“Okay.”
“Ouch! Damn! Lotta rocks around here. I don’t remember all these rocks … .”
“So, when were you here before, Artie?”
“Oh, a while ago. Few weeks.”
“On a job?”
“Nah. I was—I was with someone. A woman.”
“Oh. Why did you bring her all the way out here?”
“Well, heh-heh, we needed a little privacy, know what I mean, Snake?”
“Oh. Another married woman.”
“Yeah, so what? What if it was?”
“Was it Molly Rios, Artie?”
“What the hell business is it of yours?”
“I’m just asking, Artie. Was it Molly Rios?”
“None a’ your beeswax!”
“Sorry.”
“You know what, Snake? You talk too much.”
“Sorry, Artie.”
“Talk, talk, talk.”
“Sorry.”
“And you apologize too much, too. Anyone ever tell you that, Snake?”
“No, Artie. I can’t say they have.”
“Well, you do. Trust me.”
“Sorry.”
“See? You just did it again!”
“Sor—um—hmm.”
“Just sit there and watch me dig.”
“Okay.”
“The trouble with you, Snake—dammit! Another rock!—The trouble with you, Snake, is that you ain’t got an attitude. Know what I mean? You don’t walk the walk, talk the talk. Me, I’ve got lots of attitude. I’m all about attitude. I tell you, when you’re found on a doorstep with a note pinned to your ass, you learn to develop an attitude. Sister Mary Margaret and all them other penguins, not to mention the kids. That was one mean buncha kids, Snake. No respect. So you have to teach ’em to respect you. Same with the foster parents, these nicey-nice, squeaky clean do-gooders who want an instant family. They’d come to the Sisters of Mercy every Saturday, whole groups of ’em, and walk around the place, starin’ at us. Just checkin’ us all out, like we was meat in the supermarket, ya know? And every so often, they’d point at me. ‘Him,’ the perky wife would say. ‘Isn’t he cute?’ And the perfect husband would smile and nod and say, ‘Yes, Janice, if that’s the one you want.’ Like I was a dog, or somethin’! And off we’d go, to Brooklyn or Bayside or Larchmont. I spent four months in Larchmont. That was the record. The others never kept me that long. It’d start out all nicey-nice. They’d tell me to call ’em ‘Dad’ and ‘Mom,’ and they’d smile at me and show me this stupid room they said was mine, with all these stuffed animals and crap. Matching bedsheets and curtains, with these pictures of sailboats or Superman or fairy tale stuff all over ’em. And baseball bats and gloves, and a football or a basketball. Picture books. Parcheesi boards. Legos! What is it with those people and Legos, huh? And a desk for my homework, and notebooks and pencils and rulers and stuff. And they’d send me to these fancy private schools, with all these candy-ass blond-haired-blue-eyed kids with names like Shane and Blake and Mallory, all smirkin’ and pointin’ at me and whisperin’. ‘That’s him, that’s the kid from the orphanage.’ Those kids just looked down their noses at everyone. So I’d take stuff from them, books and lunch money and stuff. I figured they were all so stupid, they deserved what they got. And the teachers would scream, and the perky mom would be called in, and back I went to Sisters of Mercy. And it would all begin again, and I got bigger and older and harder to sell. After a few years of that, I decided to make it harder for ’em, you know, get rid of ’em before they got rid of me. It became like a game, ya know? It all ended up with those last ones, Dave and Mary Singer. I guess I shouldn’t ‘a taken that stupid necklace. That was in—lemme see—Riverdale. Yeah, Riverdale. I was fifteen by then, and I met these really cool kids in the park, and we used to hang, ya know, and they showed me how to boost beer from the deli and cigarettes from the newsstand. And they had drugs—that was cool. Grass and acid and X. X was my favorite, drop a tab and go all night, know what I mean? But we had to pay for it, ya know? So I took that stupid necklace from Mary’s dresser. Hell, she had about a hundred necklaces, I didn’t think she’d notice. And I was sick of ol’ Dave and Mary by then. I figured they were about to trade me in for a new model, anyway, and they could take their baseball gloves and their Superman curtains and their Parcheesi boards and their goddamn Legos and shove ’em, just put ’em where the sun don’t shine. So I waited till this one night, when Dave and Mary were off playin’ bridge at their country club, and I took the necklace. This kid named Rex—he was a badass kid, Snake, really a cool guy, didn’t take nothin’ from nobody!