West of Sin

by Wesley Lewis

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The master bathroom wasn’t quite as disgusting as the guest bathroom Jennifer had passed in the hallway, but it was bad enough to make her long for some of the seedier service station restrooms she’d encountered. She closed the toilet lid and, moving slowly so as to avoid the telltale clink of porcelain on porcelain, lifted the lid off the tank. She set the heavy lid on the floor, beside the bucket of water provided by the fat man with the gravelly voice.

  She now understood why Dudka had brought her a soda instead of tap water: The house didn’t have running water. Dudka and his men seemed to be using a foreclosed home as a temporary base of operation.

  The fat man’s instructions for flushing the toilet had been simple: “Hold the bucket a couple of feet above the bowl and pour. The toilet will flush on its own.” However, if she did that, the fat man would hear and come drag her back to the bed. She needed a few seconds alone with the empty bucket.

  She lifted the bucket, which was heavier than she’d expected, and poured the water into the empty tank. She poured it slowly to ensure the fat man would mistake the sound for a bodily function. When the bucket was empty, she walked to the shower, eased open the large glass door, and stepped inside.

  The shower was an expensive custom job: Mexican tile, stainless steel knobs, and dual showerheads. She flipped the bucket upside down and set it on the tile floor, just beneath a high sliver of a window that let in natural light. She stepped onto the bucket, keeping her feet near the edges so as not to collapse the thin plastic bottom, and strained up onto her tiptoes.

  The window was about three feet wide and about six inches tall—small enough that her captors weren’t worried about her escaping through it but large enough that she was able to see out. Standing on her toes, she had a narrow view of the backyard.

  What must have once been a well-landscaped oasis was now a graveyard of dead vegetation. A stone path separated the skeletons of several long-forgotten shrubs from a large patch of brown grass. A high wooden fence bordered the yard on all three sides. Behind the back and right fences, yellowed pine trees rose thirty feet into the air, blocking the view of any neighboring houses. There were no pine trees to the left of the yard, just a children’s swing set peeking over the fence.

  Jennifer felt a surge of excitement and had to grip the window ledge to keep from falling off the bucket.

  Next door was a normal suburban family. Next door was safety.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Crocker heard the crunch of gravel as the van slowed to a stop. A moment later, the back door cracked open, and Ilya tossed a paper grocery sack into the cargo hold.

  “Almost showtime,” said the mobster in his proper English accent. “Get ready.”

  The door slammed shut, and seconds later the van was back on the road. Crocker pulled the bag to him and looked inside. Stuffed on top was his suit jacket.

  He shook out the jacket, looked at the wrinkles, and thought, I am never going to work in this town again.

  Beneath the jacket were the security items Sasha had taken from him the night before, with the exception of his radio, his OC spray, and his gun. The radio wasn’t a problem—each casino issued its own radios, so he’d get a new one at check-in. He could simply claim to have forgotten his OC spray and borrow a can from the security office, but he hadn’t the foggiest idea how he was going to explain showing up without a gun.

  Maybe I can tell them I’ve taken a vow of nonviolence.

  He inspected the items one by one and attached them to his belt. He was maneuvering the handcuffs into their too-small leather holster when the van decelerated and pulled off the main road again. It made a couple of quick turns and backed to a stop. Crocker heard the cab door creak. Then the back door swung open.

  He moved to climb out.

  Ilya raised a hand to stop him. “It’s better if we do this in here.” He climbed into the cargo hold, leaving the door cracked behind him, and knelt beside Crocker. “We’re at the Desert Springs Motel across the street from La Condamine. You’ll walk from here. Once you have secured the money, you will exit the building through the south service entrance. I’ll be waiting in the employee parking lot. You will load the cash into the van and shut yourself in. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yeah, I got it—you don’t want to be seen by the hotel security cameras.”

  “I hope you understand what is at stake here, Mr. Crocker. I won’t pretend we have the ability to monitor your every move inside the casino, but we have enough well-placed informants that you’d be wise to stick to the plan. If a call goes out to 911, I can assure you that Ms. Williams will be dispatched before the first police units are.”

  “I got it.”

  “And I know how to spot a tail. If I see any cars following us or notice any helicopters loitering above us, I’ll drive you out to Death Valley and put a bullet in your brain. Then Vlad will throw dear Ms. Williams to the wolves.”

  Crocker said nothing.

  Ilya reached under his shirt. “I believe you’ll need this.” He produced Crocker’s compact nine-millimeter Glock and held it out, butt-first.

  Crocker hesitated, wondering if it was some sort of trick.

  “Go ahead.”

  Crocker took the gun and rested it on his open palm, feeling the weight. “It actually feels like it’s loaded.”

  “Of course it’s loaded. You couldn’t very well pass weapon inspection with an unloaded gun. Just make sure nobody disassembles it, or they may notice that the striker tip has been filed off your firing pin.”

  Crocker slipped the gun, which was now strictly for show, into its holster.

  Ilya chuckled. “Deactivating your gun was relatively simple compared to this.” He reached into his front pocket and pulled out Crocker’s OC spray. “One of our men had the bright idea to drain the contents by poking a hole in the bottom. He spent the next hour rubbing sour cream in his eyes.”

