Cash Out

by Marshall Thornton

  “It’s not racist,” Tina said, defending herself. “Italian is not a race. It’s an ethnicity.”

  “Actually, there’s no such thing as race,” Louis pointed out. “Not scientifically.”

  “Besides, how would you know?” Becky said, sounding very much like an eight-year-old. “How would you know anything? You just met us yesterday.”

  We all got very silent. Then my mother said, “We know about the money because Sonny’s luggage got mixed up with mine. The money was in my room for part of the afternoon. Then, after dinner, it was gone and my suitcase was back.”

  “We all saw it,” I said.

  “Do the police have it now?” Cotton asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “They asked me about it.”

  “They asked me about it too,” my mother said.

  “And my suite was searched,” I said. “Probably by someone other than the police.”

  “So was ours,” Marc said.

  “Well,” said Becky. “The police searched our suite. And they didn’t find any money. So what? I think you’re all idiots. Your mother’s the only one we know for sure had the money. And it happened in her suite. And, she has a crappy alibi. Maybe she’s the one carrying money for the mob?”

  “Oh, that’s just absurd,” my mother said.

  “I know, I know,” Cotton said, patting her arm.

  “Why? Why is it absurd?” Becky asked. “It’s just as likely that she has mob connections as anyone else in the room.”

  Gently, Cotton said, “Becky, you know that’s not true. You know the kind of work they do at Sonny’s firm.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.” And then, finally Becky burst into a sea of tears.

  “Well, that was awful,” Louis said once we were all in the hallway. We stood there a moment not sure what to do.

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “Becky has to know what’s going on.”

  “And I’d say the other girls have a good idea, too,” Louis said.

  “The real question is how much does Cotton know,” Marc suggested.

  Just then, Leon opened the door of our suite and stepped into the hallway. Seeing us, he said, “Well, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Where have you been?” Marc asked.

  “I could ask you the same question. In fact, I am asking you the question. Where have you been?”

  “Seriously, where have you been?”

  “Oh fine. I’ll go first. After I spoke to the police, I took a taxi to the Liberace museum. Well, I wasn’t going to miss it.”

  “How could you?” I asked. “A person died.”

  “That’s hardly unusual when you’re around.” I wanted to object but it was unfortunately true. Leon continued, “Anyway, the Liberace museum—oh my God! The man put rhinestones on everything, microphones, pianos, cars. I may have scorched my retinas.”

  “I really wanted to go,” Marc said, then asked Louis, “Is there anyway—”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to say what’s going to happen next.”

  Abruptly, the door to the bridal suite opened. Cotton and my mother came out. He said, “Good, you’re still here. We were coming down to talk to you. Given the circumstances, Angie and I have decided to postpone the wedding. We’re thinking we’ll do something small back in Grand Rapids. In a few months.”

  They were calling off the wedding! I felt a blush spread across my face. I’d done it. I’d put a stop to the wedding. Well, I hadn’t. Really, it was Sonny or rather whoever tossed him over the balcony. They’d successfully stopped the wedding.

  But it had been what I’d wanted. Except now I wasn’t sure. The look on my mother’s face was so sad. And Cotton, he looked crushed. I began to say, “Are you sure?” but stopped myself. They were right, they couldn’t get married now. Not while his daughters thought my mother was a murderer. They’d never speak to him again.

  “We’re calling the airlines,” my mother said. “Checking to see if we can get an earlier flight.”

  “Is that all right with the police?” I asked. “Can you even leave town?”

  “This isn’t the Wild West,” Cotton said. “They have absolutely no right to tell us not to leave town, and I made sure they knew it too.”

  Oh God, I had the feeling they’d been told not to leave town and they were leaving anyway. That would totally convince Brace Ryland that my mother did it. Did Cotton know what he was doing?

  “But, I mean, they think you killed him,” I said to my mom. “We can’t just let them think that.”

  “We need to prove you didn’t,” Louis said.

