The Downtown Deal

by Mike Dennis

  "Colby Farrow." His eyes tumbled downward, staring at the patterned marble floor.

  "And who's Superman over there." He was still gasping, but now leaning against the wide spiral staircase, one arm on the bannister, one arm across his gut.

  Colby said, "That's my brother, Ryan."

  "How did you get into the house?"

  "Ryan has a key."

  "Oh, he does? Very interesting. And what brings you boys here on this fine day?"

  "We came to … to pick up some of Ryan's things."

  "His things? What kind of things?"

  Colby said, "This is really none of your business, Barnett. We're —"

  I slapped him. Hard. His hand flew up to his cheek.

  "When I'm hired to investigate a murder, and there's two guys at the scene who don't belong there, believe me, buddy, it's my business. Now, what kind of things are you taking out of here? Or should I call the cops myself? Maybe they'd like to know why you're here early in the morning, one day after Sandra Blake was found with a bullet in her head. Maybe they'd like to know why you're removing items from this house, which house, I might add, does not belong to you."

  He rubbed his reddening face. "Ryan had a few clothes over here, as well as some Château Mouton."

  "Sha-toe what?"

  Disdain crept onto his face. He looked at me like I was a hunk of shit on a white carpet. "It's wine. Very expensive wine. I doubt you would know of it."

  I shrugged off the insult. "Tell me, why did your brother have his stuff over here? Was he seeing Sandra Blake?"

  Colby nodded. "He'd been seeing her for about a year."

  "And that's why he happens to have a key?"

  "Yes."

  I walked over to Superman, just now getting his breath back.

  "So, were you living here with the late Mrs Blake?"

  He finally stood up, still clutching his midsection. "No."

  "Just staying here on occasion, right? Kind of cozy-like."

  "I stayed here sometimes. Listen, you'll regret this, Barnett." His voice was returning, but still on the raspy side.

  "Yeah," I said, "I'm sure I will. Let's go get your clothes."

  I herded the both of them up the staircase. Ryan led the way, moving us swiftly into the master bedroom and into the walk-in closet, which was by itself nearly as big as my apartment. Mostly women's clothing lined the racks and shelves, and about as many shoes as there are in the state of Rhode Island. I watched while he gathered his stuff, after which we all moved back downstairs.

  I turned to Colby. "Show me the living room."

  He escorted me into the living room, and what a room it was! One of those you see featured in oversized, glossy, wouldn't-you-love-to-live-here magazines.

  At least twenty feet high, it was dominated by dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows all along the front, covered by thick, deep blue drapes that blocked out every last snippet of sunlight. Top-drawer designer furniture and plush carpeting covered the floor, while high-ticket artwork, or what looked like it anyway, hung here and there on the walls. A jumbo fireplace, almost big enough to walk into, sat squarely in the middle of the far wall. A large mirror hung above it, while a gleaming white grand piano controlled the right side of the room. A graceful, modernist chandelier, dangling over the center of everything, provided the only light. The touch of the professional decorator was everywhere.

  Except for the blood.

  And it was all over the soft, exquisite yellow carpet in front of the matching chairs, as well as on the wall behind them. It was all that was left of Sandra Blake. I stared at it for a few moments, visualizing her death. And wondering why.

  I turned to Colby. "Where's the wine?"

  He led me to the kitchen. Next to the big Sub-Zero refrigerator was a narrow door. He gestured toward it and I opened it.

  It revealed a small pantry-like area no more than two feet wide, shelves rising about four feet off the floor. It had been converted to a miniature wine fridge. The coolish air immediately drifted out of it into my eyes and my nostrils, giving me an odd little temporary pick-me-up. The shelves, each containing semicircular slats, held the wine bottles. There were about a dozen of them, lounging lazily on their sides, corks wet and waiting.

  "Which one's the big one?" I asked.

  "There." He pointed to the floor. There was a wooden case, unopened. It looked pretty old. It also looked like it belonged to Sandra Blake, not to either of these jokers.

