Full Service Blonde

by Megan Edwards

  I had walked back to the Max before I remembered the digital camera in my backpack. Figuring photos would make a good addition to the article I was planning to write, I walked back and snapped a few pictures of the scene before heading over the Spring Mountains to Pahrump.

  :: :: ::

  The cloudburst had dropped a picturesque layer of snow on the rocks and juniper trees at the summit, and I enjoyed a brief feeling of Christmas before descending into the wide dry valley on the other side.

  I knew I had arrived at my destination when I caught sight of its tall sign, a cutout of a woman’s leg in a fishnet stocking. It had a flashing red light at the top, like the ones at railroad crossings. Under the leg were placards saying “Welcome,” “Sports Bar,” and “Truck Parking.” As I slowed, I saw another sign pounded into the gravel parking lot. “Free Tours. Ladies Welcome.”

  Beyond the parking lot stood the Beavertail itself. I have no idea what I expected a bordello to look like, but it wasn’t trailers. Or maybe they were mobile homes. Whatever their official designation, about eight of them had been dragged there, plunked down to form a big square, and painted a dainty shade of lavender. The trailer facing the parking lot had a big silver Christmas wreath hanging on its door. A potted poinsettia stood on each side of the wooden steps leading up to it.

  I decided to park across the road. As I did, a truck from a Las Vegas glass company pulled into the Beavertail’s parking lot. A man in white overalls climbed out and disappeared through the door with the Christmas wreath. There was no other activity, just four cars in the parking lot.

  God. I wasn’t sure I could do this alone. On the other hand, that was the only way I could do it at all. David wouldn’t have come with me unless the newspaper told him to, and my brother would have had an aneurysm if he had known where I was. Anyway, what was the worst that could happen? In a few days, somebody would report a white Chrysler minivan abandoned out on Homestead Road, and the search for my body would begin.

  When I finally got up enough nerve to approach the front door of the Beavertail, it swung open and almost hit me. The man in white overalls brushed past me like I wasn’t there, and I found myself face to face with a woman who reminded me of my college Shakespeare professor. Her graying brown hair was pulled up in a librarian’s bun, and she was wearing a tweedy suit and a high-necked white blouse.

  “Kin ah help you?” she asked, and all thoughts of my Shakespeare professor vanished. Her voice was rough from a century or two of smoking, and she had a truck stop waitress drawl. As I stared at her, she gave me a quick head-to-toe once-over.

  “I—I’m here for the tour,” I said. Her eyes were still appraising my chest.

  “Oh!” the woman said, shifting her gaze to my face. “Sure, hon. Come on in.”

  She held the door open, and I walked into the whitest room I’d ever seen. Everything was white: the floor, the ceiling, the sofas, the fireplace, the plaster statue of Venus. Even the Christmas tree next to the fireplace was white, and so was the flower arrangement on the white piano, a big urn of fake lilies. There was a faint smell of chemical lemon in the air, like someone had just mopped the floor. Through the window on the back wall, I could see the courtyard formed by the assembled trailers. A white gazebo with a hot tub stood in the center of it.

  “Please, have a seat,” the woman said, motioning toward a pristine brocade sofa. “Ah’ll be back in a jiff.”

  I didn’t sit. I’d caught sight of a small framed placard propped up next to the flower arrangement, and I moved closer to the piano so I could read it. “Menu of Services,” it said, and the list began with “Straight Lay.” I was pondering what “Extreme French” might be when the woman in the tweedy suit came back.

  “Ah’m Bernice Broyhill,” she said, holding out her right hand.

  “Copper Black,” I said, shaking it.

  “You want a tour?” she asked, as though she couldn’t quite believe it.

  “Yes, I—” And if I’d had the chance, I think I would have said, “I’m a reporter.” But Bernice was already talking again.

  “If you’re wonderin’ why there aren’t any prices on our menu,” she said, launching into a sing-songy spiel, “it’s because our ladies are independent contractors. Their rates are in-tar-ly between themselves and the gentlemen. So are the services they provide. How they accommodate their clients is in-tar-ly up to them. Some of our ladies are world famous for their specialties.”

