Nobody Dies in a Casino

by Marlys Millhiser

  “Forget the fucking mailbox. It’s probably been painted orange with blue daisies by now. What is the one constancy in my diverse works?”

  “The critics seem to think you have different themes … all presented with dark humor.” Charlie had to be very careful when it came to talking “English lit.” That was her major in college, and everything she’d learned had been turned inside out once she’d hit live publishing in New York, where she’d worked until a little over three years ago. She could still spout the jargon, but without much conviction. “At least you have themes.”

  “Exactly. And my theme in this project is conspiracy.”

  “That’s a theme?”

  “People’s use of and need for it is. You are obviously a subject to explore, since you hold to the conspiracy theory on Pat’s and Officer Graden’s deaths. You are determined that you are a connection and somehow partly responsible. And you checked out Rachel and Groom Lake on the World Wide Web.”

  “Didn’t Mel Gibson do this a couple of years ago?”

  “We’ll use a different title. And I have still another request to ask of you.”

  “I haven’t granted your first request yet.”

  “We are making progress though—I’ve got you up to ‘yet.’ Charlie, I want to approach Mitch Hilsten about this project. What do you think?”

  “You know damn well there isn’t an actor in Hollywood who wouldn’t give his swimming pool to work with you and get to go to Cannes and Telluride and all. I would assume it would depend on his schedule. But Evan, you don’t want him.”

  “Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”

  “He believes in this stuff. Really believes. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, darling. That’s why I want him.” And the Land Rover swirled into the Las Vegas Hilton’s multilaned and curving “landing strip.”

  “Well then, ask his agent.”

  “I prefer to approach his girlfriend.”

  A gorgeous uniformed kid opened her door. “I am not his girlfriend, Evan Black. He’s a friend is all. I thought you were too. But tell you what—I’ll go flying with you and Mel and Caryl if you and Caryl will go to the police station with me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  STARTLED AT HOW smoothly she’d been maneuvered into this, Charlie watched the wind sock whip and the minuscule aircraft taxi from its parking space toward her.

  Evan kept his plane at the small airport in North Vegas. And Caryl was his flight instructor as well as his pilot.

  Caryl had not gone to the police station with them, but then, Charlie had no intention of approaching Mitch Hilsten about this conspiracy project either.

  Charlie hadn’t set foot in the Hilton, because Evan took her up on her offer immediately, calling Caryl and Mel on his cellular and telling them to meet him at the North Vegas airport. Caryl had been officially notified of her brother’s accidental death and had identified his remains. Charlie swallowed hard at the thought and would never ask how.

  At the police station, Charlie repeated her certainty that Pat Thompson had been murdered by the two men who’d walked him out of Loopy Louie’s and her suspicion that Officer Graden’s death was connected. And that she might be in danger from the same people. “They looked and acted like bouncers.”

  A pleasant-faced woman took Charlie’s statement, keying it in as Charlie gave it, printing it out for Charlie to check over and sign. The officer couldn’t be very high up in police hierarchy, because she typed too fast and was able to see them right away. “Maybe Officer Graden believed what I told him that night enough to look into it on his own. Maybe he left some notes in his desk or mentioned it to another officer. I really think you should investigate the possibility.”

  “Every effort is being made to find the person or persons responsible for Officer Graden’s death. Thank you for your help. We’ll be in touch.” And with a half-smile like Bradone’s, the policewoman added, “Enjoy your visit. I’m fairly sure you’re in no danger, Ms. Greene.”

  “That was too easy,” Charlie grumbled when Evan whisked her off to North Las Vegas. “And you weren’t any help.”

  “That one is your conspiracy. Remember?”

  “Isn’t it a little late to be taking off now? Can’t this wait till morning?”

  “My aircraft may not be big and luxurious, Charlie, but it will actually fly at night.”

  It certainly wasn’t big and luxurious. Charlie always took the aisle seat when flying commercially, so she wouldn’t see how far away the ground was. There were four seats in this plane, and they were all window seats.

  She absolutely would not encourage Mitch Hilsten to take part in Evan Black’s conspiracy project.