  "The whole case? How many bottles are in it?"

  "Six."

  Something didn't smell right. Coming over here for your own clothes is one thing, but this wine sitting there in a big wooden box? I let them take this, then what was next? Sandra Blake's jewelry?

  "The wine stays," I said.

  His eyebrows came together in a frown, causing prominent lines to surge upward on his forehead. They were so prominent, in fact, I could tell he'd made that move many, many times in his life. "You can't do that! It belongs to my brother."

  "And a broken rib is going to belong to you if you give me any more shit about this. The wine stays. Now let's go get you and your brother out of here."

  I turned to Ryan. "Give me your key to the house."

  "Hold on, Barnett," Ryan said. "You can't do this."

  "I am doing it, junior. Now, put down the clothes, reach into your pocket for the key, and place it in my hand. This minute. And give me your driver's license, while you're at it."

  "My driver's li —"

  His stomach still hurt, I could tell. He didn't want a repeat blow to it, but my eyes told him there would be one if he resisted. I slapped him for good measure.

  He did as he was told.

  Putting the license in my pocket, I escorted them out, then locked the door behind us with Ryan's key. As we walked over to their BMW, I told them, "If anyone comes back here for that wine, or for anything else in this house, Ryan, I know where you live." I pulled out his license and held it up to his face. "And believe me, you will not enjoy the consequences."

  I opened the driver's side door to the big sedan and shoved him in.

  "Now, both of you get the fuck out of here."

  3

  I still had plenty of time before my lunch meeting with Blake, so I called Frank Madden on my cell as I wound my way out of Beachview. His phone rang once and he answered.

  "Frank. Jack Barnett."

  "I'm just leaving the office, Jack. On my way to a crime scene. What's up?"

  "Are you working the Sandra Blake murder?"

  "Shit, Jack," he sighed, "don't tell me you're involved with that."

  "I just need to know what you've got so far. Can you sketch it out for me?"

  "I don't think so. Not this time. This is high-profile stuff. I can't afford to have you muddying the waters." As he spoke, an ambulance roared up the street from the opposite direction, drowning him out. I asked him to repeat it.

  He did, and I said, "Come on, Frank. I'm asking as a friend."

  And I did consider him a friend. He drops into Binion's two or three nights a week after work for a few hours of poker. Often times, we sit next to each other, and on several occasions, we've gone for coffee and sandwiches afterward. We've gotten along very well, exchanging little confidences between us along the way.

  He's probably the only cop I've ever known whom I can completely trust. Because, like me, he considers rules to be bendable.

  Plus, he's not a bad poker player. We both made the switch from seven-card stud to hold'em a couple of months back, after a guy named Moneymaker came out of nowhere to win the 2003 World Series of Poker. Right away, the game exploded into the national consciousness. The casinos started spreading no-limit hold'em, just like what was on TV, a lot of bad players flooded the games, so Frank and I jumped over. We've both done pretty well since then.

  "Read the papers," he replied. "You'll learn everything I know."

  "Look, this means a lot to me, Frank. I stand to make a lot of money if I can impact t
his case. And I promise — I promise I won't get in your way." I could tell he was not impressed, so I rolled out the heavy artillery. "Look, I tell you what. Work with me on this — I mean, you don't have to give up state secrets or anything — just give me a broad outline, and I'll give you a tell on Manny the Mexican."

  I knew that would grab his attention. Manny the Mexican routinely kicked Frank's ass in the hold'em game. I heard him say, as he leaned away from the phone, "Nick, go get the car and pick me up out front." Then he spoke back into the phone in his confidential voice. "You got a tell on Manny? What kind of tell?"

  "The reliable kind. The kind that lets you know when he's bluffing and when he's got the goods. Now, how about it? One hand washes the other?"

  There was a moment of silence while he worked the count. Then: "All right. But just so you know, we're swamped with cases. I'm on my way to a drive-by scene right now. Last night, there was a murder-suicide up on Washington Avenue. And in case you don't read the papers, there's a serial killer on the loose. The Blake case is stalling and might cool down. If you can turn up anything, it'll be a load off. But I want everything you get."

