Skin Game

by J. D. Allen

  “Sorry.”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t expecting you right there.”

  “I know.” He wanted to go in, but she was already coming out. “Can I say something?” He stepped just inside the door. “Talk for a minute?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. I guess.” She stepped back again, giving him plenty of room. She’d been that way since they were last in her room at the Paris.

  He pushed the door closed behind him. “I wanted to tell you that I’m”—what was he?—“not really sorry. Because things happened the way they happened and I felt the way I felt. I was pissed. But more than that, I was hurt.”

  She looked at her feet, her face soft with remorse. That was not what he had intended. He didn’t want her to feel that anymore.

  “What I mean is, I’m okay. I should have been okay a long time ago. Okay with you.”

  She tilted her head and scrunched up her nose. He was making no sense. He was no good at this shit. Why didn’t he just keep his mouth closed? He was a man of action, not blathering monologues. He put his hands on her shoulders, pulled her closer, and kissed her hard. Let the emotion he was trying to convey speak through action.

  She fell against him. Her arms traced around his body and held him tight, nails tugging at his shirt. That was what the hell he meant to say.

  Time was very short. Reluctantly, he broke off the kiss and let her go. Not that he wanted to. He wanted to hold her, feel her heat, her warmth along his body.

  “So you’re not mad at me anymore?” She pressed the back of his hand to her lips. Those eyes, even red-rimmed from the last few days of stress, no sleep, and crying were laced with a hint of relief.

  He wasn’t.

  There was a knock at the door. “Guys. It’s time to go.” The door opened. Miller stood there looking sheepish. “I got a heads-up from a friend. The boys in blue are heading this way. We have to go now. If they take us, they take her, and I don’t think the station is a safe place for her when I don’t know who’s under Zant’s thumb.”

  “Look.” Jim grabbed her hand. “I don’t know what’s going down from here on out, but I need you to trust me.”

  She nodded. His stomach clinched. Would she? Should she?

  “Whatever you hear. You have to know that I am the man I used to be. Can you do that?”

  She nodded. “I will.”

  “Good.”

  She sniffed. “You sound like you’re not planning on seeing me again.”

  Miller coughed. “No time, kids. Need to go. Now. All of us.” He held his hand out to Erica. “You’re with me.”

  “Go.” Jim pushed her toward the detective. “Keep her safe.”

  Miller sucked in a deep breath. “That’s the plan.”

  “Jim …”

  Jim followed from a safe distance. Ely had really set them up—earpieces, mics, a tracer on the car. Jim felt like an agent. Like he was part of a team.

  “Any chance we can get my bag from O’s place?” He could hear Erica through Miller’s mic, but she was muffled by ambient noise in the car.

  “Sorry. We go straight to the safe house. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.” On the contrary, Miller’s voice was crisp, clear.

  Hers was tight. “Fine.”

  “With any luck, this is over by morning.”

  The car got quiet. Jim knew what she was thinking. Would that mean they’d find Chris? Dead or alive? Or tortured and broken? She was probably drowning in guilt and self-blame. But this was not her fault.

  “Was all the double secret agent stuff really necessary? I hate not knowing what’s going on with Jim and Oscar.”

  “Yeah. For your protection and theirs.” Jim glanced in the rearview for about the twentieth time since they’d pulled away from Ely’s house. Miller said the journey to the safe house was about thirty minutes taking the back roads.

  Miller took the anticipated left turn.

  “Jim was worried I’d get antsy and do something stupid, wasn’t he?”

  “Maybe just a little bit. But it’s procedure for us in this circumstance. You just chillax with my friend Archie and get some rest.”

  “Chillax? Doubtful.”

  Jim knew that was not her style. Never was. And no way she would ever relax after what she’d seen. “So they’ll contact me, let me know what’s going on?”

  “Yes, dear,” Miller cooed sarcastically. Jim chuckled, knowing her face was mangled in irritation.

  They hit a red light, rolled to a stop, Jim’s car three lengths behind. He read a sign a grungy old man in tattered clothing clung to like a shield. It was tilted almost sideways, the lettering uneven and blocky. Homeless. Hungry. Humble before God. That was a new one.

