Temptation Town

by Mike Dennis

  She returned the greeting, then told me her name was Cassandra. I always liked that name. Too bad she had to pick it as her alias.

  As soon as she was inside, she asked for the money, in order to "get business out of the way" as quickly as possible so we could "concentrate on having a good time." I paid her, a fast three-fifty.

  "Would you like a drink?" I asked. "I already ordered one for myself. I can add another to the order."

  She was almost beautiful, with lively eyes the color of the ocean at twilight, the blue tempered by a layer of gray. Her makeup was not overdone. The hair was bottle blonde, but styled nicely: short on the back and sides, but long enough to frame her squarish face. No streaky highlights. Full lips warned of her voluptuous figure below.

  "Sure," she said, and took a seat at the foot of the bed, leaning on an elbow. "How about a cosmopolitan?"

  She watches Sex And The City, I reasoned.

  "You know," I said, "that's the favorite drink of the girls on Sex And The City."

  She sat up straight, coming to life. "Oh, I know. I love that show. It's great! Do you watch it?"

  "Oh, almost every week," I replied. I ordered the drink, then turned to her. "Which one of the girls is your favorite."

  "I like them all," she said, "but I guess Charlotte would be my favorite."

  I had gotten lucky. Charlotte was by far the shallowest of the four girls on the show, one who came off as a sweet dreamer, always sure Mr Right lurked just around the next corner, ready to shower her with love and jewelry and eternal happiness.

  In fact, however, she was a crass golddigger at her core, but I don't think they ever outwardly discussed this on the show. I was sure Cassandra never saw beneath Charlotte's sugary veneer, rather, she probably considered herself a similar sweet-angel type.

  "Mine too," I said. "She just has a certain, I don't know, way about her."

  Cassandra beamed. "Wow! Doesn't she, though? She can make those other girls jealous in a hurry!" She kicked her spiked heels off onto the floor, as she moved her voice into cooing-hooker tone. "Speaking of hurry, don't you want to hurry up and get on with our party?"

  I wasn't sure if I should tell her yet the real reason for her being there. As my thoughts stumbled around, the knock at the door signaled the arrival of the drinks.

  I paid the tab, then brought them over by the bed. Cassandra lifted hers, saying, "Here's to a good time." She turned toward me, leaning forward a little, showing a lot of promising cleavage.

  I touched my glass to hers. "Here's to success, love, and hope that we can find it all just like Charlotte did."

  "Yeah!" She smiled as we drank.

  "My name's Jack, and I just got in town from Los Angeles."

  "Oh? What do you do down there, Jack?" I was surprised at how interested she sounded. But of course, she'd had a lot of practice.

  I put my drink down on the table, then sat down next to her on the bed, taking her free hand in mine.

  "Cassandra, that's why you're here. I'm a private investigator."

  She quickly pulled her hand away, leaping from the bed all at once, while spilling a little of her cosmopolitan on Bellagio's expensive woven carpeting.

  "What the hell are you, some kind of cop? What is this? A bust?" She rapidly scanned the room. "You got cameras in here or something? C'mon! Who are you?"

  I remained calm, still sitting on the bed. "No. I'm no cop. And there's no camera. I'm here because I need your help. Can you help me? Please?"

  "You got two minutes to explain yourself. And it better be good." She stood stiff, her eyes showing lots of apprehension, looking like she might bolt well before the two minutes were up.

  I said softly, "Cassandra, listen. You've got the money. I don't want sex. This is not a setup. I'm all alone here. I just want information. Will you please hear me out?"

  "Go on." She took another sip of her colorful drink, trying to settle herself down.

  "I need to find the girl they call Stormy."

  Her anger faded at the mention of the name. I could see her wilt. "Oh, God! What do you know about her? Do you know where she is?"

  "No, but I need to find her." Then I added for good measure, "I want to help her. That's all. Just to find her and to help her."

  She set the drink down on the floor. Her head took a soft turn toward the window. Outside, southbound traffic backed up on the interstate. Beyond that, the city lay still in the winter chill.

