Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  “Luther said you were looking for Mr. Baldwin earlier today. Did you find him?”

  “I did, Eddie. Thanks.”

  “Good, good. He was in here last night, you know.”

  “That’s what Betsy said,” I answered, putting my horn in its case.

  “We conversed a little. You know how I like to say hello to all the customers, see if there’s anything special I can play for them. You know how I do that, Trip.”

  I smiled. “I do know how you do that, Eddie. You’re a fine host.”

  “Mr. B always has a song for me. Yessir, the man knows his jazz. No one comes closer to stumpin’ ol’ Eighty-Eight than Mr. B does—he hasn’t yet, but he’s come darn close.”

  “Is that so?” I replied. I really didn’t want to get into a lengthy conversation with Eighty-Eight Eddie on the subject of Ken, so I did my best to hurry my departure.

  He continued, “Yessir, Mr. B was in rare form last night, that’s for sure.”

  Against my better judgment, I asked, “How do you mean?”

  “Well, you know the way Mr. B is, not a real talkative fella—kind of understated, if you get my meaning. Not last night, though. No sir, last night he was a different person, happy and jabberin’ on and on about this and that. I hardly recognized him.”

  “Really?” I replied.

  “He was really enjoying his friends, I guess.”

  “His friends?”

  “Mr. Carson and Mr. Stevens, the two fellas he came in with. I think I’m recalling their names correctly. They were laughin’ and drinkin, and—”

  “Wait. He came in with Mr. Carson and Mr.…”

  “Stevens. Sure, they came in together. I was on break when they walked through the door. Mr. B introduced them to me. Yessir, he sure was in a good mood.”

  “Eddie, do you know if Mr. Baldwin and his two friends also left together?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but I assume they did. Why wouldn’t they?”

  Eighty-Eight must have thought I’d suffered a stroke because my mouth was suddenly unable to form words. Just then, Luther walked up.

  “Our boy can blow, can’t he, Eddie?” Luther said, slapping me on the back.

  “I taught him everything he knows,” Eighty-Eight replied.

  “Is everything okay, Trip?” Luther asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks again for letting me sit in, Eddie. I’ll see you guys later.”

  I was out the door and on the road within seconds.

  I was livid. I knew Ken’s ridiculous spy story was nothing but a bunch of hooey all along—Russian spies, did he really think I was that gullible? It was a bitter pill, but there could only be one reason why Ken had lied to me. He did have something to do with Lydia’s murder. Why he wanted me to drive him out into the desert was anybody’s guess. Maybe that was where he was staging his getaway. Who knows? What I knew was Ken had lied to me, and according to the rules of Trip, that was a deal breaker. Who’d have thought Ken Baldwin was such a good actor? I’d have bet money he didn’t know Lydia was dead before I told him. Not important. He’d lied to me.

  So, there I was, faced once again with the question of what to do with information I had that no one else did. This time, however, there was no prolonged internal debate. I decided instantly what I was going to do. First, I was going home and crawling into bed, because I don’t think I’d ever been as tired as I was in that moment. Then, the following morning, I was calling Clegg and spilling my guts. He’d probably give me a good tongue lashing, but I could take it. If it went any further than that, I’d play the Ken-held-a-gun-on-me card, which of course he did. Yes, it might be stretching the truth a smidgeon, but I wasn’t about to be sent up the river due to my sweet, well-meaning, and generous nature. Of course, before calling Clegg, I’d swing by the bank and cash Ken’s check, but that was only right. I deserved some restitution for my pain and suffering, didn’t I?

  Chapter 7

  Even though I was at the bank ten minutes before it opened, I still had to stand in line. What with weekend winners cashing in and weekend losers pleading their cases to unsympathetic loan officers, Monday mornings tend to be a busy time at Las Vegas financial institutions. It was an inconvenience, but the wait did give me an opportunity to further ponder Ken’s actions.