  Under other circumstances, the thought of some goon emptying a can of military-grade pepper spray into his own face would have made Crocker laugh, but he was too unsettled by the thoroughness of Dudka’s men. He slipped the empty spray canister into its holster.

  Ilya glanced at his watch. “It is almost five thirty. Registration opens at six. You have until eight. Do you have any questions?”

  Crocker had plenty of questions but none that Ilya could answer.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Salvation was perhaps thirty feet away, on the other side of that high picket fence beyond the walls of Dudka’s run-down ranch-style safe house. But it might as well have been back in Texas for all the good it would do Jennifer. Until her bathroom break, she’d considered herself lucky that Jesse, the foul-smelling American with the toadlike features, hadn’t spent much time in her room. Now she needed him close if she was to have any chance of getting free of the leg iron.

  Here goes nothing.

  She grabbed her shackled leg and, doing her best to sound urgent, yelled, “Jesse! Jesse! Jess—”

  The door swung open, and Jesse rushed in, the monster handgun in his right hand and a Hustler magazine in his left. He raised the pistol and scanned the room in a panic.

  “What? What is it?” he growled.

  “It’s my leg,” she said. “It’s cramping. I need to walk it off.”

  He lowered the gun. “Forget it.”

  “Please. I’m in pain.”

  He offered a wide, shallow grin that made him look even more like a toad. “I’ll rub it if you want.”

  Jennifer cringed. She massaged her calf and said, “Thanks, but I—”

  “What the fuck is all the yelling about?” asked Scarlett from the doorway.

  Jesse glanced back over his shoulder. “Your friend has a leg cramp. I was just going to rub it for her.”

 
“No,” said Jennifer, “I’m fi—”

  “Or . . . ,” continued Jesse, clearly on the trail of a good idea.

  “Or what?” asked Scarlett.

  Jesse stared at her a moment longer. “Or you could rub it for her.”

  “Why would I—”

  “No!” exclaimed Jennifer. “Really. It’s fine.”

  Scarlett’s scowl slowly bloomed into a smile.

  Ah, hell.

  Scarlett approached the bed. “Are you in pain?” Her voice was a disturbing parody of a little girl’s. “Do you need Nurse Scarlett to make you feel better?”

  Jesse’s grin widened.

  This is not good.

  Scarlett sat on the corner of the bed and pointed to the shackled ankle. “Is it this leg?”

  Jennifer didn’t reply.

  “Yeah,” said Jesse, perching himself on the arm of the love seat directly across from them, “that’s the one.”

  “Hmmm,” said Scarlett. “I don’t have any massage oil, but maybe . . .” She looked at her open palms for a moment, then slowly licked each one from bottom to top.

  Jesse leaned forward intently.

  Scarlett began rubbing her two moistened palms together, like a masseuse preparing for a client.

  Jennifer strained against the handcuff.

  “Relax, Jen-Jen.” Scarlett grinned. “I’m a professional.” She wrapped her hands around Jennifer’s calf and began rubbing.

  Jennifer’s face contorted into a disgusted grimace.

  Scarlett’s hands massaged upward, past Jennifer’s knee.

  Jesse stood up for a better look.

  Scarlett’s hands continued up over Jennifer’s thigh and under the hem of the little black dress.

  It occurred to Jennifer that Scarlett was the fourth person in two days to slip a hand under her dress and the third to do so unbidden.

  The traitorous redhead never saw the kick coming. Jennifer’s free leg caught her in the side of the head and sent her tumbling off the bed.

  Scarlett staggered to her feet. “You stupid bitch!”

  She lunged at Jennifer, but Jesse intercepted and wrapped a beefy arm around her waist. “All right, show’s over. Outside.” He dragged her to the doorway, shoved her into the hall, and shut the door.

  From outside, she kicked the door a couple of times and shouted, “You’re going to pay for that, you bitch!”

  Jesse smacked the door with the palm of his hand and shouted, “That’s enough!”

  Scarlett kicked the door once more. “Fuck both of you.” She stormed off, her footsteps fading into the distance.

  Jesse placed his ear to the door. When he seemed satisfied that Scarlett was actually gone, he stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Jennifer shivered as her body processed the overload of adrenaline.

  So much for that brillian—

  The door opened and Jesse stepped back into the room. He pulled a key from his pocket and locked the dead bolt.

  Is this good or bad? thought Jennifer.

  He walked to the foot of the bed and stared at her.

  Bad.

  He grabbed her free ankle and stretched it to the far corner of the bed.

  “Hey!” she screamed.

  He grabbed the nearby cuff and snapped it around the ankle.

  She grabbed the hem of her dress and held it down between her legs, which were now stretched in a wide V.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

  Without answering, he reached into his pocket and pulled out another key. He grabbed the ankle that had been chained to the bed for the past several hours and used the key to release the handcuff. He slipped the key back into his pocket and reached down to retrieve his dropped magazine.

  Jennifer rubbed the freed ankle. “Thank you.”

