West of Sin

by Wesley Lewis

  “I understand wanting to start your own business,” she said, “but how the hell did your Realtor sell you on”—she waved an arm at the desert—“this?”

  “It was a logistical decision. We wanted to be within sixty miles of an international airport, we saw the advantage of locating near a thriving tourism hub, and after putting up with the teetotalers in Utah, we both really liked the idea of living an hour west of Sin City.”

  Jennifer pictured Crocker in his late twenties, unleashed on the Las Vegas Strip after two years spent sipping near-beer within sight of the Mormon Tabernacle. It was almost enough to make her smile.

  “There,” said Crocker, pointing to a group of people huddled around a campfire beside a travel trailer. “One of them will have a phone.”

  The travel trailer looked to be at least two decades newer than the one Crocker had referred to as his winter home. A middle-aged man wearing baggy purple pants stood near the door, talking to a middle-aged woman in a maroon jumpsuit. On the ground, a young man and a young woman cuddled beside the fire, sipping bottles of imported beer. Both wore orange T-shirts emblazoned with gravity rats.

  Crocker and Jennifer stopped in front of the campfire.

  “You lost?” asked the female Gravity Rat.

  “Not so much lost as stranded,” replied Crocker with a friendly smile. “We need to call for a ride, but our phone is dead.”

  The lady in maroon turned and disappeared into the trailer.

  “Did you come out to watch the jumping?” asked the male Gravity Rat.

  “Actually,” answered Jennifer, “we were visiting a friend.”

  “A skydiver?”

  Jennifer nodded. “His name is Tom Blackwell.”

  No spark of recognition.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” said Crocker, “the other skydivers call him Hollywood.”

  “You’re friends of Hollywood Tom?” asked the girl.

  Before Crocker or Jennifer could reply, the trailer door opened, and the woman in maroon reappeared carrying a cell phone.

  “They’re friends of Hollywood Tom,” said the man in the purple pants.

  The maroon lady nodded and held out the phone to Crocker. “Are you trying to catch a ride back to Vegas?”

  Crocker shook his head and accepted the phone. “Just back to the pavement.”

  The man in purple grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to get this pretty lady back to one of those brothels before they charge you for an extra hour.”

  Jennifer took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was, in fact, wearing a wig and dress borrowed from a prostitute.

  The maroon lady shot the man a dirty look, and his grin faded.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Only joking.”

  “Don’t mind him,” said the woman. “He was born without a filter between his brain and his mouth.”

  “The truth is,” said Crocker, “I’m the one who works at a brothel, not her. I’m a security contractor for the Prickly Pear Ranch.”

  “If that’s as far as you’re going,” said the man, “I can give you a ride.”

  The woman shot him another dirty look.

  “Just to drop them off,” he added.

  “Would you mind?” asked Jennifer. “I hate to be a bother, but we’re cold and tired, and it would sure be a big help.”

  “It’s no problem,” replied the woman. “We’ll both take you.”

  The man frowned at the woman. “I said I wasn’t going to stay.”

  “Just make room in the truck,” she said.

  The man grumbled and walked behind the trailer, disappearing into the shadows.

  Crocker handed the unused phone back to the woman.

  “Have a seat by the fire,” she said. “It’ll just take a minute to clear out the back of the truck.”

  The back? thought Jennifer as the woman followed the man behind the trailer.

  Crocker dropped to the ground, showing little concern for his suit, and sat cross-legged in front of the fire. Jennifer moved slowly, more out of concern for the dress’s short hemline than for the dress itself.

  The young woman in the orange Gravity Rats T-shirt smiled at her. “I like your outfit.”

  “Thanks,” said Jennifer. “I borrowed it from a friend.”

  “It’s very sparkly.”

  “And very short.” Jennifer kept her knees together and sat on her heels.

  “Would either of you like a roasted marshmallow?” asked the young woman. “We made s’mores earlier. We’re out of chocolate bars, but I think we still have a bag of marshmallows left.”

  Crocker smiled politely. “I’m fine, but thank you.”

  Jennifer was tempted—she hadn’t eaten in hours—but worried that molten sugar wouldn’t sit well on an empty stomach. “No, thank you.”

  The warmth of the fire was a welcome reprieve from the cool desert night. She inched forward on the hard ground and warmed her hands over the flames. “I can’t remember the last time I sat in front of a campfire.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Crocker. “I build them all the time at my place in Colorado.” He hesitated before adding, “Maybe you should come visit me sometime this summer.”

  Jennifer kept her eyes fixed on the fire.

  “It’s a beautiful place,” he continued. “You’ve never seen so many stars.”

  Jennifer glanced around, looking at anything and everything but Crocker.

  Behind the trailer, a diesel engine roared to life.

  “That must be our ride,” she said, a bit too eager to change the topic.

  Light flooded the small dirt street beside them as the old pickup turned out from behind the trailer and stopped a few feet away.

  The woman in maroon leaned out the passenger-side window and hollered, “Hop in the back. We’ll run you up to the pavement.”

