“What’s his real name?”
“No, I can’t tell you that . . .”
Fallon stepped closer, caught a handful of the soiled robe in a hard fist. Arbogast made a squawking noise, flinching and cringing.
“What’s his name, Max?”
“I . . . oh shit, all right, all right. Bobby J.”
“J-a-y?”
“No, the initial. J.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know his last name.”
“Come on, Max.”
“I swear I don’t know, I swear!”
Fallon let go of the robe. Arbogast moved away from him, running his hands over the fabric—drying them. Cool in there, almost cold from the air conditioner, but he was sweating visibly now.
“Where does Bobby J. live?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“You’ve got his phone number, but you don’t know his last name or where he lives. You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth, I swear to God.”
“How do you know him, then?”
“He . . . listen, you’re not gonna tell anybody about this, are you? It could, you know, it could do me some hurt.”
“How do you know him?”
Arbogast said, looking at Fallon’s ear the way he had at the Rest-a-While, “He brings women to the motel sometimes. For parties. And he don’t want anybody to bother him when he’s there.”
“What women?”
“You know. Hookers.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Max,” Fallon said. “Prostitution may be illegal in Vegas, but it still runs wide open. He doesn’t need to bring hookers to a place like the Rest-a-While, or you to watch out for him if he did.”
“Women, that’s all. Women he picks up . . .”
“Underage girls. That’s it, isn’t it? Runaways, jail bait.”
Arbogast made a sound in his throat.
“What is he, some kind of pimp?”
“No. I don’t know. He just likes to party with young girls . . .”
“Party. Drugs as well as sex, right?”
“I don’t know nothing about drugs.”
That was a flat-out lie. He knew, all right. He swiped his hands across the robe again.
“So this Bobby J. paid you to keep other guests away from the rooms he was using and warn him if anybody complained or the cops showed up.”
“Listen, you have to understand . . . my salary isn’t much, and my rent . . . A man has to live, don’t he?”
“How does Bobby J. live, if he’s not a pimp?”
“I don’t know.”
“Drugs? Dealer as well as a user?”
“I tell you, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
“What’s his connection with the Golden Horseshoe?”
“Huh? Oh . . . Candy.”
“Who’s Candy?”
“His woman. He brought her with him a couple of times.”
“She work at the casino?”
“Dancer. They got this French can-can show . . .”
“What’s her last name?”
“I don’t know. Just Candy.”
“Describe her.”
“Blonde. Tall, legs up to here, nice tits.”
Fallon said, “Court Spicer.”
“Huh?”
“Name mean anything to you?”
“. . . Your name, isn’t it? That’s how you signed the register.”
“What’d Bobby J. say when you told him Court Spicer was asking about him?”
“Wanted to know what you looked like. What kind of car you drive, from what state.”
“What did he say then?”
“Just . . . look in your room, see what I could find out from your stuff.”
“And when you called him again and told him there wasn’t any stuff?”
“Keep an eye on you, let him know if you tried to pump me again.”
“All right. What’s his phone number?”
“. . . You’re not gonna call him up? You do, he’ll know where you got it . . .”
“Not if I tell him otherwise. You’re not the only person in Vegas with his number.”
Arbogast gave it to him, reluctantly. “Just don’t tell him you been talking to me, okay, Mr. Spicer?”
Fallon said, “My name’s not Spicer,” and left Arbogast standing there sweating in his cold apartment.
FIVE
SUNDAY MORNING SLOW AT the Golden Horseshoe. Red-and-gold curtains were drawn across the stage where the can-can dancers performed. More than half the roulette, craps, and blackjack tables were covered; at a couple of the others and among the banks of slots, a scattering of players, pale and zombie-eyed, sat trying to recoup their losses. A cleaning crew ran a phalanx of whirring vacuum cleaners over the worn carpets.
Fallon sat down at an open but empty blackjack table and tried working the bored woman dealer for information on Candy. It cost him twenty dollars on four lost hands, the last two when he had paired face cards and the dealer hit twenty-one, plus a five-buck tip to find out that the stage show started at one o’clock on Sundays. If the dealer knew Candy, she wasn’t admitting it.
He tried the bartender in the lounge, one of the cocktail waitresses, another waitress in the coffee shop. The only one who could or would tell him anything about Candy was the cocktail waitress, but for another five dollars it wasn’t much.
“I know her, sure,” she said, “but I don’t think she works Sundays.”
“Where can I get in touch with her?”
“I wouldn’t tell you that even if I knew. Besides, she’s not available.”
“I’m not planning to hit on her. That’s not why I want to talk to her.”
“Yeah, sure. Well, whatever you want with Candy, you don’t want anything to do with her boyfriend.”
“Is that right? Why not?”
“Trust me, you just don’t.”
Fallon asked the boyfriend’s name. The waitress gave him a cynical, humorless smile, shook her head, and walked away.
