Nobody Dies in a Casino

by Marlys Millhiser

  “What do you mean, you didn’t do anything? Most exhausting night of my life.”

  “I mean I didn’t ask you about the part for Richard. He suggested I sleep with you to get you to play it. The pig.”

  “But you already had.”

  “Not to get you to take the part—it was just—”

  “Estrus. I know,” he said fondly. “Know what?”

  “No, what?”

  “I’ve had my astrologer charting this estrus thing.”

  “What?”

  “Guess where the moon is tonight, Charlie? It’s in your eighth house.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “TERRY, DID YOU know that Mitch Hilsten is in town?”

  “Yes, Barry, he’s shacking up with that Hollywood agent Charlie Greene. She represents Evan Black, the young genius.”

  “Yeah, well, did you know this Charlie Greene is an unwed mother and that she told her own poor old brokenhearted mom to sit in front of a fan when she complained of hot flashes?”

  “Really? She’s shacking up with Mitch Hilsten at Loopy Louie’s. We better get a camera crew over there right away.”

  “And Terry, that’s not all—this Charlie Greene is responsible for the murder of Ben Hanley from Kenosha, Wisconsin, as well as Officer Timothy Graden, who left two small sons, one still in a high chair, and she’s been stealing secret weapons from our government.”

  But the combination of the words camera crew and the fact her eyes burned brought Charlie upright, heart trying to pound its way up her throat. She should have discarded her contact lenses and let her eyes rest overnight, replacing the lenses with fresh ones in the morning.

  There was no camera crew and it was morning. She didn’t have any new lenses with her because she was at Loopy Louie’s, just like the news team said.

  But the TV screen was black, the set silent. It sat huge and square and out of place in the center of the room on a round table that revolved to face any direction ordered. Instead of exhibiting the ugly bulges of most TVs, the back of this one had a pictured cover depicting a view of sand dunes and desert palms rippling in a wind that blew at the flaps of the tent door framing the scene. Like the old animated beer signs.

  Another table surrounded the square TV’s rotating table, this one narrow and itself encircled by a continuous round divan. The narrow table contained the remains of a sensuous dinner eaten and drunk in installments, interspersed with business utilizing other sensations.

  The round bed had gauzy curtains looped back with menacing curved scimitars. A scimitar hung above the bed too, just below the mirror in the ceiling. Charlie looked away fast. Not the time of day to be looking in a mirror.

  With the bed round, the bedside amenities sat along a shelf at the top, and of course the only remote within reach was on the other end of the shelf. Actually, there were four remotes in the room, and one made things rotate, including the bed itself, but Charlie wasn’t up to that either.

  So she had to reach across the superstar for the one on the shelf. Round beds, even as large as this, force people to sleep pretty much in the center, unless they are curling up in fetal positions.

  Mitch stretched out right alongside her, facedown, back bare.

  Charlie smelled like canned tuna fish.

  Mitch was not as tall as he looked in his films, but his back was state-of-the-art. It had heavy muscle and some moles and a patch of fine blond hairs where it tapered toward the buttocks, a scattering of freckles across the shoulder blades. Muscle and bone were well defined, any love handles exercised off.

  Mitch was basically a granola, yogurt, pasta, fish, fruit, and vegetable guy unless he felt amorous. Then it was red wine and red meat.

  Remote in hand, Charlie paused to measure. The entire length of her arm and hand with remote extended could not reach across the width of his shoulders. In the attempt, she brushed the marvelous flip side and he groaned.

  “Guys with smiles insured by Lloyd’s of London shouldn’t sleep on their faces.”

  “Protecting myself.” He lifted his face off the pillow to shake his head. “Jesus. Gotta up my insurance to cover more parts.” He lifted to his elbows and reached above them for the phone. “I need coffee.”

  “I need eggs.”

  “What I really need is oysters, raw.”

  “Do they work?”

  “I doubt it. How do you want your eggs?”

  “Over easy, toast, orange juice. Coffee.” Charlie punched the remote to Barry and Terry. “No potatoes.”