—he took me down to this guy he knew in Hell’s Kitchen, and we pawned it. Got four hundred bucks for it! Hell, I didn’t know it was real sapphires. You know what that necklace was worth? Twenty-five grand! Twenty-five grand for a bunch of rocks strung together with gold chains. Dave and Mary hit the roof. She screamed the place down, and he called me some word I had to go look up in the dictionary. Ragamuffin. Ragamuffin! Can you believe that?! And he brought in the cops and everything. Sister Mary Margaret tried to talk ’em outta pressin’ charges, but I ended up in the system, anyway. Boy, that was fun. Not! Those guys in there, in Langton Juvenile, I tell you. I learned pretty quick. Don’t look at nobody, ever, and don’t pick up the soap. And the guards were worse. ‘Hey, you! Arturo! Pretty boy! Come over here, son, I got somethin’ for ya!’ That’s when they weren’t whalin’ on us, usin’ us as punchin’ bags. I kept a low profile, but this one kid, Billy Carson, he was a smartass. Used to call the guards names, you know, racial names. He ended up in the hospital. Twice. The second time, he didn’t come back. I heard he lost one of his legs from the damage. And those guards were never even reprimanded. They just kept right on breakin’ legs, and everyone else kept right on lookin’ the other way. Jeez. I was in Langton till I was eighteen, and then I was supposed to report in every two weeks until I was twenty-one. I didn’t stick around for that, nosiree Bob! I looked up Rex, and we did a coupla jobs together, and I took the cash and got outta New York. Came to Vegas. Found a new line of work. And here I am, with a whole new life and lots of attitude. Free, white, and twenty-seven. How old are you, Snake?”
“Huh?”
“How old are you?”
“Oh. I’m thirty-two. I’ll be thirty-three next month.”
“Ha! I’m five years younger than you, Snake, and I bet I’ve lived a whole lot more than you have! I go where I want, do what I want. I don’t answer to nobody!”
“Yeah? How about Mr. Rios?”
“Oh, well, yeah. Mr. Rios. For now, anyway. But not for long. I got plans. Okay, I think this is deep enough. Come over here and help me with Mr. Walla-walla-bing-bang, whatever the hell his name is, the gentleman of Polish descent.”
“Okay.”
“Turn the headlights off first. It’s gettin’ light enough to see now.”
“Okay.”
“All right, you ready for this, Snake? We’re gonna carry him over and just drop him in, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Take his feet, Snake. No, his other feet. That’s it. You ain’t done this kinda work much, huh?”
“I’ve done my share, Artie.”
“Well, let’s just do this. Here, I’ll get down in here, and you roll him over to—ouch!”
“Sorry.”
“There ya go with the sorry again! Okay, there. Now, hand me down the shovel. It’s over there by the tree. Go get the shovel, Snake. Well? What’re ya waitin’ for, Snake? Why’re ya just standin’ there?”
“The shovel can wait a minute, Artie.”
“Whaddaya mean, the shovel can—Hey! What’s with the gun? What the hell do ya think you’re doin’, Snake?”
“My job. It’s just a job, Artie. Remember?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Stay where you are! You just stay right there in the hole. I have a message for you, Artie. A message from Mr. Rios.”
“What the hell’re you
talkin’ about? Hey! Don’t point that thing at me!”
“Shut up! You talk too much, Artie. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“Snake—”
“Mr. Rios wanted me to give you a message, Artie. He said you shouldn’t have messed around with his wife.”
“What?! What the hell’re you talkin’ about?”
“I’m talking about Molly Rios, Artie.”
“Snake—”
“Molly Tamalé, the Mexicali Gal.”
“Whaddaya mean, me and Molly, Snake? Mr. Rios don’t know nothin’ about that!”
“No, but I duo.”
“Snake—”
“Even if I am just a momser.”
“Snake—”
“You shouldn’t have gambled like that, Artie.”
“Please, Snake—”
“You should have stayed in Riverdale, played with the Legos, called them Dad and Mom, know what I mean?”