  Maybe it was a softening of my disposition or just a good night’s sleep, but the more I thought about it, the more some things didn’t add up. Like, if Ken really did kill Lydia, why did he come to see me? Shouldn’t he have been hightailing it out of town? Then there was the fact he had a gun. If Ken had lost control in a fit of jealous rage, why didn’t he just shoot her? Regardless of what I now believed about the man’s guilt or innocence, I still couldn’t see Ken Baldwin breaking a woman’s neck and callously tossing her into a swimming pool. That was just too…well, you know what I mean. Then there was the phone call he made at my apartment. Who’d he call? And why did he make me drive him out into the desert in the middle of the night? No, there was definitely more going on than just some brokenhearted schmuck losing his temper and killing his girlfriend. These questions, however, hadn’t changed my mind about calling Clegg and telling him everything I knew—just as soon as I had my moola in hand.

  The line was moving along quite nicely, but I suspected that was about to change. The woman in front of me, who unapologetically offered up to the world an orange polka-dotted sundress under a two-mile high beehive, toted three handbags over her shoulder that jingled every time she moved. I suspected this meant she’d had a good weekend at the slots and I’d have time to take up the cello while waiting for the teller to count out all her nickels. I was about to ask if I could cut in when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Mr. Callaway,” came a raspy voice.

  I turned and saw a gargantuan man with a square head looking down at me.

  “Las Vegas police,” he said, flashing a badge. “Please, come with us.”

  I looked to see who the us was he was referring to and saw another behemoth standing behind him. Both wore shiny black suits and had hair as dark as the lenses in their respective sunglasses. Beyond that, they were white, clean shaven, and looked as if they’d never smiled a day in their life.

  “What’s this about?” I asked.

  “Just come with us,” the first man’s Tonto replied.

  “Did Clegg send you? Tell you what, let me take care of this first and—”

  “Now,” the square-headed guy said, grabbing my arm and yanking me out of line.

  “Hey, come on, cool it,” I protested as he pulled me out the door. “There’s no need to get rough, you guys. Come on, let go of my arm.”

  Once out of the bank and on the sidewalk, I noticed I was being led toward a car parked behind my own. The car was a black ’59 Cadillac Sedan de Ville.

  No one’s ever accused me of being the smartest person in the world, but I did know two things for sure. One, Duke Ellington is a genius. Two, Las Vegas cops don’t drive ’59 Caddies. I also knew, with a fair degree of certainty, these fellas weren’t Fat Tony’s boys, either. I’m on a first name basis with all of Fat T’s muscle, and these two apes weren’t any of them. That’s when I concluded getting into the Caddy might not be in my best interest.

  Tonto went around to the driver’s side, while Square Head kept a firm hold of my arm as he opened the passenger door. I had one chance, and knew I couldn’t be squeamish about what needed to be done. I hunched over as if to get in and then violently shoved the door out as hard as I could, taking the man by surprise and catching him right where it mattered. He let out a growl and grabbed his crotch. That was my cue.

  As I recall, I only looked back once, but that was enough for me to confirm Square Head had recovered, and he and Tonto were now in hot pursuit. I sprinted down the sidewalk like Jesse Owens and bolted across Fremont at Second. I had no clue who I was running from, where I was running to, or what I was going to do once I got there, but I kept running anyway. I briefly considered stopping, pointing
at the men, and yelling for help, but abandoned the idea when it occurred to me all my pursuers would have to do is flash their phony badges. I was running out of breath, and ideas, when I saw it, the Golden Nugget. It was a woefully weak plan, but if there was any place I could disappear, I figured it might be in there.

  I dashed through the opened glass doors and was immediately disheartened by the meager number of people in the casino. In retrospect, I should’ve expected as much. It was a Monday morning, after all. I headed for a row of slot machines and positioned myself where I could stay out of sight but still keep an eye on the front entrance. Then I waited. Then I waited some more. Nothing. Being the eternal optimist, I began to think I’d really lost them or they’d given up. Or maybe, just maybe, they saw the error of their ways and decided whatever it was they thought I did or didn’t do, I hadn’t, and we should just all go on with our lives like the whole incident had never happened. I was wrong on all accounts.

