Skin Game

by J. D. Allen

  Annie mewed her impatience. Jim considered that he may have forgotten to feed her before leaving this morning. “Sorry, baby girl.”

  The cupboard was bare. The pantry contained only a half box of macaroni noodles, a can of black-eyed peas, and an empty tin of coffee. He moved to the fridge. It was equally barren. On the bottom shelf was a pizza box. Three days old. He retrieved it and inspected the contents. Three slices of sausage, hamburger, and onion. Extra cheese.

  Annie jumped on the counter to investigate her options. “How’s about some hamburger?” He picked off a piece and tossed it to her. “Sausage was pretty spicy.”

  She tested the meat. Found she approved. He took a drink and pulled a few more pieces off the pie and put them on the counter. Annie happily ate.

  He retrieved his phone and popped a piece of sausage in his mouth. Scanned his contacts and hit the call button.

  “Broady.”

  Jim cringed. He half expected no one to answer the detective’s line this late. Broady was an ass. Stupid and mean. Bad combination for someone who was supposed to protect and serve.

  “Hey. It’s Jim Bean. You’re working late.”

  There was a perceivable sigh on the line. “Yeah. I’m busy, Bean.”

  “I just need a name. Who’s working the Floyd case? Chris Floyd. Missing persons.” He kept talking, not giving Broady a chance to deny him the information. “Give me the name and I won’t come down there and ask you to pull the file personally.”

  He’d had a couple of run-ins with the Vegas PD. He knew his rights; sometimes they pretended not to. It got ugly a time or two. Either way, Broady would not want Jim down there hassling him at this time of night.

  “You won’t show on my shift?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hold on.”

  Jim heard the click, heard the crappy music. It kept playing. And playing. A Beatles remix, he believed. It shouldn’t take this long.

  The music clicked off. “No one.”

  “No one’s been assigned?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Jim took another swig. “Not in the mood for games.” He was about to get mad enough to go back on his word and go down there and get right in Broady’s face. “It’s closed?”

  “Not one open. Don’t see any Floyd on anything open at all.”

  “How about closed?”

  Broady sighed. Jim listened as keys clacked on the old fat black keyboards attached by long twisting cords to antiquated computers. “Nothing. Bye, Bean.” He hung up.

  Jim looked at his phone. He was sure Erica had said the police had at least looked into it. She would have filed a complaint. That would mean a case file had to have been opened. Case files did not disappear. He paced the other end of his small living room, avoiding a pair of shoes and an Amazon box in his path. The new remote microphone he’d ordered was still in it. He slid it under the end table to prevent stepping on it.

  No file. Maybe Broady was being a bigger asshole than usual. The couch felt good as he slouched down to operate the remote. A random sports report came on the screen. The volume was too low to follow what the cute sports reporter was saying. Her eyes were a little crossed, but she looked pretty excited by her news.

  The phone woke him. Not the ring, although it should have. The thing danced on the coffee table as it vibrated with a metallic clang like an old-fashioned clock with the silver double bells on top. Annoying. Painful. He kicked at it but missed. No use. He was awake and the events of the previous day spilled through his thumping head like a dam breaking.

  He rubbed his chin. Next to the phone was the half-empty Scotch bottle and a half-eaten slice of pizza. All the meat was missing, including the sausage. Annie had helped herself to breakfast. Mental note: buy cat food.

  The screen said he had two messages and a text. The text was brief, from an unrecognized number. Up and ready.

  Two calls from current clients. One of whom would want an update. An update with news. News that would save them money and an upcoming court appearance. He still had nothing on Edmund Carver’s workers’ comp fraud. The other was less urgent, a new adultery investigation. The mister was loaded and not careful. The missus wanted proof of multiple affairs. She would get it. Just not today.

  He navigated to the text and pushed the tab to add a contact. Her number showed with the appropriate blanks to fill in. First. Last. Address. He typed an E and hit save. Didn’t want her name and number in his contacts. Didn’t want to feel that connected. She was desperate. But he had to bow out.