  At least Evan didn’t offer to fly the plane himself. Caryl Thompson, her nice nipples well clothed like any pilot’s should be, might be younger than Evan but at least she was an instructor and not a student.

  Charlie, however, took no comfort in the woman’s swollen eyes and faraway expression. Could grief overcome her pilot training and endanger them all? And Charlie still could not fathom why her own presence should be important on this trip.

  This was one of those planes where you had to climb up on the wing and then into your seat by bending your body in ways bodies don’t bend. Those in back had to get in first. Charlie was the first to board and the gyrations she had to perform to get into the fourth seat made it pretty clear that the only way she could get out was by plane crash.

  Charlie would handle this situation by fantasizing she was somewhere else.

  Mel Goodall, the main-man cameraman, crawled in back beside Charlie, took one look at her, and broke up—his long face scrunching into a short one. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Old Mel will see nothing bad happens to you.”

  Old Mel was the angular guy with the penis tip and the backpack in the photograph Evan had shown her. He wore tan Dockers today too and looked more like an engineer than a cameraman. He was probably in his late forties—old enough to know better than to be on this rattletrap.

  The pilot crawled in (literally) next and Evan last. Over the sound of the revving engine, hysterical propeller, and violently vibrating fuselage, the producer/director/writer bellowed back to Charlie, “You know my secret, Charlie? The rest have concept—I’ve got theme.”

  Jesus, God, Allah, and Buddha save us from the artistes of this world and me from this one in particular.

  The artiste put on a headset to match the pilot’s and tossed two more over to Mel, who stuck one on Charlie.

  Buffeted by gale-force crosswinds, the tiny aircraft hurtled down a too-short runway and made it into the air despite rolling balls of attacking tumbleweed. Charlie’s client let out a triumphant whoop, sort of a cross between Tarzan and a football fan.

  Charlie Greene closed her eyes.

  * * *

  There was no wind, only warm sun bathing the recreation deck of the Las Vegas Hilton, no nerve-jangling music, no screaming children to splash water and wash out her contacts. Just peaceful adults swimming laps or talking quietly on white lounge chairs. Charlie slipped out of her sandals and net swimsuit cover and stepped to the side of the pool. Her—

  “Charlie, open your eyes. That’s Yucca Mountain down there,” Evan Black shouted in her earphone, then began ordering pilot Caryl to turn and dive.

  The midget plane was suddenly on its side, circling like a vulture, Mel manipulating a handheld mini through his window, which was a lot clearer and less scratched than hers. Up front, Evan manipulated outside cameras and watched the result on a monitor.

  A flurry of clipped indecipherable messages in a male voice came from the headset.

  “Radio contact,” Caryl said softly. “Next stop, Dreamland.”

  “Dive,” their leader commanded.

  Jesus, instead of slipping into a heated swimming pool, Charlie was about to get shot out of the air by her own government. She hadn’t wanted to be here. She’d have taken off the headset, except the rickety plane’s noise was more
frightening than the cockpit communications.

  She’d always been astonished when the flight attendant on an airliner announced passengers could listen to the cockpit communications on channel whatever through the headphones at their seat. It was terrifying enough not knowing.

  “Charlie,” Evan said, “note that we are going in a straight line from Yucca Mountain to Groom Lake.”

  You are going in a straight line. I are going to lose my Brazilian lunch and yak crud.

  “Open your eyes,” Mel yelled, and shook her shoulder. “Or you’ll get sick.”

  Tell me about it.

  But she opened her eyes. They couldn’t be more than twenty feet off the ground. Which was fine if the ground stayed flat. The ground did not stay flat. Charlie lost it. Not the lunch, but her control. “What are you guys, fucking nuts? Flying this low—don’t tell me about going under radar. They can pick us off with a BB gun from here.”

  Then she lost her lunch. Mercifully into a plastic bag Mel held under her mouth and closed quickly afterward. The cockpit still smelled awful.

  “Reminds me of flying Vomit Airlines over the ditch.” Caryl sounded almost nostalgic.