  She said, "How do I know that?"

  "You don't. Her family wants to find her. They want to know that she's safe."

  She ran a hand through her hair, then she came back to the bed. Her body language was more relaxed, as she sat next to me. She picked her drink up, but didn't take any of it.

  "We're best friends." Her voice quickly moved to the edge of tears. "We used to see each other nearly every night. You know, after we got done with our dates. We'd go out for a drink, play a few slots, that kind of thing. We were even neighbors over on Sierra Vista. Before she moved out."

  "And so?"

  "It was a few days ago. I called her cell and she didn't answer. I left one message, then two, then a whole bunch, and … and … she never called me back." The first tears showed themselves. I gave her a handkerchief.

  "What happened to her?"

  "I asked around. Nobody wanted to talk about it. But I kept asking."

  "Did you find out anything?"

  "I heard through the grapevine that one of her dates was, like, a senator or congressman or something. Some kind of big shot. He saw her about once a week. Right here at Bellagio, as a matter of fact. Then they had this big blow-up. I don't know how it started, but Stormy told me she, like, threatened to tell his wife. She even said she might go to the media, and tell them all about this self-righteous son of a bitch. She even had a videotape of the two of them together.

  "A videotape?"

  "Right. From one of those new mini-recorder things. She had a big purse and the camera was inside it. She put the purse on a table across the room, then set it on its side so the opening was facing the bed. The thing was deep in her purse so you couldn't really see it. She turned the TV on to cover up the noise. He never suspected a thing."

  "Why would she make that tape?"

  "I think she was planning on blackmailing him. She could be pretty conniving when she wanted to be. Always looking for a way to put money in her pocket."

  "Blackmail's a pretty risky game."

  "You got that right. But apparently, this guy's a real hypocrite. You know, standing up for family values and Christian beliefs, while keeping a paid mistress on the side. One from an escort service, no less. He was into real kinky shit, too, you know?"

  She sniffled a little, then put her drink down again to blow her nose. Then, she picked up the drink and polished it off in one swallow.

  "Where's the videotape now?"

  "She gave it to me so no one would ever find it in her possession."

  I had to admit, Emily was one sharp cookie.

  "So what happened then?"

  "I don't know. That's when I … when I … lost touch with her."

  "Does Sonny know where she is?"

  She shook her head. "He asked me if I knew. He's looking for her, too. He really wants to find her."

  "Well, what do you think happened?"

  She blew her nose again.

  "I don't know for sure, but if that politician told Sonny about it, there's no telling what could've happened. Sonny's a … a … " Her face contorted into crying position. A few more tears, then: "He slaps us around all the time. He's capable of anything. Anything!" She finally went into a good cry.

  I took her in my arms, giving her my shoulder. She stayed there for a while. Then she finally looked up at me to say through her sobs, "Do you really want to help her? Really?"

  "I really do," I replied. And I meant it. I said, "Can you find out what happened to her? Is there any chance?"

  "I don't know," she said between sniffle
s. "I can try."

  "Do that, honey. Please." I got a pen from the desk, then wrote my cell phone number on a piece of scratch paper. "And call me when you find out anything, okay?"

  She nodded, as I helped her up off the bed.

  I gave her a big hug, then said, "You're a brave girl, you know that? And Emily — that's Stormy's real name — would be proud of you for being such a good friend to her, for trying to help her."

  "Emily? I never knew that." She finally broke a smile through red, tear-dimmed eyes. "Mine's Patty." Now, she looked like she could live next door.

  "All right, Patty." I held her face with both hands, as our smiling eyes connected. "First off, don't tell Sonny about any of this. About me, us here today, nothing. If anyone asks, it was just another routine date. Okay?"

  "Okay. I tell him nothing."

  "And call me when you hear anything about Emily. And I mean anything."

  She promised she would, and she left. I closed the door behind her, then collapsed on the bed. Out on the freeway, the traffic had thinned out a little, the wind whipping against the window. I picked up the phone and ordered two more Scotches from room service, one for now, one for five minutes from now.

