Beautiful, Naked & Dead (Moses McGuire)

by Josh Stallings

  Our misguided adventure in that red shit pile came to an end after a suicide bomber drove his truck into a barracks killing 270 sleeping marines. One flash of light followed by a pillar of fire and every friend I had in the corps was dead. 270 KIA in one day, the only thing even close was Iwo Jima. It was a few too many body bags for Prez Ronny and his cronies to stomach so we got our orders to ship home. It would be a lie to say we left that place any worse than we found it, but we sure didn’t do it any good.

  Back stateside, my head was filled with the smell of burnt Marines and the face of a dead woman. My C.O. got word that my mother was in the hospital, he offered me hardship leave to go to her. I told him it must have been a mistake, I was an orphan.

  I spent my off hours in the base club drowning my head in beer and whiskey. To their credit the officers understood that what we had been through over there had taken its toll, but even they had their limits. My almost constant drinking and general insanity led to a medical discharge. I didn’t fight it, I was sick and tired of their rules eating into my drinking time.

  I was waiting for the paperwork to clear when I got word that my mother had died. I should have felt guilty for not going to her, but I didn’t. I only felt free.

  The drive was giving me way too much time to think. Sometimes I wish I could contract Alzheimer’s so I could start every day with a fresh slate. Once, in the joint this lifer, who had discovered AA six dead bodies too late, had told me that my mind was a dangerous neighborhood and I shouldn’t go in alone. I could see the wisdom in that but the truth was if I invited anyone into my head they’d lock me down and toss away the key.

  At Baker I pulled into Bun Boys for a burger and a cup of coffee served by a waitress named Dolly. I think she had the last beehive in captivity. Back on the road I headed for the Nevada State line. Out on an empty section of highway I decided to keep my mind occupied by seeing what the Crown Vic could do. Mashing down the gas pedal it leapt from eighty to one-twenty like a racehorse. Slamming on the brakes it skidded to a stop in a relatively straight line. It proved to be a good solid piece of Detroit iron. I knew that if they took this battle to the roads I could trust its moves.

  About five feet across the state line Buffalo Bill’s casino stabbed up out of the tan dirt desert floor. In a nod to the family fun theme of it all, they have a roller coaster running five stories up above the place. Come on down and bring the kiddies, let them ride the whopper while mom and dad get hammered and spend the rent check. Oh yeah, that has family fun written all over it. I pulled in to fill the tank. Standing in line to pay, the ping and ching of slots clattering around me in the service station, I looked out the window to the welcoming face of the casino across the road. I had a roll of cash, hell a couple lucky hands and I would be square with Bob the bookie and maybe with just a little more luck I could put my ex-wife finally behind me. Just a few quick hands and then back on the road, no one would ever know I had stopped.

  “That’s right where it happened.” I turned to see a greasy haired clerk watching me. “I saw you staring, we get a lot of that. It was all over the news. I was working that night, saw them pull her out, even got myself on the eleven o’clock news.”

  “What?” I said in total confusion.

  “That little colored girl that got raped and murdered in the men’s room, it was right over there. That boy did it while his friend watched or some shit.” The story came back to me, it had been all over the airwaves a few years back. A little girl of six or seven had been raped and strangled by this nice looking freak in his early twenties, his pal had seen him starting to do it and had walked out, didn’t try to stop him. Her mom was right outside in the restaurant the whole time, not fifty feet from where her daughter was being dragged through hell. I wonder if that woman ever got another peaceful moment’s rest; what does she see when she closes her eyes at night? The kid who did it, he was broken beyond repair long before he dragged that scared little girl in there. I know what they do to short eyes in the slam, so he is getting his daily, but the fuck who really needs to be taken off the count is the punk who saw it start and walked away. In my book that’s the worst of all, because at some level he knew better and wasn’t man enough to act.