  The thought of being around her, having to look into those eyes, was too much. He could be angry and probably make it through the investigation. Angry was easier to deal with than hurt. Hurt made people do stupid things.

  Annie jumped onto his lap. She wanted attention. He scratched her head, let his hand run down the length of her back. Her fur was soft, her purr comforting. The phone chirped again, vibrating in his other hand. Not comforting. Nagging. That one indicated a voicemail. He navigated to the message. The casino client. Pushed play.

  “Thanks for all your good work, Mr. Bean, but circumstances have changed. We’re dropping the case against Mr. Carver. We cut a check this morning for your current billable hours. Let our accounting department know if I’ve miscalculated. We’ll be in touch.”

  No update needed. No bonus. Damn. He spent four days painting a dumpster and they no longer needed the proof? This day was starting off with a bang. He’d needed that bonus money.

  He made it upstairs to the bathroom and started the water running in the shower. He rummaged through three drawers, found a bottle of aspirin, popped four, and stuck his head under the sink faucet for a swallow to wash them down.

  Once in the shower he closed his eyes. The hot water was clarifying. Erica had offered three times his normal fees. That would solve some issues. Like paying his rent. But, as much as he needed the money, he knew he was going to pass. He’d give Erica the names of two or three other investigators in the area. He needed away from her.

  6

  Jim slid into the usual booth at the Coffee Girl. The farthest from the front door, on an interior wall and close to the waitress station and the alley to the kitchen, which led to the back door. Least desirable for most clientele. Most desirable for Jim Bean.

  Sandy came directly behind him with the coffee urn. She poured him a large cup with a smile and a simple good morning.

  “You sure you don’t want that job?” One of his earlier investigations ended up with Sandy being kidnapped and drugged. Dang close to being killed. He didn’t really want an employee, but in the heat of the moment when things had gone bad, he’d offered her the position of his assistant. He could really use the help in his one-man venture, but he wasn’t so keen on the idea of someone in his business. Or paying too much attention to how he lived his life.

  “Let me finish this semester, then we’ll talk about it again.”

  Same answer as she gave him every week. Seems like a semester should have passed by now. He gave her his best pre-coffee smile.

  She retreated without taking his order. He got the same thing every morning: organic spinach omelet, hash browns, and some kind of sausage patty made from soybeans. It wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t good. It was probably the only healthy thing in his life. It was serviceable and he didn’t have to change his routine. Routine was generally not a good thing, but he liked waking up and walking to breakfast. It felt normal, comfortable, in a life that offered little of either.

  Jim watched a large silver motorcycle roll into the lot. Oscar. See. Routine wasn’t healthy. Oscar Olsen knew exactly where to find him. Not that Oscar was a threat. On the contrary. Oscar was one of the only people on earth Jim called friend.

  His omelet arrived. But Sandy didn’t bring it. Oscar relieved her of that duty as he strode past. He leaned in, gave her a wink, pecked her on t
he check, and took Jim’s plate.

  Double O, as most called him, slid into the vinyl seat across from Jim and plopped the plate down. “Will there be anything else?” He grinned. For a man whose life had taken a far worse turn than even Jim’s, he sure smiled a lot. It was annoying.

  “A little less cheerful breakfast companion.”

  “Bad night?”

  He thought of Erica, the anger, her so close to him. “Something like that.”

  Sandy brought his new companion a cup of coffee. He smiled up at her. “I’ll have the pancakes and bacon.” Which meant some kind of sweet potato shingle that would be the consistency of cardboard and some fake tofu strip, and O knew it. To Jim he said, “You should really go elsewhere for breakfast.”

  “And give up all this?”

  Oscar quit smiling. “I know I’ve asked you before, but do you want to help out with a couple of my cases? I’m slammed. Can’t keep up. Seems half the idiots due on trial last month skipped.” He made a face as he took a sip from his cup. “Oh. Yum.”

