He closed the box and looked for a place to stash it. The safe? No. That would be the first place someone would look. Under the bed? No. That was for amateurs. He looked around, his gaze settling on the mini bar. Twisting the key, he opened the tiny refrigerator, took out the nuts, candy, sodas, and tiny bottles of booze, and slid the box in. It fit perfectly. He threw the food into a laundry bag and shoved it under the bed.
A moment later, he opened the door to the room. He half-expected to see the maid standing there, her arms full of towels, but the hall was empty. He rode the elevator down and crossed the lobby, nodding to the desk clerk as he passed. His luck was about to change. He knew it.
***
The moment she was accosted Marge wondered why she ever thought a trip to Vegas would be fun. She should have gone to the Dells. Larry and she could have stopped at the water park, like they always did, then shopped for cheese. They might even have taken a boat ride.
Now the man growled in her ear. “You’ve got something that belongs to me.”
Funny how your mind works, she thought. Here she was on the Vegas Strip, a gun poking her ribs, and she was thinking about the Dells.
The man jabbed the gun in her side. “You hear me?”
“The box?”
“I want it back.” His voice was raspy, as if he’d smoked too many cigarettes.
“You can have it.”
He positioned himself behind her so she couldn’t see his face, but she thought the pressure on her ribs might have eased. “Smart move, lady. So where do I find it?”
“In our room.”
“Good.” The raspy voice croaked in her ear. “You just keep nice and quiet, see, and no one ‘ll get hurt.”
As he hustled her down the strip, the greasy smell of fries and burgers from a fast food joint made her stomach grumble. She realized she hadn’t eaten since lunch.
“And tell your husband to stop takin’ things that don’t belong to him.”
She nodded, swallowing her hunger. Maybe this could still work out. If she could somehow flag down the policemen at the cruiser, she’d say the box belonged to this goon. Which, according to him, it did. So let him take the rap. She and Larry would be in the clear. Then they could start over. Together. She nodded again, to herself. Dr. Phil would approve.
***
Larry tried to look nonchalant as he strolled down the strip, but his armpits were damp and sticky, and sweat crawled on his neck. He checked out each passer-by, but most of their faces said they had more important things to do than notice a man in a yellow shirt.
He bought a beer at a dimly-lit place off the strip. Two customers were hunched over the bar: a black man with a “they do it better in Vegas” T-shirt and a woman with frizzy gray hair. Larry considered approaching the guy and tried to remember some rap. Home guys? Homies? He changed his mind when the man glared at him in the mirror.
Back on the strip, the crowd was thick and boisterous. Larry elbowed his way into a resort with cobblestone streets and quaint cafes. Supposed to be a mock up of Paris, he remembered. Wandering past a “French” bakery whose warm scented bread set his mouth watering, he spotted a scruffy-looking man on a bench. The guy’s knee jerked up and down, but he wasn’t making eye contact with anyone. He shook out a cigarette from a crumpled pack. Touching a match to it, he sucked down a drag. Took his time waving out the match.
Larry walked over. The man threw him a surly glance and scuttled farther down the bench. His movement waved the scent of Patchouli oil through the air. Larry remembered Patchouli oil. A three-day fling in college with a hippie who never said much more than “far out” and “dig it.” She’d had a perpetual buzz, and she reeked of the stuff.
He took a swig of his beer. Maybe this guy was the one. Then again, if he was wrong, it could all go south. He remembered how much he’d lost at the casino. He thought about the box and how much it was worth. He wiped a hand across his mouth and sat.
“I have some stuff I need to move.” He muttered. “Think you could help?”
The guy didn’t move. Or even look over. Larry wondered whether he’d made a mistake. Two cops were leaning against their cruiser half a block away. Too close for comfort. He resisted the urge to slap his thighs. He stole a look at the guy. No response. Rows of slats pressed against his shoulder blades. He was about to bolt, melt into the crowd, when the guy gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Larry’s pulse started to race. It was working! “You—you want in?”
