AT&T Information gave him the number of Vernon Young Realty. He put in the call, but Vernon Young wasn’t there. The woman who answered said he didn’t come in on weekends. Fallon persuaded her to give out his home number by saying, “It’s important that I talk to him. It has to do with some money he’s owed.” But when he called the home number, an answering machine picked up. He didn’t leave a message.
Fallon hauled his pack onto the bed, unzipped the side pocket where he kept his handgun in its supple leather holster. Ruger .357 Magnum revolver, four-inch barrel. Moderately heavy piece at two and a half pounds. More weapon than he needed for his routine security job at Unidyne and for selfdefense against snakes on his desert treks, but he was comfortable with it. The army had taught him to shoot, and he’d been comfortable with the heavier military sidearms. Ranked high in marksmanship in basic training at Fort Benning—good hand-eye coordination, steady aim, easy trigger pull. That was one of the reasons they’d assigned him to MP duty instead of letting him train in electronics as he’d requested. A matter of aptitude, he was told.
He hadn’t much liked the MP duty at first. Mainly it involved routine patrols and handling drunken noncoms and issuing citations. Good at it, though, because he’d applied himself, and somebody at the command level had decided that was where he belonged. He’d spent his entire four-year tour at two stateside bases, Fort Benning and Fort Huachuca. Never left U.S. soil the entire time. Fort Huachuca was the better of the two duties by far because it was in Cochise County, in the southeastern part of Arizona— desert country, the place where he’d first learned that deserts were so much more than arid wastelands.
Everybody always said he was lucky. Not only because of the easy stateside duty, but because his tour had fallen between the times of intense foreign combat—enlisted in ’93 at age eighteen, after Desert Storm, and discharged in ’97 before Nine-Eleven, Afghanistan, Iraq. Maybe he was lucky. Like every other soldier he’d ever known, he’d had no desire to get his ass shot off. And yet he’d come close to reenlisting after the Nine-Eleven terrorist attack in New York City. Would have, if Geena hadn’t talked him out of it for Timmy’s sake.
Geena. Timmy. A whole different life back then.
The Ruger was unloaded; he kept it that way whenever he was in Death Valley, except when he was packing well off the beaten track, because loaded firearms are illegal in national parks. Rattlesnakes aren’t, though, and self-defense was more important than strictly following rules. He swung the gate open, looked at the empty chambers for several seconds, and then closed the gate again and sat holding the weapon in his hand. He’d never fired it anywhere except at the police range, once every other month in competitions with Will Rodriguez that he usually won. Never had occasion to draw it even once in the nine years he’d been with Unidyne. Never drawn it in the wilderness, either. He’d seen his share of sidewinders, but never been surprised by one up close.
He could and would shoot a man if he had to. Army training: if your weapon was loaded and you had reason to draw it, you had to be prepared to fire. But only in self-defense. He’d thrown down on fellow soldiers twice during his MP days, one of them a kid from Tennessee on a violent meth high who was threatening bar patrons with a bayonet. He would’ve fired a kill shot when the kid started to attack him, if his partner hadn’t swung a blindside billy first. The incident had made Fallon think what it would be like to shoot an assailant, shoulder the responsibility for a man’s death. He didn’t like the idea, but he didn’t shy away from it either. Putting yourself into a potentially deadly situation meant being willing to do what you had to do to protect yourself. True as an MP and corporate security officer, true as a civilian.
But he was on thin ice here. His California carry permit was no good in Nevada or any other state, and the gun laws here in Vegas were strict. O. J. Simpson and his buddies had found that out the hard way. He could keep the weapon in his pack, but to be strictly legal it would have to be unloaded. An empty sidearm was worthless except as a bluff threat, and if the bluff were called with a loaded piece, you could end up dead.
So the smart thing to do was not to rely on ordnance at all. Keep the Ruger unloaded and tucked away. He was a big man, strong, he was skilled in hand-to-hand combat methods, he could handle himself against men like Banning and Court Spicer. Sure he could—as long as they weren’t armed with chambered weapons and likewise prepared to use them.
