The Ragged End of Nowhere

by Roy Chaney

  “We’ve discussed ancient history,” Hagen said. “Now let’s discuss more recent history. How did Captain Danjou’s hand wind up in Las Vegas?”

  Zahn was looking down the bar at the Arab Legionnaire, who was eyeing a young woman who had sat down next to him. Zahn turned back to Hagen slowly, as though only half aware that Hagen had spoken. “That is a problem that has kept us very busy. You see, three months ago the hand was stolen from the museum where it is kept. Someone broke into the museum and employed a pry bar to break open the case in which the hand rested. For three months I have searched for some clue as to where it might be. Last week my efforts met with success.

  “A man in Paris who is in the business of selling things that don’t belong to him told me about a young man who came to him with a relic that he wished to sell. The man was at first interested—it is his business to be interested in such propositions—but when he realized what the relic was he prudently had second thoughts. He kept this information to himself for a time but finally saw that it was his duty to report the incident to us. He didn’t know who the young man was, but it wasn’t hard to identify him based on the man’s description. The young man was your brother, Mister Hagen.”

  “The man in Paris—what’s his name?”

  “Georges Amarantos. I understand that one or two of his people have had dealings with you in recent days. As it happens, we know quite a bit about Monsieur Amarantos—enough to convince him that it was in his best interests to help us locate the hand and bring it home. My men are the best men in the world, Mister Hagen, but they do not possess the delicate sensibilities and the social graces that are needed to do business with dealers of rare and expensive things. Because it was these very dealers who we assumed your brother would go to to sell the Hand of Danjou, it was agreed to enlist the aid of Monsieur Amarantos and his operation. It seemed wise to have people on hand who knew the workings of the black markets. People who are familiar with that kind of terrain.”

  “And you kept the theft of the hand quiet because that made it easier to keep prospective buyers away from it while you searched for it.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Zahn shook his head, affected a sad look. “Of course, these precautions would not have been necessary if we had caught up with your brother before he departed France. Unfortunately, your brother’s contract with the Legion had just ended a few days before I learned that he was the man I was looking for, and he’d already left the country. I organized a detachment of men and sent them here to Las Vegas. I myself was detained in Paris for several days and only just arrived here today. But I gave my men orders to reconnoiter the situation. Their work has led me to you.”

  “And in the process of this reconnoitering, your men killed my brother.”

  Zahn pursed his lips, thoughtful. “That question presents a problem for me. You see, I don’t have that piece of information. I’ve talked to my men and they do not know the answer either. It would appear that Legionnaire Hagen was murdered by people unknown to us.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mister Hagen.”

  “If you want the hand you’re going to have to tell me who murdered my brother. That’s the deal.”

  Zahn raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. “I cannot bargain with something I do not have. But let me say this, and you can see for yourself how things are. Your brother was murdered last Friday morning, according to the newspapers. The first detachment of my men didn’t arrive here until Sunday afternoon. So you will have to explain to me how they could have killed your brother, when your brother was already dead for over two days.”

  “All right, Zahn. Your men are only reconnoitering. And yet people keep turning up dead. I suppose your men didn’t kill Sidney Trunk or Jack Gubbs either—or Harry Needles down in Laughlin.”

  “Sidney Trunk?”

  “He died out in Boulder City the other night. Why did your men reconnoiter him to death and then burn his house down?”

  Zahn responded to his glass of bourbon, as though it and not Hagen had just spoken. “I’m afraid Sidney Trunk is not a name that has been brought to my attention. As for this man Needles, Legionnaire Tate acted against my orders. He was told only to observe. Of course, I cannot blame him so much for taking the hand from you when he saw the opportunity to do so. But in the event, this man Needles was killed—an unfortunate accident and one that Tate will be reprimanded for.

  “And my men cannot take credit for Mister Gubbs’s death either. Two of my men came to believe that Mister Gubbs either had the hand in his possession or knew where it could be found. Last night—again acting without my consent—they entered his apartment while he was away and searched it. They found an envelope containing two photographs of the Hand of Danjou. But while they continued their search they were interrupted by Mister Gubbs upon his return to his apartment. Having no recourse, my men confronted Gubbs with the photographs and asked him to explain himself. After a certain amount of persuasion, Mister Gubbs admitted that Legionnaire Hagen had given him the photographs to distribute to parties who might be interested in brokering the sale of the hand. Mister Gubbs claimed to know nothing about the current whereabouts of the hand and my men, after a lengthy interrogation, left him in his apartment, slightly bruised but very much alive. We were all very sorry to hear that he died in the night. I had high hopes for Mister Gubbs.”