  I spoke in my most empathetic voice. "I understand, Frank. You'll get it. And anything you can tell me here will be appreciated."

  He said, "There was no sign of forced entry. We think she knew the perpetrator. There's a peephole in her front door. Otherwise, why would she let him in at that hour of the night? That rules out psycho tradesmen and random crimes of opportunity."

  "Motive?"

  "Burglary's out. So's home invasion. Nothing was taken. Jewelry still in her bedroom, money and plastic still in her purse. No ransacking anywhere. The ballistics report says the bullet was a .38 caliber. Shot at very close range." He paused, then said, "She was executed."

  "Any forensic stuff? Fibers, hairs? That kind of thing?"

  "The crime scene geeks were in there yesterday for about seven or eight hours. I was looking over their shoulder the whole time. They found a few things, but we won't get their report for awhile."

  "Any witnesses? Neighbors? Passers-by?"

  "We canvassed the neighborhood. One neighbor said she thought she heard a loud report around ten, but wasn't sure. She didn't go to the window, didn't see anything. Nobody else saw or heard a thing."

  "Anything else? Anything at all?"

  "We looked her ex-husband over pretty closely. Being her ex, he probably had a motive, but he also has a solid alibi."

  "Do you know if she went out that night?"

  He said, "She did. Had dinner with a girlfriend at Pasta Mia. It was the only entry in her datebook for that day."

  "Pasta Mia?"

  "It's a little Italian place on Flamingo, right near the Palms Casino. We checked it out. The waiter remembers them. They ate together, then left around eight-thirty, quarter of nine. Separate cars, we think, because the girlfriend went straight to a ten-after-nine movie at the Palms. She's still got the stub with the date and time on it."

  At that moment, I was driving down Flamingo with the Palms in sight up ahead. I caught a glimpse of Pasta Mia tucked away in a small strip center on the right. It looked like someplace I might want to try sometime.

  "What movie did the girlfriend see?"

  "Something called American Wedding," he said.

  "And what's her name?"

  "Martine Devereaux."

  "When did you talk to her?"

  "We tried to get her yesterday afternoon, after we shut down the crime scene, but she wasn't home. We finally got to her last night."

  "Where can I find her?"

  "She works at the Bootlegger Bistro. Plays piano and sings there three nights a week."

  "How about —"

  "How about that tell, Jack. I've already given you a lot more than I should have."

  I took a breath. "When Manny's bluffing, he casually lifts his chips up a few inches off the table as he's putting them out in front of him to bet. When he's holding a real hand, he kind of slides them out, or lifts them just barely off the table."

  Frank chuckled. "I'm going in there tonight. I'll let you know if you're right."

  "I'm right. You can bet on it."

  "Don't worry. I will."

  4

  If ever there was an “Old Vegas” strip hotel, it's the Stardust. Built and originally operated by gangsters, it acquired a certain tradition that somehow stuck with it from the get-go.

  I’m told the personal service you encounter there today used to be routine at all the old hotels. Everyone is made to feel important there, in distinct contrast to the assembly-line treatment you might receive at the newer, fancier resorts.

  Now, I have to say I’ve only moved to town a couple of years ago, so I don't have any first-hand experience with the old days. I just have to go by what I’ve heard.

  And what I’ve heard is, when the doors opened in 1958, the Stardust was called “the world’s largest resort hotel”, even though it stood just two stories high. It really didn’t look much different from then on, even after the mob was forced out in the 1980s.

  Today, in the fall of 2003, it still appears pretty much the same as it always has, casino and all. Oh, they added a big, high-falutin’ thirty-story hotel some years ago, and the gigantic roadside neon sign has been spruced up some, but the original two-story motel is still standing, still going full swing. In addition, the casino has kept pretty much the same layout for decades.

  I could go on forever about this place, but take my word for it, you walk into the Stardust and you step back in time.