He asked himself, not for the first time and not for long, if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Could be. But he was already committed. And the doubts dissolved when he thought about what Banning and Spicer had done to Casey, the probably frightened eight-and-a-half-year-old with asthma, the promises he’d made. He’d see it through, one way or another.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 4:33. Lull time in the clubs and casinos, especially on a Saturday. If Eddie Sparrow was still playing at the Hot Licks Club, it wasn’t likely he’d be there until evening. Making the rounds to find out which if any of the casinos used gold and black-ruffled sleeve garters could wait a while, too.
He put the unloaded Ruger away, lowered the pack to the floor, then lay back on the bed. The air conditioner made a clunky humming noise. Outside, kid cries from the pool and traffic noise on North Rancho Drive filtered in faintly.
The kid cries started him thinking about Timmy again. He took out the good, cherished memories as he often did, let them stream like slides across his mind. The boy’s love of baseball and their backyard pitch-and-catch games and the trips to Dodger Stadium. The time they’d gone camping together in the Mojave, just the two of them, and how excited Timmy had been. Their first visit to Death Valley, Geena with them that time, and the wonder in the boy’s eyes as he gazed out at the changing colors of the hills from atop Zabriskie Point. The other places they’d gone and the other things they’d done, and the sound of Timmy’s laughter at cartoon antics and silly kid jokes.
The slide show ended abruptly, as it always did, with the image of a still, pale, bandaged face in a white room, the last image before the middle-ofthe-night call from the hospital and the doctor’s solemn voice saying, “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Fallon.”
Timmy.
Ah, God—Timmy.
For an hour Fallon lay motionless, waiting, trying not to think about anything once the memories were locked away again. The army, with its hurry-up-and-wait philosophy, had taught him the rudiments of patience; the routine at Unidyne and the desert treks had honed and refined it for him.
The phone didn’t ring. No one knocked on the door.
That didn’t mean anything one way or another. He was pretty sure the desk clerk knew the man who called himself Banning, had some idea of what had gone on in this room on Wednesday, and had been paid for his collusion and his silence. If that was the way things shaped up, the clerk would report to Banning. What Banning did about it, if anything, was a matter of wait-and-see.
At 5:30 Fallon tried Vernon Young’s home number a second time, got the answering machine again. He called Casey’s cell, to find out how she was doing. There seemed to be some life in her voice when she said she was all right, feeling better. He told her he was in Vegas, but not where he was staying the night, and a little of what he was planning for tonight. There wasn’t much else to say except that he’d call again in the morning.
* * *
Six o’clock.
No calls, no visitors.
Fallon went into the bathroom for a small strip of toilet paper. Outside, with the pack slung over his shoulder, he closed the toilet paper into the joining of the door and the jamb, a couple of inches below the lock, with just enough of it showing so that he could feel it with a fingertip. Then he locked the door, put himself and the pack inside the Jeep, and joined the rush of platelets heading for the heart of the Vegas creature.
TWO
THE HOT LICKS CLUB wasn’t just a jazz spot. Like just about every other entertainment spot in Vegas, it was dominated by a
ground-floor casino and it had a theme—a broad mix of 1920s speakeasy and 1930s supper club. Wall murals and furnishings reflecting that bygone era, jazz music blaring over loudspeakers, employees decked out in period costumes that ranged from tuxedos and gowns to gangster-style and flapper outfits. Combined with the neon glitz-and-glitter of the casino, the effect was ludicrous. But the customers didn’t seem to think so. The casino was packed, the slots and tables getting heavy play, streams and knots of gawkers clogging the narrow aisleways.
Fallon found his way to an escalator at the far end. Propped up there was a large billboard sign that read: BENNY AMATO AND HIS JAZZBOS. VOCALS BY HELEN DUPREE. APPEARING NIGHTLY EXCEPT SUNDAY IN THE INTIME ROOM. DIXIELAND, SWING, FUSION. DINNER AND DANCING TILL THE WEE HOURS. There was a photo of a group of eight men and one woman, all wearing the requisite period clothing. The man in the foreground holding a trumpet was black and middle-aged, but neither he nor any of the other Jazzbos was identified by name.