  I shoved my change into my pocket and cranked the beast over. I made a friend a promise and gambling wasn’t part of the deal, so I pulled past the casino and onto the highway, dodging that bullet one more time. At Sin City I took a left onto highway ninety-five. The Cock’s Roost was sixty miles from Vegas, just outside the Clark County line. Back in the sixties when prostitution was made legal the mob boys and the state struck a deal to keep it out of the gambling capitals of Vegas and Reno. The sex trade is small potatoes compared to the real cash cow, the twenty-four-hour hum of slot machines. The gaming business, with its stage shows and roller coasters was after all good clean all-American fun. The smaller counties were free to license brothels, it helped their tax base and hurt no one. They had strict health codes and the girl’s safety was protected. In a world that always had and always would have hookers, it seemed sane to regulate it. Not that anyone ever asked my opinion. The same hypocrites who screamed to outlaw all “deviant” sex acts were no doubt banging their interns behind closed doors. Power attracts creeps, that’s just the fact of the world.

  It was about ten thirty when I started to see signs with a cartoon rooster and hens inviting me to stop on by for a good time. Pulling down the long driveway I discovered the Cock’s Roost, a squat, spread out complex of interconnected single story houses. The slapped together additions looked like sorry afterthoughts. An eight-foot cyclone fence surrounded the property. The fence was to keep the girls in. The way the rules worked is that while the girls were employed, they couldn’t leave the compound, they didn’t want them going to town and freelancing. The large gravel parking lot was only a quarter full. I parked the Crown Vic and slipped the .38 into a boot holster. At a gas station along the road I’d changed into my suit. Pulling up my bolo tie, I rang the bell. The gate opened with an electronic click and I walked the thirty feet up the path to the door where I was greeted by the floor manager, a professional looking older woman who piled her gray hair on top of her head in a tight bun. She smiled pleasantly and invited me in.

  Twenty-five girls stood in a line waiting for my approval. They were all dressed in skimpy outfits, from lace baby doll nightgowns to short shorts with bikini tops. They each held out a hand and demurely said her name. “Lacy,” “Shayla,” “Daisy,” “Mercedes,” “Bianca,” “Trinity,” “Pleasure,” “Sunset,” “Savanna,” “Dallas,” “Phoenix,” “Cherri,” “Shanda,” “Jessie,” “Ginger,” “Kiki,” and “CoCo”. Their names like their breasts and their lusty smiles were all counterfeit. Not that most men would care, not as long as they knew how to make him come, which, by the way, ain’t really rocket science. All the dancers I knew had two fake names, a stage name and one to tell a big spender so he could feel like he really knew her.

  At the end of the line of names I would never remember, the floor manager asked me to make my choice. It was all so cold and businesslike, devoid of any of the romance one might expect in a whorehouse. No old black man playing piano, no men playing cards and laughing with the girls. This was a place you bought sex clean and cold. I acted nervous, said maybe I needed a drink first. I moved to the small bar and the line broke up. The girls lounged around the lobby, some trying to catch my eye. Others wrote me off and sat chatting with their girlfriends. I ordered a rum and coke, sipping it while several young lovelies came by to see if I wanted a party. I told them maybe later and they drifted off. “Party,” that’s their classy way of saying “fuck,” it made it sound so clean and fun. “I would like an oral party followed by a you-peeing-in-my-mouth party?” Oh yeah that sounds so much better. Jessie, a woman about my age sauntered up and leaned against the bar, resting her thigh against my leg.

  “First time?” she asked.

  “Yes… truth is I’m looking for a friend of mine.�
�� I casually set a hundred dollar bill on the bar. “Her name is Cass.” Jessie looked at the hundred then up at me. Her eyes flitted to the floor manager who was watching me like a hawk.

  “Why don’t we go back to my room and have a party?” Jessie said, “I think I know just what you need.”

  Her room was small, enough space for a bed, dresser, and a small writing table. She had a bathroom that she shared with the girl next door. Through the walls came the squeak of bedsprings and a man moaning. “Now, what kind of party would you like?” Jessie said, pointing to a small microphone in the corner of the ceiling.

  “I don’t know, you’re the pro, what do you think?”

  “How about we do a half and half for two-fifty?”

  “Sounds fun,” I said, trying to sound excited.

