by Dave Stanton
This time, he rolled into town around dawn and checked into the Thunderbird Hotel, a seedy rat hole off the Strip that didn’t require a credit card or ID. He was glad they had some free sweet rolls in the lobby, even though they looked plastic and flies buzzed around the plate. He’d already put a significant dent in his seven-grand stake, and he needed to conserve in case unexpected expenses arose.
After a few hours’ sleep, Mort donned his fat man disguise and drove to the Mirage. The midmorning temperature was already near one hundred degrees, and by the time he had walked from the parking lot to the Mirage’s air-conditioned foyer, sweat was soaking through his shirt. He spent a half hour walking around the casino, familiarizing himself with its layout, then took the main elevator to the top floor, and back down to the hotel registration counter.
“I have a package to deliver to one of your guests,” he told the clerk. Mort held up a brown paper shopping bag that held a shoebox-sized container. “I was supposed to meet him in his penthouse suite, but I need an access key to get to that floor.”
“Yes,” the clerk said. “You would need that. Would you like me to call the person for you?”
“Please,” Mort said. “His name is Jim Homestead.”
The keyboard chattered for a few moments. “I’m sorry, we have no one here by that name.”
“Try James Homestead.”
“No one with the last name Homestead.”
“Strange,” Mort said. “I just spoke with him yesterday.”
The clerk worked the keyboard again. “Here he is—I have a Jim Homestead who checked out this morning.”
“Oh, my. It appears I’ve missed him. I wonder how I can get this package to him.”
“You may want to talk to VIP Services. They’re down the hall and to the right.”
“I see. Thank you.”
A slender woman in her fifties with skin that had seen too much sun sat at a desk, talking with two women Mort thought were probably lesbians. They left after a minute, and he stepped forward.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I was asked by Jim Homestead to deliver some expensive merchandise. I’ve driven quite a ways to make this delivery, but I’m told he checked out this morning.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“I can’t imagine how we could have got our signals crossed. He’s already paid for this package. Would you by chance have any idea how I could contact him?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t,” the woman said. “The only thing I can suggest is to try to reach him here a week from now.”
“In a week? Do you know he’ll be back then?”
The woman paused. “He left his car with us, so I assume he will.”
“Do you think he may return sooner?”
“My understanding is he’s traveling out of the country, so I doubt it.”
Mort walked away and found a deserted tropical lounge. He sat at a cocktail table, stared past a man-made waterfall, and pressed his fingertips together. Four hundred dollars spent to track Jimmy to Vegas. And now, he was gone, supposedly for a week.
But his car was still at the Mirage. What kind might he be driving?
Mort went back out into the heat and found the valet parking garage. Parked in the first spots, and sectioned off from the remainder of the parked cars, were a Rolls Royce, a couple of high-end Mercedes sedans, and a few fancy sports cars. Mort’s eyes settled on the last car in the row, a Lamborghini Diablo with dealer plates reading Orange County Exotics.
He drove his Toyota to a drug store and dropped forty dollars on a prepaid cell phone and a pair of scissors. Then, he got the number for Orange County Exotics from directory service.
“This is Sergeant Williams from Las Vegas PD,” Mort said. “I just pulled over a man in a new, orange Lamborghini, which he claims he owns and purchased from your dealership. I need to confirm he owns this car, since he says he’s lost his temporary tags. His name is Jim Homestead.”
The salesman on the other line didn’t even hesitate. “Yes, sir, that was my sale. He came in about two weeks ago. Slim, six feet or so, blond hair, about thirty-five?”
“Correct.”
“That’s Jimmy Homestead.”
Mort returned to the Mirage and found the valet parking manager, a kid in his early twenties. Mort shook his hand and introduced himself as Bruce Stevens. “I deal in rare art,” Mort said. “I’ve been trying to reach Jim Homestead, the owner of the orange Lamborghini in your lot. He’s been somewhat elusive.” Mort pulled two hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and neatly cut them in half. “Here’s an offer,” he said. “You call me when Jim Homestead returns to the Mirage, and I’ll bring you the other halves.”
