"No. He said he came in by taxi and didn't have a driver's license, so I made up an address for him."
Celestino grinned sheepishly.
"You know you're not supposed to do that."
Roberts frowned at him, but he wasn't the hospitality police, and he didn't really care to be.
"I know, sorry, it won't happen again."
"Did he tell you anything else that might be important."
"Not really, but he appeared to be excited about something. He said he felt lucky, but he kept looking over his shoulder as if he was expecting somebody."
"How busy are you tonight?" asked Roberts.
"Not too busy. We're at about sixty percent occupancy."
"Anybody in 305 or 203?"
"No, they're both still vacant if you're looking for a room."
Celestino grinned and Roberts offered him the smallest of smirks.
"What about across the hall?"
"300 is occupied, but 302 and 304 are empty."
Roberts nodded.
"If you think of anything else," said Roberts, "let Detective Gray know."
Roberts nodded at the young good looking homicide detective who was still trying to wring any last drop of information from the housekeeper.
"Gray will let you know when you can go."
At the far corner of the room on the sofa sat a middle aged guy in a wife beater and gray slacks. His feet were naked. I wished they weren't. The toenails were jaundiced and looked like clamshells. Thick tufts of black wire grew from each toe and a scrambled mess of it carpeted the top of his feet. His forearms, and knuckles were thick with black hair. I figured he was the missing link between Homo erectus and sapiens.
He was a thin, wiry guy with a tight small belly that didn't seem to belong to the rest of him. His hair was a messy black bird's nest and his face was a minefield of spent shells and long ago exploded pockmarks. He looked up at us as we approached him, and that's when I knew how he managed a tight belly on his thin frame. His nose looked like it was stolen from a proboscis monkey. Standing close to him you could smell the sweet, sickly cologne of the alcoholic. He was well on his way to destroying his liver.
"I'm Captain Roberts of homicide."
"Stephen McSpadden," he said, looking up at Roberts.
I walked over to the window and opened the curtains. I peered outside over the parking lot. It was mostly empty but I saw Hartley's blue M5 parked in a corner by itself. I turned around and joined Roberts.
"You called in the noise complaint," said Roberts.
McSpadden nodded.
"Where you in your room all night?"
"No, I got back to the hotel at around twelve thirty. I came up to my room, and tried to go to bed, but the guy was blaring his TV."
"Was it a show?"
"No, I don't think so. It sounded like music. Mostly that shit hip hop and rap."
I smiled at him. That was probably the worst choice for coming to grips with a bender.
"Anyway, I decided I'd have a shower and see if the guy came to his senses. He didn't, so I went over and banged on his door. Friggin' idiot wouldn't open up so that's when I called housekeeping."
"What time was that?"
McSpadden shrugged.
"I don't know. Around one maybe. A little before."
I pulled out my phone and showed McSpadden a picture of Hartley.
"Did you know him?"
"Jesus," he said. "That's the guy?"
He looked up at me, and I figured I'd sobered him up just like that. I nodded.
"Yeah I've seen him?"
"Where?"
"At the Rustler Casino tonight."
"You were there?"
"Yeah, I was playing blackjack. He was making a killing at the poker table. At least that's what he kept telling everyone. You know how you get sore losers?"
I nodded.
"Well, he was a sore winner. Dragging the other players' noses in it. One guy almost went ballistic on him, but security tossed him out. A little while later, he gets tossed out too. Bitching and moaning all the time saying it's because he's winning. But I was grateful they tossed him out, and I reckon a lot of other people were too."
"What time was he tossed out?" asked Roberts.
More shrugging.
"I don't know. It was early. Probably around eleven."
"Was he by himself?"
McSpadden shook his head.
"No, he had some bimbo with him. She must have been a hooker."
"How do you know?" I asked.
McSpadden looked at me as if I'd asked him how he knew the pope was Catholic.
"You could tell. She was probably young enough to be his daughter. She was hardly wearing anything and she had enough makeup on to ice a cake."
"And she left with him?"
"Yeah, she thought the whole thing was quite funny, but they were both drunk. She was leaning on him for support."
"And you're sober?" I asked.
He glared at me from eyes ribboned with red. They were hard eyes, but eyes that had lost their fire.
"I had a few, but nowhere near like them."
Probably more, I figured. But he had years of practice. He was a professional at it. Don't try this at home, kids.
"What brings you to a fine establishment like this?" asked Roberts.
"I'm a salesman. There's a convention in town that I'm here for next week, and I wanted to get some R 'n R in before then."
"What convention is that?"
"RC. I sell remote control toys to small and independent businesses."
"Where you from?" asked Roberts.
"Chicago."
"Did you notice anyone suspicious around the hotel or in the hallway when you got back from the casino?"
McSpadden shook his head.
"No, I just remember hearing that noise coming from his room as I came down the hall. I don't know how long it had been going on for."
Roberts nodded.
"Alright," he said. "Detective Gray will come and get your particulars when he's finished up. He'll let you know when you can go."
McSpadden nodded and Roberts and I walked out of the room. The coroner was hauling Hartley out on a gurney.
"Doctor Proctor," said Roberts, as the coroner walked by, after his assistants.