“Snake—”
“Then maybe you would have seen the ocean again. Malibu. Whatever. You could have done whatever you wanted. But not now, Artie. It’s too late for that now.”
“Please, Snake—”
“Oh, and Artie?”
“For chrissakes, Snake—”
“Listen to me, Artie.”
“Snake!”
“Are you listening to me, Artie?”
“Snaaake!”
“My name isn’t Snake, Artie. My name is Irwin.”
“Hi, this is Irwin … yeah, I’m the one they call Snake. Who’s this? … Okay, Stan, I’d like to talk to Mr. Rios … Not up yet? What time is it there? … Eight? Yeah, it’s just going on six here. It’s five fifty-seven. Fifty-eight … . Okay, tell Mr. Rios the job is done, as he instructed, and I’m heading back into town now. He’ll know what I mean. And tell him I received the payment, and thanks for the bonus. That was really nice of him. Tell him I’m available for any other jobs he might have for me. When will he be back in Vegas? … Okay, tell him I’ll see him next week, when he gets back. Thanks. Oh, and Stan? Please don’t call me Snake anymore, all right? My name is Irwin … Thanks … Yeah, Stan, you have a nice day, too. ‘Bye.”
“Good morning … Yeah, it’s me, Irwin … It’s just after six. Six-oh-two—oh-three. You sound like you’re still asleep … Oh, yeah? Want some company? … Yeah, I just called there. He won’t be back till next week … Well, I’m on my way back into town right now. I just did some business for him … No, I’m alone … Artie? How should I know where Artie is? I think he said something about getting out of town for a while. Maybe he did that … Okay, I’ll be there in about half an hour … All right, I’ll make it twenty minutes … Yes, I’ve got my key. Don’t get up, I’ll let myself in … Oh, yeah? That sounds nice. I can’t wait. Then we can have breakfast. I’ll see you in twenty minutes, Molly … .”
ODDSMAKER
EDWARD WELLEN
Going down, I lifted my indoor shades brow-high to double-check, by the dim light of the elevator car, my final draft of the Dulcimer’s morning lines.
The numbers hadn’t rearranged themselves since my last . look. I still felt uneasy about them, but they were the best I could do with what I had. I stifled a sigh and slid the shades back in place.
I got out at the gaming floor, holding the printout close to my vest out of habit but ready to post at the sports book.
Then I spotted Betty. Betty Lyons, who runs the beauty salon concession and is her own best ad. Betty, who makes my heart beat faster.
To keep from seeing her, I had skipped our daily dawn session at the Dulcimer’s fitness center. Now I jammed the printout in my pocket and made myself one with the potted plant bookending a stand of slot machines.
Betty flagged a passing cocktail waitress and spoke over the ambient whirr and buzz. “Sally, have you seen Al Milledge?”
Wearing the uniform smile, Sally glanced past Betty, straight through the space in the greenery, into my shades.
A better-than-even bet: I shook my head.
It paid off with a nice ambiguity. “Sorry, Miss Lyons.”
I curved a limber green limb to mime a tip of the hat. Into my mental tickler file went: Tip Sally some spendable green.
Betty nodded ambiguous thanks. Sally went on her smile-lit way. Betty briskly mounted the stairs to the beauty salon on the mezzanine, all the while maintaining her stakeout of the sports book.
“Do you mind?” A woman with a paper cup of quarters elbowed in to arm-wrestle the end slot machine.
“Luck, lady.” An ambiguous wish.
Wasted on a mind set on hitting the jackpot at the end of the dream rainbow. She was already deaf to all but her deposited quarter. In her world, I existed only as an impediment. When I gave her elbow room I ceased to exist.
In my world, the problem was to reach the sports book uncaught. Close by, an exit to the parking lot offered itself.
Trouble was, I’d have to step outside the Dulcimer, pick my way through the parked cars, re-enter by another door. I could take the unconditioned furnace blast that would hit me. But the light … .
I had blocked just how bad it had been the last time I ventured outside the Dulcimer during daylight hours. So I found myself betting that though my shades were neither UV-proof nor wraparound, if I moved fast enough, I could beat—or at least bear—the light.
The door opened for me. UV hit straight on and raw sunlight edged in. The explosive dazzle brought back why I stayed indoors during daylight hours.
