"Toothpicks?"
That night, Sands and Beadle, dressed in business suits, stood near a bank of slot machines watching the bar and the nearby bank of elevators. Because a dinner show had just gotten out, the casino was crowded. Beadle reached into his coat, took out a clear plastic envelope which was marked with a stick-on evidence tag, handed it to Sands. Sands took Desmond's check from his shirt pocket, slipped it into the evidence envelope, sealed the flap. He slid the envelope into his jacket pocket.
"My sorry ass is nervous as hell," Beadle said.
"That's part of it," Sands said without taking his eyes off the elevators.
"Very funny."
The elevator doors opened. A gray-haired man wearing dark glasses stepped off, moved toward the bar. It was Harry Desmond.
At the bottom of the carpeted steps leading to the bar area, Desmond stopped, shuffled about for a moment until Skippy noticed him. Their eyes met immediately. Desmond moved back to the elevator bank. Skippy said something to the other bartender, ducked under the bar. He hurried to the hall, where a small group had gathered to wait for an elevator. Neither man spoke. When an elevator arrived, Desmond and Skippy got on along with the others.
Sands and Beadle hurried to the elevator bank. They watched the light above the elevator door as it moved horizontally from number to number. The elevator was stopping at almost every floor. Another elevator arrived. The doors opened. They stepped in. Sands pushed the button for the second floor. The elevator ascended. He and Beadle stepped off, inspected the carpet outside the elevator. Nothing. They stepped back in the elevator and proceeded to the next floor. There they checked again.
They repeated this procedure nine times.
On the eleventh floor, Sands spotted a few toothpicks lying on the carpet outside the elevator. He motioned to Beadle. They separated, moved different ways along the hallway, checking near each door. As Sands reached the center of the hallway, Beadle made a pssst sound. Sands headed back in his direction. Beadle, looking pale and nervous, pointed to the threshold of Room 1198. There were four or five toothpicks on the carpet in front of the door.
Having glanced both ways to see that no one else was in the hallway, Sands placed his ear to the door. There were muffled sounds he couldn't make out. He pulled the master key from his pocket. Making as little noise as possible, he eased the key in, turned. The lock clicked. He shoved the door violently.
Sands and Beadle ran into the room. A nude Skippy was perched on the end of the bed. Harry Desmond, also naked, was kneeling at his feet, blowing him.
"Police officers!" Sands said.
Harry Desmond made an animal yelp as Skippy pulled away.
Beadle grabbed Skippy by the arm, flashed a badge. "You're under arrest for forgery, clown. Get some clothes on."
Harry Desmond, in the manner of an embarrassed child, turned toward the wall, covered himself.
"There must be some mistake, officer," Skippy said, probably because he'd heard someone say it in a movie.
Beadle shoved him backward onto a pile of clothes on the bed. "I said get dressed, asshole."
"Okay, okay," Skippy said. He picked up a pair of trousers and began to dress.
"Let's see some ID," Sands said to Harry Desmond, who was still facing the wall. He was shaking.
"I'm... Harry Desmond. May I get dressed?"
"Oh. Mr. Desmond. Sure," Sands said.
Avoiding eye contact with Sands, Harry Desmond stepped to the dresser. He kept his head down as he quickly slid his skinny legs into his trousers, shrugged on his shirt. "I think we'd better talk in private, Mr. Desmond," Sands said.
Desmond stared at Sands for a moment; he looked as if he was going to faint. Sands nodded toward the bathroom. As Desmond reluctantly followed him in, Ray Beadle snapped handcuffs on Skippy.
Sands closed the door. The bathroom walls were mirrors. "We had no idea you would be here, Mr. Desmond. I'm ... uh ... sorry."
"What is happening?" Harry Desmond said. Carefully, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bathtub.
Sands reached inside his suit jacket, pulled out the clear plastic envelope containing the check Skippy the bartender had given him, and showed it to Desmond. Desmond reached out to take it. Sands pulled it back. "Sorry, sir. It's evidence."
"Where did you get that check?"
"Skippy has been forging your checks all over Las Vegas. The total is up to nineteen thousand dollars."
"I didn't even know I had checks missing."