  “And find out who did,” Marc added.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Cotton spat. “It’s up to the police to find the killer. You need to mind your own business.”

  “Cotton,” my mother began. “I’ve never said anything but, Noah and the boys have had a few experiences with murder.”

  “And so has Angie,” Marc said.

  “What are you talking about? Experiences with murder? Have you killed people?”

  “No, we’ve solved murders. Before,” I said, trying not to sound boastful.

  He looked at each of us. “That’s absurd. I can’t see how the bunch of you manage to pay your rent no less solve murders.” The look on his face said he instantly regretted saying that. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

  “They are actually very good at this, dear. They put Wilma Wanderly’s son behind bars.”

  Cotton seemed very confused and I have to say I was sympathetic. If I hadn’t lived through the last year I’d never have believed it. He pulled himself together.

  “Which reminds me,” he said. “We have tickets tonight for Wilma Wanderly. Of course, the girls and I won’t be going, but Angie you should take—”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” my mother said.

  “But it’s half the reason we came. You should—”

  “No. You mean so much more to me than an old film star.”

  Pleased, he puffed up his chest a bit. To the rest of us, he said, “None of you knew Sonny well. There’s no reason for a show of grief. You should go to the show.”

  “Thank you, we’re dying to see it,” Leon said.

  Cotton blanched.

  “Sorry, poor choice of words.

  13

  After Cotton and my mom went back into the bridal suite, the rest of us dispersed but not before agreeing to meet in the lobby at six-thirty. That would give us plenty of time for dinner before Wilma Wanderly’s show at nine.

  Tina decided to pass. “The hotel has HBO, so I’m ordering room service and watching The Positively True Adventures of the Alleged Texas Cheerleader-Murdering Mom. I read the script, it’s brilliant.”

  “You didn’t really come to Vegas to watch TV?” Marc said.

  “I can’t afford cable,” she said, testily.

  Louis decided we absolutely had to leave Lucky Days. “We can’t spend the whole trip at one casino. It’s un-American.”

  “But Louis,” Marc said. “Everything is free at Lucky Days.”

  “We think. That might have ended with Sonny’s death.”

  “Oh my. There’s a terrible thought.”

  I could tell Marc was imagining their winnings from craps slipping away, their house fund dwindling.

  The four of us, Marc and Louis, Leon and I, piled into Marc’s Infiniti and drove across the freeway then a bit south to Rio.

  On the way, Marc said, “Oh my God, those people are awful. Except your mother. Your mother is wonderful. How can she marry into that family?”

  “She’s only marrying Cotton,” I reminded him. “And he wasn’t that awful. Really.”

  “Mmmmhmmm,” Marc said, not wanting to give an inch. “He wonders how we pay our rent.”

  “Now, now. Let’s just say Cotton doesn’t have much confidence in us, and leave it at that,” Louis mediated.

  Then, to Marc’s annoyance, we valeted the car at Rio. Once inside, the ho
tel reminded me a bit of a shopping mall. Well, one with lots of neon. There were many different kinds of shops and restaurants. We followed the signs to a restaurant Louis had heard of called Antonio’s. As we walked, Leon said, “I feel like I missed a few things while I was at the Liberace museum. Do people really think Angie killed Sonny?”

  Marc and Louis both said “yes,” while I said, “NO!”

  “She has an alibi,” I insisted. I explained to Leon, “Someone sent her some roses with an invitation for a day at the Flamingo Spa under the name of Virginia Hill.”

  “Just like Bugsy.”

  “Exactly, so she thought it was from Cotton,” I said. “But when I was in the suite, the roses and the note were nowhere to be found.”

  “The killer must have picked them up,” Louis said.

  “Maybe we could find the florist,” Marc suggested. “They might have the charge slip.”

  “No, that’s not going to work,” Leon said. “This is Las Vegas. People pay in cash. Or chips.”

  The fact that every single person in our party had been given five hundred dollars in chips suddenly became very important.