“You got a deal,” the kid said.
Back at his hotel, Mort stripped off his costume and lay on the bed. It was not the greatest mattress, but it was far more comfortable than what he had slept on in prison. Compared to the last five years, spending a week in this roach pit would be nothing. But Mort did not intend to be idle while waiting for the valet manager to call. There had to be something more he could do to be prepared. The shoebox rested next to him. Mort opened it and double-checked the items he had assembled. At least that part of the plan was rock solid.
17
I stared out the airplane window down on Las Vegas as we descended, amazed at how many new casino hotels were under construction. Huge cranes marked at least half a dozen new high-rise projects on the Strip. When the plane finally touched down, I turned toward the middle-aged couple next to me. “Good luck, folks,” I said, hoping it would interrupt their nonstop babble about beating the casinos. No such luck.
I left the terminal, walked into the furnace-like air of the Mohave Desert, and picked up a Ford economy-class compact rental. I turned the AC to high. Heat waves shimmered above the asphalt leading from the airport.
I had just turned from Tropicana onto the Strip and was passing the MGM Grand when my cell rang.
“Dirty Double Crossin’ Dan,” a familiar voice said. Cody Gibbons.
“What’s happening, Cody?”
“I just got a job I think you should know about.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Tell me if this sounds familiar: a woman who gives whole ZIP codes a hard-on offers ten grand to find her stepson.”
I was silent for a second. “You’re kidding,” I said.
“I never kid about five figures, Dirt. She told me she offered you the same deal, too.”
“Sheila Homestead hired you for the same case she hired me?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. And it’s Sheila Majorie. She told me she thinks it would be a good idea for both of us to work it.”
“Why?”
“Well, she wouldn’t say exactly, but here’s what I think: First, Jimmy Homestead is now one of the richest dudes in the country, and she feels a chunk of that dough is coming her way. Which means twenty grand to find the guy is mice nuts to her.”
“That doesn’t explain why she would hire an additional investigator.”
“She said she spotted her ex-husband in Tahoe. His name is John Homestead. She thinks he’s unstable and maybe dangerous. So, she felt like she wanted an extra man on her team.”
“What, to protect her?”
“Look, she has a bad history with the dude. But the key is, she wants to make sure she finds Jimmy before he does.”
I pulled over and found a shady spot beside a building. “She thinks he’s looking for Jimmy, too?”
“Now you’re getting it, Dirt.”
“Cody, you realize if she can’t convince Jimmy to share his money, she has no way to pay either of us.”
“Yeah, that occurred to me. But we talked about it, and I agreed to help persuade the little creep, if need be.”
“Christ, this just keeps getting better.”
“Yeah, well, there’s something else you should probably know.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Sheila and me, we kind of, well…”
“I really like her.”
“You’re sleeping with her?”
“Tell me you could resist her, Dan.”
I started laughing. The mental image of six-foot-five, three-hundred-pound Cody Gibbons in a romantic situation was funny to me. But he was a natural womanizer, and since his divorce last year, he had been in more brief relationships than I could count.
“Hey, I got to go. She’s coming back,” he said.
“You’re with her now? In San Jose?”
“No, we’re in Vegas.”
Ah, shit.
They were staying at the Nugget, on the far side of the strip toward old downtown Las Vegas. I spotted them standing in the lobby, looking like two different species—Sheila, in heels, a low-cut blouse, and tight jeans showing off her hourglass figure, and Cody, towering over her in a Hawaiian shirt that barely contained his massive shoulders. The young lovers, on vacation in Vegas.
“Well, Sheila,” was all I could say.
“Come on, Dirt, let’s go to the bar, get a drink, and talk strategy.”
“Why do you call him Dirt?” Sheila asked.