"The bank caught it. The signatures were dissimilar. We traced him back here, followed him to this room."
"What's going to happen now?"
"We book Skippy for forgery and write a report," Sands said. "As the victim, I'm afraid you'll have to come down to the office with us."
"I don't want this to go any further. They're my checks. I choose not to file a complaint."
"It's not that easy, Mr. Desmond," Sands said. "The bank has been in touch with your business manager in Beverly Hills. He said he wanted the forger arrested. A complaint was signed on your behalf."
Desmond turned to Sands. "Uh ... this is all a misunderstanding. I want to end this right here," he pleaded.
"We've just made a legal arrest and placed a man in handcuffs," Sands said. "We can't just take the cuffs off, walk away, and forget it. I have to write a report and-"
"Officer, if we go down to your office this whole matter will make the newspapers. I insist that you release the man in the other room and drop the charges. Do you understand that?"
"Sir, a felony crime has been committed," Sands said. "There are certain things I'm required to do."
Desmond, gathering his executive composure, stood up, took a deep breath. "Officer, I am a personal friend of the governor of this state. I know every politician in this city by his first name, I think it would be best for you to just let this matter drop,"
"I understand your ... uh ... sense of embarrassment, Mr. Desmond, but this isn't just some minor business deal you can turn your back on," Sands said. "This is a matter of law. As a law-enforcement officer I have certain responsibilities. If I don't carry them out and the police department finds out, then I get embarrassed. Or maybe fired."
Harry Desmond shook his head. "I'm not going to leave this room. I've committed no crime."
"Mr. Desmond, I'm trying to be reasonable with you. But don't push it too far."
Desmond used the back of his hand to wipe a fine line of perspiration from his upper lip. "I hope you realize who you are dealing with."
"To me, you're nothing but a run-of-the-mill queer."
"If I refuse to make a complaint you have no right to arrest anyone," Desmond said, ignoring the remark. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
Sands closed the cover on the toilet. He sat down, faced Harry Desmond. Because of the mirrors in the room, there were -reflections of both of them from all angles. He glared at Desmond. "You'll come with me. One way or the other."
Desmond made a funny sound as he tried, but failed, to clear his throat. "I apologize if I sounded hostile, officer," he said. "But can't you just walk out of here and leave me alone?"
"Yes, I can. I also can throw handcuffs on you and book you into the queen tank at the county jail. The bottom line is, what's in it for me and my partner?"
Harry Desmond swallowed, cleared his throat. "This whole thing is a setup. You waited until you knew he was coming to be with me."
"Even if we did, it doesn't change your predicament, does it?" Sands said.
"I'd like to discuss alternatives."
"There are only three alternatives. One, we book jocko in there for hanging paper and you for sodomy.
Two, we just book jocko and write a report which lists you as the victim. Three, in order to avoid publicity, my partner and I stick our necks out and try to sweep this whole incident under the table."
"I would appreciate any consideration you could offer. "
"The price is a hundred grand," Sands said. "That's
fifty for my partner and fifty for me. Any less and it's not worth the risk."
"Now I get it," Desmond said with a tinge of weakness in his voice. The perspiration had reappeared around his mouth. "This is nothing more than a shakedown. Blackmail."
"You're a big businessman. I'll bet you've squeezed a few sacks yourself on the way up."
Harry Desmond stared at his reflection in the facing mirror for a while. "Blackmail goes against everything I stand for," he said.
Sands stood up, yanked handcuffs off his belt. "In that case, let's go to jail, fucker."
Desmond stared at the handcuffs. "I'll pay each of you ten thousand dollars."
"This is Las Vegas," Sands said. "The big town. People playing keno win more than that every hour downstairs in the casino."
"I want to make a phone call."
Sands laughed. "To who? To your wife and kids so you can tell them you're gay? Or maybe to your board of directors?"
"I ask this as a favor."
"Fuck your favor. You have one minute to make up your mind, then it's time to get booked for oral cop."
"What about the people at the bank?" Desmond said.
"Sir?"
"You said you talked about the stolen checks to the people at the bank."
"I'll talk to 'em again. This time I tell 'em the investigation showed your checks were from an old checkbook you'd thrown away. A Mexican guy found the checks in a trashcan, forged a few of them, then returned to Mexico. Since there's no extradition treaty with Mexico for the crime of forgery, the case is closed."