"Emily's not working tonight, I take it," I said.
"No, she isn't."
He didn't stop to make small talk. He's like that. A guy who's most comfortable in social situations where everyone else is dead.
"He should have been a proctologist," I said to Roberts as we watched him walk down the hall. "It would've suited his name better."
Roberts laughed out loud. I was surprised, I didn't think it was that funny.
"I heard that Tony!" he said.
He knew I didn't like being called Tony. Tony's for Italians and I ain't Italian. But I got the first jab in, so I gave him some slack. Besides, Emily wouldn't appreciate it if I punched her colleague in the mouth. I'd never hear the end of it. Roberts stopped laughing and looked at me.
"What?" I said.
"You like her, don't you?"
"I just think she's a better coroner."
I grinned at him.
"Bullshit," he said. "She's better looking for sure, and you like her."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"We're on a homicide, in case you forgot," I said. "Not a dating convention."
All In: Chapter Three
I followed Roberts to the casino which is up on West Redondo Beach Boulevard. A boulevard whose name I never understood. There's nothing beachy about it. West or East Redondo Beach Boulevard never makes it anywhere near to the beach. The best you get is a shopping mall where you might be able to buy a pair of board shorts. This is how tourists get suckered into paying too much money for crappy hotels.
Rustler Casino is small. They advertise less than one hundred gaming tables. It's for Angelinos who are too lazy to drive the four hours to Las Vegas. How do I know this?
Because at two in the morning when we arrived the parking lot was full and people were spilling out onto it like regurgitated maggots.
You might think I'm being too hard on casinos, and you'd be wrong. I had to remortgage my house because I liked gambling too much. I don't have that problem anymore. I'll play poker sometimes but that's not quite the same as gambling. You're playing against other apes instead of the house.
I walked into the brightly lit building and the flashing colors of lights and the sound of bells and whistles. Maybe one in ten of the slots were open. Pensioners with their ashen faces and etched leathery skin sat at them like they were hooked up to lung machines.
We walked up to the cashier and Roberts flashed his badge. He asked to see the manager on duty. We only had to wait a few minutes, but I figured in those few minutes one woman I was watching lost a Jackson.
Roberts and I were ogling an attractive brunette walking up to us. Her legs probably made it to my armpits and her skin was as smooth and brown as honey. Her hair fell around her face and shoulders like a silk waterfall. Her eyes were big and bright and from the V in her blouse two round suns were breaking dawn. I swallowed and steadied my eyes on her face. She was smiling at us as she closed in when we figured out she was the manager.
We steadied ourselves and stood upright. We were now business. She was my height as she took my hand and shook it. Warm and soft as saganaki. I dived into her brown eyes and swam a few laps before she got around to introducing herself to Roberts.
"Rebeca Rodrigues," she said to him. "One C because I'm Brazilian."
"So you're the girl from Ipanema," I said, not being able to help myself.
She looked back at me and smiled politely, indulging my immaturity. She was more business than bikini I was beginning to realize.
"Don't let my good looks fool you, Mr. Carrick, I have an MBA from Harvard," she said to me, smiling.
And you have bosoms from silicon, I thought as I smiled back at her, which might have cost as much as her MBA. Yes, they were that good. She held my gaze for a moment but as her mouth smiled at me her eyes bored into my soul. She'd clean out my wallet at the poker table. I was pretty sure of that. She turned back to Roberts.
"What can I help you with tonight, Captain?"
It was morning, but I wasn't about to correct her. That just would've been petty. Instead I glanced at her round bum as firm as a cherry underneath her gray dress.
"We understand you had an incident here earlier this evening," Roberts said.
"Not something to worry the police about."
"Homicides worry the police, Ms. Rodrigues."
"I see, but we haven't had any homicides here for over a year."
"How comforting," I said, grinning at her.
She glanced at me with her poker face and turned back to Roberts.
"I didn't say you did, Ms. Rodrigues, I was asking about any incidents you might have had earlier."
I pulled out my phone and showed it to her.
"This might jog your memory," I said.
Her poker face cracked ever so slightly, but she recovered quickly.
"This man was here earlier," she said to Roberts, ignoring me.
"Tell me about it."
"Mr. Hartley, I'm assuming you know his name," Roberts nodded, "is a regular. He's a braggart as a winner and even worse as a loser."
"What was he tonight?"
"A terrible winner."
"What happened?"
"He upset a large Russian man who was at the same poker table he was at. He cleaned him out. The Russian was about to teach him a lesson when my security escorted him out."
"Did you happen to get the Russian's name?"
"I think security might have."
Rodrigues turned to the woman behind the cashier.
"Get me Dardan, please," she said.
"And that was the end of it then?"
"No, Mr. Hartley kept getting ruder and drunker as the night wore on. He lost a few games and became belligerent. Then he won a few and became even worse. At that point security asked him to leave."
"And he left quietly?" asked Roberts.
"He did."
"By himself?"
Rodrigues shook her head.
"No, he left with Ruby."
"You know her."
"She works for Rustler Casino. Ruby Aponte's one of the girls who take care of our regulars. But it's not what you think. We run a legal establishment here. She's more of a good luck charm and a companion."