“Another favor? Getting to be a habit.” But Will Rodriguez didn’t sound annoyed. He had a wife who talked nonstop, three rambunctious kids, and an even temperament; it took a lot more than an early Sunday morning call to raise his blood pressure. “What is it this time?”
“I’ve got a phone number and I need the name and address that goes with it. Think you might be able to get me a match today?”
“I suppose I can try, if it’s important.”
“It is.”
“Uh-huh. Anything else you want?”
“Background on whoever the number belongs to, if you can manage it.” “Hey, why not. I had nothing better to do today than spend time with my family.”
“I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way, Will.”
“I know, I know. Let me get a pen . . . Okay, what’s the number?”
Fallon read it off to him.
“Seven-oh-two area code. Las Vegas.”
“That’s where I am now.”
“. . . Vegas can be a rough town, amigo.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“The Dunbar woman there with you?”
“Not yet. Still resting in Death Valley.”
“But you’ll be hooking up with her later.”
“Not the way you mean.”
“You think her ex-husband and son are there, is that it?”
“I don’t know yet,” Fallon said. “That’s why I need the name and address.”
Will made a noise that could have been a laugh or a snort. “I never knew they had windmills in the Nevada desert.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Think about it,” Will said. “I’ll get back to you.”
Windmills. Christ.
Fallon drove back to the Rest-a-While. He’d put another piece of toilet paper under the door lock when he left; it was still there. No need to go inside—all his belongings were stowed in the Jeep. He walked through the gathering h
eat to the motel office.
Yet another clerk was behind the desk, this one a wheezily fat woman with dyed yellow hair. Any messages for room 20? No messages. He asked her if she knew a man named Bobby J., added the man’s description. No again. It didn’t sound like a lie; her expression remained bored and disinterested.
There wasn’t much point in staying here any longer. Bobby J. had to be curious who he was, why he’d come to the Rest-a-While using Court Spicer’s name, but evidently not curious enough to initiate contact. Either that, or the decision to play a waiting game had been Spicer’s. As far as one or both knew, Fallon didn’t have any idea who Bobby J. was or how to find out. The beating and rape hadn’t been reported; they were in the clear as long as they did nothing to call attention to themselves.
He wheeled the Jeep over to the freeway, took Interstate 15 south to Mc-Carran International. There were a lot of motels in the vicinity; he picked a Best Western with a VACANCY sign on Tropicana Avenue, checked himself in under his own name. As before, he brought his pack into the room, left everything else locked in the Jeep.
Late morning by then. He used his cell phone to call Vernon Young’s home number in San Diego. This time he got a person, a woman, instead of the answering machine. He asked for Vernon Young and she went and got him.
“You don’t know me,” he said when Young came on the line, “and my name isn’t important. I’m a friend of Casey Dunbar.”
Longish silence. Then, “How is she? Is she all right?”
“Yes.”
“Is she with you? Let me talk to her.”
“She’s not here right now.”
“Where’s ‘here’? Where are you calling from?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Did she ask you to get in touch with me?”
“No, it was my idea. About the money she owes you.”
“What money?”
“The two thousand dollars she borrowed.”
“. . . She told you about that? What else did she tell you?”
“Enough about what happened to her son to put me on her side.”
“The boy? Spicer? Did she—?”
“No, not yet.”
“. . . You’re helping her?”
“Yes.”
“Another detective?” Young sounded flustered.
“Not exactly.”
“Then just who are you?”
“I told you, a friend.”
“Is there some reason you won’t give me your name?”
There wasn’t. “It’s Fallon.”
“She never mentioned anyone named Fallon. How long have you known her?”
The intense, proddy type, Vernon Young. But then, under the circumstances he had a right to demand answers. “It’s a long story, Mr. Young. She can tell you how we met if she wants to. About the money—”
“I’m not concerned about the money, I’m concerned about Casey.”
“She’d be grateful if you’d give her time to pay you back.”
“Yes, yes, as much time as she needs. I should have given her the money in the first place.”
“Maybe let her keep her job, too?”
“Yes, of course,” Young said. Then, “Spicer and the boy . . . are they why you’re in Las Vegas?”
“It’s possible they’re here. We just don’t know yet.”
Pause. “No offense, Mr. Fallon, but you’re just a voice on the phone. I’ll feel better about all this if I can talk to Casey. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“I would appreciate it if you’d ask her to call me as soon as possible. Will you do that?”
Fallon said he would.
Casey answered her cell so fast, she must have been sitting with it in her hand. “I thought you’d never call,” she said. Spirit, eagerness in her voice today.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Have you found out anything yet?”
“A few things. Nothing definite. How’re you feeling?”
“I’m all right. But if I have to stay in this cabin much longer, I’ll start climbing the walls.”
“Your car fixed?”
“Yes. And yes, I’m up to the drive down there. Where are you?”
Fallon told her the name and location of the Best Western. “I’ll make a reservation for you when we hang up,” he said. “If I’m not in my room when you get here, wait in yours until I get back.”