Desmond stared at himself in the mirror. Tears welled in his eyes. Eddie Sands stifled the urge to cheer. He lit a cigarette, tossed the match in the bathtub.
Mr. Enterprise's chin quivered for a moment. "If I pay a hundred thousand, how will I be guaranteed this ... uh ... incident will never come to light?"
"Because I don't want to go to jail for soliciting a bribe any more than you want your biography to be titled Call Me Jocko."
Harry Desmond looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. "No."
"No what, Mr. Desmond?"
"I'm not going to pay," he said, watching Sands carefully.
Without hesitation, Sands pulled his gun. "Then you're under arrest. Put your hands on top of your head."
Desmond's complexion turned pale. His chin quivered mightily. Finally he broke into uncontrollable sobs. His hands covered his face and he dropped to his knees on the bathroom floor. "Okay, I'll pay."
Eddie Sands smiled. "Where is your money?" he said.
Harry Desmond slowed his sobbing, looked up, wiped his eyes and nose with his right hand.
"The Chase Manhattan Bank-"
"This isn't some blue-chip stock trade," Sands said impatiently. "I mean money we can put our hands on right this minute."
"I have credit here at the casino."
Sands led Desmond into the other room. Ray Beadle was standing in the middle of the room with the handcuffed Skippy. He feigned writing in a small notebook. "Take him to the car," Sands said. Beadle put the notebook away, led Skippy toward the door.
As they went out, Sands picked up the phone receiver. "You were in a poker game with some pals," he said. "You need a hundred grand to cover your losses and you'll pick it up at the casino cage." He handed the receiver to Desmond and dialed the number of the casino count room.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The elevator doors opened onto the casino. Harry Desmond, wearing his dark glasses, stepped off, Eddie Sands behind him. In the casino, Sands watched from behind a row of slot machines as Desmond approached the cashier's cage. A bushy-haired man with thick glasses came to the counter. After a brief discussion, the man left. He returned shortly from the count room with a package wrapped in brown paper. Harry Desmond signed a form. The man handed Desmond the package. Awkwardly, Desmond looked about, then headed straight past the gaming tables and out the side door of the casino.
Sands followed.
Outside in the parking lot, which was full because of a convention being held at the hotel, Sands continued behind Desmond at a discreet distance until he was sure no one had followed them from the casino. Then he picked up his pace, caught up with Desmond, and took the package out of his hands. "Go back inside," Sands said.
"What about Skippy?"
"He'll be released," Sands said. "There will be no police report. You're free to go."
"Thank you, officer."
"Sergeant."
"Thank you, sergeant."
Harry Desmond walked slowly back toward the casino.
Ray Beadle approached Sands.
"Where's Skippy?" Sands said without taking his eyes off Desmond.
"His sorry fruit ass is long gone, partner."
Harry Desmond entered the side door of the casino without looking back.
"Wait here," Sands said. Carrying the package of money under his arm, Sands marched across the parking lot, circled around the building. He walked in the front entrance and through the busy, smoke-filled casino, and took an elevator to the eighteenth floor. At the end of the hallway, he knocked on a door.
Parisi opened the door. He looked both ways in the hallway, allowed Sands to enter. Sands handed him the package.
"No problems?" Parisi said as he tore the package open. He thumbed greenbacks.
"He never knew what hit him," Sands said.
"What was he doing when you went in?"
"He's a fruit. He was fruiting off."
Parisi smiled one of his lewd blue-lipped smiles. "You're the best I've ever seen at this game," he said.
"When will you have Monica out of jail?"
"The bondsman will have her out within two hours," Parisi said. "I'll call you."
"And my money from the phony chips?"
"Come back in two hours and I'll have the money I owe you.
"You're standing there with a hundred grand in a bag and you're telling me to come back for what you owe me?"
"I'd cut off some of this right now, but I'm parlaying a deal in another room right at the moment," Parisi said as he maintained unflinching eye contact. He made a gracious smile. "Go get your wife out of jail and I'll have your money for you."
