by Phil Swann
I’m not an expert in the art of vehicular surveillance, so making sure I stayed behind the right two-tone taxi became quite the challenge, given there are no shortage of two-tone taxis in Las Vegas. But still, as usual, I rose to the occasion. After a few nonsensical turns where I was sure I’d lost sight of them, I eventually found myself back on the main road again and following my quarry out of town. The question then became, where the heck were we going?
We must have driven ten miles into the desert before the cab’s brake lights flash on, and it turned into the gravel parking lot of a little motel. The neon sign in front low-rent lodging cleverly read: MOTEL. I pulled over to the shoulder and watched as the cab came to a stop in front of a row of rooms.
Madame got out and waited for the taxi to drive off. Once it was gone, she looked in all directions, and then walked to a room several doors down from the one she’d been let out in front of. She knocked twice, the door opened, she entered, and then the door closed behind her.
I will admit to cracking a grin. However, if pressed, I would also have to confess that a delicious feeling of righteous indignation washed over me. And to think, she had the nerve to call my music sleazy.
Chapter 5
Under different circumstances, I might have sat there all night and waited for Jezebel to emerge from her den of iniquity. I might have even accidentally-on-purpose let her see me just for the fun of witnessing the look of horror and shame wash across her lovely little face—yes, the woman really got to me, but alas, duty called elsewhere. So, feeling giddier than I probably should have, I declared my work done and headed back to The Jam Jar.
Luther and Bets were busy preparing the club for the evening, so I dispensed with my usual patter and let them get on with it. Besides, I had just enough time to don my tuxedo, wolf down a bowl of Luther’s insanely delectable gumbo, and scurry off to my real job at the Sands. I made it there with five minutes to spare.
It was perhaps the most difficult night I’d ever spent behind the music stand. Not because the music was hard, it was Steve and Eydie for cryin’ out loud, and I could play their charts in my sleep. It was difficult because my mind kept wandering off, which, as any musician will tell you, is a sure-fire way to invite disaster. Even so, all I could think about was seeing Clegg after the gig and telling him what his fearless friend-in-the-field had learned. That’s why when the second show ended, I packed up my horn in record time and raced outside to where I knew Clegg would be lingering by my car. Staying true to my image, however, I played it cool as Count Basie as I approached the G-man.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” I asked, sauntering up.
“Blame it on the bossa nova,” Clegg replied, clicking his fingers in the air.
“You caught the show?”
“I love Steve and Eydie. By the way, I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this or not, but you’re really good.”
“Thanks, I know.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
He tilted his head.
I could have laid it all on him at once, but why kill Hamlet in the first act? “The old man’s as charming as Christmas dinner at granny’s house. The wife’s another story.”
“How so?”
“There are warmer igloos in Alaska.”
“And the boy?”
“Talented kid, but certainly not the happiest.”
“Were you able to deliver our little toys?”
“No, and I won’t be. The first thing Wu did when he came into the room was take a good look around. You’re going to have to go with what I can tell you by me just being in there. I’m not planting any bugs. It’s too dangerous.”
If Clegg was upset about my declaration, he didn’t show it. “Okay. What can you tell me, then?”
“Wu has two sons. Johnny’s the oldest. James a few years younger.”
“Yes, we know that,” he replied.
“Do you also know they’re the bodyguards, chauffeurs, and all-around Boy Fridays to Mr. and Mrs. Dragonhead? As well as to Jean-Claude?”
“Yes.”
“It seems neither are thrilled by the job title, either.”
“Go figure. Is that all you got?”
“Hold your horses. There’s more. Wu’s got a gardener who actually might be Confucius. Hey, have you ever been in a Chinese garden?”
“Trip, if that’s all—”
“Okay, okay.” I took a breath and lowered my voice for effect. “I heard Number Two son James, tell Jean-Claude’s mother that Wu was in a meeting with Number One son Johnny, and somebody named Cavendish.”
“Cavendish?”
“And I saw him. Tall guy. Gray hair. Very distinguished looking.”
“What else?”
“Are you ready for this? I heard a drug deal go down.”
“What?” Clegg all but screamed.
“I overheard a conversation between Wu, Johnny, and Cavendish. Johnny asked Cavendish if he was sure, and Cavendish answered by saying the funds had been transferred and were sitting in an account in Geneva.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And what did they say about the drugs?”
“Well…they didn’t say anything specifically about drugs.”
“Then how do you know they were talking about drugs?”
“What else could they be talking about?” I responded, more than a little put off by Clegg’s lack of enthusiasm.
“Antiques, artwork, pistachio nuts, who knows? Wu’s an importer and exporter. They could have been talking about anything.”
“No, they were talking about heroin.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know, I just do.”
Clegg rolled his eyes.
“But—”
“Trip, they might very well have been talking about heroin, but they just as easily could have been talking about Tiffany lamps.”
