“Being a snitch is a paying gig?” Now she had my interest. This was a whole new aspect to my sister. She seemed almost … devious.
She shrugged. “Or they negotiate for lesser charges or minimal jail time.”
“I don’t have CIs.” I knew drug dealers, call girls and yeah, homeless people because I’d worked in casinos in one capacity or another since I turned twenty-one. Like all big cities, Vegas had its seamier side. Anyway, none of those so-called underworld players were as my sister imagined. They were mostly normal, down-to-earth people whose self-employment opportunities were on the wrong side of the law. I suspected Dee thought the underworld was exactly like a TV show. Then again, her husband was an assistant district attorney. He met all kinds of scum every single day.
“Where does Enrique hang out?” she asked.
“Mostly at the Riot.”
“That downtown comedy club with the sticky tables?”
Her look of horror made me laugh.
“Oh my God. You are so hoity-toity.”
“I am not.” She paused, and drew in a breath. “I totally am.” She smacked her palm against the table. “New me!” she exclaimed. “I’ll get a babysitter for Justin and we’ll begin our night of debauchery.”
I looked at her, and she shrugged. “If we’re going to commit a crime, Vie, we should definitely debauch.”
“You had me at crime,” I said.
She grinned.
3
The Riot Comedy Club was squeezed between the S&M Wedding Chapel (free whip with every two-hundred dollar wedding) and a liquor store (free T-shirt with every twenty dollar purchase). Just a couple blocks away, we saw the blaze of lights and blare of noise from Fremont Street. The four-block long metal canopy housed 2.1 million lights, produced 540,000 watts of sound, and induced squinting, cringing, neck aches, and deafness for those unlucky bastards wandering the promenade when the show started.
The club was dark and smoky and crowded. I scanned the small space and spotted Enrique in his usual spot, a large booth in the corner. As usual, it was filled with his friends and a number of big-boobed women in tight dresses. I clasped my sister’s arm and hauled her to the opposite side of the room. There was the small matter of Enrique’s restraining order. I couldn’t be within so many feet of the louse. That’s why Deirdre had to get the necklace. We hadn’t quite figured out the “how” part. Dee said alcohol would jump start creative thinking.
We found a two-person table near the front of the tiny stage. The back wall was painted black, and in the middle of it shone RIOT in purple neon lights.
My sister looked around, her expression suspicious. “What if someone slips us a roofie, takes us to a hotel room, and cuts out our kidneys? We could wake up in a bathtub full of ice reading a note that says, ‘Call Nine-One-One.’”
My sister. Always the optimist. “How much do kidneys go for?” I asked, half-serious. I had two kidneys. I could live without one. Probably.
“You are not going sell off parts of your body,” said Dee. “If you do, I’ll call Mom.”
“Tattle-tell.”
“Yep.”
We sat down in the high-back wood chairs at a bar-height table. I put my elbows on the surface and put my chin on my fists; my bare skin got stuck in a gluey substance. I shuddered to think what it could be … gum, soda, semen. Ew. I pulled up, using more force than necessary and popped myself in the chin with both hands.
Dee’s brows rose. “You haven’t even had a drink yet.”
I caressed my throbbing jaw. “Shut up or I’ll wipe the table goo all over your face.”
“Not if you knock yourself out first.” She took a package of antibacterial wipes out of her purse and tugged three sheets out. Total mom gear. She scrubbed the scummy surface. “This is gross.”
The waitress arrived, and she was the kind of waitress bred in clubs like Riot. Her outfit proved it: Brassy blonde hair, thick make-up, short black leather skirt, and a tight T-shirt with enough cleavage to smother a kitten. I liked her already. I respected any woman in her late forties who could pull off blue eye shadow and a silver nose ring.
“I’m Sabie. What’s your poison, ladies?”
“Bourbon on the rocks,” ordered Dee.
“Whatever you’ve got on draft. Surprise me.”
“We need an ax to destroy the table,” added my sister. “It’s icky.”
“Yeah. It’s a frickin’ biohazard.” She swept the soiled wipes from the table. “Be back in a sec, ladies.”
