Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  I found Wheels holding court outside the hotel’s entrance with two couples who were obviously from out of town. He pointed up and down The Strip, looking like an orchestra conductor leading a symphony through the third and final movement of a Beethoven work. Also, given his audience’s reaction, he must have been adding a bit of Wheelsian color to the piece because he had them in stitches. Once the recital ended, I saw one of the men slip him a few bills. Wheels responded with a gracious nod as he slid the loot into his pocket. I was impressed. It was a performance worthy of the big room. I waited until the quartet walked away.

  “I hope you’re not sending our customers to the competition, Wheels,” I said, coming up behind the barrel-chested man.

  Wheels turned with a raised eyebrow. “What’s youse doin’ here tonight, Indiana? Thought the band was off ’til Wednesday?”

  “We are. I’m here seeing a friend.”

  Although his mug resembled a bulldog who’d spent a fair amount of time chasing parked cars, Wheels was quite fastidious when it came to the rest of his appearance. He didn’t don the classic bellman’s uniform—not sure he ever had—opting instead for a crisp gray suit with black shoes polished so thoroughly you could see your reflection in them. He kept his hair well oiled and smartly parted on the right, and always seemed to emit the slightest aroma of gardenias. In fact, the only way anyone could readily identify Wheels as being an employee of the hotel at all was by the name badge clipped to his upper left lapel. A badge, ironically, he wore with the pride of a local sheriff.

  “I need to talk to you. You got a minute?”

  Wheels sighed. “I cannot do anything about your problem with Fat Tony. I like you, Trip, but a man’s business is a man’s business.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Me and Fat Tony go back a long ways—all the way back to Mulberry Street, in fact. We ain’t always been copasetic, but there’s always been respect, know what I mean? That’s why I can’t help you, so don’t even ask.”

  “I understand and wouldn’t think of asking you to intervene. Also, me and Fat Tony are going to be fine.”

  “Glad to hear it. Like I said, I like you. It would break my heart if something was to happen to your face. As well as other parts of your body.”

  I swallowed a bit harder than usual. “Thanks, appreciate that, Wheels.”

  Wheels slapped me on the back. “So what can I do youse for, Indiana?”

  “I suppose you heard about our friend, Lydia Starr?”

  “No one comes and goes around here without me knowing about it.”

  “Of course. Well, I need to return some albums she loaned me, and I can’t get a hold of her. Do you know where she went? Or, why she quit?”

  “Maybe Hollywood finally called. Miss Starr is one good-lookin’ doll.”

  “Yes, she is. You’re right, that’s probably what happened. But—”

  “Hang on a second,” he interrupted.

  A red Lincoln Continental pulled up, and Wheels rushed to open the driver’s door. As a swarm of valets and bellboys suddenly materialized around the car, a tall, tan man wearing sunglasses and a dark suit stepped out. I didn’t recognize the man but presumed he was a high roller from parts unknown. I couldn’t make out Wheels’ exchange with the gentleman, but it seemed exceedingly friendly. Finally, the man shook Wheels’ hand and entered the hotel. Wheels delivered orders to the bellboys and then whispered something into the valet’s ear before the young man drove off with the Lincoln. Once the event was over, Wheels returned to me with a most satisfied expression on his face.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Somebody you don’t need to know,” Wheels replied.

  I nodded and left it at that. “So, Wheels, maybe you can settle a bet I have with Rosie. She’s a cocktail waitress in the Silver Queen.”

  “I know Rosie. Another good-lookin’ doll.”

  “Indeed. So, we were talking a few minutes ago, and the subject of how Lydia gets around town came up. I said she probably has a driver. Rosie thinks she takes a lot of cabs. Do you know?”

  “Trip, you’re really going to have to work on your repartee with the ladies. Come by sometime when I’m not so busy, and I’ll give you some pointers.”

  I humored the big galoot. “Thanks, Wheels, I’m sure I could learn a lot from you. So do you know how Lydia gets around town?”

  “Well, she used to ride in a lot with Rosie.”

  “Yes, but when she’s not riding with Rosie.”

  “More than a few times, I’ve given Miss Starr a lift. Especially if she’s meeting somebody important after a show. Classy lady. I’m going to miss her around here, always wants to give me a tip. But I never accept it.”

  “Of course not. But when you don’t drive her? Does she take a taxi?”

  “A taxi?” he chuckled. “No, Miss Starr usually has a limousine waiting for her. Though lately, some schmo in a beige Buick’s been picking her up.”

  My brain started playing dominoes again. “Wheels, do you remember if the schmo in the beige Buick picked her up Saturday night?”

  “This past Saturday night?”

  “Yes, this past Saturday night.”

  Wheels thought for a second. “No, the schmo did not pick her up.”

  “Then who picked her up?”

  “I don’t know who, but I remember the car.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A black ’59 Caddy.”