  Bernice then explained that if I’d been a “gentleman,” she would have called a “lineup,” and I would have chosen a “lady to party with.”

  “And if you weren’t quaht ready to party, you’d be welcome to have a drink in the bar and socialize awhile,” she said. She crossed the room and pushed open a saloon-style door. “We’re proud of our new sports bar,” she continued as she held it open, “and we have a full kitchen and a gen-you-wine Core-don Blue chef. If the gentlemen want to party in one of our bungalows, we serve them steak and lobster—real gore-may meals.”

  Bernice kept yakking a mile a minute as she showed me pictures of the bungalows, which were really just more trailers on the other side of the gazebo. Each one had a different theme, like “Psychedelic Sixties” and “Arthur & Guenevere.” Then she led me down a hall that looked exactly like a motel except for some artsy black-and-white photos of nude women on the walls. The smell of disinfectant was a little stronger, reminding me of the rest home where my great-grandmother spent her final decade. Just the smell, though. I’m pretty sure Great Grammie’s place didn’t have a dungeon with shackles attached to the wall or a whirlpool room decorated with Budweiser posters.

  “These are our public rooms,” Bernice explained as we moved from one to the next. “All our ladies can use them. Their own rooms are in-tar-ly private, of course.”

  I was beginning to wonder if there was anyone else in the building when a door opened and a woman in a skimpy hot-pink tank top and a G-string emerged and walked toward us. Stretched across her obviously augmented breasts was the word “JUICY” spelled out in rhinestones. She was tan and slim and pretty, although I noticed she was missing teeth on both sides of her mouth when she smiled. I couldn’t help turning to watch her when she passed, and from the back, it looked like she had nothing on below the waist.

  Bernice had launched into a new line of patter about health and cleanliness standards by this time, explaining how nobody had ever contracted a sexually transmitted disease in a legal Nevada brothel. Opening the door of a large closet, she pulled out a plastic bag.

  “We call this a trick pack,” she said. “The ladies pick one up when they have a client. It’s got a sheet, a condom, a towel, and a washrag.” When she closed the closet door, I noticed that next to it was a bookcase full of shoes. At least thirty pairs were all lined up neatly, eight-inch stiletto heels facing out. Slut shoes, we called them in college, and I almost laughed as I realized just how accurate we had been.

  As we rounded the corner and headed back into the living room, Bernice’s cell phone rang. She looked at it before she answered, and she wasn’t too happy about what her caller ID revealed.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning, Kent,” she said. “The glass man was here.” She turned away from me. “Close to two grand,” I could still hear her say, “and there’s only eight hundred in Victoria’s account—okay, okay, just git your butt over here, and you can decide for yourself.” Bernice snapped her phone shut.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Where were we?”

  And here’s where I was either very brave, or very stupid, or both.

  “Were you talking about Victoria McKimber?” I asked.

  Bernice stared at me.

  “I knew her,” I said.

  “We’re all very sorry about her death,” Bernice said, her surprise quickly hardening into suspicion.

  “Do you know what really happened? I mean, she wa
s supposed to be here when—”

  “She was hit by a car,” Bernice replied quickly. “A terrible accident.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said. “I know that’s one possibility, but I was hoping you—”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here and conning me into a tour,” Bernice interrupted. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “I told you, I—” but Bernice was barking into her cell phone.

  “Parlor, Bill,” she said. “Now.”

  Almost immediately, the bar door burst open, and a muscled guy in a black leather jacket was practically on top of me.

  “I’m gonna need some ah-dee,” Bernice said, and while I was still figuring out that she was talking to me, she barked again. “Yer driver’s license. Hand it over.”

  Bill intentionally slid his hand to his hip, pushing his jacket back. Stuck in the waistband of his jeans was a big handgun—the kind hit men use in Mafia movies. Dangling from his belt was a pair of handcuffs.