On the second floor, a velvet-roped aisleway led to a wide set of closed doors. A neon sign above them bore the standard ’30s tilted cocktail glass and the words INTIME ROOM in blue letters. Another billboard in front of the doors announced that the Intime Room opened for dinner at 7:00 and that the music started at 9:00. Nearby was a gated ticket window staffed by a smiling young woman painted up like a Busby Berkeley hoofer. Fallon put on a smile as he walked up.
Before he could say anything, the woman said in a chirpy voice, “We’re sold out for supper, sir, but bar space is still available. The Intime Room has three bars,” she added, as if she were awed by the fact.
“Can I ask you a question before I decide to buy a ticket?”
“Oh, sure. About the Jazzbos?”
“Yes. I thought I recognized the trumpet player in the billboard photo downstairs. Eddie Sparrow?”
“Yes, sir. That’s right.”
“Well, I knew Eddie in San Diego,” Fallon lied. “Is there any chance I could see him for a couple of minutes, say hello?”
“You mean now? Oh, I don’t think he’s here yet. The musicians don’t usually come in until about an hour before they’re ready to go on.”
“They allowed to mingle on their breaks between sets?”
“With the customers? Oh, sure. The management likes them to do that.”
“You said three bars. They have names?”
“Names? No, they’re just bars. You know, one on each side and one in back where you go in.”
“So I can pick any one I want.”
“Oh, sure. Wherever there’s room. But you have to buy a ticket.”
Fallon said patiently, “I will. I’d also like to leave a message for Eddie.”
“Message? You mean with me? I won’t see him when he comes in—I’ll still be working here in the booth.”
“You could pass it on to someone who will see him, couldn’t you?”
“Pass it on?” she said doubtfully. “Well . . . I guess I could.”
On a page in his notebook Fallon wrote: I’m a friend of Court Spicer. I’ll make it worth your while if you’ll give me a couple of minutes during your first or second break. Look for me at the bar nearest the entrance, white man, blue shirt, tan suede jacket. He signed it Rick, folded the paper twice, and put it and three bills into the tray under the window gate.
“The extra ten is for you,” he said.
Her smile got even brighter. “Thanks! I’ll pass it on. The message, I mean.”
“One more question,” he said as he pocketed the ticket. “Would you know of a casino where the employees wear gold sleeve garters with black ruffles?”
“Sleeve garters?”
“Like women’s garters, only around their upper arms.”
“Oh.” The smile turned into a thinking frown. “Gold with black ruffles . . . well, I know I’ve seen them somewhere . . . Oh! Oh, sure, the Golden Horseshoe.”
“The Golden Horseshoe.”
“It’s in Glitter Gulch,” she said.“You know, the Fremont Street Experience?”
Glitter Gulch. The Fremont Street Experience. That was downtown Vegas, a mile or so north of the Strip—five blocks of casinos, restaurants, lounges in a covered mall dominated by a ninety-foot-high, multimillion-dollar Viva Vision screen, the largest on the planet. One of the city’s big attractions. Fallon had gone there once with Geena—for ten minutes, all he could stand of a constant assault on the visual and aural senses. Larger-than-life animations, integrated live video feeds, synchronized music on a high-tech canopy the length of more than five football fields. State of the art fiber-optic light shows and what was billed as 550,000 watts of concert-quality sound.
Deafening noise, to him. The kind that shattered silence like a sledgehammer powdering glass.
Two minutes inside the mall and his head ached; his eyes felt as raw as if he’d been staring into the noonday desert sun. Milling, jostling crowds as thick as those on the Strip. Shills offering come-on gambling packages, hawkers handing out prostitutes’ calling cards and extolling their services even though prostitution was technically illegal in the City Where Anything Goes. Walking here or on the Strip on a Saturday night was like being trapped on the shrieking, neon midway of a madman’s carnival.
It was almost a relief to walk into the Golden Horseshoe. Almost. Electronic bells and whistles and bongs and burbles, rattling dice and clicking chips and clinking glassware, chattering human voices, laughter, shouts and cries and all the other myriad sounds made by men and women caught up in the gaming fever—a pulsing din that kept rising and being bounced back down from the low glass ceiling. Didn’t matter what casino you entered during peak times, from the megaglitz palaces to the low-roller clubs like this one—the noise level was the same. Loud, loud, loud.