  Here was Charlie Greene, scudding along the uneven ground with a bunch of loons.

  “Everybody keep watch for roads, installations, stray vehicles, and buildings to avoid,” their pilot instructed, taking over the command. “I’ve got all I can do to keep an eye on the landscape and the wind. This could get serious here.”

  Charlie could see the plane’s shadow whipping over gullies and sagebrush and scratchy-looking bushes. Charlie was not fond of deserts in general, but southern Nevada was the meanest, ugliest of them all. The sand looked more abrasive, the rock more scoured. Even the mountains were deserts.

  They almost crawled up the side of a low, sullen mountain range and dove down the other side, along a valley, and then up and out and over again.

  Charlie closed her eyes. Had Pat Thompson been murdered for doing just what she was doing now?

  “Almost there,” Caryl said.

  Charlie opened her eyes without meaning to.

  “How much time can you give us?” Evan asked the pilot, and swung back to his monitor.

  “Not much.”

  “We don’t need much, got good stuff last time. Ready, Mel?”

  “Loaded and ready.”

  “Start your cameras, boys.” Caryl took them over a rise, barely, and Charlie caught a glimpse of runways wider and longer than anything she’d seen at Denver International, and immense shedlike buildings.

  Then an orange light flooded the cabin. It didn’t seem to bother the others. Charlie couldn’t figure out why.

  * * *

  “Charlie, open your eyes. This is stupid.”

  “You sure she isn’t dead?”

  “She’s not dead. She’s warm. Feel her.”

  “We’re all warm, with that fire. Doesn’t mean she’s not dead.”

  “First piece of civilization we meet, we get some food in her. She lost all her Yolie’s. At least it didn’t go to her thighs.”

  Charlie lay flat out on the hard sand, except for her head, which rested on Evan’s lap. A scratchy bush next to them waved its branches in the wind stirred up by the burning plane. Mel gathered tumbleweed and threw it into the flames. The smoke went straight up, leaving most of the sky dazzling with stars—a few of them shooting. Burning plane? “Did we crash? Am I hurt?”

  “I don’t think so. Try to sit up. No, we didn’t crash.” Evan sounded high, hyperexcited.

  Charlie made it to her hands and knees. “Did we all make it out?”

  But he had left her to help Mel throw tumbleweeds on the blaze. Its warmth felt good in front. Her behind felt frigid. Nothing felt injured. She made it to a wobbly standing position. “Where’s Caryl?”

  “Right here.” The pilot walked past with armloads of dried tumbleweed. “Thanks for caring, Charlie.”

  Charlie stumbled closer to the fire’s warmth. “If we didn’t crash, why is the plane burning? Are you trying to make a beacon so search parties can find us?”

  “No, we’re destroying evidence,” Mel explained with glee.

  This guy needed help.

  “And here’s our second-unit gofer with the van now,” Evan said, just as happy.

  Distant headlights bobbed toward them.

  “God, let’s pray that’s Toby.” Caryl sketched a sign of the cross between her nipples.

  “Women are so damned negative,” Evan told Mel. “Why is that?”

  “Damned if I know. But here’s the cameras and Charlie’s purse. Better get them and our asses out of here. Our trackers have to have seen this fire by now.”

  “What if everything doesn’t burn?” Caryl insisted as the men rushed her and Charlie toward the approaching lights.

  “Too late to worry it now. Life’s a gamble, right?” Evan did his victory whoop again.

  Charlie was glad to be alive. But she could do without that whoop.

  * * *

  “See how easy conspiracy is to manufacture, Charlie?” Evan bit into his Big Mac while she stuffed a bite of Ronald’s Filet-o-fish into her mouth. The van sat in a far corner of a McDonald’s parking lot.

  The ride had seemed forever. The driver, Toby, remained cheerful even though Mel and Evan teased him endlessly about his lowly gofer status and about all his uncles. He’d dowsed the headlights, but the farther they got from the burning plane, the more the starry night illuminated the landscape around them. And probably them to anyone looking for them.