  ≈≈≈

  I pulled into the auto entrance, stopping under the vast neon umbrella that covered the valet parking area. Josh opened the door for me. I stepped out and felt the refreshing light breeze, typical for this late in October.

  “Good morning, Mr Barnett,” he said, as he handed me the valet stub. I’ve only been coming to the Stardust for a couple of weeks now, mainly for lunch in their coffee shop. Josh started calling me by name after three days, even though my car screams "low-roller". I take care of him, though. He needs to be encouraged.

  Shirley greeted me as I approached her hostess stand at the coffee shop.

  “By yourself today, Jack?” she asked with a smile that had been tried on thousands of customers.

  The coffee shop may have been modernized somewhat over the years, but many of the people who work there are thirty- and forty-year veterans, overflowing with tales of mobsters, movie stars, and magical Vegas moments.

  Evenly-set teeth gleamed white against cocoa-colored skin. She didn’t wait for an answer, as she said, “You don’t need a menu, do you, honey?”

  “Actually, Shirley, I’m meeting someone today."

  I looked past her into the crowded room. Most of the booths and tables were occupied, while waitresses scurried around, taking orders and carrying wide, round trays filled with meals and drinks.

  Then in a booth along the wall to the left, I saw him nursing a cup of coffee.

  Shirley motioned me in. I stepped carefully around a busboy, as he refilled coffee cups and water glasses for a roisterous party of eight at a large nearby table.

  Eventually, I arrived at the booth, where I took a seat opposite John Brendan Blake.

  He stood as I approached. We greeted each other around a handshake, while a trace of a smile briefly dashed across his tanned face. His bluish-green eyes came alive, as though he were suddenly awakening from a daydream. As usual, he was decked in expensive clothing, wearing a close-fitting, single-breasted designer suit, midnight blue, with a cream-colored shirt and a garish orange tie that clashed with everything, nearly ruining the whole look. A silk handkerchief of muted grays and yellows peeked out of his breast pocket.

  I put him in his early forties, but he had an energetic presence, cutting the figure of a young entrepreneur. That was understandable, since he built the Blake Enterprises behemoth out of nothing more than the fine silken threads of his imagination and dreams. That kind o
f effort takes a dedication and an energy which I definitely do not possess.

  But, I have to say, even though I'm not wild about him personally, it's guys like Blake who built this city, and every city, for that matter. At a great price to themselves, I might add. They eventually wind up with wrecked marriages, plenty of enemies, and no life at all.

  So much money, and so little time to enjoy it.

  Right away, the waitress descended upon us. Her dark brown hair was twisted back up into a bun, while her lined face and worn name tag told of many years at this old property, as well as many stories in her memory. She fit right in at the coffee shop, though, smiling as she brushed a dangling, tired shock of hair from her eyes, then positioned her pen to take our order.

  I wanted a club sandwich and a beer, Blake ordered an Asian salad. He asked if they had San Pellegrino. They didn't. He was not pleased. Reluctantly, he settled for iced tea.

  Finally, he said, “How's it going, Jack. Learn anything out at the house?”

  "Maybe. First of all, do you have the photograph?"

  He nodded, then reached into his breast pocket, behind his silk handkerchief, sliding out a color photo. It was a three-by-five shot, professionally taken.

  "It was the shot she used for her website and her business cards," he said.

  "She had a website? Of her own?"

  "It wasn't her website, actually. She was a realtor. Worked for Silverstone Towers. The photo appeared on their website."

  "What's Silverstone Towers?"

  "One of those big new high-rise condo buildings going up. Well, it's not really going up just yet, but it's been announced. They're selling the shit out of them just from the plans. Mostly out-of-towners, speculators, that kind of thing."

  "Do you have anything at all to do with its development?" I asked.

  "No."

  I looked at her photo closely. Hair the color of dirty straw clung close to her face, shaping it into a near-work of art. Spirited eyes and a captivating smile told you this is someone you wanted to get to know. Her lips were medium-full, a muted shade of red, and looked entirely kissable. I slipped the picture into my shirt pocket.