The motif here was Western, the old Hollywood movie variety. Waitresses dressed like saloon girls, croupiers and dealers and stickmen and pit bosses in ruffled shirts and string ties and cowboy boots. And all of them wearing gold armbands with black-ruffled edges.
Fallon took a long, slow walk around the casino. Making it look casual when he paused near one of the blackjack, craps, or roulette layouts for a look at a male employee who more or less fit Casey’s description of Banning. None of them had a dragon tattoo or wore a cat’s-eye ring.
A crowd of people was grouped around one of the crap tables, hooting and hollering whenever the dice were rolled. Fallon stepped over that way for a look at the stickman, all but invisible in the crush, whose droning voice reminded him of the handful of crap games he’d gotten into in the army.
“Ee-o-leven, a winner! Pay the line. Same lucky shooter coming out . . . Eight, hard way eight, eight a number. Place your come and field bets . . . Nine, eight the point . . .”
Once more the dice rattled off the board. This time the crowd groaned.
“Ace-deuce, three craps—a loser. Pay the field . . . New shooter coming out. Place your bets . . . Seven! Seven, the winner. Pay the front line . . .”
Fallon moved on.
After a second circuit, to make sure he hadn’t missed anybody, he went into a raised, neon-lit lounge bar. The Western-etched leather stools were mostly filled, the barman busy, but only half the tables were occupied, mostly by players studying the big keno board on one wall. He picked a table along the outer rail, at a distance from the nearest players. A tired-looking cocktail waitress, thirtyish, wearing a Miss Kitty outfit and one of the distinctive sleeve garters, drifted over. He ordered a beer. When she brought it, he laid a ten-dollar bill on her tray.
“Busy night,” he said.
“I’ve seen it a lot busier.”
“Bet you have. Been working here long?”
She gave him an up-from-under-look.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not going to hit on you. I asked because I’m looking for a guy I know. I’ve been told he works here.”
“Is that right?”
Fallon said, “No, keep it,” as she started to hand over his change. “I
f you’ve been working here a while, you probably know him. This friend of mine.”
“Maybe. What’s his name?”
“Well, he called himself Banning when I knew him.”
“Called himself? What does that mean?”
“Claimed he had a good reason for not using his real name.” Fallon shrugged. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“I don’t know anybody named Banning,” she said.
“So maybe now he’s using his real name again. He’s in his midthirties, heavyset, kinky black hair. Dragon tattoo on his right wrist, wears a gold cat’s-eye ring on his left hand.”
She made a face. “Doesn’t sound like a guy I’d want to know. What do you want with him?”
“He owes me some money.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. What are you, anyway, some kind of cop?”
“Do cops give out five-dollar tips?”
“I don’t know any cops,” she said. “Or any Bannings. Or any guys with dragon tattoos. Thanks for the tip.” And she walked away.
Wrong approach. But what was the right one, given the sketchy information he had?
Fallon took one more stroll around the casino floor. This time there was activity on a raised stage set back into a long alcove at the rear. Tinny piano music blared and spotlights shone hard and bright on eight young women in skimpy costumes dancing a Western movie version of the can-can. Each wore one of the gold-and-black garters, not on their arms but on their bare thighs.
Ah, Christ, he thought. Dancers, cocktail waitresses, blackjack dealers— all the women employees wore them. And there didn’t seem to be any difference between a Golden Horseshoe sleeve garter and leg garter. The one Casey had seen at the motel didn’t have to’ve been Banning’s. It could just as easily belong to a girlfriend who worked here.
Some detective, Fallon. Jumping to conclusions, missing the obvious.
Maybe he was out of his league in this kind of hunt; maybe he wasn’t the right man for the job after all. It might be smarter to turn the legwork over to a professional. Sam Ulbrich, or someone like him. Foot the bill, and then stand off with Casey and wait for results.
The Other Side of Silence Page 6