by Phil Swann
“I don’t know, a couple of months, I guess.”
“Just a couple of months?”
“Yeah, about that. Now will you drop it already?”
I raised my glass. “Consider it dropped.”
Priscilla and I chatted for a while longer about what was up in her world. I left her with a kiss on the cheek and a sawbuck, which she didn’t want to take, saying, “Friends don’t pay friends for information." I told her the ten spot wasn’t for information but a gratuity for her inspired performance, adding, “I really, really liked the shoe bit.” That might have made her night.
I stepped out of Kitty’s Cats, and after adjusting my eyes and lungs to oxygen again, glanced across the street. Ray’s Market was now closed, lights off, metal security gate pulled shut. I considered my next move. Obviously, I had no intention of going to Fat Tony and asking him if he knew who was behind Ray’s. That would have been—well, suicide might be overstating it, but not by much. Besides, in less than forty-eight hours Fat Tony would be calling upon me, and I could only deal with one felony at a time. Instead, I decided it would be prudent to go back to the Sands and ask Rosie if she was sure she saw Lydia coming out of Ray’s Market when she said she did. I needed to be one hundred percent sure before proceeding.
As I made my way back to my car, I couldn’t shake that uneasy feeling again; the same feeling I had driving back from the desert after dropping Ken off at that spook house called a gas station. My paranoia made no sense. I was no stranger to the proverbial dark alley. Given the hours I work, strolling down dimly lit streets in the dead of night comes with the gig. And although Sixth Street was darker than usual, it certainly didn’t qualify as a dark alley, as evidenced by the fine examples of humanity periodically stumbling past me on the sidewalk. Ultimately, after a few deep breaths, I decided all my angst was merely an unfounded fear brought on by my over-imaginative imagination. There was absolutely nothing to be concerned about.
It’s only now, in retrospect, I can report hearing the sound of a metallic click coming from behind me. In that moment, however, I either didn’t hear it, or I heard it and just paid no attention. Either way, when his massive arm wrapped around my chest and I felt the cold steel of a switch blade at my throat, he had my complete attention.
“Yell, and you’re dead,” the deep voice commanded.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t say anything.
“I want what he gave you,” he said into my ear.
Again, I said nothing.
He pushed the flat side of the knife’s blade harder into my neck. “I want what he gave you, or you die. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I answered. “But…what, who gave me?”
He launched his knee into my back, striking me just below my kidney. My knees buckled, and I collapsed. He pulled me upright again. “Baldwin gave you something. I want it. Give it to me now, or I will kill you. It’s that simple.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Too bad,” he replied, turning the knife so I could feel the sharp edge of the blade against my skin.
“I mean…I don’t have it on me.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s…at my apartment,” I answered.
He gave me the blade again. “You’re lying. It’s not at your—”
“Drop the knife,” I heard a voice order from out of the darkness.
My assailant spun me around, putting me between himself and the voice. I saw the outline of a stocky figure in a hat pointing a gun at us. I couldn’t make out the face.
He spoke again, “Drop the knife, or I put a bullet through your skull.”
I felt the steel come off my neck. Then, without warning, I was pushed forward, slamming into the shadow, sending us both stumbling off the curb and onto pavement.
“Stay down,” the man ordered, getting up and taking off in pursuit.
A minute or so later, he returned and reached out his hand. As he pulled me up, I finally saw the face of my savior. It was Detective Barnard.
“You okay, Callaway?” he asked.
“Yeah, thanks, I’m…what are you doing here?”
“Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”
The small diner off Bonanza was all but empty. Barnard and I sat in a booth near the back by a swinging door leading into the kitchen. With his jacket off, hat on the table, and tie undone halfway down his wrinkled white shirt, I watched in amazement, and horror, as the uncouth cop literally shoveled heaps of apple pie into his face, periodically stopping just long enough to wipe his mouth on his rolled-up shirt sleeve.
“I guess I was lucky you happened to be around,” I said.
He didn’t respond, nor did he stop eating.
“You just didn’t happen to be around. You were following me.”
“Yeah, most of the night,” he answered mid-chew.
“Why?”
He put down his fork, drained his coffee cup, and motioned to the waitress for a refill. He sat back in the booth, and after an unapologetic belch, said, “Because I don’t like coincidences.”
“What kind of coincidences?”
“The kind where someone shows up at my desk claiming a girl was murdered in a house that we end up finding a dead guy in.”
“I thought you believed Ken’s death was a suicide.”
“Didn’t say I didn’t, just that I don’t like coincidences.”
“But Captain White said—”
“White’s a bureaucrat. He likes things wrapped up in neat and tidy packages. Me? I tend not to believe in neat and tidy so much.”
“So you do believe me?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
I wasn’t in the mood for clever wordplay. Barnard noticed.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know if the story you told us is true or not. I only know something smelled, so I thought I’d follow you a little. Just for curiosity’s sake.”
“And?”
“And, you want to tell me what business you have in Ray’s Market?”
“You know about Ray’s Market?”
“Enough to ask what you were doing in there.”
“I wanted to see if the owner knew my friend Lydia.”
