“Baby sister. If you don’t explain this to me I’m gonna have to strangle you.”
“Aaron.” She yawned. “I’m asleep.”
“Talk to me. Now. Herb said something about a casino. Is he in trouble? Who beat him up?”
“I don’t know.” She had a pouty way even in her voice. “He’s a grown man. He does what he pleases.”
“I don’t think it pleased him to get pistol-whipped.”
“Mmm. Maybe not. But he went to Vegas. He took the chances.”
“What chances?” The gin began to churn in my gut.
“With the casino. Oh, I can’t explain it, Aaron.”
“What casino? This one, where we’re staying?”
“Yes and no. I’m hanging up now.”
I looked at the receiver, cursed, and banged it down. Too cheesed off to sleep, I hiked up and down the Strip in the night and the neon, pounding the pavement until the edge wore off and I could sleep.
Slipping the key card into the lock, pushing open the door, the first thing I saw were the polka dot boxers my ex-wife had bought me strewn across the purple carpet. My suitcase lay open, upside down. Herb’s suitcase, minus the things I’d taken to the hospital for him, had been jumped on by somebody large, its sides caved in. Drawers hung open, chairs were overturned, a good tossing had by all. And by somebody as pissed off as I’d just been, somebody who hadn’t found what they were looking for. Unless it was polka dot boxers.
I spent a few minutes straightening up and put on the deadbolt and chain. Apparently Herb had some money that was either somebody else’s or they thought they deserved it. That wouldn’t be gambling winnings. But a casino was involved. This casino didn’t seem upset with us. Why did they comp the room? What had we done to deserve a free room besides lose a few thou? That couldn’t be very unusual. Neither of us was a high roller. An idea bubbled up like tonic water. Was Herb a thief? My head hit the pillow with that unhappy thought.
In the late morning I killed my headache with a greasy three-egg breakfast and a swim in the pool. My pale Midwestern skin hadn’t seen this much sun since childhood summers at Rainy Lake with the leeches and mosquitoes. These days air conditioning was my summer weather of choice.
But all this avoidance, pretending to be simply on vacation, didn’t make me quit cogitating about Herb and Cynthia. Two American kids doing the best that they can, I hummed to myself as I dressed and drove to the hospital again. A little ditty by John Mellencamp that I used to love to play on the guitar. I wondered why I had stopped playing (I knew when—after I married Jeannie) and promised myself for only the five-millionth time that I would start again. It never happened, in the same way that Jeannie and I never worked on our marriage. Sooner or later you forget the fingering.
Herb seemed perky this morning, or at least more alert than yesterday. He said he felt a lot better.
“I think I can leave tomorrow, I’m working on my doctor.” He glanced furtively at the door and winced as the pain of the quick movement hit him.
“You don’t look so good, old buddy. You better stay flat for a few more days. The nurse said a week would do you good.”
“A week!” He wrinkled his nose and lay back on the pillows. “I gotta get out of here.”
“Don’t worry about it. I fixed the tickets. The hotel comped our room. Things will be okay.” Tell me this is the end of it, big fella. I squinted at him. He seemed nervous. Maybe it was time for his meds. “Did you talk to Cynthia?”
He nodded. “This morning.”
“You gonna tell me what this’s about or do I have to pistol-whip you?” I sat on the edge of the bed. He rolled away from me. “Come on, Herb. Somebody tossed our room last night. And beat you up. You have to know what’s happening here.”
“Did the cops say I knew who it was?”
“How could they? You were out cold. Look at me, bub.” He rolled back a little. “What’s the deal? You do something bad?”
Jesus, I sounded like I was his dad—and he was two years older than me. I would never take a free trip with a relative again. The strings attached to this one were strangling me. He was silent, twiddling with his hospital gown.
“Who was it, Herb? You said something about the casino yesterday.”
“I did? What did I say?”
“I asked if you were in trouble and you said, casino. That’s all.”