  He was right. The coffee was as bad as the food. Maybe it was time for a change. And maybe he should pick up a case or two from O. He needed the cash. Owed Oscar some cash, in fact. Maybe he could work it off. “Sure. I need to look into one thing for a current case. Should wrap it up later today.”

  Double O’s face changed. Hardened. He was going for serious, but it looked like he had gas to Jim. “I need you to carry that piece if you’re going after skips. They got more to lose than some guy cheating on his wife.”

  “That depends on the wife, now, doesn’t it?”

  “Serious, Bean.”

  The Glock. Still in the box, still on the floor in his office. A gift from Double O. Not gonna happen. Jim shook his head. “Don’t need one.”

  “Tell me that after your ass gets shot at.”

  “I’ve managed to take care of things for years without one. If it’s my time—”

  “Stupid. Your time to go might just be rescheduled for an earlier date if you don’t start carrying. If that one’s too big, I got a snubby you can have.”

  “It’s not that. Just not my thing.” They’d had this discussion before. Jim felt like guns just made it easy to kill a man. If you had to kill, use your hands. Then you’d have time to think about it, to know he needed killing. Plus, Jim couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun. Oscar had given him some lessons, but his aim was still for shit.

  Anyway. He had other things on his mind. “Let me ask you something—you ever heard of a case file going missing from the police database?” He took another large bite despite the fact his morning-after stomach was protesting the dry eggs. He added ketchup. Food was great for a hangover. A greasy real sausage biscuit would be better, but …

  “No. Case is opened, it’s in the computer. Stays there.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Why would Broady tell him differently? It didn’t matter. He was going to be off the case. Erica would be using someone else. After he delivered her car and got her out of Zant’s hotel. Speaking of … He texted Adair for a ride to the Peppermint Pony. He’d drive her car over to the Strip, tell her he needed to help out O, and be done with the whole mess in an hour. Grab some cat food and go home.

  They sat in quiet as they ate. A little bounty hunter work would be good for him. Maybe a bail jumper might put up a good fight. Give him a reason to break the rules of his anger-management class. He sighed. Maybe it was time to leave Las Vegas. Maybe an entire new identity was waiting for him just around the corner. Not just a change of name like he did here. Nope, the real deal. New social security number and everything. But that took time and money to set up. Double O was offering him a way to make that money.

  Erica would have to manage this shit on her own.

  7

  Jim hesitated at the elevator as a very lean man encased in a shiny dark gray suit stood outside Erica’s room with a clipboard. The effect of the suit, slim cut and skinny legs, along with a big face, made him look cartoonish, like the Pink Panther character clad in high-end fabric. Dark gray for the suit, lighter gray crisp shirt. A narrow avocado tie was the only break in the color palette. Vegas.

  He bowed his head and checked off something on his paper. “I apologize for any inconvenience. “

  Jim knelt down to tie his shoe as the man slinked around the corner toward the elevators on the back side of the hotel. He waited a moment before going to her door to make sure the thin man wasn’t going to double back. Not paranoid, just careful.

  He knocked only once.

  She pulled the door open quickly, surely expecting the thin man again.

  “Who was that?” Jim stood there. Her eyes were a little bloodshot, she was wrapped in a towel.

  “We have a lot to do today.” She looked him over with a disapproving frown before she turned to her suitcase and fished out a pair of slacks and a button-up top.

  He did glance down at his attire but offered no comment. “The guy at the door. What did he want?”

  She turned back with a snap. Not happy. “Laundry service is behind today. Clean towels aren’t coming for a while.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’ve been waiting all morning with no word from you. That would get people fired in the banking world. I texted you three hours ago.”

  “And you said you were ready.” He tried to keep from leering at her towel-clad body.