  “There it is—” Louis said, pointing at Antonio’s. From where we were it looked like a typical mall storefront, albeit with cream-colored velvet drapes and a faux marble hostess stand.

  Louis stepped up and told the hostess—who was doing her best to look like a young Sophia Loren—that we had a reservation. He said that it had originally been for five but there were only four of us.

  “No problemo,” the hostess said. I wasn’t sure if that was actually Italian or not. She led us into the restaurant. More cream-colored drapes, more phony marble, some columns, ivy in giant pots, a bust of someone meant to be Julius Caesar—though it looked more like Sid Caesar.

  “This place is so Roman,” Leon remarked. “All they need in a minicolosseum so we can throw tiny Christians to the lions between courses.”

  A middle-aged waiter with obvious hair plugs and a thick accent came over as soon as we were seated in the center of the mostly empty restaurant. He handed out menus and asked if we wanted a cocktail. Louis and Marc both ordered Grey Goose martinis straight up, Leon got a cosmo, and I said what the heck and ordered a Glenfiddich on the rocks. Whiskey was good for a cough.

  The waiter, whose name was Rudolpho, quickly ran through the specials and then went off to get the drinks. “This is on us,” Louis said. Earning himself a glare from Marc.

  “You know, you’ve been nice enough to come to my mother’s wedding, this really should be on me.”

  “Leave me out of this,” Leon said. “I don’t care who pays as long as it’s not me.”

  Louis raised an eyebrow at me and said, “Do I have to put my foot down?”

  I relented. Mainly because I wasn’t in the position to spend a couple hundred dollars on dinner—though I did still have all my black chips. Which reminded me.

  “Hey, wait a minute. Haven’t you won four thousand dollars?” I asked Leon. “Shouldn’t you pay for dinner?”

  “I have plans for that money.”

  “What plans?” I demanded.

  “Well, for one thing I’m going to be a good citizen and pay my parking tickets. And then there are a few credit card companies who’d love to hear from me.”

  I sighed. If he was serious about getting out of debt, then I really couldn’t force him to buy dinner. Though, in all honesty, I doubted he was serious.

  “We won almost two thousand,” Marc said, not looking as happy as he should.

  “Isn’t that good?” I asked.

  “We haven’t seen any houses remotely livable for less than three hundred thousand. Banks want ten percent down. That’s thirty thousand. We’re not even half way there.”

  “It’ll happen,” Louis said.

  Actually, I was a little relieved. I didn’t want them to move. At least, not until I decided to move, and I had absolutely no plans to, so basically, I wanted them to stay forever. That was probably a little selfish.

  As we perused the menu, a bus boy brought a wonderful loaf of bread with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and pesto to dip it in. By the time the waiter returned with our cocktails our mouths were full and our chins oily.

  Louis decided since he was paying that he would do all the ordering. For appetizers he picked polenta with a mushroom sauce, fried calamari and two bruschetta, all to pass. Then we’d have cream of onion soup, minestrone, two of each. For our entrée he ordered a pasta dish for each of us. Mine was crema fruitti di mare over angel hair pasta—something I loved. He also ordered beef Bolognese, a fettuccine alfredo and orecchiette with chicken. I’m not sure who got what—except, I think Leon got the chicken because he kept saying that the pasta looked like nipples and, since it was breast meat, tits. He was having nipples and tits. I kept shushing him. It didn’t work.

  As we took the first sips of our drinks, Leon said, “All right. I’m ready, let’s talk murder.”

  “No,” Louis said. “I think we should just have a nice normal dinner.”

  “Talking murder is our normal.”

  “Normal people’s normal,” Louis insisted.

  “You are so bossy tonight,” Leon said. “Seeing this dominant side of you is giving me a little shiver.”

  “Down boy, he’s mine,” Marc said. Apparently, he was enjoying bossy Louis, too.

  “I’m just saying we talked murder most of the day. Maybe we should talk about something else for a few minutes.”

  “Okay,” Leon said. “What’s going on with the wackos in Waco?”