  Chapter 11

  Despite my unfortunate encounter with Fat Tony’s boys, I’ve always considered myself to be more philosopher than philistine and have eschewed violence whenever possible. It’s not that I can’t handle myself when the situation calls for it, I can and have. It’s just I firmly believe that in a battle of brains versus brawn, a good noodle is far more advantageous and ultimately more lethal. I was banking on this credo when I hopped into the Falcon and began making my way to downtown. Something Rosie had said, as well as the startling revelation Wheels laid on me about Lydia getting into the infamous black Caddy, had started a far-fetched theory percolating in my little brain. As it would turn out, my far-fetched theory didn’t fetch nearly far enough.

  I drove down Fremont, passing under the waving arm of Vegas Vic, and became a tad melancholy. Sin City, by its nature, is a temporary town: temporary wealth, temporary relationships, temporary buildings. For instance, in the four short years since I’d arrived, the Las Vegas Hotel and the Westerner Club have been demolished and replaced with the new Club Bingo. The 4 Queens Hotel stood where the Grand Hotel once did, and the Golden Nugget grew to be a block long between first and second, bidding adios to the Lucky Strike, Nevada, and California clubs. The moral of the story being, don’t get too attached to anything in these parts, be it person, place or thing. Easier said than done.

  The Strip was the place to be nowadays, but that didn’t mean downtown was a ghost town—far from it, it was still called the Glitter Gulch for a reason. I took comfort in that, reasoning if someone was out to do harm to me, they might be dissuaded by the considerable amount of eyeballs who would witness the offense. Not that the downtown crowd would be particularly interested in my problems, or lift a finger to help, but I was counting on the bad guys not knowing that. However, I neglected to take into account that Ray’s Market was located several blocks east of Fremont on Sixth where the lights got quite a bit dimmer and the crowd thinned considerably. An undeniable miscalculation on my part.

  The market itself was sandwiched between a drugstore, a shoe repair shop, and directly across the street from an illegal strip joint I was intimately familiar with—old Mrs. Jackson would’ve been so disappointed. The drugstore and shoe repair shop appeared to be closed, but the market was not.

  If it were in New York City, it probably would have been called a bodega, but that term isn’t used out here, so Ray’s Market it was, like the sign on the door advertised. A bell jingled as I stepped in. The floor was wooden and unvarnished, the lighting was awful,
and the entire store had a distinctively musty smell to it. There looked to be only four aisles of goods, with a small counter next to the door where a person could purchase smokes, candy, gum, and such. The shelves were stocked with the most basic of staple items and only one brand of any particular item, at that. As far as I could tell, I was the sole customer and was about to call out for assistance when a smiling gray-haired gentleman with wire peepers hanging off his nose came out of nowhere—or perhaps a Frank Capra movie.

  “Can I help you find something?” he asked, drying his hands on an apron tied around his waist.

  I found the question downright absurd and might have inadvertently chuckled my reply. “No, thank you. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to drop into this fine establishment. May I ask, are you the proprietor?”

  “I am. Ray’s the name.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Ray. My name’s…George,” I said, offering my hand, which he shook without hesitation. “A friend of mine shops here and recommended it to me. I understand why. You have a charming little store.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a lilt right out of Our Town. “It’s small, but I try to cater to my customers’ needs.”

  I was tempted to reply, “What customers?” but held my tongue. “Maybe you know my friend, Lydia Starr?”

  He gazed into the air and rubbed his chin. “No, name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Perhaps if I describe her. She’s pretty, blonde hair, about so tall?”

  He twisted his mouth and shook his head.

  I added, “She’s a Copa Girl at the Sands.”

  “A Copa Girl, you say?”

  “Yes, at the Sands. Lydia and I work there together.”

  “You do? Are you in the entertainment trade as well?”

  “Yes, I’m a musician.”

  “A musician. Well, isn’t that something? What instrument do you play?”

  “Trumpet.”

  “Is that so? You must be quite good.”

  “Yes, I am, thank you. So you remember Lydia now?”

  “No, can’t say that I do.”

  “Maybe one of your employees—”

  “Don’t have any employees. Just me.”

  I was completely flummoxed. “Well, I suppose I could be mistaken.”

  “Must be,” he replied, his smile never fading.

  I tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t. “Well, okay, then.”

  “Okay, then,” he echoed.

  “You do have a delightful store.”

  “And I’ma-thankin’ you for that.”

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Ray.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t know your friend. I’m sure she’s very nice.”

  I nodded. “Have a good evening, sir.”

  “You as well, George.”

  I left Ray’s and took my time walking back to the car. I considered the two possibilities: either Rosie was mistaken about seeing Lydia, or kindly old Uncle Ray was lying through his dentures. Care to guess which side I came down on? I stopped, turned around, glanced across the street, and then back at the market. I buttoned up my blazer, trotted across the street, and entered an establishment with no sign out front, but I knew it was called Kitty’s Cats.

  Kitty’s Cats was basically like any other low-rent nightclub, dark, smoky, reeking of recirculated air, with the only difference being the drinks cost three times as much and the clientele tended to be overwhelmingly male. Other than that, it was just another nightclub—with naked women.

  Given it was a Monday, I wasn’t expecting Kitty’s to be overrun with customers. I wasn’t wrong. I counted a dozen men at most scattered about the entire club. I took a seat by the illuminated runway protruding from the stage and was immediately greeted by a young lady wearing a short taffeta dress that barely concealed all the important parts.

