by Lee Winter
“The bus rental wouldn’t have been cheap either,” Ayers said. “Which company did he book again? You had the photo of the bus on your phone? Wait, you called them, too, didn’t you?”
Lauren’s gaze meandered over the soft curves to a crisp pale-blue collar, and she absently wondered whether that flawless skin went all the way down. Her eyes sprang open at the realization she was actually contemplating what lay beneath all that starched linen.
The scratching pen stopped, and Ayers focused on her. “What’s your problem?” Ayers asked. “You look like you’re passing a kidney stone.”
“Nothing,” Lauren muttered and cleared her throat. “And, um, it was Carson City Coach Rental. We can check it out after we’ve found where Cherry works.”
* * *
It took only three calls to find Cherry Pie. Wild Bunny Heaven Ranch was in Mound House, a small community just over the Carson City boundary in Lyon County.
Despite its name, the white, squat building was neither a ranch nor heavenly. It looked more like a temporary building constructed from plywood and held together with little more than grime and spittle.
Dark brown air-conditioning units crouched on the flat tin roof, and off-white rusting downpipes scribbled down the sides of the numerous rooms. A forbidding high barbed-wire fence circled the ranch.
“Well that’s inviting,” Lauren declared as they pulled into the empty parking lot. “No wonder Cherry seemed so thrilled to be getting out for the night.”
“Do you think they live here, too?” Ayers surveyed the depressing building that looked barely held together. “The women?”
“For their sakes, I hope not,” Lauren said unbuckling her seatbelt. “I’m surprised you don’t know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ayers looked genuinely put out.
Lauren raised her hands. “Sorry, I just assumed you’d know. You seem to know everything else.”
Ayers’s eyes narrowed as though she was picking through the comment for the insult.
“Well you do,” Lauren said. “Seriously!”
“Politics I know, King,” she said. “Brothels are not something for which I’ve had much call to master the inner workings.”
She exited the car and slammed the door, making Lauren wince. “Hey! Could you not beat up The Beast?” she protested. “Geez.”
Ayers said nothing as she pulled out her cell phone and checked for messages.
“Let me take the lead on this one?” Lauren suggested as she got out too. “We need to schmooze a little. And, let’s face it; I’m the people person of our duo.”
Ayers glared at her over the roof of the Chevy. “It may shock you to know, but all those years in Washington I didn’t always approach situations with guns blazing. I can be charming.”
Lauren looked at her skeptically. “Fine. Prove me wrong.”
She locked The Beast and looked up to see Ayers’s swaying hips already halfway toward the sign marked Reception.
God forbid Ayers actually waited for her.
* * *
Whatever Lauren thought the inside of a brothel would look like, this was not it. A dozen framed posters lined the red walls, featuring the stars of the ranch dressed up as showgirls. Below these sat a long sofa in velvet crimson with mounds of matching, tasselled cushions. Not even the dim lighting could disguise the age of the fraying décor.
A shrunken woman with an efficient brown bob, wizened leathery skin, and thick, bright-red glasses exited the office at the rear and closed the door with a snick behind her.
She was probably in her sixties, her nose-bleedingly-high black heels drilled with practised ease into the thin gray carpet as she stalked toward them. She wore a plum, cleavage-plunging dress with the weariness of an endured uniform. She was quite possibly the least sexy woman Lauren could ever imagine in this line of business. Maybe that was the point? To get the clients focused on the available women on offer?
“Ladies,” the woman rasped. “Welcome to Wild Bunny Heaven Ranch,” she said. She sized them up. “So—are you reporters, cops, or just lost?”
“How do you know we’re not clients?” Lauren asked.
The woman bared her lips ever so slightly to offer a glimpse of nicotine-stained teeth.
“Oh I can’t imagine,” she said. Her eyes dropped to the cell phone in Ayers’s hand. “So, you’re not lost.”
“Okay, well, I was wondering if I could meet one of your women?” Lauren said. “Her name is Cher–”
“She’s busy.” The woman regarded Ayers closely and finally shook her head. “Not cops.”