  Crocker jumped to his feet and held out a hand for Jennifer.

  She accepted the hand and glanced back at the young couple as she stood. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “You too,” said the young woman.

  Jennifer wanted to ask their names so that she could tell Tom, but she felt Crocker dragging her toward the truck. She waved and the young woman waved back.

  Crocker lowered the tailgate and helped her into the bed of the pickup. When they were each seated on opposite wheel wells, he knocked on the rear window and gave the driver a thumbs-up.

  The truck started forward. Jennifer crossed her arms and ducked down behind the cab to cut the wind chill.

  “Here,” said Crocker, removing his jacket. “I think I can take this off now.”

  Jennifer accepted the jacket and draped it over her shoulders. For the next couple of minutes, neither of them said a word. When they reached the edge of the tent city, the truck picked up speed.

  She trembled under the jacket. “I miss the fire.”

  “There’s one waiting for you in Colorado if you’re interested. The offer is still on the table.”

  She looked away.

  Crocker sighed. “I don’t get it. Three hours ago, you and I . . . Now you won’t even look at me. What did Ashley say that—”

  “She said she was sorry!”

  “What?”

  “She said she was sorry for sleeping with Bryan.”

  “Your boss? I’m not sure I—”

  “He came to our room looking for me. Do you understand now? He was looking for me! But I wasn’t there. And he was drunk and lonely, and she was drunk and lonely, and . . .”

  Crocker was silent.

  Jennifer took a deep breath. “And the guy I was supposed to live happily ever after with ended up sleeping with my twenty-three-year-old protégée instead.”


  Crocker seemed dumbfounded.

  Jennifer wiped her eyes. “He was supposed to be with me, but he slept with her, and now he’s dead. And I don’t know if I’m supposed to be mad at him for sleeping with her or at her for sleeping with him or at myself for overreacting and running off in the middle of the night and getting him killed.”

  Crocker opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it.

  “I would have been fine,” she continued, “just thinking I’d imagined the connection with him. Just believing she’d slept with him without knowing how I felt about him. Just assuming it was never meant to be. But now I’m left thinking that it was meant to be and that he or she or I or all three of us screwed it up.”

  Crocker opened his mouth again. Then he closed it again.

  “And on top of all that,” she said, “I’m left trying to figure out how I feel about you. You’re so goddamned persistent, and I can’t tell if I have real feelings for you or if what I’m feeling is just my mind’s way of blocking out all the fear and pain I should be feeling.”

  The rough dirt road gave way to smooth asphalt. Jennifer glanced up, wiping tears from her eyes, and saw the giant neon woman straddling the giant neon cactus, ahead on their right.

  A moment later, the truck pulled into the Prickly Pear parking lot and stopped.

  The woman in maroon leaned out the passenger-side window and yelled, “All ashore who’s going ashore.”

  Jennifer felt as though she were viewing the world through the wrong end of a telescope. From a distance, she watched Crocker crawl out of the pickup, open the tailgate, and offer his hand. With great effort, she willed herself to accept the hand and climb out of the truck.

  When the tailgate was shut, the woman in maroon yelled, “You two have a good night. Tell Hollywood we said hi.”

  Tell Hollywood who said hi? thought Jennifer as the truck pulled away.

  “Jennifer,” called Crocker.

  Some part of her mind registered that this was at least the second time he’d called her name.

  “Uh-huh?” she replied.

  “Why don’t I drop you at the Champagne Suite before I head over to Larry’s cabin? I’ll tell him and Scarlett you weren’t feeling well and went to bed.”

  Bed sounded good. Very good.

  But a drink sounded better.

  “No,” she said, “I’ll make an appearance. C’mon.”

  She took off across the parking lot, ignoring the rocky asphalt digging into her feet. She heard Crocker’s footsteps behind her as she marched around the outside of the main building and made her way past the other cabins.

  She made no effort to walk fast, but by the time she reached Larry’s front door, Crocker lagged at least ten yards behind. She gave three hard knocks and waited.

  Crocker caught up to her just as the door opened. Scarlett stood in the entry hall, wearing the same silk kimono and Japanese slippers she’d worn at the brainstorming session earlier that day. She nodded to her guests, turned, and retreated into the cabin.

  “After you,” said Crocker.

  Jennifer followed Scarlett into the living room, where Larry waited in his armchair. Across from him, on the couch where Jennifer and Crocker had sat a few hours before, rested a distinguished-looking gentleman of perhaps sixty-five.

  I do not have the energy to make small talk with one of Larry’s high rollers, thought Jennifer.

  Crocker’s fingers dug into her shoulder, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

  The well-dressed gentleman smiled under his thick gray beard and rose to his feet. “Ms. Williams, Mr. Crocker,” he said, his Eastern European accent faint but unmistakable, “Ochen′ priyatno.”

  Jennifer’s blood ran cold as she felt Crocker pull her close. When she found her voice, it was a harsh whisper. “Is that one of Vladimir Dudka’s men?”

  “No,” replied Crocker. “That is Vladimir Dudka.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Crocker glimpsed the muzzle of a gun to his left and froze in place, listening for either a command or a gunshot.