He seemed to relax. I knew how he felt. When I had drugs to get my nose straightened out I told the doctor several embarrassing tales, including how I lost my virginity with a girl who worked at the PX on the base. I even told him her name, something I couldn’t remember on a normal day. He regaled me with the stories and slapped my back on my next visit.
“I must have been thinking about all the money I lost. Cynthia was very understanding.” He worked up a sympathetic look.
“That’s not her story,” I said. His eyes cooled. “She says you wired six thousand dollars to her. Is that what you were doing in the U-Pack-M?”
“No. You saw me lose at blackjack. I’m a terrible card player.”
“You are. You stink at cards. Always have.”
He scowled briefly. “I just sent her the telegram to show her I realized how seriously I’d messed up. And it worked. Thank heavens. I didn’t know if I could go home again.”
“So you’re saying my sister is lying.”
“Aaron, knock it off! You misunderstood her. She was just upset because of the, um, the attack.”
“Okay.” I was more than fed up now. And he’d talked to Cynthia so they could get their stories straight. “So what did these guys look like, the ones who beat you up?”
He closed his eyes. “I’m tired. I need to sleep.”
“You want me to send in the cops now? The ones out in the hall?”
His eyes flew open. “Are they waiting for me? To talk?”
“Unless you talk to me.” I had no idea where the cops were, but they should have been here torturing him. I stood up to leave.
“No, stay, Aaron. The cops are so—” He gulped.
“Serious? Yes, they don’t much like liars.”
Time to go home. I’d been out West too long, I was starting to sound like a John Wayne movie. I squinted at Herb’s quivering form under the sheets and squelched an urge to say, Pilgrim, I don’t cotton to no yellow bellies neither.
But he was my sister’s husband. So I sat down on the bed again and waited.
“There were two of them.” His eyes darted around the room in classic liar style. “Dark, Italian or Mexican or something. Very nice tans, I remember thinking. Then they brought out the guns and I—I think I fainted. It might have been the heat though. That parking lot was really hot.”
“Everything in Vegas is hot in August.”
“True. The asphalt was sticky. I remember thinking that as I went down.”
“So they didn’t talk to you? You just toppled over like a pussy?”
“No, no, they said something about giving them my money. I said I didn’t have any, I lost it all on cards. They didn’t believe me. Right there in the afternoon sun, a robbery. Can you believe it?”
Actually, no. “Then what happened?”
“They pushed me around a little. I had nothing to give them. But they seemed to think I did. I pulled my pockets out like this—” he mimicked the motion “—but they just got madder. Then the one with the mustache—”
“Mustache? What did the other one have, a beard?”
“Nothing, I think. I don’t remember him so much. The mustache one did the talking.” I motioned him to continue. “That guy gets out a gun, a big one. And the other guy gets out his. And I faint.”
“Just like that.”
“I might have said, please don’t kill me or something like that.”
“So you don’t remember them hitting you over the head.”
“Um, no. Not really.” He looked up at me. “Will you tell the cops for me? Please, Aaron. You know the police better than I do. I alw
ays feel so guilty around cops.”
That stopped me. Usually the innocent feel that way. But I supposed the guilty do too, and with more reason. I cruised the stifling streets where a bank thermometer said it was 116 degrees, and ran from car to casino, a.c. to a.c. Pausing for hydration in the bar (tonic water is very medicinal and gin, well, it had to be good for something besides pickling private detectives) I figured Herb’s story was half true, if that. The mail clerk had seen two men pistol-whipping him, so that part was probably true. And he possibly did faint at the sight of weapons. He was that sort of a boy scout.
I spied a casino office sign in a far corner of the gambling hall and made my way through the tables to it. As I knocked a young woman, a dealer, came by with her card tray and opened the door with a code on the numbered panel. She paused, looking back at me. I told her I was looking for whoever comps rooms so I could thank them. She pointed me to another office where a receptionist talked on an intercom to someone named Connie.
When she walked out my heart stopped for a second. She looked so much like Jeannie they could have been sisters. But Connie’s hair was bleach blonde, very Vegas, and she wore a tight-fitting red suit, something that Jeannie would have called professionally slutty. Which I, like most men, find attractive. She shook my hand and the words came out of my mouth: “Can I buy you a drink to thank you?”