Her eyes flicked to Lauren. “Well, you maybe. Definitely not her. A blue blood, and she can’t hide it. But since you’re here together, you likely work together—so which newspaper? Because somehow I know you two aren’t here looking to spice things up.” Her gaze shifted back to Ayers, and she offered a quirked eyebrow. “Although perhaps you are. A little walk on the wild side with the rough trade, darlin’?” Her eyes darted back to Lauren.
“Oh well done,” Ayers said softly. “You seem to have us nicely figured out. Miss…”
“Athena.”
“As in the goddess of war?” Ayers inquired politely, her voice still low.
“Or wisdom and strategy,” Athena said.
“Don’t forget arts and crafts,” Lauren inserted helpfully.
“Oh I see.” Athena narrowed her eyes, and she thrummed long, purple talons against her hips. “A pair of clowns. Well, you can find the door.”
She pivoted away from them and moved toward her office.
“We’re reporters,” Ayers said at her retreating back. “From Los Angeles. The Daily Sentinel.”
Athena’s stride slowed. She beckoned them into her office with a crooked finger and arranged herself on a cheap swivel chair with the authority of a queen. She peered up at them. “Quite a drive. And why are you here?”
“There was a party in LA on Saturday, the eleventh,” Ayers said. “Some of your ladies attended. We’d like to know more about the circumstances of that booking.”
“All client details are private. I’m surprised you’d bother to ask. You must know the drill.”
“We already know who paid,” Ayers said. “That’s not the information we’re seeking.”
“That so?” Athena said and waved her hand as a fly buzzed slowly by. Her wrinkled fingers were crammed with antique rings—green- and yellow-stoned baubles which reflected the stark fluorescent light.
She reached under her desk and brought out a can of fly spray. She liberally doused the insect, her desk, and everything within a three-foot radius, including her guests.
Lauren coughed. “Shit,” she muttered indignantly when she sucked in a lungful. “Do you have to Agent Orange everything?”
“Just the pests.” Athena put the can away. “Doing Nevada a favor.” She smiled brightly.
Ayers’s jaw worked. Lauren watched, intrigued, wondering how vicious the comeback would be. Instead Ayers said tightly, “Someone hired your ladies at taxpayers’ expense for a business launch.”
“Imagine that,” Athena remarked evenly.
“The party was held in LA. Our governor was there, too.”
“Mmm,” Athena said neutrally.
“Look, can we just see the invoice?” Lauren interjected. “We already know who the client was. It’s not revealing anything.”
“If it’s not revealing anything, why ask to see it?” Athena asked. “If such an invoice existed.”
At Lauren’s disbelieving look, she added, “Oh sweetie, how long do you suppose I’d survive in this game if I handed out the specifics of private bookings to nosy reporters?”
“Okay,” Lauren said, shoulders slumped. “True. Let’s play a hypothetical then. How much would it cost to hire thirty-four women for a night and take them to LA and back?”
“Depends on what they’re doing. How many services are being offered,” Athena countered. “Hypothetically speaking.”
“Let’s say they’re just there for scenery,” Lauren said. “Stay a few hours then leave. All up they’d be gone, say, twenty hours total, including travel time.”
“I don’t have thirty-four women at my ranch,” Athena said. “I have eighteen.”
Lauren blinked. “But I saw thirty-four at the party.”
“I thought we were talking hypothetically.” Athena leaned back in her chair and regarded her. She drummed her fingernails against the desk. “But for argument’s sake, if you wanted, say, thirty-four girls, I’d have to call in our sister ranch in the next county. I’d do a deal with them for the remaining girls required. Any reason you want thirty-four? It’s an unusual number.”
Athena was playing with them now, Lauren decided. She looked far too amused. Although, she was right—it was an odd number.
“Let’s say I like unusual numbers.” Lauren said. “So how much then, total?”
“$102,000,” Athena said without hesitation.
There was a silence. Ayers reached for her notebook and scribbled the number down.
