by Andrews
Elmo and I awoke several hours later. Outside our room other hotel guests in the hallway were preparing for their vacation sightseeing or their business meetings. The morning paper slid into the room under the door, and Callie bounced out of bed to get it and make me some coffee and find herself a Coke. The front page featured yet another story on Johnathon Burr. The paper said that he was drunk when he fell to his death. I told Callie that I hated to ruin her day, but we needed to pick up where we left off, and that meant a trip to the morgue.
On the drive over, I rang Rose's cell phone. Callie knew exactly what I was up to, and she took the phone away so that she could deliver the message in a more palatable fashion.
"Rose, it's Callie Rivers," she said when Rose answered. "Elliot said Sophia was the one who found Joanie's body. We're on the way to the morgue to see her." There was a long pause while Rose sobbed and attempted to collect herself. "Is it true that your friend Sophia found Joanie dead?" There was apparently an affirmation from the other end of the phone. Then Callie asked if Sophia would talk to her about what she saw when she went to Joanie's house. That must have sent Rose into a nervous state, because Callie begged her not to hang up and told her that we desperately needed to talk to Sophia. The phone went dead.
"Scared girl," I said. And we drove in silence.
∗ ∗ ∗ ∗
The morgue was a strange conglomeration of dead misfits. People who'd arrived in town on a big vacation and had died of a heart attack from too much sex, too much food, or too much excitement; guys who'd overdosed in their hotel rooms; and old folks who'd come to gamble their social security checks, and ten thousand nickels later had keeled over. The guy in charge of the records said many of the bodies went unclaimed. Maybe they were out of touch with family before they showed up here. Maybe their families had decided that their gambling had used up whatever would have covered their burial. Whatever the reasons, the morgue drawers were crowded and the lobby was empty.
Callie talked the skinny, pimply-faced desk jockey into violating at least ten rules by letting us have a look at drawer 137, where Johnathon Burr, aka Joanie Burr, was laid out. The skinny guardian of the dead turned his back to let us slip past him into the morgue and said quietly, "Might as well. No one else has come to see him. Ten minutes."
The morgue room was depressing and freezing cold. The center of the room hosted steel tables on sturdy gurneys, the entire area illuminated by lights that could be lowered over the body during autopsy. Lining the walls were huge steel sinks which I imagined had unspeakable contents dumped down their drains, and beneath the sinks lay floors with permanent dark stains in them. Along two walls were the most recently dead. Drawer number 137 loomed large. I strode over, trying not to show how much this place creeped me out and wanting to get the whole thing over with. I slid the long filing-cabinet-type gray drawer toward me. A dead man's feet emerged with a toe tag and number on it. The tag read Johnathon Burr.
"Must be our friend," I said quietly, as if I thought I might disturb Joanie Burr.
"Can you slide the drawer all the way out, so I can see her face?" Callie asked.
I complied, hoping that I wouldn't get to the end of the drawer and have her tilt forward on me. I slid her out slowly. It was weird to think of being dead and being in a drawer like a pair of socks or kitchen utensils. Her once gorgeously made-up face was now flaccid, gray, and rubbery. It was a face someone once kissed. A face that laughed and ate and drank and now just sagged sadly back against the drawer floor.
"Bruises on her neck," I whispered. I wondered why people whispered around dead people. It was the one time you could shout if you wanted to, but mostly people whispered.
"Check that out." I pointed to a wide expanse of bruising. "Looks like someone with large hands had them around her throat before she 'slipped and fell,'" I said.
"They say she was alone," Callie said.
"Now that's a trick.. .choking yourself until you slip and fall over dead." I tried to humor her, the morgue being a particularly humorless place. I wondered if guys sat around working on bodies, having a doughnut or candy bar and shooting the shit. Actually, I didn't really want to know.
"She's important enough to be on the ghoul pool list, but not important enough for anyone to claim," Callie said.
"Nobody's talking about the bruising: not the medical examiner, not the police, not the news. Doesn't seem like anyone wants this to be anything more than an accident," I remarked.