  “Drop your pants, I have to check your tool, health code.” I did as told and stood like a piece of meat for inspection. She raised an eyebrow when she saw all my scars. “You’ve had a rough life,” she said, then lifted my limp penis and inspected it closely. “Ok. I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.” She took my bills and went out to pay the cashier. The girls split the money fifty-fifty with the house. In the bathroom I found a bowl of cotton balls and some Band-Aids next to an industrial size bottle of Betadine. Stepping up on her chair I bandaged a cotton ball over the microphone. When she returned I said I’d like a little music, to get in the mood. She turned a small radio on and tuned in a country station. Willie Nelson was singing about an angel flying too close to the ground. I pointed to the job I’d done on the microphone and Jessie smiled. “You’re one smart cookie. Not that it matters, but are you a cop?”

  “No, just a man trying to find a friend.” Pulling my pants down again she kneeled between my legs, letting her bleached blonde hair fall over my lap.

  “Just in case someone comes in,” she said. From the door it would look like she was taking care of business. “Cass was a sweet girl, tough as nails but not catty like the others. She didn’t hit on other girls’ regulars or any of the other crap most of these skanks do.”

  “How long was she here?”

  “About two months. I remember she was here for a big Easter party we threw for a busload of Japanese businessmen. She and I did a double for this one skinny dude. You sure you don’t want me to relieve a little tension while we talk? I mean, you paid for it and all.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “What, stroke you? You like it, I can tell.”

  “I’m not a John. I really just need help finding Cass.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thank heaven for small favors.” She sighed looking up at me. “I get so tired of dick. Dick for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And sometimes dick for a midnight snack. On my day off I can’t even look at a hot dog, swear to god.” Her eyes sparkled with good humor.

  “Rough life.”

  “It isn’t digging a ditch, but sometimes it feels like it.”

  “Are you going to tell me about Cass?”

  “Ok, you’re not with the mob and you’re not a cop, I can tell, want to know how?”

  “How?”

  “You didn’t fuck me first and then ask your questions. Power boys always have time to get their nuts off. So here it is, a week or so ago, two guys in classy suits showed up, Cass took one look at them and slipped out of the lobby. Ditching lineup is a firing offense, but some girls do it, say they had to pee or some bullshit. They picked Venus and Gwen, two young girls with monster fake tit jobs. Afterwards, Gwen said the whole time the guy was fucking her, he was asking about Cass. She played dumb like she had never heard of Cass, she figured he had big bucks and maybe she could become his regular. She said he liked it rough, slapping her ass while he pumped her. She also said he had a gun in his jacket.”

  “What did these guys look like?” I asked.

  “Goombas, Vegas mob boys, dark hair, Italian features, you know the look. We better move on to the bed.” I took off my shirt and lay back on the bed. She slipped out of her dress. She had a strong tanned body with flesh in all the right places, she lay on top of me. Our naked bodies pressed together, she raised up onto her elbows, bouncing her hips so the bed squeaked softly. I knew there was no love, not even very much attraction between us, but put a body on a body and the blood wants what the blood wants. I could feel myself stiffen as her beasts rubbed against my chest.

  “What happened to Cass?” I was fighting for concentration.

  “The next morning, she wasn’t at breakfast, and that was weird because as skinny as she was, that girl could eat. I went to her room to check on her but she was gone. She must have slipped out in the night. Maybe the night manager would know, but when I asked her, she said it was none of my business. You building a house?”

  “What?”

  “You’re packing some serious timber. Sure you don’t want me to handle it?” She said dully, it sounded like she was offering to fix my drywall.

  “No, really. Do you have any ideas where she might have gone?”

  “If I was to guess, I’d say she went up north. She had heard from some of the girls about a house in the mountains outside of Reno. The Eagle’s Nest, a much smaller place, off the beaten track, serves mostly locals.”