  “Fuck you, bitch.” He stood, clutching his magazine. “If it were up to me, I’d have let that redheaded cunt tear your throat out. But I’m under strict orders—nobody touches you until your boyfriend gets back with the cash.”

  He dropped onto the love seat and began thumbing through the wrinkled copy of Hustler.

  Well, thought Jennifer, at least now he’s close.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Crocker stood at the back of the small cluster of private patrol officers, trying not to catch the eye of the woman with the clipboard. His face felt flushed, and despite the powerful air-conditioning inside the tournament room, he was sweating. He suspected that to an objective observer, he looked every bit the part of a would-be thief.

  His eleven teammates, all male, ranged in age from mid-twenties to late sixties. He knew most from past jobs. Two were new. Both of the rookies looked to be in their late twenties or early thirties and carried themselves with a confidence that screamed ex-military.

  Just what I need, he thought, a couple of soldiers of fortune looking to prove themselves.

  The woman with the clipboard glanced up at the men, then back at the clipboard. Crocker wiped his brow on his jacket sleeve. Aside from an occasional murmur, the room was quiet.

  He surveyed his teammates and tried to assess which might trade starting positions with him if he didn’t get a lucky draw. Trading positions was technically forbidden—there was a reason the assignments were random—but it was done from time to time. Unless another patrol officer complained, casino personnel were unlikely to notice.

  The woman raised her eyes to the men and gave a practiced smile. “Can everybody hear me okay?”

  The crowd murmured in the affirmative.

  “Wonderful,” she replied. “Well, for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Alicia MacAdams, director of operations here at La Condamine. Mr. Hernandez, our chief of security, is attending to other matters, so I’m going to give you your starting positions. I’ll read these off alphabetically, so please pay attention.”

  Crocker’s heart felt like it was trying to escape through his rib cage.

  No whammies. No whammies.

  The woman continued, “Arredondo, you’re at the safe. Bucci, you’re on the floor. Cox, you’re in the cash cage. Crocker, you’re at the safe.”

  Mother fu—

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “Sorry, I read from the wrong line. Cox, you’re on the floor with Bucci. Crocker, you’re in the cash cage. Guzman, you’re at the safe. . . .”

  She kept reading but Crocker didn’t hear. He’d just had his first stroke of good luck in two days.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Jennifer hadn’t actually needed to pee again when she made the request—she’d simply wanted to be free of the handcuff and out of Jesse’s sight—but his refusal to let her go had flipped some sort of mental switch, and now all she could think about was how badly she needed to pee.

  She wondered briefly if wetting herself might earn her a trip to the bathroom, but that plan had two major flaws: If Jesse still refused to let her go, she’d have to sit in a puddle of her own urine, and unless Jesse was into that sort of thing, wetting herself would almost certainly rule out plan B.

  She didn’t like thinking about plan B. It was a last resort. She much preferred plan A, in which she knocked the fat son of a bitch unconscious with the heavy ceramic lid to the toilet tank.

  “Jesse,” she pleaded, trying to sound sweet and pitiful, “I really do need to use the toilet.”

  “Tough shit,” replied the fat man. “You went an hour ago. I’ll take you again in another hour or so.”

  “This isn’t going to wait another hour or so.”

  “Not my problem.”

  She thought for a moment. “If you have to explain to your bosses why their mattress is soaked with urine, will that be your problem?” />
  Jesse sighed. He set down the magazine and rose slowly to his feet.

  That did the trick.

  He walked to the edge of the bed, grabbed her ankle, and fished the key from his pocket.

  “Thank you,” she said, still trying to sound sweet. “Really, I mean it.”

  Jesse snorted and inserted the key into the cuff. With a quick twist of his wrist, the cuff sprang open. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Jennifer jumped up and shuffled toward the bathroom door, resisting the urge to run. Jesse followed.

  She stepped into the foul-smelling master bathroom and swung the door closed behind her. It stopped an inch short of the latch and swung open again.

  Jesse stood in the doorway. “If you need to go so badly, you can go with the door open.”

  Fuck.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Crocker’s lucky streak had lasted all of about ten seconds. His relief at being one of three patrol officers assigned to start the day in the cash cage—the only position where he could conceivably steal a large sum of money—was soon overshadowed by the realization that he would share the assignment with the two new guys, Hall and McMahon.

  He knew he could count on longtime colleagues to give him the benefit of the doubt if he broke protocol or acted suspicious, but he couldn’t expect such courtesies from strangers, particularly two gung-ho rookies champing at the bit for a little excitement. He’d drawn a good hand, but the house had matched it.

  For the moment, the mood in the cage, which handled all entry fees paid with cash or cashier’s check, was light. Only about a dozen early birds had been waiting outside the cage when it opened at six, and only two of them had paid cash. Money had continued to trickle in for the past hour, but by Crocker’s count there was still less than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the cash cart. Things would almost certainly start to pick up soon, but for now a window closed sign blocked one of the two cashier windows. The two cashiers—a plump, middle-aged woman and a stick-thin man at least twenty years past middle age—alternated between working the open window and chatting with the private patrol officers.