I wanted to explode. More specifically, I wanted to put Clegg in a headlock until he agreed I had witnessed something criminal. I knew what I saw, and I knew in my gut that whatever Wu, Johnny, and Cavendish were talking about was not living room furniture. Problem was, Clegg wasn’t about to change his position based on my gut. My frustration was such that all I could do was respond with a dejected nod.
“But, look,” Clegg said, as if pacifying a child, “you did great. We’ll follow up on the Cavendish angle, and see if we can dig up anything on an account in Geneva. In the meantime, you just keep gathering information. Leave the figuring out what it all means to us. When do you see the boy again?”
“Tomorrow,” I muttered.
“Good. Anything else?”
“No, not really. Oh, Wu’s wife is having an affair.”
This caused Clegg’s eyes to nearly pop out of his head. “She’s what?”
“She’s having an affair,” I said, again.
“And how do you know that?”
“I left the house about the same time she and James did. I followed them to the Stardust, where she ditched James, grabbed a taxi, and scurried off to a cheap motel out in the desert. Oh, I’m sorry, am I doing it again? Maybe she’s not having an affair. Maybe Lady Wu just likes spending her days in cheap motels in the middle of nowhere.”
“Who did she meet?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about the room number? Tell me you got the room number.”
“No…I didn’t think—”
“Trip, I need to know who she’s seeing.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Michelle Wu is the wife of a Triad boss. If Uncle Charlie, or anyone in the organization, were to learn she was having an affair….”
“It wouldn’t be good for her or lover boy.”
“To say the least,” Clegg replied. “Now that’s some great work, Trip. This could be the kind of leverage we’ve been looking for. You’ll stay on that, right?”
“Sure. I’ll see if I can to find out who she’s being naughty
with.”
“Good man. Any more surprises?”
I shook my head. “That’s it.”
“Good man, good man. Very fine work, indeed.”
I nodded a “thank you” and turned to walk away.
“Wait, where you going?” Clegg asked, grabbing my arm.
“Home. I’m beat,” I replied, looking down at his hand.
Clegg got the message and let go. “I thought you entertainer types liked to burn the midnight oil?”
“First of all, it’s not midnight, it’s three in the morning, and secondly, most entertainer types aren’t risking life and limb during the day being an undercover trumpet teacher. I’m exhausted. I’m going back to The Jam Jar.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“I’ll get something there.”
“You sure?” he asked.
“All right, Clegg, what do you want?”
“Have you heard of a place downtown called Clyde’s?”
I shrugged. “Sure, after-hours hangout for locals and people like me.”
“I want you to go down there.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Why?”
“Because James Wu went in there a half hour ago.”
“So?”
“So, I want him to see you in there.”
“Why?”
Clegg raised an eyebrow.
I let out a sigh. “All right. Maybe I could use a drink…or three…or more.”
Clegg smiled. “Good man.”
“Stop saying that. It makes me feel like I’m your spaniel.”
Clegg chuckled.
“So, you’re not going to give me any grief about not wanting to plant the bugs in Wu’s house?”
“No, I trust you. If you say it’s too dangerous, then don’t do it. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, would we?”
“No, we wouldn’t,” I replied.
“I’m on a transport back to D.C. in an hour, but I’ll be back in a day or two. If you need anything, anything at all, call the number.”
“And the cavalry will come charging in?”
“If need be. But at the very least it’ll be Carson and Stevens. Don’t think you’re alone just because I’m out of town. We have your back on this.”
“Just don’t forget my other parts.”
Clegg slapped my shoulder. “Now get down to Clyde’s and make sure James Wu sees you.”
I nodded and started to leave.
“Again, good show tonight, Trip. I might have to see it one or two more times after I get back.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. Oh, and if you can get me an autographed picture of Eydie, I wouldn’t hate you for it.”
“Why Agent Peter Clegg, you have a crush.”
He smiled and walked away.
Clegg’s a lot of things, but he’s seldom wrong. That included his comment about we entertainer types. We do tend to congregate and live out our hopes and dreams at an hour when the rest of the civilized world is just hoping and dreaming. For non-nocturnal creatures, it may sound like an odd existence, but for us, as well as for the other night people in this town, it’s as normal as a picnic in the park with the kids. That’s why places like Clyde’s exist.
I entered the—I’ll kindly refer to it as rustic—downtown tavern and was immediately spotted by my pal Jerry, sax man in the Copa Room orchestra. He was sitting in a booth with some other folks and motioned for me to join them. The other folks were Paul, a blackjack dealer from the Flamingo, two cocktail waitresses from the Riviera, the piano player from the Desert Inn, and a stripper named Ginger from…well, I’m not sure where Ginger was from, but she was welcomed nonetheless. Who I didn’t see was James Wu, but that was fine because it didn’t take long before I was having so much fun, I’d completely forgotten why I was in Clyde’s in the first place. Good food, good people, and plenty of laughs, lies, and liquor will tend to do that. In fact, it wasn’t until I glanced across the room and saw Number Two son sitting at a tiny corner table with another gentleman, that I was reminded of my original mission.