“Over a hundred thousand?” Lauren whispered. “Are you kidding me?”
“Thirty-four girls for twenty hours at $150 an hour—that’s our base rate that stipulates absolutely no sexual contact.”
“It’s really impressive you know that total off the top of your head,” Lauren muttered.
“Can’t be a successful entrepreneur without good math, sweetie.”
“True.”
Athena offered a slow smile. “Of course, we do offer a five-percent discount for those clients spending more than $50,000 on a single event.”
“So that’s…” Lauren tried to do the math in her head.
“$96,900,” Athena said easily.
“You really are good at numbers,” Lauren said, impressed.
“Thank you. Well, you are at least more polite than my previous callers on the topic.”
“What?” Lauren exchanged a look with Ayers. “Previous callers? Talking to you about the LA booking?”
An unfathomable look crossed Athena’s face. “I didn’t say that,” she said testily. “Now, excuse me ladies, but I have work to attend to. Enjoy your trip home.”
She ushered them out the door.
* * *
Lauren slid into the driver’s seat, thoughts racing.
“Almost a hundred thousand bucks!” Lauren said slowly. “That is not just ‘chump change.’ Someone, somewhere in Nevada’s government has a hole in their budget.”
“So it would seem.”
“And what’s with that hasty exit?” Lauren continued, throwing her hands up. “Like she’d left the stove on. And who visited her? That was weird. She was weird.”
Ayers nodded. “Mm.”
They sat for a moment, lost in thought, and Lauren traced the swirls of barbed wire along the top of the fence with her gaze.
“I’ve never been called anyone’s rough trade before,” Lauren murmured.
“Really?” Ayers sounded surprised.
Lauren snapped her head around before she could hide her offended reaction. She quickly looked away to drill holes in the steering wheel. An awkward silence fell between them.
Ayers inhaled a deep breath after a few minutes. “King,” she said. “Regardless of what that irritating creature implied, I don’t look down on you.”
“No?”
“Of course not,” Ayers said as though it was the most obvious statement in the world. “Well, your fashion sense, perhaps,” she added, lips curling. “But you? Generally, no.”
“Yet you’re always reminding me I’m just a hick.” Lauren looked her squarely in the eye. “How many times have you made cracks about where I’m from?”
“I was only ever reminding you of your roots. If you wish to layer that with negative connotations—that’s on you,” Ayers said, her eyebrow arched imperiously.
Lauren snorted. “Uh huh.”
“Besides, I’ve been to the Midwest,” Ayers added. “It’s not without its charms.” She slid her sunglasses on and changed the subject. “I suppose I’m not going to get to meet the infamous Cherry Pie. What a shame.”
“And she was just your kind of people, too,” Lauren retorted with a sly grin.
Ayers settled back against the seat. “I’m sure. Now can we get going? Preferably sometime before nightfall. This place makes me rethink my will to live.”
CHAPTER 7
Kors and Effect
Carson City Coach Rental had a few things going for it. Prime downtown location, a sign that still had all its letters—and words which were spelled correctly—and no barbed wire in sight. But what Lauren especially appreciated about it was it didn’t seem to have quite the same privacy concerns as a brothel.
As luck would have it, the manager, a solidly built, outdoorsy type with his gaze fixed squarely on her chest, had been extremely forthcoming.
Walt something was his name. Lauren didn’t quite catch the rest as she’d spent most of the introduction trying to extract her fingers from his engulfing handshake.
He remembered the booking, he explained, which had arrived via fax two months ago.
“Strangest thing ever,” he said, scratching his beard. He shrugged; his shoulders were so broad he looked like he probably felled trees before breakfast. “The purchase order came in, and the quote I gave back was for $2200. It’s our LA special—we do it around this time of year when business drops off. But, see, the client faxed back a reply that he’d book us if I upped my price by $40.80.”
“He wanted you to increase your price?” Lauren asked.
“Yup. Never seen that in twenty-odd years in the bus-rental business.”