  A motorcycle pulled up next to Erica’s window, blocking Jim’s view of the homeless dude. The rider was covered head to toe in black leather with bright yellow accents and a shiny black helmet. The bike was all black. Only his boots stood out as shiny and loud. Screaming yellow. Hot in the sun, all that leather. The helmet turned to face down into the car. Jim couldn’t see features or eyes through the tint. The unseen scrutiny made him uncomfortable.

  Miller pulled off. The bike did too. It stayed parallel with them, matching their speed in the right lane. Jim passed one car, trying to get closer. The bike was right at her window. “You have a visitor,” Jim said into his transmitter.

  “Uninvited. Hate that,” Miller quipped.

  Jim saw the gleam of the gun. Saw Erica’s head turn when it caught her eye as the biker steadied his aim on the front of Miller’s car and fired.

  “The man in the yellow shoes!” Erica yelled. Only they were motorcycle boots, not shoes.

  In response, Miller floored it. The sedan lurched forward, but the bike easily caught up.

  “Down!” Jim could see Miller wave her toward the floorboard. He could do nothing from his position to help her.

  A second shot exploded.

  Jim nailed the gas pedal, lurched the car to the right, onto the curb, the sidewalk. Rows of shelving were in the way. T-shirts, sunscreen, hats, and other Vegas necessities. In the movie car chases, drivers blow right through that kind of blockade. In real life, innocent bystanders are shopping, loitering, chatting with loved ones, or sipping coffee among them. He stood on the brake. Jim pull back on the roadway to pass the tow truck in front of him. Movie chases were cool. Real life sucked.

  A block up he saw Miller slam on the brakes, spin the wheel. An abrupt direction change. Through his in-ear mic, he heard Erica scream again, her fear echoing in Jim’s head. He heard the ooof of expelled air as she collided with the passenger door.

  “Fuck.” Miller zigged the car again. With a thunderous explosion, the back glass shattered. “Shit. They’re behind us too. Where’s a cop when you need one?”

  Jim passed two more cars and got closer. He swung hard right and saw a glimpse of the motorcycle. Miller’s swerving action made the bike lean off to the right to avoid getting run down by the sedan’s front fender. The rider was still able to fire off a shot.

  Then Miller hollered, “Hit!” He must have lost hold of the steering wheel. Jim watched the physics of motion, the car careening into a sideways slide. In only an instant, the sedan jerked back, indicating that Miller had regained the wheel. Jim gripped his own steering wheel. Sped up.

  “You okay?” Jim passed another car. Only one truck left to get by before he could take out the bike. The truck seemed to be keeping pace. Not good. Probably with the bike. Would make sense.

  “You’re bleeding!” Erica was screeching. Panicked.

  “I’m fine. Get back down. Now.”

  Jim was able to see her head disappear into the well of the passenger floorboard.

  “How bad?” Jim asked into the mic.

  “Not bad enough.” The motorcycle reappeared on the driver’s side
, driving on the wrong side of the road. He fired again. This time the front driver’s-side tire blew.

  When the rim bit the pavement, the car jerked to the left like a train had hit it, sent them flying down a city street. Miller’s hands flew up, above his head.

  Jim watched in horror as the car started to flip. Time seemed to come to a complete standstill. This time the movies had it right. That slow-motion shit they love to show on the big screen was playing very real in his head.

  The sedan careened over to its roof. Jim then realized the back end of a truck was too close. It had slammed on its brakes. Jim’s front end connected with the truck’s solid, stationary oversized bumper. His airbag didn’t deploy. It was turned off. His head bounced forward, then back, tearing at the muscles in his neck. Like a wet noodle, Jim was wrenched and his head slammed something hard.

  Things were flying around inside the car. A notebook. An empty coffee cup. He tried to concentrate and watch Miller’s car as it continued its roll.

  Twenty yards away, Miller’s car shook and tumbled over again and skittered to a stop. It rocked back and forth several times.

  Jim’s dash had collapsed onto his lap. He struggled through his cloudy vision to move. Trapped. The door jammed. The shifter pressed into his ribs prevented his getting out the window.