  I didn’t waste any time digging my driver’s license out of my wallet. Bernice snatched it from my hand and disappeared. Bill moved closer, enveloping me in a disgusting miasma of old cigarettes, breath mints, and sweat. I was just envisioning the cops examining my abandoned body when Bernice came back and slapped my license into my palm. She nodded at Bill, and suddenly I was out in the parking lot.

  “Where’s your car?” Bill said, his hand gripping my upper arm firmly enough to leave bruises.

  “Over there,” I said nodding across the street. He marched me to the edge of the road.

  “Get in it,” he said. “Drive away. Don’t ever come back.” Then he leaned closer. What now? I thought, but when he spoke, he was almost kind.

  “You look like a nice girl,” he said. “This is a very dangerous place for nice girls.”

  If he was trying to scare me, it worked. I got in my minivan and drove down Homestead Road so fast I missed the first stop sign and almost hit an old man on a bike. After that, I pulled into the parking lot at the Pair-a-Dice Casino. I needed to calm down, and I knew there would be a coffee shop inside where I could sit until I stopped shaking. As I walked into the smoky darkness, I couldn’t help thinking that teaching kindergarten in Connecticut wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  An order of fries and a Diet Coke went a long way toward settling my nerves, though I barely touched either of them. I mostly watched legions of blue-haired bingo players mill around while I eavesdropped on a conversation two waitresses were having about their boyfriends. It was all so ordinary that it helped me forget I’d just been evicted from a whorehouse.

  When I left the Pair-a-Dice, my plan was to go back to Las Vegas and go Christmas shopping. But as I was driving, I kept thinking about how convenient it was for American Beauty that Victoria was dead. Bernice Broyhill didn’t seem exactly broken up, either, and Bill the bouncer looked like he’d make a capable hit man.

  I kept seeing the look on Bill’s face. He wasn’t only trying to scare me. He was trying to warn me.

  Warnings. That’s all I was getting from everybody—David, Sierra, Michael, Daniel. Except for Heather, not a single person thought I should pursue the truth about Victoria’s death.

  And maybe I was nuts to think I had something to gain from “poking into things,” as Sierra put it. Daniel and my parents would arrive in a few days. It would be Christmas, for God’s sake. What was wrong with me? Shouldn’t I be at the Caesars Forum Shops buying my mom a big bottle of some new fragrance sensation? I hadn’t gotten anything for Daniel yet, either, and I didn’t even have a Christmas dress. I love Christmas, and I had never let the holidays go by without acquiring an appropriately festive dress.

  The trouble was, I couldn’t stop thinking about Victoria, and it went way beyond wanting to be a journalist. I didn’t think Victoria was a saint, but she did have a mission. And it was a noble one, I reminded myself. She wanted respect for who and what she was, and she wanted to extend it to all women like her. David might say it was just attention-seeking self-aggrandizement, but I knew he was wrong. I hadn’t gotten much of a chance to know Victoria, but it was enough for me to see the crusader in her. She was a natural leader who might have actually been able to reverse an age-old tide of public condemnation and ridicule. And now she was dead. It was awfully convenient for the brothel and American Beauty, but nobody seemed to find that the least bit suspicious. Nobody but me.

  Unless her husband cared. I didn’t know anything about Richard McKimber except that his left arm was a mess and that he wrote a good essay about Forever Young antiwrinkle cream. Did he miss Victoria horribly? Did he want to wreak revenge on her killer? Or was it just the opposite? Maybe he hated being married to one of Bernice’s “ladies.” Maybe he took out a huge life insurance policy a couple of weeks ago. Okay, okay, so I’ve watched too many Law & Order reruns.

  Anyway, I made a plan. I knew where Victoria lived because her address was in her files: 1075 Chantilly Court. It wasn’t far from the big truck stop on Blue Diamond Road, according to my Las Vegas road atlas. There was no harm in driving by, right? At the very least, I could see what kind of house she lived in.

  And then—I swore—I was going to do my Christmas shopping.