“The showgirl?”
“The Copa Girl,” I corrected.
“Right, the one you say is dead. The one whose body you said you found.”
“Yes.”
“And did he?”
“No. But I don’t think I believe him.”
Barnard nodded. “So, who was the character with the knife?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay,” he said, reaching for his jacket.
“Honestly, I don’t know who he was. All I know is he had big hands, a deep voice, and a very sharp knife. And…he wore boots.”
“Cowboy boots?”
“No, shiny boots, like black patent leather boots. He was behind me, it was dark, and quite frankly, I was more focused on not being killed.”
“Fair enough,” Barnard said.
The waitress arrived and refilled both our coffee cups. I waited until she walked away. “But whoever he is, he’s probably the same person who broke into my apartment earlier today.”
“Your apartment was broken into?”
“Yeah, when I was wasting time with you guys.”
“You’re just a walking crime spree, aren’t you, Callaway? Okay, why do you think he broke into your apartment?”
“He was looking for something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your favorite answer.”
“He said…I have…” Being at a loss for words is a condition I’m rarely stricken by, but in this instance, words utterly eluded me. I took a breath and tried again. “He said he wanted something Ken gave to me. That’s why he must be the same person who broke into my apartment. He was trying to find this thing. Problem is, Ken didn’t give me anything, so I don’t know what this thing is, hence, I haven’t a clue what he’s talki
ng about.” Without knowing it, my voice had risen to just below a shout, eliciting the attention of the waitress as well as a customer at the counter. “Anyway, it must be connected to the story Ken told me, the one I told you guys at the police station.”
“The Russian spy stuff.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t say it like that.”
“Why?”
“Because it sounds…silly.”
Barnard snickered. “Yeah, well, you got to admit, it’s a pretty out-there story. What made you go to Ray’s Market in the first place?”
“A friend saw Lydia coming out of there on Saturday. It didn’t make sense, so—”
“You thought you’d do a little investigating.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Uh-huh. So tell me, Sherlock, why didn’t it make sense that your showgirl—sorry—Copa Girl was seen coming out of Ray’s Market?”
I ignored his condescending tone and answered the question. “Two reasons: one, Lydia lives on the other side of town. Why would she come all the way over here to shop for groceries? Especially since she didn’t own a car.”
“And the other reason?”
“She quit her job and moved out of her apartment that same day. Why would she be buying groceries if she was moving?”
Barnard nodded. “Anything else?”
I was about to tell Barnard about Lydia getting into the black Caddy the night she was killed, but decided to keep that bit of information to myself for a bit longer. “No, that’s it.”
“And you have no idea what the thing is the guy with the knife wants?”
“None.”
Barnard wiped his mouth—this time with a napkin—and tossed it on the table with some cash. He grabbed his hat and slid out of the booth. “Well, you might want to try and figure that out, that is if you’re telling me the truth.”
“Of course I’m telling you the truth. Why would I make it up? Besides, you were there, you heard—”
“I saw you getting mugged. I didn’t hear anything. By the way, do you want to file a police report on the incident?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.”
I glared at him for a second before answering. “No. I guess not.”
“Good. I’m tired, and I don’t need the paperwork.”
“I can’t believe you guys. What’s it going to take to get you—”
“It’s late, Callaway. Go home.”
I let out a resigned breath and surrendered back into the booth. “It’s early for me.”
Barnard snickered. “Yeah, I guess it is, isn’t it? Well, suit yourself.” He reached into his pocket. “Here’s my card. There are two numbers on it, one’s to the station, bottom one’s my home number. And unlike the business card you gave us, both of my numbers work. Give me a call if you run into any more trouble.”
I took the card and nodded.
“And stay out of dark alleys.”
He picked up his jacket and began to walk away.
“Detective.”
He stopped and turned.
“What’s Ray’s Market? Really?”
“I have no idea.”
“Why does everyone say that?”
Barnard took a couple steps back to me. “How long did you say you’ve been in this town?”
“About four years.”
“Then you should know there are some questions you don’t ask.”
“But you’re a cop.”
“Especially if you’re a cop. Especially if you’re a cop who wants to stay a cop.” Barnard put on his hat and began to leave again.
“Detective?”
“Yes, Callaway?” he replied over a sigh.
“Mind giving me a lift back to my car? I’m not really into…you know, walking.”
The detective snickered. “That might be the smartest thing you’ve said all night. Sure, come on, I’ll drop you off.”
Chapter 12
I was mugged once before, but it wasn’t in Vegas. It was in Indiana, of all places. Although I don’t recall the exact date, I do remember it was a Saturday night, sometime in March, the year was 1956. I was fourteen, and without Pop knowing it, had hopped a bus to Bloomington to hear Miles Davis play. After the show, a guy jumped me outside the Greyhound station. I don’t think the ruffian was much older than me, but he got away with my last two dollars, my bus ticket, and my latest edition of Down Beat magazine. I had to reverse the charges when I called Pop to ask if he’d come and get me. I’m not sure what angered the old man more, the fact I ran off to Bloomington without telling him, or that I got my butt kicked by a city boy. Probably the latter.