  Miller had been sucked through his window by the momentum of the roll. Jim could just see his legs past the wreckage. “Miller?”

  He tugged again, and pain shot through his thigh. He didn’t feel blood but there was pressure. He hoped it wasn’t broken. The bike swung back around. Approached slowly. People flooded out of close-by businesses.

  It looked like Erica was hanging in the car by the belt. It rocked slightly. Jim saw her struggling to push herself up to check for Miller.

  The man in the yellow boots got off his bike. Jim wished for a gun, any gun right now. Even if he missed, it would make enough commotion for the ass to back off. Biker boy grabbed Erica by the hair. Jim’s blood boiled. He pushed with all his strength against the dash. Fragments of plastic broke, but nothing eliminated the pressure that had him trapped.

  She screamed again. This time he heard it across the broken road. It was as if that was the only sound in the universe. He saw the glass falling from his windshield, knew there should be creaking of twisted metal, but all he could hear was the biker pulling Erica from Miller’s car.

  Jim saw him put something over her mouth. White cloth. Had to be chloroform. “No!”

  This couldn’t happen. It was the middle of a Saturday, on the streets of Las Vegas. People were around. A car wreck attracted attention.

  35

  Jim’s head throbbed like he was inside a bass drum. The stupid off-brand aspirin Adair had wasn’t helping. At least the cabbie was close and was able to get him out of the scene of the wreck in a hurry.

  It wasn’t long after that goon dragged Erica away that he heard the sirens. He had no choice but to run as soon as he managed to work himself free.

  Jim was leaving a trail of bodies and wreckage the slowest of detectives could follow, and the LVPD was not staffed with dimwits. If Miller had bought it in that rollover, Jim would probably take the rap for that as well. Not making friends these days.

  He should go get his stash of cash and IDs he kept for just such emergencies and hightail it out of the state. Maybe out of the country.

  He sighed. Instead, Jim Bean shoved a fiver into the same slot machine he’d won on two days ago. Sullivan’s Fortune. He pulled the arm. Looked around. The drums spun. Lights flashed. He looked up at the expensive car above the bank of machines. Pretentious.

  The bells rang.

  The false sounds of coins echoed far and wide in the casino, reminding other players to hold out a bit longer, feed the machines.

  Winner? How was that even possible? His luck sucked. No way he wanted to waste any on the slots now. This wasn’t why he was here.

  It was early in the afternoon and only hardy slot players were scattered about. One skinny old lady looked away from her own machine long enough to nod at his windfall. He returned it. Glanced at his watch. Shouldn’t be long now.

  The ticket spit out.

  Three hundred sixty-two dollars and seventy-eight cents. That couldn’t be right. He added that to the winnings from Thursday and it made an even thousand. One large. He needed to look around on the far side of the casino floor as well.

  He’d walk right up to the cash window. One more blatant sweep should do it. He strode boldly down the middle of the casino making faces at the various security cameras, following the hideous design of the carpet as it led him toward the higher-dollar machines and the poker and blackjack tables. He stopped and ordered a soda from a middle-aged woman in a top and shorts that were too young and too tight for her. He then slowed to watch a rather lovely young blonde winning at craps.

  The cash box was dead ahead. He glanced behind him. Still not being followed. Dammit.

  Only one other person cashing in chips. He was first in the line.

  The old guy behind the glass was pleasant enough and congratulatory. Jim was suspicious.

  He looked past the old dude and saw a reflection of Banks heading his way in the polished glass behind the teller. About damned time.

  “Let’s go, shall we?”

  “After you.” Jim gestured as he tucked his winnings into this pocket.

  Banks turned and walked away. Jim followed.

  “Through there.” He nodded his big head toward an inconspicuous door.

  Jim needed to calm down and do what he did best. His plan had been to go see Zant. He needed to be with the big guy to get answers he needed. “Zant want to see me?”

  “Nope.” That had been the point of this little field trip. Jim wanted to see Zant and act all innocent, offer assistance in order to continue to fulfill the terms of his agreement. All he had at the moment. He needed info, the lay of the operation. He was desperate.