Her laugh was genuine, not fake like her hair. “It’s a little early for me, Mr. Nelson.”
I looked at my watch. “Have you had lunch?”
Her name was Connie Rossi, her title was Guest Relations Manager, and she knew a good place for lunch where we could talk away from the sounds of gambling. In the elevator I had to keep telling myself to be cool, to slyly get information from her about the room, about Herb. I didn’t feel very cool—or sly. In fact, despite the arctic blast of air conditioning, I felt very un-cool. In a hot sort of way. It disturbed me and made me think of my mother, which is very disturbing at such a time. How she used to say, “Eh, so now you thinking with your you-know-what?”
The restaurant was on the top floor of the hotel, very quiet and classy. And expensive. Oh, well, I gulped as we ordered $30 lunches. I was too much of a Midwesterner to ever be a high roller. I felt my coolness return. I ordered us each a glass of Pinot Grigio which Jeannie had liked. When it came I thanked Connie again for the complimentary room.
“Just doing my job,” she said. She had pretty blue eyes, even though there were gobs of mascara on them. It felt better finding her faults.
“I don’t know if you heard about my brother-in-law’s, um, accident.” She looked concerned. “He was attacked a couple blocks from here. He’s in the hospital with a concussion.”
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.” She patted my hand, which under most circumstances I would have enjoyed. Even this one.
“Yes. It’s darn shocking.” The sly one works his magic.
“Do you—I’m sorry, Aaron, is it?” I nodded, my slyness evaporating. “Aaron, do you need a few more days? I’m sure we can do that.”
“You can? That would be great, thanks. But, well, why exactly are you comping our room? We aren’t big gamblers, although God knows we lost a few zillion pesos.”
She gave a delicate shrug, smiling mysteriously. “It’s best to just say thank you, Aaron.”
“I heard that. So—thank you. But with Herb’s attack and all I feel like I really should get more information. Did Herb do something for you, for the casino?”
She smiled again. “You should really talk to him about that.”
Our lunches came, medium-to-small by Minnesota standards but hearty enough. The wine helped wash down my steak. And give me time to think up a new tack.
“Here’s the thing, Connie—may I call you Connie?” I’ve been waiting all my life to say that to a woman, a sad confession. She gave permission. “I was going to write off this whole trip on my income taxes. But without a hotel bill, it makes it a bit sticky. Herb is an accountant, he’ll probably find a way, but I need documentation. Now, I’m not saying I want to pay the bill.” I laughed, har-har: silly sly fox that I am.
She looked perplexed. I elaborated, spinning. “Let me back up. Are you giving Herb some documentation for this trip? A receipt or something? Because he is in the hospital and I need to get things arranged for him.”
“It’s an odd request, Aaron. But taxes are of course a big deal. You can’t deduct your gambling losses unless you show you’ve actually been to Las Vegas?”
“Something like that.” I ordered her more wine. I had no idea what I was talking about.
After I paid the bill (praise the lord for Comping Connie, the total was $95 plus tip), I followed her back to her office, waiting by the receptionist for her to make a few calls. I’m sure she would have preferred I disappear, but I couldn’t take that chance. I called my room to see if I had any messages. There was one, from the hospital.
“This is Aggie Webb, I’m a nurse on Four Central. It’s about three-thirty. I thought you should know that Herbert Monroe has checked himself out of the hospital AMA. That is, ‘against medical advice.’ I hope he’s okay but please tell him to be checked by his personal physician as soon as he gets home.”
I dialed the hospital. The nurse said the doctor had seen Herb about two and told him he had to stay another two or three days. After the doctor left, Herb got into his clothes and checked himself out, bandaged head and all. She was ticked off about his bullheadedness. I sympathized with her, then promised to get the knucklehead to a doctor at home.
When Connie came back out, I was pacing the small reception area. I stopped and took a breath. She had no documents in her lovely slim hands.