  Climbing off her, I thanked her for the information and got dressed. She told me with a laugh that leaving a man stiff hurt her professional pride. She also told me if I found Cass to send her her love. I walked back through the lobby and none of the girls even looked up. Whatever cash I had was spent, so I was of no use to any of them. Back in the Crown Vic, I took a long breath. I wondered what had kept me from screwing Jessie, it wasn’t like me to pass up sexual favors. In the rearview mirror I caught Marilyn staring at me with her pouting red lips. Was I keeping myself pure for a dead girl? Had the talk around the club about us bugged me because it was true? Had I waited too long to discover what I really felt for Kelly wasn’t just friendship? I slammed the Crown Vic into gear and spun out of the parking lot, spraying gravel in a fan out behind me.

  Down the road I found an open liquor store and bought a half pint of Seagrams and a bottle of ginger ale. I mixed the drink in a paper cup in the car. The booze quieted my brain down. All those unanswered questions weren’t going to help me find what I was looking for. I had to keep focused. I crunched a white crisscross with my teeth. I’d bought a bag of cheap, homemade speed from Billy the DJ before leaving town. It tasted bitter and nasty but I knew it would get the job done, so I crunched another. Unfolding a map I discovered that Reno was three hundred and forty miles up Highway 95. I settled in for a long night’s cruise.

  The timing on the suits showing up at the Cock’s Roost was right. Maybe they found an address book, or maybe they made Kelly talk. The speed kicked in, giving me that rough jangle I knew so well. If the suits were looking for Cass, it meant I was on the right track. The sun rose over the barren countryside. On the dirt shoulder I poured the last of the Seagrams into a cup and chased two more tabs with it. It wasn’t enough to get me drunk, just enough to take the edge off the speed. In a pasture beside the road a bunch of lazy cows watched me. Driving on, I bypassed Reno taking highway 80 toward Battle Mountain. I followed the signs up a small county road to the Eagle’s Nest. Just before the brothel I turned up a dirt road and parked in the tall pines. Dressed again in my jeans and tee-shirt I climbed a small scrub covered hill. Laying on my belly, I looked down at the Eagle’s Nest through a pair of army surplus binoculars. A tall chain-link fence surrounded a two-story farmhouse that looked like it might have been built at the turn of the century. The dove-gray paint was peeling. A large porch covered the front. It was around eight in the morning and I couldn’t see anyone moving inside. The sun felt warm and good on my back as it filtered down through the pine boughs. An hour later, I watched a muscular young man water the lawn and pull some weeds out of a rose bed up against the front porch. He pushed a hand mower across the grass. It was all so Norman Rockwell.r />
  Four hours later, I awoke to a large crow cawing in the tree above. The sun overhead burned into my eyes, sending sparks exploding into my brain. There is nothing quite as much fun as a speed hangover. My entire nervous system felt toasted and I could taste something like burned wires in the back of my throat. I focused on my watch, it was one o’clock, I struggled to get my bearings. I was on my back on the hard packed dirt, I could feel pine needles in my hair. I had been in the middle of a dream I couldn’t shake, as if it was still overlapping the waking world. Kelly and I were riding my Norton in the Mexican countryside. I could feel her arms around me, the warm air rushing past us. As I continued to wake the dream broke down into fragments too small to hold onto. Kelly and I played in the surf on an empty beach. In the sand she turned to kiss me, but somehow she changed into a young Lebanese mother. Blood rolling from her chest she fell into the surf.

  The only cure for this sort of craziness was forward movement. Popping a couple more whites I rolled over and scanned the brothel. A few cars were in the parking lot, a late model Toyota, a couple of pickups, and a Jeep. Blue-collar cars, transportation for the working class. An hour later, a red 1971 Cutlass convertible pulled in and four teenagers piled out, laughing and horsing around. They rang the bell and waited with nervous glee. To call the older woman who opened the door for them buxom would be an understatement. She was opulent. Even from a distance I saw she had the kind of curves that little boys dreamed about and grown men sighed thanks watching her sway by. A short time later a man in a khaki gas company uniform left in the Toyota. Two cowboys arrived in a bondo patched pickup. Whenever a new car arrived I could see movement behind the curtains, but I couldn’t see any faces. The sun set behind the mountains and the temperature instantly dropped. I shivered, waited and ate some whites to keep my edge on.