  Over his right shoulder, a man with a thick Eastern European accent said, “Leave it in the holster.”

  Crocker looked down and saw his own fingers wrapped around the grip of his sidearm. He had no memory of reaching for it—a lifetime of training had almost gotten him killed. Moving in slow motion, he let go of the pistol and raised his hands.

  He looked to his left and saw a muscular, clean-shaven man of about fifty holding a small Makarov handgun. The man stood several feet away, suggesting at least some formal training. A street thug would have pressed the gun in close, for dramatic effect.

  Crocker glanced over his right shoulder and saw that the man with the accent was at least twenty years younger. The younger man wasn’t holding a gun, but Crocker had little doubt there was one concealed somewhere beneath the man’s button-down shirt.

  Maintaining the pleasant tone of his greeting, Dudka said, “Mr. Crocker, if you’d be so good as to let Sasha disarm you, my dear friend Ilya won’t have to shoot you in the face.”

  Crocker gave a slow nod.

  The younger man stepped forward and unholstered Crocker’s gun. When he had the pistol in hand, he pulled the diaper bag from Crocker’s shoulder and took a step back. He dropped the bag on the floor and unloaded the gun with surprising speed. When he was done, he shoved the empty weapon into the waistband of his pants and returned to Crocker’s side.

  He plucked the radio and other items from Crocker’s belt and pockets and tossed them one at a time onto the floor beside the diaper bag. When the belt was empty, he wrapped his hands around Crocker’s left ankle and frisked up one leg and down the other. He then stood and frisked Crocker’s waistband and shirt.

  Apparently satisfied that he’d relieved Crocker of anything that might pose a threat, Sasha turned and placed his hands on Jennifer’s shoulders. She flinched but maintained her composure. He removed the suit jacket and checked the pockets. He found Vegas’s phone, inspected it, and stuffed it into his hip pocket. When he’d finished searching the jacket, he tossed it onto the pile of security tools lying next to the diaper bag. After a quick visual inspection of Jennifer’s outfit, he knelt, wrapped his fingers around one of her bare thighs, and slid his hands up under the hem of her gold sequined dress.

  Jennifer cringed, and Crocker opened his mouth to protest, but Dudka spoke first.

  “Sasha, this is not a recreational activity. If there were a gun under that dress, I’d be able to see it from here.”

  Sasha released Jennifer’s thigh and, in his heavy accent, said, “Sorry, boss.” He rose to his feet. “They’re clean.”

  “Wonderful,” said Dudka with a smile. “Now we can all be friends.”

  Crocker lowered his hands and immediately felt Jennifer’s fingers dig into his forearm. She stared at him with eyes that pleaded for answers he didn’t have.

  Dudka waved them forward. “Let’s have a seat, shall we?”

  Crocker led Jennifer, who moved as though her joints had rusted over, into the sitting area.

  Dudka returned to his seat on the couch and motioned for the two of them to sit on the fireplace hearth between him and Larry. As they sat, Crocker cast a near-fatal glance at Larry.

  Larry recoiled. “Don’t look at me, pal.” He cocked his head toward the kitchen door, where Scarlett stood sipping a bottle of Miller Light. “She blindsided both of us.”

  Jennifer’s eyes locked onto the redhead. “You?”

  “What?” asked Scarlett. “You don’t think the dumb hooker can come up with a plan of her own?” She walked to the couch and sat beside Dudka.

  Dudka laughed. “You know what they say about a woman scorned.”

  Jennifer’s gaze remained fixed on Scarlett. “This is who yo
u were texting in the limo, isn’t it?” She nodded toward Dudka. “The client who canceled?”

  Dudka laughed again. “That would be young Sasha here. Apparently, he and Ms. Scarlett have a monthly arrangement.” He glanced at Scarlett. “A poor investment if you ask me, but such is the nature of youth.”

  Scarlett scowled.

  “Mr. Dudka,” interjected Larry, “you may not be aware of this, but I have friends in Chicago who—”

  Dudka erupted in laughter. “I know all about your friends, Mr. Chappell. I’m not afraid of Cosa Nostra.”

  Larry’s eyes widened.

  Dudka continued, “I dealt with the Italians twenty years ago when they swooped into Russia hoping to pick at the carcass of the Soviet Union. We sent those potbellied bankers crawling back to their seaside villas with their tails between their legs.”

  Scarlett giggled. “So much for being connected, huh, Lare-Bear?”

  Such intense anger flashed in Larry’s eyes that Crocker felt certain his friend was about to reach out and strike the young woman. Then, just as quickly, the anger faded, and Crocker saw the pained eyes of a lover betrayed.

  Dudka went on: “I’m not intimidated by men who’ve spent their lives gorging on wine and pasta. If you want to impress me, make some friends who’ve known hunger.”

  Jennifer’s voice shook. “So you’re going to . . . what? Take your revenge on us? Bury us in the desert? We’re not the ones who lost your money at the blackjack tables. We’re not the ones—”