“What’s the deal?” The man said.
Larry threw his arm over the back of the bench. The guy’s lips were pencil thin, and his upper lip didn’t move when he spoke. In fact, Larry wasn’t sure he’d spoken at all until he repeated it.
“What’s the deal?”
Larry told him.
“Where is it?”
“In my hotel room.”
“Hotel? What the hell is it doing in a—”
Larry cut him off, surprised at how brazen he felt. “It’s a long story. And I don’t have all day. Yes or no?”
Silence. Both of them stared at a trash can, one of those fancy, shiny ones that reflected lights from the hotel marquee. The man on the bench ran a hand over his head. Twice. “You’re on.”
***
The elevator doors opened, and Marge and her assailant made their way down the hall, the barrel of the gun still prodding her in the ribs. As they skirted a housekeeping cart outside her door, Marge remembered the maid with the towels. Was she in the room now? If she was, maybe there was some signal Marge could send her, something that would tell the woman to get help. Thinking furiously, Marge swiped her card key and pushed through the door.
To her surprise, the lights in the room were on, and a reedy voice called out from the bathroom. “So, what are you waiting for? Check the cabinets.”
Seconds later, the maid stomped out of the bathroom. When she caught sight of the man with the gun, she threw her hands in the air.
“Santa Madre de Dios!”
A noise came from the bathroom. “Estella… what the—”
Fear knifed through Marge. “Who else is in there?” She shouted anxiously. “Get out of my bathroom!”
Silence.
Marge glanced at her attacker, seeing him for the first time. He had thick dark hair, matted and bushy, jeans, denim shirt, and skin so bad it made bubble wrap look smooth. She wished he’d do something to help. But he just stood there, confusion stamped on his face. She’d have to save herself. But how? She frowned and arched her back, hoping to slip through his hold, but his grip was too strong. Then the bathroom door slowly opened, and the desk clerk with stringy hair and too many earrings emerged.
“You?” Marge planted her hands on her hips, her fear turning to anger. “Why are you here? Where is my husband?”
The maid unleashed a stream of rapid-fire Spanish, followed by a flood of tears.
The concierge fingered an earring, not at all perturbed. “The guest in the room below complained of a leak in their bathroom ceiling,” he said over the maid’s wails. “We were just checking it out.” Flashing a look at the man with the gun, he added, “See? Nothing to worry about. So now, if you’ll—”
The man with the gun suddenly seemed to snap out a trance and pointed the gun at the desk clerk. “Stay where you are.” He barked. “Not another step.”
The desk clerk shot him a strange look. Almost as if they knew each other, Marge thought. She crossed her arms. “Where’s my husband?”
“No one was here when we came in.”
Marge fixed him with an icy stare. He looked defiant, but he could be telling the truth. At least about Larry. But then, where was her husband? And where was the box?
Her assailant waved the gun at the maid. “Stop bawling, woman. And get out of here.” He turned to the desk clerk. “You too. And you ain’t seen nothing. Or no one. If you know what’s good for you. Got it?”
“Wait!” Marge yelled. “You can’t do—”
“But what about—”
“Shut up.” He turned back to the desk clerk. “You got a problem with your hearing?”
“No.”
Marge saw the look they exchanged. “Do you know each other?”
The two men didn’t answer. She frowned. The sobbing maid was her last hope. She turned to her, trying to telegraph an SOS, but the desk clerk grabbed the maid’s arm and shoved her out into the hall. As the door slammed, Marge heard him ream her out in Spanish.
“You got exactly thirty seconds to find that box.” Her assailant snarled.
Marge sagged against the wall. She knew it was a waste of time. The box wasn’t here. But she searched anyway, sliding open the shower stall, the closet door, drawers.
Nothing.
Until she found the bag of snack food under the bed. Who did Larry think he was fooling? Still, maybe it would all work out. She hauled out the bag from under the bed and stood up. “Try the mini bar.”
“Open it.” The man pointed to the cabinet.