I slid the drawer closed and silently said, Rest in peace, Joanie Burr. Callie and I walked back out into the lobby. Two gay men were there, obviously distraught.
"His name is Joanie—" the younger man whimpered, and his friend interrupted him.
"His name is Johnathon Burr. We're here from the hotel to have him sent to the mortuary for the funeral."
"Yeah," the skinny kid said, "we got him."
The front door opened and Sophia slipped into the morgue lobby. We glanced at her but made no outward sign of recognition. So Rose got word to her that we wanted to talk. Sophia made her way to the ladies' room. We gave it a few beats and then Callie said that she needed to use the ladies' room before we left. We entered the gray metal bathroom where Sophia had her back to the wall facing us as we came in the door.
"Joanie had bruises on her neck. The kind that come from strangulation." Callie cut to the chase.
"Maybe she liked rough sex," Sophia said. "You've got to leave Rose alone. That's what I'm here to tell you. You keep trying to talk to her, and you'll get her killed just like they killed Mo," Sophia said. "You get her killed and I'll have you killed, so help me God." She tried to appear tough, but I could tell from the way her whole body went rigid that she was scared to death.
"Tell us what you know." I ignored her threats. "The three of us are Rose's best chance, and I think you know that or you wouldn't be here."
She paused, perhaps trying to decide if she could trust us. Finally, her voice barely audible, she said, "The porn ring has its roots in the theater. And the theater is a huge moneymaker in its own right. So Karla doesn't want to lose the legit side of the business. One of the boys had sex with Traugh when he was drunk, and Traugh kept mumbling about the church and its money, so the church is in on it. I think that's how they launder the take, but I can't prove it. But you figure this out without Rose."
"Was Joanie alive when you got there?" I asked, surprising her and watching all the blood drain from her face. "Did she tell you who did it?"
"It's hard to be strangled by someone shorter than you are," Sophia said.
The door opened, and a female worker entered. I dove into one of the stalls, Callie washed her hands, and Sophia exited.
Minutes later, safely back in our car, we analyzed the conversation.
"Joanie was killed and Sophia knows who did it, so I'd say Sophia's in danger," Callie said.
"Joanie was a big gal. Who's taller than Joanie?"
"A man, most likely," Callie mused.
"Or another drag queen. Let's go see what our dear, close personal friend Karla has to say about all this," I said, and headed our car in that direction.
Karla greeted Callie and me like an Irish setter who hadn't seen its owners in a month. She literally draped herself over us and gave us big kisses on the cheeks. She kept chucking us under the chin and grinning at us, and saying what a hot little couple we were, and how sexy Callie was. I knew something was up, but I couldn't decide what, until she opened a drawer in the hall table.
"Have a little gift for you," she said. It was a flat, slender clear case housing a DVD. On the cover someone had written in black marker Room 1250 Sex Scene. Callie's and my lovemaking had been reduced to Room 1250 Sex Scene. I asked Karla how she'd gotten the tape. She let out a long sigh and braced herself against the entry table, as if talking to people this stupid was sapping all of her strength.
"Kiddos, this is a town built on money and sex. You got sex going for you, you can get money. You got money, you can get
sex. Tapes like this happen a lot, but not in my hotel," she said proudly. "I don't tolerate that stuff. My guests have to feel as safe as if they're stayin' at their mama's house. When Loomis called me and told me what happened, I called the chief of police. He listens to me. Schmuck better listen to me. I got him outta a lot of jams. I told him top priority, get this goddamned tape. So he did."
"Who had it?" I asked.
"Some punk kid who tips the maids to let him in. He rigs hotel rooms and shoots the tape and then blackmails the people, or just sells it on foreign markets. Gotta give him an A for smarts."
"I want to see him, and I want to pursue charges," I said.
"Not part of the deal. Deal is you got your tape back, the kid gets turned into his rich parents—nothin' more. Guys down at the precinct loved this tape." Karla smirked. "Two hot women gettin' it on. Every boy in blue musta had a hard-on."