After a few unsteady steps, I made for a palm tree. Fake but not a mirage, and cast real shadow.
I never reached that oasis. I bumped into a hurrying figure, scattered in semblance but solid in substance, and my shades jarred off.
A laid-back drawl. “Watch where you’re going, friend.”
Fractured light flashed, splinters of sunlight pierced. In a zigzag jungle of chrome and glass, headlight-eyes sprang to false life and burned into mine. I froze like a deer, unable to see or stir.
“Sorry.” My own voice jump-started me. I bent to feel around for my shades and we bumped again.
“No, Al. I’m sorry. I didn’t see it’s you … . Don’t move … . Here you go.”
He handed me the shades. I put them on, for all the good they did me. I saw after-images of the same scattered semblance of a man. But the laid-back drawl had finally sunk in. “Thanks, Chuck.”
Charles Everett Owens, multibillionaire CEO of DBA, the juggernaut conglomerate, oddly without his entourage.
I have two points in the Dulcimer Hotel & Casino, and had met Chuck Owens when he dickered with the board a few years back for controlling interest. But the Nevada Gaming Control Board began a media-prodded look into the Dulcimer’s alleged mob ties. Chuck lost interest in any kind of interest. He backed out, cartooned as saying, “Tain’t that I need the taint.” It surprised me. He could’ve put himself forward as a white knight and got himself a very sweet deal. And me a nice profit. But he had smiled at my paltry two points at our first meeting; I overcame the temptation to make the suggestion. Not the first time pride has cost me.
Now a clamp on my elbow. “Let me lend you a hand, Al.”
The friendly butcher in my home town had a way of remarking on the weather—“Nice day out, ain’t it?” or “Seem like it’s gonna rain?”—as he made to weigh the meat. That was your cue to look out. To turn your head and look out through the store window, if you were foolish. If you were wise, to keep your eyes on the scale and look out for his thumb.
I couldn’t keep an eye on Chuck’s friendly hand; I could wonder what was in it for him to spring to my aid. Many a collision is a collusion; the two of us had been in a rush. My time was merely measurement, his was MONEY.
“Appreciate it, Chuck. Can’t see a thing for the light.” My eyelids felt grainy, my eyeballs red hot, and for once I was not too proud.
The vise tightened. “My pleasure, Al.”
He had the build to build on, and more than likely a state-of-the-a
rt exercise room and a world-class personal trainer. He surely felt, and showed he felt, like a guy in great shape.
“Thanks, Chuck. I’ll be fine once I get back inside.”
Back in we went. But he didn’t let go.
Just as well. I wasn’t fine. Everything was a blinding blur.
“Where we heading, Al?”
I didn’t want Betty to see me this way. “The elevator. Penthouse floor.”
Before we covered much carpet, Chuck’s grip transmitted sudden stiffness and we stopped dead.
A solid but wavery shadow blocked our path and a gravel voice backed it up. “Are you okay, Mr. Milledge?”
I grinned. “I am now. Chuck, meet Doug Page, our chief of security. A touch too much of the sun, Doug; Mr. Owens is lending me a hand.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Owens.”
I felt Chuck shrug. “No law says you have to. It’s good to see the Dulcimer’s security so quick off the mark.”
“Thanks, Mr. Owens.”
“Say, Doug.” My free hand fished the morning-line sheet out of my shirt pocket. “Will you give this to Joanna at the sports book?”
“Glad to, Mr. Milledge.”
Chuck started off with me, then stopped, also with me. “Oh, Page. Would you tell the front desk I’ll be in Mr. Milledge’s suite for the next few minutes? After that, I’ll be in my room if there are any calls.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Owens.”
Chuck steered me to the elevator and pressed the top button. A pair got on with us. On the ride up I caught a whispered “That’s Al Milledge” and a whispered-back “Zat so?”
His grip tightened, but he waited for the couple to get off before he spoke. “The price of fame.”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t help needling him. “How soon they forget, though. I didn’t hear ‘That’s Chuck Owens.’”
The smiley voice broadened its cheeks. “That’s because you can’t see my beat-up outfit and my week’s beard. I’ve been desert-ratting.”
Murder in Vegas Page 17