He knew the city, had driven its streets when visiting his sister’s family. He knew how to get from the airport to her house, and everyone knew how to get to the casinos. Even without a map the sheer size of the hotels and the lights could be seen for miles. He occasionally went to visit. Once you’re away from the lights and noise of the Strip, Las Vegas looks like many other southwest suburbs; one story ranch style homes all from the same cookie cutter housing builder. Most people who lived in Vegas never went to the casinos. They knew the town was built on the backs and wallets of losers. They might work in the casinos but seldom played there. The house almost always wins.
John didn’t tell his sister he was in town. He had a mission and chose not to involve his family or deal with familial distractions. He hoped having a motel away from the Strip would cut down on the party atmosphere of the town. It wasn’t the glaring neon of the Strip, but there were slot machines in the lobby and a small dingy casino was even attached to this motel. There was a bar and restaurant which was open 24 hours a day. Room service was not available but the restaurant would cover those needs.
As he settled into his room and unpacked, he mulled over his explanation to the Bishop why he wanted to take a short sabbatical. The Bishop was a short, rotund, ruddy faced man with a general disapproving air about him. He took his job and God very seriously.
“A short vacation you say?” The Bishop clucked. He had a tendency for staccato birdlike movements and speech patterns.
“I need a small break from my parish. I’ve been serving God as the administrator of this parish since Father Ryan died suddenly.” John visualized the second death of Sean Ryan at his own hand; the sickening crack of bone, the inhuman screaming. That memory would stay with him forever. “Five years have flown by and I need a month or two to relax.”
The Bishop regarded Father Bryant quietly, his fingertips creating a pyramid. “I see,” he replied at length. His eyes looked at John with compassion and understanding. “I can see why you are fatigued. It’s been sometime since I’ve been at the pulpit but I know running a church is a lot of work… I do hope this request is not a prelude to you leaving the priesthood."
“Oh no, I have no intention of leaving the priesthood,” John replied, “The service of God is my first and best destiny. I can’t imagine there is a more rewarding profession.”
“It’s a calling.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.” The Bishop sighed. “Often when a priest asks to take a sabbatical it’s because they are questioning the choice they made to become a priest. They wonder what they have missed. Is there nothing more than service? Is this what God intended for me? I have many answers to many questions, but these can only be answered by the priest themselves.”
“You’re right. It’s a terrible loss when a priest leaves the church. Not only a loss to man on earth but a loss to the Lord as well.” Father Bryant said.
“Yes, quite so.” The Bishop visibly relaxed. He was relieved Father Bryant had no intention of leaving the church. He smiled benevolently. “Where are you going in case I need to reach you?”
“First I’m going to visit my sister in Las Vegas. Then I’ll see what I feel like doing. Maybe go to San Diego or something. Sit on a beach.”
“Las Vegas is an evil place.” The Bishop’s face darkened and brows knit. “That’s certainly one of the Devil’s playgrounds.” He seemed to be talking to himself more than to John. “Beware of that place. There are many temptations there to lead a man away from a holy path.”
“Don’t worry, your Excellency, I’m going to see my family, not shoot craps.” John smiled at his own joke but the smile faded under the withering glaze of the Bishop. “I’m sorry, forgive my levity.”
“I’m overreacting but only because I’m concerned.”
“I understand. I’m going to see my nephew. He’s been having a difficult time since his parents divorced.” The Bishop clucked at the word ‘divorce’ but said nothing further. Father Bryant’s sister was divorced, but he wasn’t concerned for them. His sister was a lawyer and her son was intelligent and as well-adjusted as a teenager could be. Maybe he would visit them while there, a quick unannounced drop-in visit.
“Go with my blessings, Father.” The Bishop said. “Are you staying with your sister?”
“No, I have reservations at a hotel far from the strip.”
The Bishop’s brows knit together again, but he didn’t say anything. To forestall his objections, John rose from his chair and kissed the outstretched ring on the Bishop’s right hand. He excused himself and left the office.
Once outside he breathed easier; he was glad the interview was over. The Bishop was good at reading people. He had a reputation for treating the priests underneath him firmly but fairly and with a great deal of compassion.
Father Bryant looked out of the motel window. Las Vegas would be a perfect environment for vampires to thrive in. There were always visitors to Las Vegas, it lured people from all over the world with the lights and excitement and the promise of a quick fortune. People were sometimes bitten with the gambling bug and dropped out of society. They destroyed their lives feeding the addiction and disappeared from home. Some people disappeared for nefarious earthly reasons only to be occasionally discovered rotting in a shallow grave in the desert. Some disappeared never to be seen again. No one knows why, but if there were vampires living there, they might be the cause of such a disappearance. They would wisely cover up their kills to avoid detection.
Father Bryant had changed departments twice and now stood in front of a door that bore the inscription ‘Police Records.’ He had tried looking at old newspapers and microfiche of newspapers in the Las Vegas public library but without any idea of dates or names searching for random disappearances or unusually grisly murders became a long couple days in front of a whirring black and white screen. Headlines were not spectacular enough to catch his attention. Nothing said, ‘Bloodless Corpse Found!’ Any disappearances of ordinary people wouldn’t make it to the front page. Things of that nature were buried in the metro section six pages back if they were mentioned at all. After two days with no luck he thought of the police. They would know names and places and dates of either murders or missing persons.