  Banks pushed the door open and held it for Jim to go through. Polite enough. Jim looked back toward the casino. Two men had moved in behind them. Shit. He knew he’d wasted what little luck he had on the slots.

  The back end of the casino was like a bright tunnel, a white hall littered with white doors. Most unmarked. The back room was coming up.

  “Are you sure? I talked to the Floyd woman quite a while. I might have some information the old man needs.”

  “I wouldn’t call him that if I were you.” Banks opened the last door on the right. A loading dock, empty except for three large wooden barrels with the lids lying next to them. Along with a hammer and nails. Not a pleasant thought, being killed and dumped into a barrel and then the lid nailed on. He internally shrugged. It would be a fitting coffin given the amount of barrel-aged Scotch he’d drunk in the past few years, but he wasn’t ready for that just yet. Time to think on his toes. Follow a hunch about Banks he always suspected.

  “You always seemed to like the girls, Banks. Hard to believe you’d be part of selling them off like dogs. And the abuse.” Jim shook his head, tsked. “Hard to see you beating on your little girls like that.”

  His face twisted in anger as he moved in close. Jim didn’t back up. “I ain’t never inflicted an ounce of pain on any of my girls. I talk big, but they all know my job is to ensure they’s safety.” His attempts to cover his background in a higher vocabulary, like he had been in the casino, faltered with his indignation.

  “I saw Lola and her friend. Beaten, raped—”

  “Lola?” He grabbed Jim up by the shirt. Pressed the business end of a long sleek blade in the soft part of his neck just below his right ear. Deadly spot. Quick. Painless, at least.

  “Figured she was one of yours. Pretty girl … once. Had that little beauty mark on her left cheek.”

  “Once?” Banks pushed the blade in harder. Punctured the skin. “What do you
know about Lola? We thought she ran away from the Pony. I looked for her for two days.”

  “She didn’t run, Banks.” Jim tried to keep his balance, but it was hard with Banks holding him up high enough so his toes barely made contact with the ground and a shaft of steel pressed into his neck. “Zant is selling them. He’s torturing your girls beyond even your imagination, then selling them.”

  “The hell you say.” He shoved hard, sending Jim stumbling back and falling to the ground. He landed on his ass, banging his elbows on the concrete, facing Banks, who still had that blade in his hand and ready to throw. Instead he pounced on Jim, landing as if he were going to cut his throat, but not applying near enough pressure.

  “We got her out. Lola.” As Jim spoke, despite the blade compressing his voice box, Banks rolled them over, putting Bean on top, loosened his grip. Enough Jim could breathe, anyway. Jim would probably still have more than a shaving nick across his throat, but Banks was still playing the game. Listening. Yet not killing him. “We found her and a little blonde at a small ranch south of town. She’d been in a dog crate. Beaten. Drugged to stupidity.” The rough man’s face fell like a lost little puppy. “Zant … he sells them to the high rollers as sex slaves. I have tapes of the torture, the rapes. I can prove it to you.”

  Banks shook his head. Pretended to struggle and then rolled them back over. A big knee pressed into Jim’s chest. Banks swung and gave Jim a halfhearted punch to the face. “Even that fucker is not that crazy.”

  “Yes. He is.” Jim still had to shake off the weakened punch, happy Banks believed him enough to go light. But he hadn’t stopped. “That’s why Chris Floyd was dancing at the Pony. Working undercover to try and get girls out. She’d figured it all out. Four or five girls he takes out of the clubs several times a year. How many went missing on you over the last few weeks, Banks?”

  He held tight, but his thoughts were clearly with his girls. “Three, out of my club.”

  Jim got his feet under the man’s meaty thigh and shoved. He lumbered back. Even scrambling to stand as fast as he could, Banks had recovered just as quick. Quicker. A jaw-rattling punch landed across Jim’s chin. He fell back to the cement floor. Dang. He had to kneel for a moment to clear the stars. The metal taste of blood filled his mouth. Jim spit, looked at Banks. He was about to run out of time. Erica and Chris were missing. He had to convince Banks that Zant was hurting his girls.