After Barnard dropped me off at my car, I drove back to The Strip because, believe it or not, The Strip is probably one of the safest places on the face of the earth. In fact, contrary to what you might think, Las Vegas in general boasts one of the lowest crime rates in America—for the regular Jane and Joe, that is. The reason for all this tranquility is exactly why you’d think. It’s based on an arrangement happily, if not blindly, accepted by all, including the police, who apparently have made it policy to look the other way regarding certain things. If, however, you’re not a regular Jane or Joe and instead happen to be somebody looking to cause trouble for one of the grand poobahs who quote, protect this town, end quote, then more than likely there’s a lovely little hole in the desert with your name on it. Or so I hear.
This was why I needed to talk to someone who operated outside those rules. Someone who was a troublemaker but had successfully avoided the backlash of being one. Someone who wasn’t your average Jane and Joe, but understood the average Jane and Joe like no other. As it happened, I knew someone who fit that description to a T.
First, I popped into the Sands and reconfirmed with Rosie she had indeed seen Lydia coming out of Ray’s Market. The Silver Queen was in full swing, and Rosie didn’t have time to chat, so I simply asked the question, got my confirmation, and left. I then bounced down to the Riviera, because if memory served me, that was where my troublemaker would be. Memory did serve me, and I found Stanley O’Malley siting in his office—otherwise known as the keno lounge.
“Stan-o,” I said, coming up to the table and sitting without an invitation.
“One moment, my young friend. The last numbers are coming up.”
I hushed and waited as he checked off his spots.
Stanley O’Malley was a large, red-faced Irishman with a big voice and even bigger personality. His trademark fashion was a double extra-large white linen suit and straw Panama hat. He might very well have had other clothes in his closet, but no one would bet on it. Stan and I met a few years back at a political rally I was hired to play. It was a lousy gig, for lousy pay, for an even lousier audience. Neither Stan nor I wanted to be there, but we were both working and had no choice in the matter. Stan is not a musician, nor is he a politician, but rather he’s the guy standing beside the politician. Stanley O’Malley is a political operative, a consigliere, a professional kingmaker. He was the person you turned to if you were twenty points down in the polls and had the personality of a mailbox. Democrat or Republican, it didn’t matter which side you were on. If you could afford him, Stan was your man. Why? Because Stanley O’Malley knew Las Vegas like Walt knew Mickey. He also had more dirt on more people in this town than Carter had little pills. This fact was as much admired as it was feared. Which was why Stan never suffered any consequences as a result of his work. See, everyone understood that someday they too might be in need of Stanley O’Malley’s services. So, they didn’t just leave him alone, they treated him like the kings he was hired to make. And that translated to, among other things, the man eating and drinking for free everywhere he went. And that was convenient because Stanley O’Malley ate and drank a lot.
Stan tossed his keno card on the table.
“How’d you make out?” I asked.
“Win a few, lose a lot,” he chuckled.
At that moment, a waitress arrived
carrying two plates, each bearing an immense lobster. The girl set the plates down on the table. Right behind her came another waitress delivering two highball glasses filled to the brim with a brown liquid over ice.
“You want one of these?” he asked me, pointing to the lobsters.
“No, thank you.”
“It’s no problem. I can get another one.”
“No, really, Stan, I couldn’t. I had a big dinner.”
“So did I. How about a drink?”
“Sure, I’ll have what you’re having.”
Stan pushed one of his two glasses toward me. “Honey,” he said to the waitress, “would you bring me another Jameson?”
“Certainly, Mr. O’Malley,” she replied.
“Thank you, darlin’.”
Stan wasted no time. He stuffed a napkin under his floppy neck, picked up a tiny fork, and went to it. “Why aren’t you working tonight, Trip?” he asked, cracking into one of the crustaceans.
“Off until Wednesday.”
“How lovely,” he replied, dipping his fork into a bowl of melted butter before stuffing it into his mouth. He made a face. “Mmm, you sure you don’t want one of these?” he mumbled. “Most excellent tonight. Flown in today would be my guess.”
An image flashed in my mind of Stanley O’Malley and Detective Sam Barnard sitting at the same dinner table. I’m not sure who would win the prize for most primate-like, but the sheer carnage they’d inflict dueling over on a leg of lamb would be epic.
“How’s your book coming, Stan?” I asked.
“You remembered,” he bellowed. “Very well, my friend, very well, thank you for asking. It’s going to be a masterpiece; a bestseller, I predict. And I’m seldom wrong about such things. Once that happens, it’s goodbye to the political game.”
“You’ve been working on it for a while, haven’t you?”
“The better part of ten years.”
“Wow, is that so? Quite an undertaking. It’s a love story, right?”
“Yes, you could say that. But in truth, Trip, it’s about so much more. It’s a family epic, a sweeping generational tale of change and upheaval, a story of loss, loneliness, and the human spirit; souls searching for their better angels in a world full of despair. It’s a tragedy, a comedy, and everything in between, just like life itself. It experiments with a stream of consciousness voice similar to Joyce, while blending a cold realism reminiscent of O’Neill.”