“I’ve made a few calls.” She crossed her arms, showing me how busy she was. “It took more than a few, really. It’s funny.” She frowned. “I can’t help you with your tax receipts. That would be illegal, you know. But I can tell you that your brother-in-law did some accounting for our CEO. This was his way of saying thank you.”
“For the CEO? What’s his name?”
“Matthew Birdsong.”
“I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t there a big article about him in some magazine?”
“Forbes. He’s a very bright man. We’re very lucky to have him.”
She apologized for not being able to tell me more, then shook my hand. Which was nice. As I left I realized that falling for somebody who looks like your ex-wife is as stupid as going on a trip with your brother-in-law. Even when the brother-in-law vanishes into thin air.
Herb never came back to the hotel. I waited for him in the room for four hours, watching golf tournaments and C-SPAN, got hungry, went to a restaurant with a view of the front doors. I ate, I drank, he never came in. I thought maybe I missed him on my trip to the men’s room, but he wasn’t upstairs. He wasn’t in any of the bars. He wasn’t playing blackjack. I drove back to the hospital, half-expecting to see him slumped on a curb somewhere. Had the pistol-whippers gotten their greasy hands on him again? Should I call the cops? I didn’t want to call my sister and tell her now I’d lost the sorry bastard.
The next morning was as hot and dry and Herb-less as the day before. I went out to the parking lot to report him missing to the cops. But the Dodge—or rather its occupants—had other ideas.
There were two of them, just like Herb’s story. One was going through the trunk, he had the spare tire and tool kit on the asphalt. The other one stood in an open passenger door.
“Hey!” I said slyly. “That’s my car.”
The one under the trunk lid moved quickly, securing my shirt at the collar before I noticed he was close. He had long black hair and a chiseled face. Was I back in a Western again? I managed to squeak out, “Who the hell are you?”
He threw me against the car. “Where’s the money?”
“What money?” Isn’t that the standard response? This was so surreal I felt detached, except where my spine was rubbing the fender. “If Herb took some money from you, he didn’t te
ll me about it.”
“Where is he?”
“I was just going to report him missing. He’s AWOL.”
The second man came into my line of sight and spat on me. “White scum.” The saliva ran down my cheek. I had plenty of humiliation in the Army, but this was a first. The two men were both bigger than me, the spitter in a ragged flannel shirt with many broken snaps and the big one, the strangler, in a black Sturgis Rally T-shirt. Their types were not unknown to me; lots of Native Americans lived in North Central Minnesota.
I wriggled a bit, making the big one in the T-shirt tighten his grip of my throat “Hey,” I croaked. “I haven’t done anything to you, eh? I don’t know where he is. Or his money.”
The big one looked at the Flannel Shirt, who had braids and a thick neck. They both looked at me. This repeated, as if they were discussing me silently. Finally they let me up. I could hear my words, the way I’d reverted to the old phraseology of the countryside in my panic. I wiped the spit off with my sleeve.
“Wh-where’re you guys from?” I rubbed my neck. “Crow Wing?”
The big one went for me again and I dropped my arms. No use struggling. “Just a guess. I live near there.” My arms were pinned to Dodge’s hot metal. “I like to go up there. It’s pretty country. In the—the fall, you know, when the leaves turn.”
Rally Shirt squinted at me in close-up. I readied for another lougie. His breath smelled like coffee. I tried to imagine all of us having a cup back home, shooting the breeze at one of the old cafes in the small towns around St. Cloud. I was suddenly very homesick.
“Tell you the truth—if you find Herb, you can beat him to a pulp for me. Break his arms. Be my guest.”
The younger one, Flannel Shirt, started to laugh, a chuckle bubbling up from his well-toned chest. Rally Shirt loosened his grip as he caught the laughter, letting me go to wipe tears from his eyes. I stood where I was, smiling like a deer in headlights.
Finally the big one slowed down enough to say, “Get the fuck out of here.”
I sidled away, back toward the safety of the hotel. When I was two car lengths away, I turned back. They were still chuckling.
Murder in Vegas Page 27