  7

  CONTRARY to what I had hoped, the whole thing didn't go away overnight. Late in the afternoon, my cell phone rang, waking me from a particularly deep nap on my couch. I couldn't open my eyes quite yet. I groped the coffee table, feeling for the phone. Flipping it open, I mumbled a hello.

  "Jack? Jack? Is that you?"

  I heard desperation in that female voice. I snapped awake, rising up on one elbow.

  "Yes. Speaking. Who's this?"

  "Jack, it's Patty. I know where Emily is."

  I sat upright. "Where? What happened?"

  "She texted me a few minutes ago, asking if it was okay to talk, meaning is Sonny around. I told her it was clear and she called my cell. I just now got off the phone with her." She spoke in a quick cadence, urgency dripping from every word.

  I struggled to get up off the couch, so I could move around the room, trying to clear the cobwebs.

  "Where is she?"

  "In a rooming house up in North Las Vegas. She asked me to bring her some money. I'm, like, how much do you need and she goes, whatever you can spare. Four or five hundred, anyway. She wants to leave town."

  I moved into the kitchen, where I fished through a drawer for a pen.

  "What's the address?" She gave it to me. "Patty, don't —"

  "I know," she interrupted. "You don't want me to tell anyone. Don't worry. I'm not crazy."

  I threw on some clothes and ran out the door. Yesterday's wind had died down, but it was still cold, somewhere in the thirties. The sinking sun promised even lower temperatures soon.

  Just as I was getting in my car, I paused. Turning around, I ran back inside, into my bedroom. I yanked open the top drawer to my dresser, then reached in for my .357. I pulled the holster around my shoulders, and grabbed two extra clips. As a precaution against sticking, I lifted the weapon out of the holster a couple of times, jacked a round into the chamber, then put it back in. Finally, I threw on my jacket, hustled back to my car, then headed up to North Las Vegas.

  The rooming house stood in a decidedly blue-collar area, decorated with lots of pickup trucks and boat trailers and old tires. Front yards around there were either green-going-brown, or dirt and gravel, which, in Las Vegas-speak, is "desert landscaping".

  The house was a one-story affair, formerly a single-family home, whose owners apparently decided to rent out a room or two for a little extra cash. White stucco blended with gray trim to render it completely nondescript. It fit right into the neighborhood.

  According to Patty, Emily's room was around back.

  Night had fallen. I parked in the empty, garage-less driveway. With no trees anywhere on the property, the house undoubtedly baked in the sun during high summer. I was glad I didn't live there.

  In the back, I found a standard-issue screen door, aluminum-framed. I knocked. I knocked again. Then I opened it and knocked a little harder on the white wooden door inside. The knob wouldn't turn.

  I backed up to check the windows in the house's rear. All four had Venetian blinds. All were shut. I knocked again without taking my eyes off the blinds. One of the slats in the window closest to me moved just a little. I went over and rapped on the window.

  "Emily," I said without raising my voice. "Emily. I'm a friend. Cassandra told me you were here. Please let me in. I'm here to help."

  No answer. I tapped the window again.

  "Emily, come on. I know you're there. Let me in." Still no response. No movement of the blinds, either. "Okay, if you're afraid, call Cassandra and she'll vouch for me. My name is Jack." I waited.

  About two minutes later, I heard the door unlatch. It opened a few inches. Frightened eyes moved back, slipping away from the opening, as I stepped into the dark room.

  She was a mess, a far cry from the sex-bomb photo in the magazine. Her hair, while still sort of blonde, showed plenty of brown roots, and lay matted and tangled all around her head. I guessed it was several days since she did anything with it. She wore no makeup, while small dark circles attacked the undersides of her eyes. Her small, thin mouth quivered as she looked me over. Natural beauty was still somewhat visible, but I struggled to find it. She wore a gray hooded sweatshirt that said UNLV in big red letters. Her jeans were torn in several places. The holes were not a fashion statement.