“Short for ‘Dirty Double Crossin’ Dan.’ When we were younger he used to pick up on every girl I liked.”
“Not true,” I said. “That maybe happened once.”
“Looks like Cody got you back this time,” Sheila said, shooting me a look while hooking her thumb in Cody’s back pocket.
We found a lounge off the casino floor and sat at a cocktail table. “I assume you’re here because you learned Jimmy’s been staying at the Mirage,” I said.
“That’s right,” Cody said.
“How’d you find out?”
“I’ve got a guy that can track digital footprints. Give him a name, and he can trace their e-mails or Internet usage to an IP address. In this case, the IP address Jimmy used was specific to the Mirage.”
“Is that legal?”
Cody shrugged. “Supposedly.”
“Well, we missed him,” I said. “Jimmy’s checked out. I heard he’s traveling out of the country—partying down in Mexico would be my guess. I’m betting he left his car at the Mirage. Shouldn’t be hard to find—he’s driving a Lamborghini. I have a cellular tracking device I want to attach to it. Then, once he starts driving, he’ll be easy to find.”
“Assuming his car is at the Mirage,” Cody said.
“Let’s go look, then,” Sheila said.
“I think you might want to wait here,” I said.
“You’ll just attract attention,” Cody added.
“Or I could provide a diversion,” she said.
Cody and I exchanged glances. “Why not?” I said. We finished our drinks, piled into my rental, and headed toward the Strip.
We went past the check-in circle in front of the Mirage’s main lobby and followed a road toward the back of the hotel to the parking garage. Near the garage entrance, in plain view, was a lineup of expensive cars. I’d seen hotels do this, displaying patron’s fancy cars to create an image of wealth and opulence. Between a Rolls Royce and a Maserati sedan was an orange Lamborghini with dealer plates. I drove us to an adjacent parking lot, and we began hiking back toward the garage.
“It’s got to be his car,” I said. “I’ll sneak over and attach the tracking unit. Sheila, hang behind me, and if you see an attendant coming, stop him, keep him delayed for a minute.”
“I’ll go watch the main entrance,” Cody said, his hand on Sheila’s arm. “If I see a valet guy heading out on foot, I’ll ring your cell once.”
Cody peeled off toward the front of the hotel while Sheila and I continued toward the garage. “You know, we have no way of knowing when Jimmy will return to Vegas,” I said. “It could be tomorrow, a week from now, or a couple weeks.”
“If you’re worried about your expenses, don’t. It will be taken care of. You just make sure you bring Jimmy to me as soon as he gets back in town.”
I stopped and turned to her. “Why didn’t you tell me he won the Lotto?”
“That’s none of your concern,” she said, and started walking away.
“Yeah, it is.” I grabbed her arm. “I know the only way you can pay me is if you get the money from Jimmy. How do you intend to do that?”
She moved closer and looked up into my eyes. “Trust me,” she purred.
“Lovely,” I said.
I left her on the walking path between the main entrance and the garage and watched a Mercedes pull out, a parking attendant behind the wheel. As soon as he was gone, I darted in and slid behind the Lamborghini. Reaching under the low-slung chassis, I felt around until I found a snug, secure place for the magnetized tracking device. When I walked back out, I saw Sheila talking with one of the valet runners.
Cody and Sheila met me at the rental car a few minutes later. I turned on my GPS transceiver, and it connected with the satellite and identified the Lamborghini on a street map with a flashing red arrow.
“Pretty slick,” Cody said.
“The tracker will remain in sleep mode until the car is moved. Then, it will alert me on my cell phone, and I can track the car on the GPS. The battery on the tracker should last at least a week.”
“Did you intercept the attendant?” Cody said to Sheila.
“Yeah. He asked me if I wanted to go to a party tonight.”
“And?”
“I told him I’m having my own private party,” she said, and leaned over from the back seat and nuzzled Cody. He winked at me, but I could see his face turning red.