By then, I’d had enough to drink to believe going over and saying hello was the right thing to do. Besides, I completely understood why Clegg wanted me to be seen by Wu the Younger in the first place. James seeing me out at a famous after-hours joint whooping it up with other folks of the showbiz ilk could only bolster my credibility inside the family thereby allaying any fears they might have that I was anything other than what I claimed to be. It was quite a savvy strategy on Clegg’s part, but I vowed never to admit that to his face.
“James,” I sang out, approaching the table. “Fancy seeing you in here.”
James shot me a surprised look and for a second acted like he didn’t recognize me.
“It’s Trip Callaway, Jean-Claude’s trumpet teacher. We met today.”
James looked at the man and then stood. “Of course, Mr. Callaway,” he said, forcing a smile.
James’s companion remained seated, and I waited for an introduction. When none was offered, I took the initiative. “Trip Callaway,” I said, presenting my paw.
“My apologies,” James stuttered. “This is—”
“Jack King,” the man said, rising from his chair and grasping my hand.
Mr. King probably wasn’t much older than me, but his manner, along with his conservative navy-blue suit and prominent scar over his left eye, spoke to someone well beyond his calendar years—and just for the record, I didn’t believe for a second Jack King was remotely the old boy’s real name.
“Pleasure, Mr. King,” I replied.
I decided to really go for it—as a reminder, I’d had a bit to drink. “So, I’m here with some friends, would you fellas care to join us?”
“No,” James answered, quickly. “We’re—”
“Just leaving,” King interrupted. “But thank you for the invitation.”
“Of course,” I said. “Maybe next time.”
“Absolutely,” King replied. “Good evening, Mr. Callaway. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Likewise, Mr. King. You gentlemen have a good evening.”
James tossed some money on the table, and he and King left. I waited a few seconds and then conveniently decided I needed to get some fresh air.
I got outside in time to see James and King cross the street and walk into a dimly lit parking lot where maybe a half dozen or so cars were parked. I recognized a green, E-Type Jag as being one of the cars I saw parked in the carport at the Wu estate and was surprised when it was a brown, four-door Olds that James and King stopped at.
The two men talked for a moment, and then James reached in his jacket pocket, took out what looked to be an envelope, and handed it to King. King put the envelope in his pocket without opening it and got into the Olds. James turned and made his way over to the Jag. Both cars pulled out at about the same time but turned in different directions onto Fremont.
I’m not perfect. I sometimes make mistakes—like not getting the room number that Michelle Wu went into at the motel, but I’m a quick learner, and I never make the same mistake twice. I got the license number of the Olds.
Chapter 6
By the time I got back to The Jam Jar, the parking lot was empty, and the sign was already turned off. I drove around to the back where I nested my bird, and then took the outside stairs up to my apartment. I wasn’t lying to Clegg, I was beat, and I couldn’t wait to make nice-nice with my pillow. But before I did, there was one last thing I had to do.
Four and a half years ago, shortly after arriving in town, I began keeping a diary detailing my meteoric ascent within the music business. I did this primarily so that scribes of the future would get the facts right when telling the inspiring story of my remarkable life. As it happened, it also helped immensely when I was working on a case for Clegg. Putting the day’s events down on paper allowed me to empty my noggin of certain details ergo making room for new details to enter. Also, from time to time,
I would make an entry that would set the ol’ gray matter aglow and shine light where only darkness previously existed. This night’s entry yielded just such a result. I made a note about the first thing I needed to do the next day, shed my duds, and then set the alarm. I believe I was asleep before my feet were off the floor.
In Vegas, the terms last night and the next day are concepts that require some linguistic gymnastics to understand. Last night, usually means very early that morning, and the next day is understood to mean later that afternoon. It’s all semantics, and I only mention it for the sake of clarity. When my alarm went off the next day, it was like I’d been tossed into a swimming pool of ice water. I usually don’t rise until well after two, and this was a good three hours before that. I put on my shirt and trousers from the night before and traipsed down to the kitchen via the inside staircase. I was yawning as I came through the swinging doors into the club. Luther was already at work counting bottles at the bar. The man never slept.
“Morning, Luther.”
Luther looked at me like I was Jonah coming out of the whale’s mouth. “Yes, it is. What the heck are you doing up?”
“I need to use the phone. Do you mind?”
“You know where it is.”
I walked around the bar, grabbed the phone, and took a seat on a barstool. I dialed the number and waited. My call was picked up on the third ring.
“Detective Barnard,” came the gruff voice on the other end of the line.
“Good morning, Detective,” I said.
“Callaway?”
“The one and only,” I replied.
“It’s only eleven o’clock. What the heck are you doing up?”
“You’re the second person in the last thirty seconds to ask me that.”
“What does that tell you?”
I chuckled. “It tells me I need to get some new people in my life who don’t know me so well. Hey, you busy?”