  “I haven’t been paying much attention,” Marc said. “Is that guy a religious nut or a gun nut?”

  “Both, I think,” Louis said. “And I think he hates the government.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Leon said. “I’ve seen his picture, he’s a straight white guy. If anyone should hate our government, it should be us. We’re the ones who keep getting laws passed against us.”

  “It is getting better, Leon,” I said.

  “We’re still illegal in twenty-four states. That’s almost half the country.”

  “And it used to be more than that,” I said, to make my point.

  “Some people’s idea of freedom is having as many guns as they want,” Louis said.

  As the appetizers arrived, Leon was saying, “It’s ridiculous that in some states I can have as many guns as I want but touch another man’s penis and—”

  “Leon,” Marc said.

  “Oh, sorry,” Leon said to the waiter.

  He said something in Italian that none of us understood. I think he was politely pretending to not have a firm grasp of English.

  As soon as he walked away, Leon said, “Seriously though, I should be able to touch as many penises as I want. Shouldn’t I?”

  “And you do, dear,” Marc said.

  Leon frowned as he stuffed his mouth with bruschetta.

  The polenta with mushrooms was amazingly good. That was the appetizer that had been set in front of me. It was meant to share, but I really didn’t want to. We sat silent for a bit, eating mostly. But if they were like me, it was hard to think of things not related to Sonny’s murder.

  For one thing, I didn’t believe Becky about the money. She knew about it. I was sure of that. I wanted to say so, but just then Marc said, “What about the movies? Anyone seen anything good?”

  “There hasn’t been anything worth seeing since Groundhog Day,” Leon said.

  “Like Water for Chocolate,” Louis said.

  “That’s not in English,” Leon said.

  “But it was still good,” I said.

  “Hard to say. It’s not in English.”

  “You’re just saying that to annoy me.”

  “Well, yeah—”

  Unfortunately, it was working. By the time our entrées arrived we’d given up on current affairs and were finally talking about Sonny’s murder.

  “I think it’s one of the girls,” Marc said. “My guess is Becky.
She’s too perky.”

  “I think it’s Becky, too,” I said. “But not because she’s perky.”

  “Do you think she killed him for the money or because he was nailing her sister?” Louis asked.

  “Can’t it be both?” Marc wondered.

  “If the motive is money,” Leon said, “then my guess is Reggie. Something about her screams giant gambling debt.”

  “Um, you’ve never met her,” I said.

  “And doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “Yeah, that you both have gambling problems.”

  “I’m sure hers is worse than mine.”

  “Didn’t Becky tell us that?” Marc asked.

  I nodded. “At drunch.”

  “Ha! I was right then. She does have gambling debts.”

  “Well, specifically what Becky said was that Reggie had been caught embezzling from Monumental Studios to pay off her gambling debt. And, I don’t know how much credence we should put on that. Becky might have been throwing suspicion on her sister.”

  “Before the murder?” Leon asked. “You must think she’s diabolical.”

  “Perky people are always diabolical,” Marc noted.

  “It could have been Reba,” Louis said. “You said she’s in love with Sonny. Most people are killed by someone who loves them.”

  “Well that’s a terrible thought,” Leon said. “All though it does make me glad I’m unlovable.”

  “You’re not—” Marc started then stopped. “You were fishing for a compliment, weren’t you?”

  Leon shrugged. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, darling.”

  “As far as I can tell, we have no reason to think Becky was going to leave Sonny,” Louis said. “And that could really have pissed Reba off.”

  “Of course, we’re avoiding the elephant in the room,” Marc said. “Cotton.”

  I set down my fork. I’d eaten half my entrée—a lot for me. I might have eaten more, but the conversation wasn’t helping.

  “Do we know anyone’s alibi?” I asked.

  “Aside from your mother’s?” Louis asked.

  “Yes. Where were the girls and where was Cotton? Does anyone know?”

  “I heard Reba and Becky arguing a little before three o’clock,” I said.