  “I’ll eat your potatoes.” He ordered and then added, “Just leave it at the door.”

  “Raw oysters and camel fries?” Charlie wasn’t shocked to find Barry and Terry on the screen—they seemed to live at the station. But she was surprised to find it the noon broadcast.

  “You must have a bladder to match your libido,” Mitch said when he came out of the bathroom to find her immersed in the noon news. Their clothes were still scattered across the divan.

  How come he didn’t smell like canned tuna? Wasn’t fair. There’d been no time to talk to Evan last night, and Mitch didn’t want to discuss business, like why he should turn down this project.

  He gathered the congealed and bloody remains of their prime-rib dinner, placed them on the wheeled table on which they’d arrived, and rolled them toward the door.

  “Mitch, do not open that door until you put on a robe. There could be a camera crew out there.”

  “Why would there be a camera crew out there?” He looked down at himself, which was everywhere apparent. He was blond of hair and tan of skin wherever the sun got to him. If only he could see his back, where she had left not one scratch anywhere. A work of art is to be respected.

  “I don’t know. I just sense that it might be.”

  Mitch disappeared immediately and reappeared looking like Lawrence of Arabia without the headdress. His powder blues damn near shimmered. Problem was, Mitch Hilsten believed in Charlie’s nonexistent powers of being able to “sense” things.

  It drove her nuts.

  “… last night at Rachel. In other news—”

  “Rachel?” Lawrence whirled his robe and all back into the room. “What news about Rachel?”

  “I don’t know, it’s over.”

  “Four young men are dead and five wounded after the shoot-outs yesterday afternoon in front of Loopy Louie’s and a second outside the Golden Nugget. Mayor Jan Jones has requested law enforcement be beefed up on the Strip and on Fremont Street. Authorities believe the incidents are drugrelated and have videotape of them in progress at both places.”

  “Yes, Barry, since the private security guards at the two casinos in question were armed only with nightsticks, they had to wait until the shooting stopped before entering the fray. The killers escaped, but the security guards—and the Metro officers who arrived shortly thereafter—chased fleeing tourists with camcorders instead of armed killers. Witnesses say that the acts, the murderers, and the victims are captured on film from every angle and at every moment because so many vacationers use video cameras.”

  “Modern technology has certainly changed the world and the way we do things,” Barry concurred. “The debate now seems to be—should private security guards at the casinos be armed?”

  “And should they be allowed to tackle fleeing tourists with camcorders?”

  A taped interview with one of the fleeing tourists followed. The tourist’s face and voice were disguised, but his fear was not. “Hey, man, I just filmed it because it would be fun to show family and friends at home, okay? I don’t want to be no witness at no murder trial, man, you know? On Good Cops, Bad Guys, the cops catch the bad guys. On the real-life channel, the bad guys’ friends catch the witnesses, man. You know?”

  “But your identity is kept a secret from the bad guy,” the interviewer insisted.

  “Yeah, man, but not from his lawyer. Makes the witness a sitting pigeon. Lawyer tells his client—moral obligation. Client tells his friends—witness meets une
xpected death. Works for everybody but the victim and the witness. Hey, man, don’t start in on witness-protection stuff. All depends on who is greasing whose what. You know?”

  After commercials for Coca-Cola, Chrysler, IBM, Sustacal, and Depends, Terry came back on a sad note. “Services were held this morning for Officer Timothy Graden of the Metro Police, the young father of two small sons.”

  Emily Graden and one small son walked between rows of somber police officers standing at attention. Her husband’s casket carried before her, Grandma carrying the other small son behind her. Emily wore the expression of the widow—anger and helplessness seeping through shock. “Authorities are still tight-lipped about their investigations into the hit-and-run that led to the officer’s death and the motive behind it.”

  Charlie looked away.

  After commercials by Coca-Cola, Chrysler, IBM, Sustacal, and Depends that played through twice this time, Barry came on with the news of another upheaval on yesterday’s stock market, which had sent food stocks broadly higher and technology stocks plummeting.