At the table next to us sat three college-aged girls with shiny straight hair, diamond-studded ears, and the kind of faces that required only a dab of blush and a dash of mascara to look good. They wore jeans and shirts, and they tucked large canvas purses between their feet. They leaned in, creating a triangle of careless beauty. What experiences in their short lives could they possibly have that would take longer than two minutes to discuss in depth? Boyfriends? Tyrannical professors? Jobs at the mall?
“Couldn’t find an ax,” said Sabie as she put down a cold mug of beer and the squat glass with Dee’s bourbon. “This gonna be a tab, honey?”
“Keep bringing ’em, Sabie,” said my sister, “and give me the check.”
She winked. “You got it.”
“You are the best,” I told Dee.
She flashed an evil grin. “Thank Darren. I’m using his credit card to finance our little adventure.”
A couple minutes later, the house lights dimmed and a bright white spotlight haloed a short, overweight woman waddling onto the stage. She wore a low-cut fuchsia caftan that glowed a ridiculous pink in the glaring light. Her hair was black and spiky, shorn above her ears, showcasing the huge gold hoops dangling from her ears. As she adjusted the microphone stand, my gaze was drawn to her hands. She wore rings on every finger, chunky gold pieces with hunks of stones—diamond, ruby, amethyst, jade, and turquoise. Her fingernails were long and painted black. Hey! She was the woman who’d picked up Enrique at the courthouse. I knew she looked familiar. I didn’t remember her name, but I’d seen her at the club. I thought she was a bartender. I squinted at her neck. The chunky silver chain she wore, not mine thank heavens, was as loud as her outfit, dotted with large pink and purple jewels.
What had she and Enrique done with my ghost-repellent pendant?
“I’m Andrea Keller,” she announced. “Guess what, gang? I’m happy to announce that Enrique Santos is now half-owner of this little laugh joint.” She waved toward the corner booth. Raucous applause erupted. Enrique raised his drink, his toothy grin shining even in the darkened corner.
“Are you ready to laugh?” shouted Andrea.
Whistles and the low howls of the already drunk filled the building.
“Please let me introduce a very talented comic, someone who will give you laugh lines with his punch lines … Donald Joyfield!”
Donald was more than six feet tall and so thin, his jeans and knit shirt fluttered around him like scarecrow rags. His hair was neatly combed, brown and long, tied behind his neck. At least he wasn’t wearing one of those trendy man-buns. His face was narrow, his chin pointed, his green eyes large, luminous. His nose was wafer-thin, yet strangely bumpy on the sides so that it looked like a Triscuit.
“Hello, Las Vegas!” he called out in a high-pitched voice.
Dee and I looked at each other and snickered. Sabie brought our second round of drinks. We turned, expectant, and waited for Donald to make us laugh.
“I just got engaged…”
A few claps and some drunken boos filtered through the club. Donald’s smile flashed. “I see some of you have dated my sister.” He paused for the laughter. “My sister has been engaged five times. Always dumped the guy before they made it down the aisle. So the last time she got engaged, I said, ‘Look, sis, if you don’t marry this guy … I will.’” Donald wiggled his left hand; a diamond glittered on his finger. “Robert and I set the date for next spring.”
The crowd roared. Sabie arrived and plu
nked a box on the table with tubes of glowing goop in ’em. “Gelatin shot, ladies?”
Dee and I each took one. We tapped the plastic tubes and downed them. It was like drinking tangy cold snot. The biting sweet of the liquor sloshed in my belly, heating my insides and making my brain mushy.
“Ugh!” I put down my tube and looked at Dee. “Wanna another one?”
“Yep.”
We each picked up another one and dumped the contents down our throat.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s not do that again.”
She nodded and picked up her drink. She gulped it down, looked at me, burped, and uttered, “Blech.”
“Well said.” I was copping a powerful buzz, which probably made me the worst private detective in the world. I should be keeping an eye on Enrique, but instead, I was enjoying hanging out with this new relaxed, fun girl version of my sister.