I was getting red faced I was so mad. Perhaps because I'd been a cop, I figured she could be right—a whole bunch of cops had probably gathered 'round someone's computer screen and watched it again and again, slowing it down, rewinding and shouting. I cared for Callie. I was incensed for Callie. I wanted to kill someone or something for this indignity.
"Keep your shirt on, sugar," Karla said, sensing my anger. "It's sex. We all do it. We all act like we don't do it. We all point and whistle when we see someone else do it. Get over it."
Karla was a lot of things, but she wasn't a fool. So why did she fork over the disc? I wondered. Maybe it's to show us how she controls the police and that it would be useless for us to ever go to them for help. Or maybe it’s to make us worry that she’s kept a copy and could use it against us if we ever crossed her. Or maybe she’s trying to befriend us mob style: she does something for us and we go away and forget everything we've seen.
"Elliot's here. You know Elliot. He always makes me laugh. You look like you could use a good laugh," Karla said, disrupting my thoughts.
"Elliot, the guy who tried to kill us with the flying dummy?" I said.
"Sweetheart, you think one of us is tryin' to kill ya?" Karla gave me an acidic grin. "If I was tryin' to kill ya, you woulda already been dead. Those kinda things ain't that hard. It's all who you know. Now you need to lighten up; somethin's got your knickers in a twist. The sex tape, huh?"
Callie took my clenched fist, unwrapped my fingers slowly, and laced them in hers. Karla led us into the living room where Elliot had his shoes off and his feet curled up under him like a swami, seated on the couch munching grapes, looking a bit more on the feminine side. He leaned as far forward as his body would allow and extended his hand. We took it in turn as if greeting an elderly Queen Mother. At least we were half right.
"This time you are safe," he said. "I can only drop grapes on your head. We were just dishing Gio." Elliot grinned.
"Gio prays all the time at San Hidalgo. If he's not partying, he's prayin'. Makes you think that whatever happened at the party requires forgiveness, don't it?" Karla burst out laughing at her own joke.
"Well, for my money, nothing happens. The man is lacking in the man department," Elliot said.
"He's got big chalangas!" Karla said slyly.
"Oh honey, he's got his gun, he just don't ever fire it!" Elliot roared.
"Well, not at us!" Karla said, offering her lips to Elliot for a condolence kiss. He complied as joyfully as a politician at a pig-kissing contest.
"Elliot and I love the same flavor ice cream—pissedatgio!" Karla roared over her play on words.
"We came here to talk about Joanie Burr," I said, and the two of them stopped laughing and stared at us. "We think she was murdered. Marks on her neck."
"Joanie was like every other performer in this town: wrong men, wrong meds," Karla said quickly. "One makes you want the other."
"I think she was strangled—by someone taller than she was. How tall was Joanie, Elliot?" Callie asked.
"There was no one taller than Joanie." Elliot teared up. "She was a mountain of a human being." Karla put her arm around Elliot to console him. After a few moments, he pulled himself together and ran his long, slender fingers through his thick brunette and somewhat oily hair, and tossed his head back, jutting out his jaw and striking a pose that seemed to be the trademark of Boy Review performers. "You seem far more interested in dead performers than live ones."
"On the contrary, I'm very excited about coming to see you perform," Callie said, and she told him she'd heard wonderful things about his work. Since Callie felt lying was bad Karma, I knew she was referring to all the publicity posted in the hotel lobby, and it made me smile that he was so flattered. She asked him how he'd ended up in the show, a question that seemed to give him the giggles again. He admitted that he'd "auditioned," and he strung out the word, giving it a mischievous little twist. Karla handed Elliot a new drink and then plopped down beside him, putting her hand in his crotch. He jumped, but left her hand there.
He kissed the fingers of her other hand and then stared up at us. "Why are you here?"
"We were invited in?" I suggested, and the two of them burst into laughter again.
"Well, then, out!" Elliot waggled his fingers at us jokingly, as if to say, if we could be so easily summoned, then we could be just as easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, Elliot Traugh noticed the time and jumped up saying he had to run because he had a show to do. Karla blew him a kiss, and he said, "Bless you, darling," as he headed for the door.