“Where will you be?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“For God’s sake, don’t be evasive.”
“I’m not. I don’t know yet where I’ll be. You just have to let me do things my own way. I won’t withhold anything important from you.”
“. . . All right.”
“One piece of news: I just spoke to Vernon Young.”
“What? You called him? For God’s sake, why?”
“To get the money situation straightened out. It’s okay, he’s on your side. You can take as much time as you need to pay back the two thousand. And you can keep your job.”
“He . . . said that?”
“Yes. He sounded pretty worried about you.”
“You didn’t tell him what I tried to do to myself?”
“No.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’m a friend helping you try to get your son back. Not much else. He wants you to call him to confirm it and that you’re okay. I think it’s a good idea. He seems to care about you.”
She didn’t say anything. Faint muffled sounds came over the line. Crying a little? If so, she didn’t want him to know it. He made it easier for her by saying he’d see her soon and then breaking the connection.
Different from any woman he’d ever known, Casey Dunbar. A bundle of conflicted, deep-seated emotions. He had a feeling that her depression and her self-destructive impulses were caused by more than the situation with Spicer and her missing son. Self-doubts, more than a little self-hatred. Other things, too, that he couldn’t fathom—like trying to see through dark, turbulent water.
Better not try too hard to understand her and her private demons. He had enough of his own to deal with.
SIX
HENDERSON WAS A DESERT community seven miles southeast of Vegas, off the highway that led to Boulder Dam. The fastest-growing city in Nevada, according to advertising billboards, as if that was an attraction to be recommended. Gateway to the Lake Mead National Recreation Area.
Fallon took the downtown exit and passed several big chemical plants, following signs that said HISTORIC WATER STREET DISTRICT. Once he got there, the whole character of the town changed. Luxury resorts and the usual casinos, art galleries, boutiques—much of the architecture art deco–themed. Henderson was no longer just an industrial center, where half of the state’s nontourist industry output was produced. It had changed its image, gone upscale. Home base now for the wealthy and the upwardly mobile who liked their surroundings and their recreations less gaudy than those in Vegas proper.
He found a parking garage off Water Street, went back and joined the flow of walkers and gawkers. All of the shops were open; no dark Sundays in places like this. He found a gift shop that sold local maps, bought one, and carried it into the lobby of a nearby casino hotel. There were several roads that snaked out into the desert to the east, he found. To cover them all, blind, would take too long.
Once he left the hotel, it took him less than five minutes to locate a real estate agency. The woman he spoke to was eager to please when he said he was in the industrial chemical business, in the process of moving to the area from California, and in the market for a new home.
“We have several excellent listings, Mr. Spicer. How large a home are you interested in?”
“At least four bedrooms. With some open space around it. Would you have anything in the vicinity of the Rossi home?”
“Rossi?”
“Works in the same industry I do. Big home on a mesa.”
“Oh, of course. David Rossi, from Chemco.”
>
“That’s right.”
“Well, you know, that’s quite an exclusive section . . .”
“Not a problem.”
That widened her smile. “Well, then, let’s see what we have on or near Wildhorse Road.”
Wildhorse Road ran due east through miles of new housing developments, finished and under construction, unchecked growth that would eventually swallow up every available mile of desert landscape west of the Lake Mead National Recreation Area. Beyond its present outer limits, where open desert still dominated, a few larger and more expensive homes appeared at widely spaced intervals. In the distance, then, he could see the low mesa rising up off the desert floor, the hacienda that stretched like a huge sand-colored growth across its flat top.
A little over a mile and he was at the base of the mesa, where a paved lane led up to stone pillars and a pair of black-iron gates. Stone walls extended out on both sides to make sure you didn’t drive onto the property unless you were invited. An electronic communicator was mounted on a pole just below the gates. Fallon stopped alongside, rolled his window down, reached out to punch the button that opened the line.
Pretty soon the box made noises and a Spanish-accented woman’s voice said, “Yes, please?”
“Is Mr. Rossi home? David Rossi?”
“What is your name, sir?”
Fallon didn’t hesitate. His own name wouldn’t get him in; only one name might. “Spicer. Court Spicer. It’s important that I talk to Mr. Rossi.”
“Wait, please.”
He switched off the ignition. With the window lowered and the Jeep’s engine shut down, the desert afternoon should have been quiet, but it wasn’t. Even out here he could hear the engines, literally. A small plane sliced through the air overhead, making a rumbling whine. When it passed, the accelerating roar of a couple of racing dune buggies rose out of the distance. That was the thing about the desert-eaters: they were never silent.
Ten minutes passed. He was thinking that he’d been blown off without a callback when a loud electronic buzzing sounded and the gates began to swing inward. He drove through, climbed the asphalt drive between low stone walls. When it leveled off at the top, he was in a sandy parking area large enough to accommodate fifty or more vehicles. Some view from up here, as long as you faced toward the east—sage-dotted desert and distant shimmering water.
The Other Side of Silence Page 8