"Is she here?"
Rodrigues nodded.
"I'll get her for you. She arrived back at just after midnight."
"Anything else unusual happen here tonight?"
"Nothing unusual, Captain. We haven't seen the Russian since we escorted him out and obviously Mr. Hartley is dead as Mr. Carrick so kindly pointed out."
She looked at me with a pained expression as if I'd pinched her bum. I hadn't, at least not other than in my mind.
"Anything else?" she asked Roberts.
"No, you've been helpful. I'll be in touch if I need anything else."
She nodded, turned around and walked away. We watched her for a while enjoying the view, until it was blocked by a big redwood of a man.
He put out a huge hairless bear's paw of a hand and I shook it, trying my best to stay planted on the ground. He must have been over six five and he had a blonde crew cut. His face was a square block that had been roughly hewn from some sort of slab of wood.
"Dardan Lakerveld," he said, and he smiled, but his mouth was lost in the great expanse of face. He rolled the vowels around lazily in his mouth before he spat them out. From this I knew he was Dutch.
He took Roberts' hand and gave it a good shake too. I looked him over. He was almost as wide as he was tall, and he was thick with muscle like a prized bull under his blue and white tracksuit. He had a generic face but one that gave no hint to his abilities. No cauliflower ears, no speed bumps on his nose. He had either never been in a fight in his life or he was exceptionally good at fighting. I couldn't tell which, and I didn't want to find out.
"I'm chief security officer for Rustler Casino," he said in his Dutch accent.
I offered him my phone which had the picture of a deceased Hartley on it.
"Was this one of the guys you asked to leave earlier this evening?" I asked.
The blonde giant nodded his head.
"Ja, that's Mr. Hartley. He's a regular and Ms. Rodrigues likes us to treat him softly, but he's an asshole. At least once a month we have to ask him to leave. He upsets the other patrons too much."
"And tonight, what did he do?"
"The same as he always does. If he wins he rubs their noses in it. If he loses he starts swearing at everyone. Tonight he was winning and losing. A Russian went all in and lost to Mr. Hartley. Instead of being gracious he started taunting him. The Russian was about to tear his face off when we had to escort him out. He didn't go gently."
"You had to get rough with him?"
"We had to encourage him, ja."
Dardan grinned at us a knowing grin.
"Ms. Rodrigues said you got his name."
"Ja, that's our policy. If anyone has to be escorted out we have to get their particulars. You know, just in case they want to come back and cause more problems."
"That's smart thinking," said Roberts. "So what's his name?"
Dardan reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a notepad and looked at it for a moment.
"Alihan Aslakhanov," he said. He spelled it out as Roberts wrote it down.
"You don't happen to have a picture of him do you?"
Dardan smiled and nodded. He fished out a phone from his tracksuit jacket's pocket. He showed us a picture of Alihan. Alihan looked like a thug. His nose was more horizontal than vertical and he had a large scar that went from above his left eyebrow to just above his lip. The left eye was milky blue and obviously blind.
"He looks the part," I said to Roberts.
"
Ja," said Dardan. "He knows how to fight, but it's hard to win against the security here at Rustler Casino."
"How many of you helped him out."
"Three of us. We have video if you'd like to see."
That was a generous offer. You don't often get that kind of help from casino security. Most often because they're bigger thugs than their patrons. Roberts nodded.
"I'd like to see that," he said.
"It's in the back," said Dardan.
He turned around and we followed him to the back of the casino and up a flight of stairs. We entered a large comfortable room where a guy in the same style of tracksuit was sitting behind an embankment of monitors. In front of him were one way mirrors that looked over the casino below.
"Bill," said Dardan to the guy in the chair.
Bill looked up at the giant man and nodded.
"Pull up that video of the Russian incident from earlier this evening. These cops want to see it."
Bill looked at us through dead eyes with a poker face before turning back to his terminal. I sized Bill up. He was about my height, five ten, maybe eleven, with a medium build. His left ear was showing the beginnings of a cruciferous vegetable but his nose was straight enough.
"Here it is," he said.
We watched the video. It was in high def and full color. Dardan and Bill came up to the table just as the Russian was about to launch across the table at Hartley. Ruby jumped back slightly, scared, as Dardan and Bill picked Alihan up by the armpits. He settled down and they put him onto his own two feet. As they neared the exit he brought his elbow up real quickly towards Bill's nose, but he blocked it. They got into a scuffle. The Russian moved quickly. He was light on his feet and quick with his hands. A third security member came up and put him into a sleeper hold until he went unconscious. They carried him the rest of the way out. Just outside the entrance, Dardan took out his phone and pointed it at the Russian. The Russian yelled something at them before turning and walking off.
"What was he saying there?" I asked.
Bill turned to me.
"The same as everyone else we have to kick out. He told us he was going to come back with his mates and kick our asses."
I nodded, and turned towards Dardan who was looking over the monitors at the casino floor below us.
"What happened with Hartley later that evening? We heard you had to ask him to leave too."
Four Ways To Midnight (An Anthony Carrick Short Story Collection Book 1) Page 9