  “How did you manufacture the orange light?” Charlie asked. That had impressed her.

  “What orange light? Anybody else see an orange light?”

  “Stop making fun of me, Evan.”

  “I don’t know about any orange light. I do think you got a little overexcited.”

  “Overexcited, hell—she blacked out on us,” Mel said.

  “I saw an orange light,” Charlie insisted.

  “She’s remembering the plane burning.”

  “That didn’t look orange to me.”

  “Don’t let these jerks get to you.” Toby had a lopsided grin and dark curly hair cut short in back and on the sides, but curls tumbled down over his forehead. He sucked the last of his cola through the straw and started up the van.

  “Hey, Tobias,” Mel said, “what’s your uncle Louie going to say about tonight?”

  “Why should he even know? He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “You tell him everything, don’t you?” Evan did his boisterous guy laugh.

  “Is he in for a surprise tonight.” Mel joined his boss in the hilarity. “Isn’t that right, Charlie?”

  “Planes can’t just disappear.” Charlie didn’t know what was going on, but she didn’t find the whole thing a bit funny. “They’ll have search planes out looking for it when it doesn’t come back.”

  “All records have mysteriously disappeared, right, Toby? And all records of my ownership too. Damnedest thing.”

  Toby apparently had this friend who worked at the little airstrip in North Vegas.

  “Yeah, our gofer here’s got friends in high places and too many uncles.”

  “What I got, Goodall, is contacts. You’re just envious.”

  “Clear as the skies were out there, some airliner will spot that fire, and radio it in,” Charlie persisted. She’d gotten involved in real trouble here. “You can’t walk off and leave a whole plane. They’ll find some identifying thing in the ashes, some metal gadget that won’t burn. And they’ll come after you, Evan. Why burn your own plane? Why not just fly off with it?”

  “Because then they’d have had time to scramble and blow us out of the air. This way, they know where the plane is and all trace of any of us better be burned off what’s left of it.”

  “Why are you so hot to involve me in this?”

  “I wanted your take, as a conspiracy freak, on Groom Lake. And I wanted you to be able to tell Mitc
h Hilsten what you saw firsthand. Simple, right?”

  “Wrong, Evan. Serial numbers and things like that don’t burn. The original owner at least has got to be on file somewhere.”

  “What can I say? Life’s a gamble, Charlie.” But everyone had grown suddenly somber. “All we really need is a little time and some magic will happen—won’t it, Toby? And everything, including you, will be safe as grass, Charlie.”

  The van turned onto a heavily lighted parkway, and for a second a teardrop glinted in a free fall from Caryl’s face before it was lost in her dark clothing. She hadn’t joined in the teasing and laughter. More tears formed on her lashes, but her voice came more vengeful than sad. “The plane was listed originally in my brother’s name. Nobody can go after Pat now.”

  CHAPTER 8

  CHARLIE STILL FELT strange as she stepped up to the Hilton’s glittering entrance. For once, it wasn’t her stomach. The McFood seemed to have settled peacefully. More her head—not an ache exactly. Maybe it was just her anger at how Evan Black thought he could use her. It would take more than magic to get them out of this.

  “Holy shit,” a man said behind Charlie, and she turned at the door, to see him stepping out of a cab. The inside light and the cab’s headlights sat in a sea of night under the immense marquee. All the lights and the razzamatazz at the fountain and the rows of lights under the marquee had gone out.

  A bell captain passed her on his way to the luggage the cabbie was unloading. “Talk about blinding night, huh?”

  It was spectacular. Charlie had an errant thought: If all the lights went out in Vegas, would it still exist? Like, if a tree falls in the forest and nobody sees it …

  Get thee to bed, Charlie G, you’re all done.

  For once, we agree.

  The elevator quit on her a floor below hers, but at least the door had already opened to let her out. None of the elevators seemed to be working up or down, so she took the stairs one flight to her room, flicked on the lights, flicked off her clothes, and stepped into the shower just as the lights went out. She showered by feel and managed to find her nightshirt and the bed by the light of the Vegas night outside the window.