I realized that I had only seen Elliot seated on a bar stool or a couch or standing onstage. As he dashed past us and disappeared from sight, I realized that Elliot Traugh was tall.
Chapter Seventeen
“Let's drive up to San Hidalgo Chapel. Isn't that where a praying Italian might hang out?" I said.
"If he's smart. Imagine having Elliot and Karla both wanting your chalangas!" Callie giggled. "Take a right," she said, correctly assessing the situation. "I was undoubtedly sent to you to keep you from driving in circles for the majority of your life."
"What makes you think you were sent to me?"
"Because all my parts fit exactly into yours." She pressed herself up against me and kissed my ear.
"You win. I am a disaster. I don't know where I am half the time, and I'll do whatever you want, as long as you just keep kissing me."
"Never say you're a disaster. You're not. And words have power."
∗ ∗ ∗ ∗
We stopped to grab a sandwich and gas up before wending our way through the sandy hillside, away from the bright lights and slightly above the city. On a plateau stood a Spanish mission with adobe arches and a small bell tower overlooking the city below. Early Mass was in progress and the singing could be heard through the huge wooden doors, one of which was ajar. The wind blew the bell rope and our shirts and our hair, and it was a glorious feeling, as if God had moved uptown to escape the cacophonous sounds of the casinos and to hear the birds sing again.
A man walked out of the church, then a woman and her son, and finally two dozen people exited. Mass was over. They stood in the courtyard and waited for the priest, a tall thin man in his black cassock and skullcap. Giovanni was the last to exit the chapel, still bent over, looking prayerfully at the ground. The priest put his hand on Giovanni's shoulder and thanked him for something. Giovanni looked oddly shy and boyish in response, but obviously pleased.
"Weird guy," I remarked. "I mean, contrast Giovanni the prayerful with Giovanni of the ghoul pool. It's like he's two different people."
"Something strange about the priest." Callie's brow furrowed.
"You mean aside from the fact that he wears a dress, never has sex with a woman, and has a cannibalistic desire to eat the body of Christ?" I said, making light of the belief system ingrained in me when I was a child. "Archeologists a hundred thousand years from now are going to have a field day with this set of beliefs."
"I don't know, just the aura around him. I feel like I know him," she said.
"Are we speaking this lifetime?" I as
ked, as the priest stepped back inside the chapel.
"Don't make fun, Teague, you're distracting me," she said.
"That's my goal, to distract you!" I kissed her neck while Giovanni, oblivious to us, got into his car and drove slowly down the hill.
"Okay, we were fooling around and we missed him!" she said.
It was true; Giovanni was out of sight now. I leaned back in the car seat and felt the wind blow in through the open window. "I was always bad on stakeouts. I couldn't focus."
The double doors swung open again and we spotted Sophia taking her time exiting the church, dipping her hand in the holy water and crossing herself. The priest talked with a parishioner, and Sophia lingered there in the courtyard, watching him complete his duties, and then approached him, smiling and attentive. The two of them laughed and chatted.
"She must have come straight over here," I said. "Like she's afraid if she talks to us, she needs the Last Rites or something?"
"I think she's trying to find out what's going on up here with the money, just like we are."
I was about to suggest we leave so that she wouldn't feel threatened if she spotted us, but then I saw the headstone a hundred yards away from the car. Callie saw it too.
"Maybe it's a cemetery," she whispered. We drove slowly across the dirt and rocks to the old headstone west of the church, and there surrounding it were other flat markers, some of them dating back to the 1800s. "A cemetery next to a building with an X on it," Callie said, referring to the map given to her at the casino.
I looked over her shoulder. "Leave it to a Spiritualist. That's not an X, it's a cross. This has to be the place." I turned my back to the markers and faced the direction of the hotel. Two miles? Five miles? How long would a tunnel have to be? And does this mark the location?
"It does," Callie answered the unspoken question in my head. "Now we have to find the entrance to the tunnel."
I clocked the distance back. Slightly more than five miles and then just a short drive down the Strip to the Desert Star, and the bright lights, and the valet parker with the giant feather in his hat. We were back in the swing of Vegas nightlife, both still trying to decide what the cemetery meant.