Sabie took the jellified poison away, and Dee and I turned our attention to the comic.
Donald Joyfield was funny. Then again everything seemed hilarious to me. Dee crossed her eyes and tried to touch the end of her nose with the tip of her tongue. That made me laugh hysterically.
The next thing I knew, the crowd was clapping and hooting. Donald left the stage and Andrea Keller came on again. “That was the very funny and very talented Donald Joyfield. Let’s give him another round of applause!”
Dee and I clapped our hands in large circles. A round of applause? See? See? Get it?
Sabie, sweet, sweet, adorable Sabie, plunked fresh drinks on the table and whisked away the empties. In this state of mind, I doubt we could be subtle enough to steal back my necklace. And that was if Enrique still had it on him. Hell, would we be able to find our way out of this club? Even if we managed to hail a cab, could either one of us give coherent directions?
I looked at my cold, foamy beer. At this point, I didn’t care.
“We have a ten-minute break. It’s open mike for amateurs.” Andrea Keller waited for a soused idiot to walk onto the stage and spout off knock-knock jokes. The noise of the crowd rose, as if someone had turned up the volume on all conversations.
I looked toward Enrique’s table. One of the girls was on his lap, and they were giggling into their margaritas. Typical. I felt nothing for Enrique. What we had together was nothing more than an illusion. My illusion. I thought about Matthew, my hot one-night-stand who wanted to take me to dinner. If I’d had my cell phone I could totally drunk dial him. Maybe he could bring his handcuffs. Now, that had possibilities.
“C’mon, people! Show me your funny!” Andrea bellowed. The woman stared into the crowd, apparently trying to forcibly will someone onto the stage. She set off a weird hate vibe. I instinctively didn’t like her.
“We suck at investigating,” I said to my sister, my words only a little slurred.
“Yes, but we are marvelous at debauchery.” Dee leaned across the table and said, “I could do that, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Make jokes.”
“Yeah, but they have to be funny.”
“Ha. Ha. Besides, being on the stage will give me a better view of Enrique. Maybe I can spot your necklace.” She sucked down the rest of her bourbon, got up, and wobbled over to the stage. Oh, my God. Was my straight-laced, humorless sister going to make an ass of herself just to help me out?
“Here’s our first victim,” said Andrea with too much glee as Dee stumbled onto the stage. She blinked and looked around. The loud conversations turned into low murmurs.
“What’s your name, sweets?”
“Deirdre.”
“Where are you from?”
Dee stared at her as though she didn’t understand the question.
Ever the helpful sister, I yelled out, “Summerlin!”
“Everyone, please give a warm welcome to one of our locals, the fabulous Deirdre!”
I applauded loudly, and offered a drunken woo-hoo. I watched Andrea leave the stage and go to Enrique’s booth, leaning over the table to talk to him.
Hmm. When the crowd settled down, Deirdre started talking. My head was buzzing, and I was feeling drunker by the second.
“You’re not supposed to be here, mi flor.”
Startled by the sound of Enrique’s voice, I spilled my beer. How the hell had he snuck up on me?
“You come to say you’re sorry? Beg for the necklace you love so much?” His gaze was pure evil. “We might be able to work out some trade.” He laughed then touched the scar on his face.
My heart thumped double-time. I hadn’t expected him to confront me. I swallowed the knot in my throat, and tried to find some calm. He had a restraining order against me, so there was no good reason to approach me. Warning bells were ringing in my head and every cell in my body wanted as far away from Enrique as possible.
Coming here had been a huge mistake.
“Back off,” I hissed. “Five-hundred yards, remember?”
“That’s your restraining order, not mine,” he offered gleefully.
“Same difference, asshole.”
“I could call the cops now, and they will haul you in, chica.”
Over his smarmy tone, I heard my sister’s voice. She was telling a story about … me. Of course, it was about me. The tuna sandwich incident when I was eight. Gawd.
Enrique’s fingers trailed up my arm. I jerked away from him. “Leave me alone.”
He snickered.