  Hardly any light could make its way into this room, but what little there was crept in around the edges of the blinds. The room was tiny and sparsely furnished, with a single bed, a small wooden table, and chair. What looked to be one of those flashy new iPods and connected earphones rested on the table. A bathroom sat off to one side. In the darkness, I couldn't make out the color of the walls, but they looked white. Body odor hung over everything.

  "Honey, are you okay?"

  She nodded. Fear remained in the front of her eyes.

  All of a sudden, it was 1992 again, and Lyla stood in front of me, her soul sliding into the abyss, sucked down by her inner demons. All my money and all my love couldn't bring her back to me.

  Lyla, please! Please don't!

  I said, "Emily, I'm on your side. I know about this mess you're in. And I want to help you get out of it."

  "Cassandra …" she began. She stopped, then began again. "Cassandra was supposed to come. She said she would bring me money."

  "Her real name's Patty," I said.

  "Patty?"

  "That's right. Now I have money right here. I brought it for you." I dug into my pocket for the rest of Lansdorf's money. I gave it all to her. "Now, we've got to get you out of here."

  "No!" she cried, as she stepped quickly away from me, cramming the money into her jeans at the same time. "No!" She moved back even farther, her hands now in front of her in a defensive posture.

  "Emily, listen. It's not safe here. You've got to come with me. Beck's looking for you."

  I stood still. I didn't want to do anything that looked like an aggressive move.

  "No!" There was no doubt that she meant it.

  I thought about calling the police. But Beck was mob-connected, and North Las Vegas, a relatively little burg, undoubtedly had their own way of doing things. Once it got out the cops up here had her, there was no telling what could happen. I felt she would be vulnerable. Plus, I was carrying my piece, so naturally, I didn't want to open myself up to that kind of trouble.

  I thought about taking her away myself, but in her hyped-up state, she would probably resist. I didn't want to be seen dragging a screaming girl out of a house and into a car in broad daylight. That could lead straight back to the local cops. My options were narrowing fast.

  I spoke softly. "All right. What's your plan. You've got the money. Now what are you going to do?"

  "There's a bus leaving tonight. I'm going to be on it. And you can't stop me."

  "Where's it going?"
/>   "None of your business!"

  "Emily, I — I have to tell you, I'm a private investigator and your father sent me here. That's his money I just gave you. He wants to make sure you're safe."

  "He can go to hell! And you with him. Now get out of here."

  "At least let me take you to the bus station."

  "Get out!" Her voice rose to shouting pitch. I didn't want to attract any attention from neighbors or, God forbid, anyone else who might be in the house.

  I left. As soon as I got in my car, I punched up Patty's number on my cell. She answered on the first ring.

  "Patty, this's Jack. Listen, I just saw Emily. I gave her the money … yeah, she's all right. For now, anyway … yeah, but look, she's going to be taking a bus out of town and she won't let me take her to the terminal. I didn't want to force her, so I need you to call and tell her you'll take her. Then get over here right away."

  Five minutes later, Patty called me back.

  "Jack, Sonny was right there when you called. I think he suspects something about Emily."

  "Where are you now?"

  "I just left his office. I'm on my way there. But Jack …"

  "What is it, honey?"

  "I'm worried. I think he might follow me. Or he might send Bobby and Clyde."

  "Who?"

  "Bobby and Clyde. These two guys he's got working for him. They kind of look alike. They both have blond hair."

  I remembered them from Beck's booth at the Golden Nugget sports book. "Listen, Patty. Just get here as quick as you can. Emily needs you to take her to the bus station right away. I'll be parked out front. And Patty."

  "What."

  "Bring that videotape and let me keep it. It'll be safe. Out of your hands."

  "It'll take me an extra fifteen minutes or so to swing by and get it."

  "Just do it. I'll be here."

  ≈≈≈

  Patty pulled up inside of forty minutes. Traffic around downtown must've been exceptionally light.

  She parked in the driveway, leaving the engine running, and I approached her on foot. We walked together to the back door. On the way, she slipped me the videotape. Damn thing was the size of a matchbook. I remembered now, I'd used a MicroMV camera on a couple of stakeouts during my PI days back in LA, but I'd forgotten the tapes were so tiny.