“I don’t have the key.”
The man shot her a look and kicked the cabinet. It flew open, revealing the box.
Marge opened the refrigerator and pulled it out.
The man grabbed it from her and slid it under his arm. Then he cocked the gun. “Tough break. Now I have to shoot you. You know too much.”
Marge blew out a breath… He was right. It was over. She resigned herself to her fate and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the bullet to end her life. Still, she couldn’t help thinking how humiliating it was to die in Las Vegas. And how none of this would have happened if Larry had played by the rules.
***
They both heard the click of the key card. Her attacker shoved her into the bathroom with the box. Jabbing the gun into her ribs—it almost felt familiar by now—he raised a finger to his lips.
Marge pasted her ear against the wall. Larry was talking. To a man. Drawers slid open and closed. The closet door slammed.
“I can’t believe this. It’s gone.” Larry’s voice took on a high-pitched, nasal whine.
“What do you mean, it’s gone?” The man’s voice was deep. And angry.
“I-I was only out of here for a few minutes.” Larry stammered.
Then, “OK, Pal. Game’s over. Get your hands in the air.”
“What—what are you talking about?”
“I’m Officer Dale Gordon, Las Vegas police. And you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”
“A cop!” Larry yelped. “You’re an undercover cop!”
“That’s right, pal. And you’re in serious trouble.”
Marge gasped. A police officer. It was a sign. She lunged for the door. As she did, she elbowed her attacker by accident, and something metal dropped into the toilet. The gun. She must have knocked it out of his hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the thug trying to retrieve it from the bowl. He was cursing under his breath.
Banging her fists on the door, she yelled. “Help! Help me please!”
Footsteps raced over. The door was flung open. A scruffy-looking man who didn’t look much like a policeman to Marge crouched in a shooter’s stance, his gun pointed straight at her.
Her hands shot up in the air. “Don’t shoot!”
She heard the click of his gun. “Who the hell are you?”
***
Marge was about to tell him when she heard a rattle out in the hall. The door opened, revealing the maid with a gun in her hands. She seemed to size up the situation right away and pointed her gun at the undercover cop. “Drop the gun. Now.” Her English was perfectly unaccented.
The cop complied. The maid pointed at Marge with her head. “Get me the box.”
Marge scurried into the bathroom, picked it up, and handed it over. The maid nodded and folded it under one arm. “Nobody moves for the count of ten.” She let the door close with a thud.
There was an instant of shocked silence, and then pandemonium broke loose. Everyone shouted at once. The cop whipped out a cell phone. So did Marge’s attacker. Larry accused everyone of ripping him off. The chaos stopped only when they heard more shouts in the hall. The undercover cop ran to the door and flung it open. The two uniformed cops Marge had seen lounging against the cruiser stormed into the room.
“Took you long enough!” The undercover cop snarled. “Did you see her?”
The back-up cops exchanged a look. “Who?”
“The maid, dammit! She took it! Not even a minute ago!”
One of the cops gasped. “The door to the stairwell! It was just closing!” He bolted down the hall to the exit. The other cop followed.
***
They caught her before she hit the ground floor, but she didn’t have the box with her, and she refused to say where it was. In fact, she clammed up and didn’t say a word in English or Spanish. After listening to Marge’s story—several times—the cops searched the room, then took everyone into custody, including the desk clerk. Everyone except Marge.
They’d been trying to crack this narcotics ring for months, they said. They knew the drops were made at Red Rock Canyon late at night. They’d even busted one of the mules, but the other suspects got away. Apparently, they’d buried the stash under the sand, figuring they’d come back for it when they could. The cops assured everyone they’d turn the hotel upside down to find the box. But even if they didn’t have the evidence right now, they had enough to make everyone’s life unpleasant, thanks to Marge.
She promised the cops she’d call if she found the stash and told Larry she’d get bail money wired tomorrow. She watched them shuffle down the hall, all of them in cuffs. She was about to close the door when she noticed the maid’s housekeeping cart wasn’t there any more. But it had been—when she and her attacker had come back to the room. For a fancy hotel, they sure didn’t keep track of their equipment very well. Shaking her head, she closed the door.
