be a problem. But no matter how deeply I feel my obligation to you, I must ask a favor.”
The Final Country Page 20