  They looked like well-dressed gladiators entering the arena, fists clenched and eager to slay some Christians. I watched as both men scanned the room. Eventually, Square Head said something to Tonto, who nodded and took off into the casino in my direction. I was a sitting duck. I needed to find a place to hide, and fast.

  I called upon the old chestnut the best place to stash a tree is in the middle of the forest. The forest I chose was a blackjack table where an obese man in a plaid shirt, a nervous little man in a bow tie, and an elderly redheaded woman wearing too much lipstick and chewing the last bit of life out of a stick of Juicy Fruit, were engrossed in a game of twenty-one.

  “Mind if I join you?” I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  “Not at all, son,” the large man said with a thick southern drawl. “We got this varmint on the run,” he added, smiling at the dealer.

  “Chips, sir?” the dealer asked.

  I pulled a tenner from my chinos—thank you, Ken—and tossed it on the table. The dealer supplied me and proceeded to shuffle.

  “Name’s Buster, Buster from Pensacola,” the man said, extending his beefy hand.

  “Ralph from Milwaukie,” I replied, shaking it. I have no idea why I lied about my name. It just seemed like the thing to do.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Ralph. That’s Bart from Tucson, and this good-looking young lady is Miss Jean from right here in Las Vegas.”

  I looked at the two and nodded. They nodded back.

  At a blackjack table, some people are talkers, some are not. Some people show emotion, some don’t. There’s no rule here, but the considerate player will recognize the dynamic of the table and behave accordingly. I had a suspicion Buster hadn’t gotten that memo because while he was obviously a talker, Bart, as well as Miss Jean, were not. In this instance, neither was I. My attention was somewhere else, and it wasn’t on Buster from Pensacola.

  Nor was it on the game. In fact, I don’t think I looked once at any of the cards dealt to me, only saying “hit me” whenever the dealer would ask and then tossing in more chips when the game was over. But here’s the thing, I was winning. This should tell all of us everything we ever need to know about gambling.

  “Blackjack. A winner,” the dealer said, pushing chips toward me.

  “Son, you are one lucky so-and-so,” Buster exclaimed. “What’s your secret?”

  “Clean living,” I replied.

  I was up thirty bucks, but my luck was about to run out. I was surveying the room when to my right I saw Tonto standing by a roulette table. Our eyes locked. He smiled and started moving toward me. I was about to jump up and run when I looked around and saw Square Head coming around the slots on my left. They had me surrounded.

  It’s said the best defense is a strong offense. I was about to put that philosophy to the test. I shot up and began shouting, “Why are you chasing me? Who are you guys?”

  This brought both men to a stop.

  Buster said, “What in daylights is wrong with you, Ralph?”

  “Those men, right there, they’re chasing me.”

  “What men?”

  “Right there, him, and him,” I answered, pointing to each man. “They say they’re cops, but they’re not. Who are you? What do you want with me?”

  The two men looked at each other and then took out their fake badges. I had one last play. I started singing at the top of my lungs. “Oh say can you see, by the dawn’s early light, what so proudly we hailed, at the twilight’s last gleaming?”

  I’ve always believed if you want to cut crime in America by at least eighty percent, forget traditional law enforcement and hire Las Vegas casino security. They show up in herds, have no qualms about getting physical, and most importantly to me in that moment, respond to trouble at nearly the speed of light.

  Men in dark blue blazers had me surrounded with my wrists cuffed behind my back in seconds. As they ushered me off the casino floor, I looked back at my would-be abductors. I wasn’t surprised to see they had vanished.

  Security at the Golden Nugget was very professional, if not downright polite. They said if I promised to leave and not come back, they wouldn’t call the police. They even gave me my winnings.

  “No,” I yelled. “I won’t promise that. You better call the police.”