A moment later, she opened it again. Scanning the hallway, she noticed that the door to the hotel room door closest to the stairwell was seeping light around its edges. Marge crept toward it. The door was unlatched. She pushed it open. There was the cart, draped in skirting, probably to hide all the cleaning supplies. Marge bent over, raised the skirt, and smiled.
She picked up the box. A grimy smell clung to it. No matter. She had a bottle of Jean Nate in her bag. New Woman said it was just the thing after a day in the hot sun. She looked both ways and stole back to her room.
She was in the bathroom dousing the box with perfume, the TV chattering from the other room, when an author started to talk about her book, “Your North Star: Claiming The Life You Were Meant To Live.” Marge straightened up. A few hours ago, she wasn’t sure she’d have a life to reclaim. Was this a sign?
Slowly she examined herself in the mirror. Then she turned sideways. Fluffed up her hair. When you really got down to it, there wasn’t anything that a beauty shop, new clothes, and a few aerobics classes couldn’t fix. Her gaze returned to the box. Maybe she’d pay a visit to the maid tomorrow. Make her a small proposition. After all, the woman had almost out-smarted them all. Marge was sure she’d know what to do.
She nodded to herself in the mirror. Yes, that was a good plan. She’d go see the maid. Maybe even bail her out of jail. Then she’d buy that book, read it from cover to cover, and start to reclaim her life. After all, she always played by the rules.
THE END
This story was written for my friend Joe Konrath’s anthology, THESE GUNS FOR HIRE (Bleak House, 2007). As he said in the introduction, this was one of my first attempts at writing hard boiled, and I found it liberating. In fact, it pushed me in an altogether new direction. You can also find it on audio at www.Sniplits.com.
DETOUR
I wasn’t expecting a hit that hot August morning. I was barreling east on a stretch of Ninety-four between Indiana and Michigan that just begs you to floor it. Newly
paved, two wide lanes, it’s practically uninhabited at six in the morning. Compared to Ninety-six, or even Sixty-nine, you feel like you’re about to take off, like the frigging crows on the power lines at the side of the road. At least the ones that haven’t been dropped by West Nile.
I’d headed out from the Michigan shores before dawn. I hadn’t slept much—Christ—I hadn’t even changed my clothes. I was still trying to figure out what the old lady was up to. I hadn’t seen her—or the place—in ten years. Why did she invite me back? I’d been living in the Motor City, trying to keep a low profile, when all of a sudden the phone rings, and there she is with that high-class way of talking. You know, the kind that reminds you of your fourth grade teacher. Asking could I please do her the honor of visiting?
The honor?
It’d been too long, she said, with just a trace of regret. We needed to catch up. I could stay overnight. She’d put me up in the guest cottage, she said, and we could bond. What was I, Elmer’s Glue?
So I met her yesterday afternoon for tea. Tea, for Christ’s sake. So bitter that even with sugar and cream it sucks out the insides of your cheeks. She had those stupid little sandwiches and biscuits. Scones, she called them—all arranged on a silver tray you only see at weddings. She also had this thick white stuff in a bowl. Clotted cream, she smiled. “You’ll like it. It’s sweet.”
As she poured, she made small talk. How was I, Teresa dear? What was I doing? Such a shame about my father. Hey—no one calls me Teresa. It’s Terry. Tare, sometimes, or TJ. But never Teresa. Who did she think she was, the Queen of England?
Afterwards I meant to grab a burger and a couple of boiler-makers in town to rinse the taste of the tea out of my mouth, but I took a walk along the lake instead. The old lady’s place went on forever now. Much farther than it used to. She’d bought up even more of her neighbors’ land. I couldn’t understand why. She didn’t have any kids. What was she gonna do with it when she croaked? What is it they say, the rich get richer, and we get screwed?
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