  “Mitch, do you know what a DRIP is?”

  “Guy who doesn’t eat raw oysters.”

  * * *

  “Jeeze, babe, you look great.” Charlie’s boss stuck his nose in her face. “Nice to know somebody’s getting a rest out of this vacation.” He nodded spastically and lowered an eyelid half-way, somehow making it stay that way.

  “Richard, why did the police call you in for questioning? You don’t know anything.”

  “I mean, your skin glows, dewylike. And your cheeks are rosy. Your eyes aren’t even red.”

  “That’s because I’m not wearing any contacts and I can’t see across the room. Now—”

  “And your voice is softer and those anger lines between your eyebrows are gone. Your color’s terrific. I should make you take a vacation more often, kid. You win a pile of money, get laid, or what?”

  Bradone was cracking up. She was the lump rolling on the couch next to Mel Goodall, whom Charlie identified by his length.

  They were in Evan’s great room. In the kitchen part of this room, he busied himself cooking pasta-something. It did smell good, but Charlie was so ravenous, she could eat the pan.

  “So,” her boss said, “when is Hilsten getting into town?”

  Evan howled. Mel hooted. Bradone’s laughter broke into choking sounds.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you guys?” Richard Morse finally tuned in. “Charlie, what’s going on?”

  “Mitch’ll be here in time for dinner, Morse,” their host intervened. “Pour everybody some more wine, will you? Especially Charlie.”

  “Richard, what did they question you about?”

  “About you, Charlie.”

  CHAPTER 24

  INTERESTING THAT THEY all ate Evan’s marvelous pasta-something by candlelight in a room where three men had died and it didn’t smell of death. It smelled of garlic and onion and basil.

  And Charlie.

  She’d showered before leaving Loopy’s but wore the same clothes she had the day before. It was embarrassing. Everyone else in the room pretended not to notice.

  Everything so softened by candlelight and myopia and wine. Everyone blissful, tired, content. Three men lay dead the day before yesterday on the other side of that furniture there.

  The only sounds—the chomping of mixed lettuces, the slurping of fine Chianti, the crunch of crusty bread, an occasional soft sigh.

  Mitch sat across from Charlie and next to Bradone, who was struck dumb again by his august presence. She should have seen him eating raw oysters and camel fries for brunch.

  The superstar had dropped Charlie off here and then sneaked into her room at the Hilton to get her some fresh contacts. Hard to imagine Mitch sneaking anywhere, but he’d worn sunglasses to hide the powder blues and promised he wouldn’t smile and expose the famous flashing teeth.

  He waited until they’d settled over dark roasted coffee, French-pressed, and sliced pears with cheese and chocolate truffles to explain what had taken him so long.

  “Charlie’s room at the Hilton’s been tossed. Hard,” he announced virilely. “Found her box of contact lenses under the bed. What the fuck’s been going on around here, Black?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you, but you won’t listen,” Charlie snapped. Evan had put off her questions too. When she’d told him about Loopy Louie’s strange offer, he’d said that Toby’d already mentioned it.

  Now, Evan belched with pleasure. “Bring your coffee. Somebody grab the wine and the dessert trays. Come on up to the screening room. And we’ll show you, Hilsten.” He laughed and swung his ponytail back over his shoulder. Right now, he reminded Charlie of a pirate, but then, she wasn’t seeing clearly. “Charlie, you put your eyes in. I want you to see this too. Maybe it’ll answer some of your questions.”

  “Tell me they didn’t take my laptop,” Charlie whispered to Mitch when they stretched out on floor cushions in the screening room.

  “I didn’t see one, but the place is a mess. I reported it to hotel security and promised to bring you back there tonight to see if anything had been taken. Where’d you keep your computer?”

  “In the safe in the closet. Though I don’t think that safe’s very safe. I saw a security man operate the combination from memory.” Charlie took a sip of coffee and a slug of wine.

  Why me, Lord? It’s like I’m marked.

  “Does what happened to your room have anything to do with those concerns over the conspiracy project you keep going on about?”