  Of course, they thought I’d lost my mind, but the last thing I wanted was to be put back on the street where Frick and Frack were probably lying in wait. It took me turning up the crazy to double forte for them to ultimately honor my request. But I still wasn’t out of the woods. The two LVPD officers who showed up tried to talk me out of it too, explaining that even though I’d disturbed the peace, they’d let me off with a warning if I promised to go home and sober up. What’s a guy got to do to get arrested in this town? I found out when I took a half-hearted swing at one of them.

  “Thank you,” I said as they shoved me into the patrol car. “Thank you so very, very much.”

  “Shut up,” was the only reply.

  I’d only been in the Las Vegas police station once. It was a couple of years ago after some drunken Casanova at The Jam Jar got too familiar with Betsy, and I poked the bozo in the nose. He filed charges, I was hauled in, but the matter was ultimately dropped. This time was different. This time, I actually wanted to be there.

  For over two hours, I waited in holding with two drunks sleeping it off and one down-on-his-luck pickpocket named Sid who wouldn’t stop insisting to me he was framed. I told him I believed him and would have my attorney, Perry Mason, get on his case forthwith. Just as I was about to commit a real crime against Sid myself, I was taken out of the cell and led into a florescent lit room where I was seated at one of the dozen or so metal desks scattered about. A rumpled fireplug of a man, wearing a stained white dress shirt, hideous lavender tie, and what I surmised to be a perpetual five o’clock shadow, came over and plopped down across from me.

  “So, Mister…” he said, rifling through some papers.

  “Callaway. Trip Callaway.”

  “Yes, here it is. Trip Callaway, interesting name. My name is Detective Sam Barnard. So, Mr. Callaway, how are you feeling?”

  “I feel fine. Can you go get Clegg?”

  “Tell me about what happened at the Golden Nugget, Mr. Callaway.”

  “I told it to the officers who brought me in. I’m sure you have it all there in your files somewhere.”

  “Why don’t you tell it to me again in your own words?”

  I blew out a breath and rubbed my eyes. “Okay. I was at the bank when two guys claiming to be cops grabbed me and tried to make me go with them.”

  “And you’d never seen these men before?”

  “Never.”

  “So, how did you know they weren’t police officers?”

  “Their car, it was a Cadillac. You guys don’t drive Cadillacs, do you?”

  The detective gurgled. “No, sir, we do not drive Cadillacs.”

  “I got away, and they chased me into the Golden Nugget. They were about to grab me again when I purposely caused a scen
e.”

  “So everything you did was on purpose?”

  “Yes.”

  “To get arrested.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because these two men were about to kidnap you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Do you have any idea why these men would want to kidnap you?”

  “No. But it might have something to do with the murder.”

  The man’s whole demeanor suddenly changed. “What murder?”

  “Detective, this town’s not that big. How many murders could I be talking about? Will you go get Clegg? He knows all about this.”

  Detective Barnard looked at me and nodded. “Wait here.”

  He lumbered off, and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. He returned a minute later, but not with Clegg. Instead, he was followed by an older man with curly salt and pepper hair and an Ernie Kovacs mustache.

  “Mr. Callaway, my name is Captain White. You said something about a murder?”

  “Come on, guys, get with it. Yes, the murder of Lydia Starr at Ken Baldwin’s house in Paradise Estates two nights ago. I’m Trip Callaway, I found her body. For Pete’s sake, where’s Clegg? Why aren’t you guys up on this?”

  Captain White whispered something into Detective Barnard’s ear. I couldn’t hear what he said, but whatever it was caused the detective to depart in a hurry.

  “So, this murder you witnessed, it happened when?”

  I was quickly losing my famous Callaway cool. “Two nights ago, and I didn’t witness it, I found the body. Lydia Starr’s body. My friend. We worked together at the Sands. Captain, I’m sure you have a report on this. You guys were crawling all over Ken’s house. Ask Clegg, he was there.”

  “Ken Baldwin, you say?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “Who, by the way, I saw last night, and I think he might be on the run. He held a gun on me, so I had no choice but to do what he… Look, this is ridiculous. Will you just go get Detective Clegg, please? Tell him I need to talk to him.”