Back at the Nugget, the frisky couple headed straight for their room, and I headed straight for the bar. The Nugget was an older, less glamorous establishment than the new breed of casinos that drew hordes of tourists to Vegas. The bar I sat at was weathered and scarred with cigarette burns, and the red carpet beneath my boots was a blur of whiskey stains. The bartender, a full-figured woman, poured me a soda and slid a bowl of popcorn and pretzels my direction.
Staying in Vegas for a week or more was not something I had planned, or wanted to do—especially since I wasn’t particularly confident I would get paid. If I didn’t, whatever expenses I rang up would just put me that much deeper in a hole. Sheila Majorie seemed to think I would hang around town for as long as it took to find Jimmy. She might learn otherwise. But the involvement of Cody Gibbons made things more complicated.
I gunned my Coke and ordered a bourbon rocks. Since Cody’s wife had left him, his love life had been a boozy kaleidoscope of closing-time bimbos, broke divorcees, strippers, plus a sordid affair with his ex-boss’s wife thrown in for variety. Cody had always run on the ragged boundaries of civilian life, but his divorce, coupled with his losing his job as a San Jose PD detective, was no doubt pushing him closer to the edge. To say his relationship with Sheila Majorie concerned me was probably an understatement.
If Sheila was using Cody somehow, and I was fairly sure she was, it was my intention to prevent Cody from doing anything self-destructive. It was a fool’s errand. From our high school days, I’d never seen Cody Gibbons show the slightest restraint in his behavior. He threw his varsity football coach in a Dumpster, proposed to the head cheerleader and moved out of state the day after she declined, and was involved in eight shootings in three years of active police duty. And he had once saved my life by shooting a man to death.
I knew there were dark places in Cody’s psychology that drove him to behave as he did, but Cody Gibbons also was the most loyal and steadfast friend a man could have, especially when the going got tough. He had stood by my side during my bleakest hours, when I was drinking heavily after I first killed a man, when I was broke and jobless, and when my marriage ended. And when my life was threatened last winter, he had put his own on the line without hesitation, and was nearly killed himself.
The next morning, I had breakfast at the casino, then drove out to a nearby gym and lifted weights for an hour. Noon came, and I hadn’t heard from Cody, so I headed over to the Mi
rage for a little recon work. I checked to make sure the orange Lamborghini was still in place, then went into the casino.
I toured the Mirage’s bars, showing Jimmy’s picture to the bartenders. A couple recognized him, and one, a short Mexican man, remembered him well.
“Sure, that guy. He was here for a few days, I think. He was always drunk, or drugged out. He talked like a big shot, a joker like that. He even said he might buy the Mirage.”
“Did he talk much about his plans for the future, like where he might be going?”
“I heard him talking about whores in Costa Rica.”
“Anything else you remember him saying?”
“He talked about buying a mansion, mentioned Lake Tahoe.”
“Interesting. Thanks, amigo.”
“Hey,” he said. “Why are you interested in this stupid guy?”
“He might be in trouble.”
“One day, he tried to talk to these ladies who came by for a drink. He paid for their drinks, but then they left. I think it made him very mad.”
“No kidding?”
“I think maybe he should stick with whores.”
We laughed, then I left the waterfalls and tropical foliage surrounding the bar and headed out into the heat of the day to kill some time.
It was a bit after six that evening when my cell rang, showing the alert code for my GPS unit. A red arrow appeared, moving down Las Vegas Boulevard. I dialed Cody’s cell.
“Drop your cock and grab your socks,” I said. “The Lamborghini’s on the move.”
“Five minutes, in the lobby,” he said.
“Bring Sheila,” I said, but the line was already dead.
Cody showed up in the lobby alone, drinking a bottle of beer and smoking a cigarette.
“Since when did you start smoking again?”
“Since ten minutes ago,” he said, flicking the butt onto the hot pavement. He carried his beer with him into the car.
“Try not to get us pulled over,” I said.