  “I was ready. I got bored waiting. Then anxious. So I went to the gym.” His guess was she’d gotten worried he wasn’t coming, angry he hadn’t replied to her message, and then scared that she was on her own again in trying to find Chris.

  “Where do we start?” she asked briskly.

  “From where I was standing I couldn’t get a good look at his face. He didn’t stop at the next room. Or the one after that. He went straight for the elevator.”

  “Really? I guess I’m the only one short on towels.” She stepped closer to him. He backed away. He wished he hadn’t taken her to his house the night before. He wished she was dressed now.

  “Have you started?” She came even closer.

  “How likely is that?”

  “How likely is what?”

  “That you’re the only one on the floor without towels.”

  She huffed, backed off a little. “What? I don’t care about towels. We need to start looking for Chris. Did you start this morning or not? Since you didn’t reply, I was hoping you were already looking for her.”

  He looked at his feet. “I need to talk to you about this.”

  “This conversation is going in too many different directions. About the man in the hall, Chris, or last night?”

  “Chris”—his brows drew together—“and last night. And that guy being here is a little concerning.”

  “I’ll start with the easy one. The guy is a hotel guy. Doing his job. Next.”

  His gaze moved away from the top of the towel, where her breasts were pushed up due to the fact that she’d just crossed her arms. “I think you should hire someone else to help with Chris.”

  “Oh. No, you don’t. You cannot back out. Not now. No.”

  He crossed his arms and changed his weight from one leg to the other. “I have other clients, you know. I can’t just drop everything. There are several PIs around here.”

  She stammered, seeming to lose her confidence. “I … I knew that trying to seduce you wasn’t going to work. That had been a long shot and I panicked. The whole idea was borne more in desperation and desire than a real belief that you would barter for your services with me. I’m sorry.”

  She paced to the window with a sigh and looked out over the tourist milling about the Strip in daylight hours. “You may be jaded, angry, unhappy, and a jerk, but inside you have always been a good man. Things like that don’t change. Character doesn’t change.”

 
He wanted to say something about a time she must have felt differently, but she kept on. “This is my sister. She’s missing. You’ve been drunk with her. Hung out at the lake with her. And now you’re giving me a bunch of crap about other clients?”

  He shook his head. “I told you last night. I didn’t want to be around you. I can’t be around you.” He slid a couple of business cards onto a nearby table. The air in the room was getting hot. “These men are just as capable. Probably more so. They won’t start out with all this baggage. It’s better for the investigation.”

  “I can come up with a laundry list of why this would be good. No one will care about us like you do.”

  He was heading toward the door. His hand made it to the handle. “What makes you think I care, Erica?”

  “Ouch. Well. Maybe not for me. I know I fucked up, but she defended you. Chris came to Mom and to me and tried to convince us that you had to have been framed. That the DNA reports were speculation. No one in town would have thought the press would just make up things based on shaky facts and add them to the reports. She was so upset.”

  “Sexual manipulation last night, guilt trip today?” His voice was hard. Defensive. He didn’t move but couldn’t look back at her. “You have changed, girl.”

  “That may have been a bold move last night. I give you that. I thought you wanted me as much as I wanted you.” She took in a deep breath as if to calm her own anger. “I was trying to get you to let go of your anger and see things for what they are today.”

  It was all true. And it was nothing he wanted to deal with. He pulled the metal door open and stepped out of her life. It slammed with an echo.

  “I was trying to save my sister!”

  Jim wished all his feelings were still based in anger. Her last statement echoed loudly down the corridor. Saving Chris. He closed his eyes as he waited on the elevator. The thing chimed brightly with each floor it passed. He balled his fists. Chris. To think that little Chris had defended him to her family. It wasn’t so hard to picture once he thought about it. She was a couple of years younger and a slightly smaller carbon copy of Erica. He was sure the girl had always harbored a crush for him. But he didn’t want to think on any of that. Wasn’t sure he believed the story. Wasn’t sure he believed Erica.