Walt rummaged around his counter which was cluttered with faded brochures of American vacation destinations. He nudged a Stop Off at Beautiful Baker flier out of the way and looked lost. “I thought the booking folder was here. Must be in the back.”
Lauren glanced around the windowless office, covered in scenic posters with bland slogans like Buses Show You More. She unbuttoned her borrowed Kors jacket and slid her hands into her jeans pockets.
“Well, I…uh…I’ll go get the invoice,” Walt told her chest earnestly. “Probably has the feller’s name on it. Since this one’s a government job, it’s, like, everyone’s business, right?” He didn’t move immediately, eyes still south of Lauren’s chin.
“I’d appreciate that,” Lauren said when he still didn’t budge. He finally lumbered off and almost tripped over his boots in his enthusiasm. The moment he was gone, Ayers stepped up beside her and leaned on the counter.
“Do you think you could stop presenting yourself like a bonobo chimp in heat?” she said. “It’s giving me indigestion.”
“It’s hot in here,” Lauren protested. “What would you prefer? I faint in a puddle of sweat?”
“I would prefer you don’t acquire us an amorous stalker.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. “He’s just being friendly. Besides, this is information we need. Stop complaining.”
The man’s return curtailed whatever caustic rejoinder Ayers was about to utter. He slapped a page on the desk. “Darndest thing. I can’t find my invoice. It’s gone from the main binder. Every job I book gets filed in there, and the duplicates go to the drivers. All I could find was the copy of the job sheet. It breaks down every stop a driver has to make for each booking and when he’s supposed to make it.”
Three heads bent over the typed page on the counter.
May 11: Lyon County to LA (return)
Client: Nevada Legislature
Contact: 1-866-543-9941 (fax)
Noon: Wild Bunny Heaven Ranch, 27 Desert Rd East, Lyon County—Pick up 34 passengers.
12:30: Liquor store, 407 N. Curry St—Pick up pallet of champagne, invoice no. 26284.
20:30: Beverly Hills Regent, 9876 Wilshire Bvd—Drop off passengers, rear door of Grand Convention Ballroom.
20:45: 11820 W. Olympic Blvd, LA—Collect envelope.
&
nbsp; 21:00-23:00: Food and rest break.
23:00: Beverly Hills Regent—Pick up 34 passengers.
07:30: Drop off at Wild Bunny Heaven Ranch.
08:00: Return to Base.
“What’s this?” Lauren asked and pointed to the stop after the SmartPay launch drop off. “11820 W. Olympic Blvd. And what envelope?”
Walt shrugged. “Not a clue. I’d normally say you should ask the driver but, like I told you on the phone, Fels just took off. He was supposed to open up for me last Monday—the thirteenth. But when I got in that afternoon, the office was still locked up tighter than a flea’s behind.
“Two days later I get a Sorry boss, I moved to Mexico, PS I quit text. I can’t believe it.”
Lauren studied the job sheet. “Can I get a copy of that?” she asked.
The man’s scowl transformed into a wide smile. “Why, course, darlin’, just wait right there.” He disappeared out the back.
Ayers side-eyed her. “When Buffalo Bill there tries to woo you later with a bowling date, you can pay for the dry cleaning to get his slobber out of my jacket.”
The manager loped back in moments later and laid a photocopy down in front of them. He rocked back on his heels and puffed his chest out proudly. Ayers shot him a withering look, and Lauren had to bite her lip to stop from laughing.
“So, uh, ma’am, don’t suppose you’re free tonight?” Walt asked Lauren hopefully. He scribbled his fingers through his bushy beard. “I’d love to take you out and show you Carson City’s best sights. What hotel are you at? Oh, hey, do you bowl?”
* * *
“Well that was productive, I suppose,” Ayers said as they settled back in the car. “And he was very, oh, what was that word again? Ah yes. Friendly.”
Lauren started the engine. “Whatever. Look, we’ve got a lot more now than we had,” she reasoned. “And I thought it was nice of him to give us the job sheet. He didn’t have to. In fact, really, he probably shouldn’t have.”