  “Cover’s two bucks, and there’s a two drink minimum.”

  “Certainly,” I said, retrieving some bills from my pocket. “Kitty around?”

  “You a cop?”

  “No, a musician and an old friend. I played here a few years ago.”

  The girl looked me over good before answering. “Kitty ain’t here. She had to leave early on account Mr. Goldwater’s sick.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Is Mr. Goldwater her new boyfriend?”

  “Her schnauzer. He has a cough or something. You staying?”

  “Of course. Two stingers.”

  I handed the girl the money, and she walked away without comment.

  Situated just off to the left was a four-piece band underscoring the festivities on the stage. Their current offering was a bouncy instrumental version of the Peggy Lee hit, “Fever.” I knew the bass player and drummer a little, but didn’t know the pianist or sax guy at all. However, the talent on the stage I knew quite well. Her name was Priscilla, and I presumed Priscilla was nearing the pièce de résistance of her routine given the only thing left for her to take off were her red stilettos. And yes, believe it or not, full nudity is still quite illegal in Las Vegas.

  As I predicted, the band dug in and began grinding out a long, loping coda in strut tempo. Priscilla made five perfect pirouettes down the runway, ending by throwing her arms in the air and kicking off her shoes, thereby showing to God and the whole world she was not only naked but barefoot as well. This brought the small and heretofore silent crowd out of their chairs with cheers of ecstasy. We men are very odd creatures.

  Priscilla scurried off stage, and the lights changed from pink to blue, cueing the band to kick into a sultry rendition of “Anything Goes.” As the new girl took the stage—I didn’t know this one—Priscilla, now wearing a cream-colored satin robe and shiny gold slippers, emerged from the wings and sat down next to me just as the cocktails arrived.

  “Whatcha doin’, boogaloo?”

  “Hi, Pris. I didn’t know if you saw me or not.”

  “Of course I saw you, sugar. Did you like the show?”

  “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. The shoe bit’s new, isn’t it?”

  “I put it in a few of weeks ago. Audience seems to like it.”

  “Yes, they do. Good choice. Leave it in.”

  “Thanks, Trip. So where’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. You still playing over at Luther’s?”

  “No, I’m playing at the Sands now.”

  “No kidding? Which room?”

  “The big one, the Copa Room.”

  “Well la-di-da, look at you, the big time. Congratulations, Trip.”

  “Thanks, Pris.”

  “So what brings you up here? You lookin’ for a date, sweetie?”

  “No, I’m looking for some information.”

  “What kind of information?

  “About that little market across the street, Ray’s.”

  “What about it?”

  “Can you tell me anything? You ever been in there?”

  Priscilla’s whole demeanor changed. She looked past me and around the room. “Come on, grab the drinks, let’s go to that booth over there.”

  We moved to a booth in the back of the club. I set the drinks on the table, and we both slid in. Priscilla pulled one of the glasses toward her. “You mind?”

  “I got it for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said, taking a sip. She set the glass down, scanned the room again, leaned in, and spoke just above a whisper. “Listen, Trip, you need to stop asking questions about that market, okay?”

  “I haven’t asked any questions yet.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t understand. Why shouldn’t I be asking about Ray’s Market?”

  “Because you’re asking for trouble, that’s why.”

  “What do you know, Pris?”

  “I don’t know nothin’,” she shot back.

  I responded with a raised eyebrow.

  “Honest, I don’t. But Trip, I’ve been around. So have you. It doesn’t take a genius to know what that place is all about
.”

  “You’re saying it’s a front, aren’t you?”

  “What do you think? It opens at weird times, closes with no warning, doesn’t have much of anything in it, and then there’s the people who come and go at all hours. I try not to notice, but I notice.”

  “What kind of people?” I asked.

  “The kind of people who go in but don’t come out. And if they do, they ain’t carrying groceries.”

  “Pris, you ever see a girl go in there?”

  “What kind of girl?”

  “The kind who looks like she shouldn’t be going in there—or any place in these parts, for that matter.”

  “No, I ain’t seen nobody like that. It’s only men who go in there, anyway. Except for those couple of times I went in for a Ding Dong and Bubble Up. But I stopped doing that once I got wise to things.”

  “Do you know which family runs it?”

  “Shh, keep you voice down. Lord, Trip, you know better than to ask a question like that. No, I don’t know which family runs it, but I know who probably would.”

  “Who?”

  “Fat Tony.”

  I must have made a face.

  “Trip, tell me you don’t owe Fat Tony money again.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Oh, Trip,” she sighed. “Okay, how much? Maybe I can I help.”

  “Thanks, Pris, that’s very sweet, but I’ve got it handled.”

  “I mean it, Trip, let it go. Things are good for you now. Don’t go messing it up by sticking your nose where it don’t belong. Who’s this girl, anyway? What’s she to you?”

  “Just a friend,” I answered.

  “Well, I’m your friend too, and I’m telling you to let it go. Okay?”

  I offered a reassuring smile. “You’re right, Pris. I’ll let it go. Just one more question. How long has Ray’s been there? I don’t remember seeing it before.”