Outside, Sands found Beadle waiting where he had left him. Together, they walked briskly through the dimly lit parking lot. "Did he come through with the chips money?" Beadle said as they turned this way and that among endless rows of vehicles which, because of the synthetic light, all looked the same color.
"He's still stalling. I can't figure it."
They reached the car Beadle had rented earlier in the day.
"Maybe that sorry-assed Desmond will do a TV talk show about it someday. His new book will be called The Case of the Cork Soaker's Checkbook."
They laughed.
"Thanks for helping me get Monica out," Sands said as they reached the car. "I owe you, old partner."
They reached the car, climbed in. Beadle put his key in the ignition. There was movement in the backseat. Sands whirled.
A man sprang up, pointed a gun. It was Vito. "Turn around and keep your hands where I can see them," he said with an inflection in his voice that meant to Eddie Sands he was ready to kill. It was a tone that every veteran cop comes to recognize for exactly what it is-the promise that death is just a six-pound trigger pull away.
Slowly, Sands turned toward the windshield. He felt his heart pounding, slamming, trying to escape from his chest.
"Drive out of the lot," Vito said to Beadle.
Beadle's eyes moved in Sands's direction.
"What do you want?" Sands said. For some reason, he recalled standing at a doorway in a trailer court off the Boulder highway years ago. He had talked a drunken auto mechanic into giving up a knife he was holding to his wife's throat.
Vito touched the barrel of his gun to the back of Beadle's head. "Drive, motherfucker," he said. "Someone wants to meet you."
"I delivered the money to Tony," Sands said, trying to buy time to size up the situati
on.
"Start the engine and drive," Vito said. "Or your head comes off."
"Do what he says, Ray," Sands said to the windshield.
A well-dressed couple with arms around each other passed by. The gray artificial light in the parking lot gave their complexions a deathlike pallor. They didn't notice the three sitting in the car. Sands's abdominal muscles were taut, his breathing labored.
Ray Beadle started the engine. He put the car in gear, backed slowly out of the parking space. Just as slowly, he changed gears. He stepped on the accelerator, drove carefully to the exit.
"Turn right."
Beadle complied, pulled into traffic on the crowded Las Vegas Boulevard. They passed the Frontier Hotel.
"Where are we going?" Sands said.
"Everything will be okay if you do what I say."
"You've got a lot of balls taking us without any help," Sands said.
"Shut the fuck up."
Beadle steered past the Hacienda Hotel, some service stations, and a small business district at the north end of the Strip. In front of them was nothing but darkness and desert.
"Who wants to talk to us out in the desert?" Sands said.
Vito said nothing.
Eddie Sands made a circular motion with his left hand and prayed that Beadle would notice. "Looks like we're gonna get killed, Ray," Sands said as they left behind the lights of Las Vegas. Beadle blinked rapidly to show that he understood. The car accelerated steadily.
"You gonna bury us?" Beadle said to Vito with his voice cracking. The car accelerated.
"You're going too fast. Slow down," Vito said. He sounded worried.
For a moment, Sands thought of Monica. He imagined her head resting on his shoulder, her hand clasping his. He smelled her hair. Then he allowed his legs and arms to become taut, ready. Suddenly he whirled, lunged at Vito. With a catlike motion he snatched the barrel of the .22, twisted. The gun fired. With the immediate ear-splitting crack of the revolver, Beadle shrieked. The car swerved.
Eddie Sands was still gripping the gun with both hands as he fought for control, for his life. There was the sound of wheels hitting rocks and gravel as the car left the road. Suddenly Sands felt the world turning upside down. He continued to struggle for the weapon. It fired twice more. Glass shattered. Finally the car ground to a stop on its side. Thrown together in the wreck, Sands and Vito were face-to-face, so close that Sands could smell the other man's sour breath. The gun was still between them. Sands managed to get a grip on Vito's thumb. Slowly, as Vito made little groans, Sands pried the thumb away from the butt of the revolver. He shoved downward on it with all the adrenaline strength he could muster. As he continued to force the thumb backward, Vito emitted a long, controlled moan. Finally, with a powerful life-or-death effort, Sands forced the thumb fully backward. There was a sound like a green twig breaking. Vito's moan changed to a deafening, full male scream.
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