He should be able to discern if a death was by human hands or something else just from the details. But he needed information. The police were now his best and maybe only source.
John knocked on the door, after receiving a muffled “Come in,” he turned the knob and entered. The room was large, off white in color, and well lit with multiple banks of florescent lights. There were computer terminals on the desks and filing cabinets lined one wall. Shelves with banker’s boxes created a huge wall opposite the desks and he could tell there was more than one rack of shelves in the place. The room appeared unoccupied at the moment though he had distinctly heard a voice telling him to enter.
“Is anyone here?” he asked the room.
A woman in a police uniform appeared from behind the wall of shelves. She was in her early thirties. Her auburn hair was arranged in a tight bun giving her face a pretty but stern look. She had glasses perched on her nose.
“Can I help you?” The officer asked.
“Hi. My name is John Bryant. Please, please hear me out before you send me to another department. So far I’ve been to two departments and explained myself to three sergeants. They, in their infinite wisdom have sent me to your door. Judging from the room filled with boxes and files I’m finally in the right place. So please, help me with my quest.” he said a tad dramatically.
A knowing smile grew on her full lips warming her hard, professional look. She knew well the bureaucracy of the police department. There were always roadblocks when trying to get something accomplished. “I'm Officer Margaret Collins. What’s your quest?”
“Okay, one more, and hopefully, the last time. This is going to be hard to explain and maybe a little weird.” John said. “I’m a writer w
orking on a horror novel, sort of a true crime thing with a supernatural angle to it. I am looking for information about murders.”
“Mr. Bryant this is the police station not a writer’s workshop.” She was somewhat surprised by his request.
“I know that. I’m here because this is a police station. I’m looking for real murders which happened in Las Vegas or the nearby surrounding areas. With all the mob ties from the 30’s onward, there’s got to be some interesting deaths; murders specifically. I’m looking for something sensational, bizarre, unique. Though, the time frame I’m curious about is more recent. Say in the last year or two. I’m not interested in a bullet to the back of the head and a body in a shallow grave. Too simple.” John didn’t feel any guilt about his white lie, it had elements of truth laced throughout it. He was looking for recent bizarre murders but not as a subject to write about, “I spent two days in the library fruitlessly searching old newspapers on microfiche for anything interesting. Because I was looking blindly, without dates or names, I found nothing. Now if you don’t have the time or can’t give me any information, or if you just plain don’t want to, I'll understand. This is kinda my last hope. If I fail here I’m going to go gorge myself on king crab legs at the Circus Circus $2.99 all you can eat buffet and go home.”
“I think I can help you.” Maggie said. She paused, then smiled, continuing, “the buffet at Caesar’s Palace is way better than Circus Circus. That place is a dive. Unless you like weird circus acts in the middle of the casino. Hunter S. Thompson totally had that place pegged.”
John looked at her, puzzled.
“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? You’re a writer and you haven’t heard of Hunter S. Thompson? It’s a great book by a great writer; if you are into semi-autobiographical drug addled fiction.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “Ok. Yeah. I can help you out. I’ve got a bit of time right now. Things are a bit slow.” She smiled and walked to the desk. Once behind the keyboard she began typing. She moved her glasses up on her nose and squinted at the screen. "I can give you information on closed cases and some unsolved cold cases. But nothing that is currently under investigation or in the courts. There’s a good deal of material here.” Father Bryant walked around behind the desk so he could see the screen. “I'll print you up a hard copy of the information. That would help you out at the library too, with dates and names.” She punched some keys and the dot matrix printer sprang to life. Sheets of paper connected together rose out of a box under the desk and fed through the printer as it printed. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
Margaret walked to the coffee pot and filled a mug with the name ‘Maggie’ written in big letters. She set it to the side and picked up another mug. “How do you take yours?”
“Cream, no sugar,” he replied.
She filled the mug and added cream, then handed him the steaming mug. “So you’re a writer?” Maggie asked. “What have you written? Anything I would know?”
Now is when things would be complicated. He hadn’t thought up answers to this type of question for his cover story. He was actually surprised she had agreed to help. “No, no,” John said sheepishly. “Nothing big. I’ve had a few short stories in some inconsequential magazines. I haven’t tried my hand at anything like a novel before. This is all new to me. I’m in the research phase for the story.”
“Why did you come to the police for bizarre murders? Can’t you think up something crazy and sensational on your own?" Maggie didn't think of how harsh the question came out until after she asked.
"Supposedly fact is stranger than fiction. I’m looking to see if it’s true. Sometimes things happen in real life that you’d never think of. For example, a friend of mine accidentally got a French nun stoned on hash brownies on a train from Amsterdam to Paris. When imagining a story, something like that wouldn’t automatically come to mind. There’s an old writer’s trope which says there are only seven stories. Everything falls into one of those categories. So it’s hard to come up with something new. There are hundreds of slasher novels, or the ultimate evil invading a small town. The strangest stories are sometimes real, and in the newspapers. I’m looking for one of those. Something bizarre enough to have actually have happened. But since I don’t have time to look at fifty years of daily newspapers I came here. You collect crimes.”