My crazy ex really was trying to get me thrown in jail. Maybe he had his new partner Andrea waiting in the shadows calling the police so he could claim I had violated the restraining order. Everything was falling to shit, and why was I surprised? The gift always brought trouble with it. Granted, I hadn’t actually used it yet, but still.
I got up from the table, grabbed my purse and my sister’s, and bolted. I moved as fast as my wobbly legs would go. I’d hole up in the ladies’ room until Dee got off the stage.
He followed me closely, cackling.
I made it into the tiny bathroom. I shut the door in his stupid face, and locked it. I turned and leaned against the thin wood, heaving a sigh of relief.
“I’m not going anywhere, mi flor,” he said. “You’re gonna go to jail for harassing me.” He giggled like a giddy teenaged girl.
What the hell was wrong with him? Too many margaritas?
“Go harass your new girlfriend!”
“Don’t be jealous. I share myself with many senoritas. You missin’ me, Violetta? You want a kiss?”
“I want you to go away.”
“Open the door and give me a kiss. Besame, mi flor. Besame mucho.” He hooted and started singing in Spanish, his words slurred and his tone wistful.
Why did I let Deirdre talk me into this crazy scheme? Maybe because she’s usually the sane one. Getting my necklace back wasn’t a possibility. Damn it.
Enrique pounded his fists against the door, and I jumped back and squawked with surprise. He laughed.
Fear was making me sober. For the first time, I realized that Enrique might not be satisfied with taking my necklace or winning a court case. He wanted me to pay for his humiliation.
I had Dee’s purse, so I opened it and looked for her cell phone. Nope. She had it on her. Fuckity-fuck. Next bit of money I got, I was paying the goddamn cell phone bill. What I wouldn’t give to be able to call nine-one-one. Hell, I’d turn myself in to the police for my restraining order infraction. Jail was starting to sound like a safe alternative to Riot’s small, unsecured bathroom.
Then I heard Enrique yell, “Hey! What are you—”
I heard a wet, smacking sound, and then the door shook as something heavy rammed into it.
Silence.
My heart thudded in my chest and sweat beaded my upper lip. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Enrique?”
Maybe he’d passed out. Okay. That would be good. I could step over his unconscious body and get the hell out of here.
Sucking in a fortifying breath, I yanked open the door. As predict
ed, Enrique’s body flopped down in front of me.
Only he wasn’t unconscious.
He was dead.
No, that couldn’t be right. I was not going to accept that as reality. I’d never seen a dead body. So, what did I know?
God. I didn’t know First Aid. Or CPR. Or how to check a pulse. All the same, I felt compelled to do something.
His eyes were wide open, his mouth slack. His expression was one of surprise. Yeah, you and me both, buddy. The side of his perfectly groomed head was caved in, and dark blood oozed out into his hair. My hand shook as I reached down. I couldn’t bear to touch his neck, so I settled for poking him in the chest.
“Enrique?” Poke. Poke. Poke. “Enrique?”
Nothing.
He was horribly still.
Holy shit. He was dead.
My entire body went cold, and I backed away. My gaze lingered on the blood pooling on the cheap linoleum. My gorge rose as my alcohol-filled stomach threatened to empty its contents. Clutching the two purses against my chest, I gingerly stepped over Enrique. As I exited, I felt something hard hit my skull. Stars burst in front of my eyes, and then everything went dark.
4
I woke up to the stench of rotting food and burnt motor oil. My face was pressed against rough pavement, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I realized I was lying in an alley.
What the fuck?
My head throbbed like it was hosting a boy band reunion concert. Groaning, I managed to sit up. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning, but when it did, oh shit.
Enrique’s still very dead body was less than a foot away. I scurried backwards, hitting my backside against a large garbage bin. Ugh. That explained the putrid stench. My hand closed over a metal object, and I picked it up.
It was a tire iron with red goo smeared all over it. Wait. Not goo. Blood.
I yelped and released it, shuddering at the heavy clang that echoed down the alley.
In Good Spirits (Violetta Graves Mysteries) Page 3