  Chapter 8

  I don’t know what kind of house I expected Victoria’s to be, but—like the brothel—it surprised me. First off, it was in a gated community. Lots of people in Las Vegas live in such enclaves, but I hadn’t been inside many of them. Michael and Sierra live in an older section of town that looks more like Anytown, U.S.A. Okay, the house next door to theirs has glitter on the roof, Ionic columns framing the front door, and faux Bernini statuary in the front yard. But if you discount that, ignore the palm trees and cactus, and look at the rest of the block, you might almost think you were in New Jersey.

  “Riviera Palms,” on the other hand—that was the name engraved on a metal plaque next to the radio-controlled gate at the entrance to Victoria’s development—was a collection of newish beige stucco two-stories with red tile roofs. The development looked reasonably nice except for some ugly white water stains along the bottom edges of the perimeter wall and one patch of spray-painted graffiti.

  The gate was closed, not surprisingly, although a small pedestrian gate was standing ajar. I was about to park and walk in when a blue sedan pulled up and the gate opened. The car moved through the gate, and before it closed, a crappy-looking pickup truck zipped through behind it. I thought for sure the person in the blue sedan would leap out and confront the man in the pickup. I mean, isn’t the point of security gates to keep out burglars and riffraff? But no fisticuffs broke out, so when a white SUV pulled up and opened the gate, I slipped in behind it. Somehow, getting strong-armed out of a brothel had amped up my nerve. Maybe I had what it took to be a real journalist, after all.

  I drove along Riviera Lane, which was lined on both sides by nearly identical houses, some with lawns but most with gravel front yards punctuated with prickly desert plants and an amazing assortment of electrically powered Christmas decorations. The place looked deserted, but I knew that was just an illusion. Everybody in Las Vegas keeps their garage doors closed and their drapes drawn, even when they’re home. Las Vegas just isn’t a porch-sitting kind of town.

  Chantilly Court was a four-house cul-de-sac. Number 1075 looked like all the others except the garage door was open. The inside was shadowy, but I could see that it was so full of brown cardboard boxes that there was no room left over for even one car. Victoria’s dark blue Taurus was parked in the driveway. A hose was stretched across the driveway, and a pile of stuff—an umbrella, some bags, a folding chair—was lying on the concrete next to the trunk.

  Just as I pulled to a stop across the street, a tall man in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a baseball cap emerged from between the stacks of boxes in the open garage. He had a scrubby gray mustache, and he walked like a TV cowboy.

  The man sa
untered—or maybe it was a limp that made his hips swagger—over to the side of the house and leaned into a shrub. Water shot out of the hose, making it flop around like a snake. He picked it up and aimed it on the front wheel of Victoria’s car. As the water hit it, a stream of muddy water flowed down the driveway toward the gutter.

  I watched him, realizing as I did that I had not bothered to think about what I might say to introduce myself. It was possible Victoria had told him about me, and just as possible that she hadn’t had the chance or inclination.

  Before I lost my nerve, I unfastened my seat belt and opened my door. The man jerked his head up. He hadn’t noticed me before.

  He kept spraying the front wheel as I crossed the street, but he stopped when I got to the back bumper.

  “Hello?” he said. He flipped something on the hose nozzle and killed the spray. He tossed the hose into the gravel yard, wiped his hand on his jeans, and turned to face me. “Can I help you somehow?”

  “I’m Copper Black,” I said. “I knew Victoria.”

  He squinted at me.

  “You worked with her?”

  “No!” I said, a little too quickly. “No, I just met her a few days ago. I work for the newspaper.”

  “Aw, hell,” the man said, waving his right hand dismissively. “Can’t you just leave us alone?” He pulled a bandana out of his back pocket and started wiping the driver’s side mirror of Victoria’s car.

  “It’s not for the paper,” I said. “I’m not here for the paper.”

  “I don’t care why you’re here,” the man said. “I just want you to leave.”

  He sounded more weary than angry.

  “Are you Richard McKimber?” I asked.