  “The financing is not legal.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. They searching your room for money?”

  “I suspect for what turned the lights out at the Hilton.”

  “Anyway, it’s going to be okay, Charlie.” He gave her shoulders a proprietary squeeze. “I’ll help you clean up the mess at the Hilton.”

  “Yeah, right. And we’ll spend tonight in my room, I suppose.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving you there alone. Besides, my astrologer’s calculations say you’re not done yet.” The bastard chortled. “And that this should be your best month of the year. Venus is transiting your sign.”

  “You want to know why I’ll never really get in a relationship? I hate the smell of tuna.”

  “You do not smell like canned tuna. I told you.”

  “What do you know? Men have no sense of smell.” And Charlie crawled over to Bradone’s cushion.

  “Quiet on the set,” their host joked. “Roll it, Mel. And somebody pour Charlie some more wine.”

  This time, the footage started with security guards wrestling a camcorder away from Evan Black while their cohort bopped Evan with a nightstick.

  “That’s right, Black. I forgot you always do a cameo in your films.” Mitch sounded appreciative.

  “Is that guy really hitting you, Evan?” Bradone sat up.

  “Put it on pause, Mel.” Evan rose to stand in front of the stilled frame of himself being beaten and pulled his shirt down at the neck like a teasing stripper to reveal a black-and-blue shoulder, turned around to lift the shirt from the waist to reveal a bruised back.

  “Don’t look, Charlie,” Mitch advised.

  “I hate you.”

  “I know.”

  “How’d you know when to be there?” Richard raised up on one elbow to stare at the stilled screen with his bug eyes. “You didn’t set this up, I hope.”

  “Nah, Mel and I were out in the van, had the radio on. We got there just in time to get attacked by the law. It was beautiful. Never say I don’t do my own research.” A self-satisfied Evan walked away from the screen. “Okay, Mel.”

  The cameraman shooting Evan’s beating, probably Mel, turned away from the scene, camera still running. He was running himself, as were all kinds of people with him. Their race down the Strip was a study in control, the man behind the camera holding it in front of him, the world leaping and jostling around him in a frantic but oddly rhythmic step. Like t
he rescued film of a dead reporter caught in war-torn wherever.

  “Holy moly, Superman,” Richard Morse said.

  “That’s Batman, I think.” Gullible Mitch fell for it.

  But even then Bradone sighed and turned her head to Charlie. “If you don’t get back over there, I will.”

  “Be my guest.” Charlie took a slug of Chianti.

  “You want to cuddle up to Richard?”

  Charlie took another slug and thought it over. She crawled back to the cushion next to Mitch but asked Richard, “What did Metro want to know about me? You never said.”

  “Just a background check. I’m your employer, remember? Wanted to know how long you’d been with the agency, what you do there.”

  The next scene showed the same security guards jumping over wounded and dead victims of the shoot-outs, probably borrowed from someone else’s camera. A shot obviously out of sequence in real time, but Evan often used that technique to startle audiences. Critics called it a “conceit,” disciples, a “trademark.” Charlie had always liked Evan’s films in spite of herself and had to admit that with careful editing, it worked.

  “They especially wanted to know what you do for Evan, here. If you’re sexually involved—”

  “Richard—”

  “They’re cops, Charlie, they’re supposed to ask things like that.”

  And then came the footage of Charlie laid out in the desert night with shadow flames for lighting and that gross bush at her head like a tombstone.

  Mitch tensed beside her, put an arm around her, drew her into his warmth.

  That made Charlie tense. She loathed heroes.

  “Besides, I told them you were not sexually involved with Evan and that it’s a damn shame. You could use a little.”

  Mitch put a hand over Charlie’s mouth and held her down until she calmed. But Bradone and Evan howled in unison. Which made for a seriously strange sound.

  The next sequence brought them all back to the matter at hand. Charlie and Mitch sat up. Richard raised himself on an elbow again to see better. Evan gave a satisfied sigh.

  It was the “ground stuff” he’d kept baiting Charlie with.