“We don’t exist to collect crimes. We’re here to solve crimes and lock up the perpetrators." Maggie said defensively. “We keep the public safe.”
“Of course. I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” John said. “This is where I hoped I could find the information I need.”
“How did your friend accidentally get a nun stoned?”
“Ah! You see? Therein lies a tale.”
The dot matrix printer stopped and Maggie tore the paper from the printer. She collected the accordioned computer printout. “Okay, this only the tip of the iceberg. I can get you more data but it would take some time.” She handed John the stack of paper.
“Great, when could I get it from you?” he asked.
She hesitated for a second as if debating with herself. “How about at dinner tonight?” She asked looking at his surprised reaction. “But it can’t be some $5.99 prime rib buffet. That’s for the rubes so the casinos can keep gamblers fed and in their casinos gambling. A real restaurant.”
Father Bryant blinked, a bit shocked. He didn’t know how to answer for a moment. He hadn’t entertained the thought of taking a woman, any woman to dinner for a very, very long time. “Uh,” he stammered. “Sure. I don’t know the city so I don't know what’s good."
“Give me the print out.” She wrote down the name of a restaurant and address as well as a time. “Here you go.”
John looked at the paper. ‘Armando’s 7:00 pm.’ with an address. “Okay, great, I’ll see you at 7 o'clock.” He could feel his face growing hot with blood as he started to blush. “Thanks for the help.” He quickly turned and left. Did she see him blush?
“See you tonight! You can tell me the nun story.” She called after him as he disappeared out the door. A wide grin swept across her face.
Cindy was in one of her regular haunts looking for a companion. The casino next to the bar was filled with the usual clinking of slot machines, the occasional cheer as a gambler had a lucky roll of the dice. She sat on a tall stool at the bar, her long sleek legs on display in a tight mini dress of electric blue. She was there to be noticed. A neon sign would have been more subtle than what she was wearing. Her green eyes scanned the room looking for the possibility of a night’s entertainment.
She ruthlessly dismissed men she wouldn’t give the time of day to and was kinder to some of the women. There was one who was looking for a second chance with her, she remembered him. He was local. The sex had been generic and vanilla. Cindy wanted someone new and exciting. Life was too short for generic sex.
Las Vegas always had new options, new possible partners coming through every week. Conventions and partiers were endlessly supplied by freeways and planes. So far nothing had been very intriguing. She looked at her watch. There was still time to change venues. A man was chatting with the doorman for a moment before entering the noisy bar. Cindy noticed him. There was something about him which was intriguing and a bit familiar. Did he look like a famous movie star? Was that it? He scanned the room, looking at the patrons and the people dancing.
As he walked to the bar, she posed on the barstool, showing off her well-toned body. He smiled when he saw her preening on the stool and moved to the empty space next to her at the bar. He looked at her appraisingly while waiting for the bartender to come over, his eyes drinking deeply of her beauty. His attention caused an immediate reaction deep in her core. Heat radiated through her body as she blushed. His dark brown eyes burned with an inner light.
He was tall and leanly muscular, his disheveled black hair reached to his shoulders. His face was strikingly handsome framed by the mane of dark hair. The bartende
r saw him and rushed over. He leaned forward and the enigma whispered in his ear. The bartender went through a door behind the bar and returned with a wine glass filled with a dark liquid. Condensation beaded on the glass.
The man turned his glass on the bar and leaned close to Cindy, “Hi,” He whispered in her ear, a quiet, irresistible voice. “Who are you?”
“Cindy.” she replied, all at once shy and aroused. “My name’s Cindy.”
“Cindy. Hmmm.” He rolled her name in his mouth. “You know, you look like a Cindy.”
“Have we met?” She seemed puzzled. He was familiar. Like a figure from a dream.
He turned to face her and leaned against the bar, his lanky body stretched before her. His eyes regarded her carefully. “No. I don’t think so.” His eyes traveled up and down her body stripping her bare. She never felt so naked as when he looked at her. “I would definitely remember you. My name’s Ice.”
“Do you work at a bar?”
“No. I have an oddly low body temperature.” He placed a hand gently on her bare shoulder. She jumped at his touch. “Poor circulation. It’s why I’m so pale.”
“What do you do, Iceman?” To regain power Cindy worked her playbook. Her tone was sexy and innocent. She had worked this technique many times before.
“I write stories. I drink. I quote Shakespeare.”
“Oh really? Hit me with some Shakespeare.”
‘Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing but doth lend
And being frank she lends to those are free.’
“It’s his fourth sonnet.” He performed it easily like someone who had been speaking the tricky language for ages.
“What does it mean?” Cindy asked.
“You are so hot you should share your beauty with the world.” He smiled.
“Really? And where should my beauty be shared, Ice?” Cindy asked. Her blood was running hot.
“Your place?” Ice innocently asked.
Blood Stakes Page 4