  Hagen considered what Zahn had just told him. An envelope containing photographs of the hand—Ronnie must’ve given the photographs to Gubbs to pass around. And one of those photographs had wound up in the hands of Winnie the Poof. Winnie told Hagen that it was Ronnie who went to his house and gave him the photograph. Hagen wondered now if it was Gubbs and not Ronnie who spoke to Wilson. If so, then Gubbs may well have known the value of the wooden hand from the start. But why would the Poof have lied about that? To protect Gubbs?

  Hagen glanced over Zahn’s shoulder. Over by the slot machines the Japanese Legionnaire was now talking to yet another Legionnaire, this one wearing a baseball cap and a black-and-white football jersey. Shit, how many of them were here? If Hagen got up and walked to the front door he’d have half the casino following right behind him.

  Zahn was motioning to the bartender for a fresh drink. “Can I buy you one now, Mister Hagen?” Hagen declined. When Zahn’s drink came he threw back a third of it in one gulp. Zahn was warming up to the bourbon. At the end of the bar the Arab Legionnaire had traded in his crushed ice concoction for a green bottle of Heineken. He seemed much more at ease now, glancing with interest at Hagen and Zahn. Just sitting there watching his boss work. His jacket was too large by a size—the easier to hide the pistol that was no doubt holstered underneath.

  A cocktail waitress approached the bar, her tight-fitting costume and long tanned legs catching Zahn’s eye. Zahn signaled to her and the waitress came over. Zahn pulled two twenties and a ten out of his wallet. Asked the waitress to buy him some chips. “I’m interested in a game of chance. Can you help me?” Zahn’s eyes fell to the cleavage she displayed. The waitress knew quite well what Zahn was interested in. She smiled from under her blow-dried hair when he dropped another ten on her serving tray—“For your trouble, my dear.” The waitress hurried off in the direction of the casino cage, Zahn’s eyes following her until she disappeared in the crowd.

  Zahn turned to Hagen. “So where do we stand, Mister Hagen? Have I told you what you want to know? Is there something else I can do for you? I can see that you are not convinced that we bear no responsibility for what happened to Legionnaire Hagen, but I don’t know what else I can tell you. Let me say only this—if we had found your brother alive, we most certainly would have the hand now. But we don’t have it. So what possible advantage would killing your brother have been to us? No, I submit to you that your brother was killed by others. Who, I do not know. Furthermore, it’s none of my concern. It is a question you will have to answer for yourself.”

  “What does Marty Ray have to do with this?”


  Zahn looked puzzled.

  “The gentleman in the warehouse. What were your men doing there?”

  “Ah, I see.” Zahn nodded. “You have Ma de moi selle Cosette to thank for that. She was on her way to talk to you at your hotel when she saw you departing with the two rough-mannered men. That was a stroke of luck for you, because the men I had ordered to watch you were elsewhere at that moment. Ma de moi selle Cosette followed you and contacted me to tell me of your whereabouts. It appeared that you might be in some trouble and I was concerned. Legionnaire Hagen and Mister Gubbs were already dead. I didn’t want you killed as well. So I ordered my men to go in and—what’s the expression?—‘pull your chestnuts out of the fire’? I wanted to give you every opportunity to locate the hand for us. I must say, Mister Hagen, that you haven’t let us down.”

  Hagen doubted that Cosette’s appearance at the hotel had been a coincidence. It was more likely that she or her partner had been watching the hotel, waiting for him to leave. Maybe they’d had a scheme of their own in mind, but Marty Ray beat them to it.

  “Is Marty Ray dead?” Hagen said.

  “Not at all. Very much alive. But I don’t believe he will be putting his nose where it doesn’t belong anymore. A bad dog needs a swift kick now and then.”

  “What if I don’t give you the hand, Zahn? What if I call the police and tell them about you and your men?”

  “You could do that, of course. Yes, you could do that. But aside from Tate’s indiscretion this evening, I don’t know that the police could do much with us. And even if they could, we are willing to take that chance. ‘Faire Camerone,’ Mister Hagen. ‘Faire Camerone.’ If I and my men do not succeed there will be fifty more Legionnaires right behind us, and fifty more after that, and on and on until the Hand of Danjou is returned to its rightful place. You cannot kill history, Mister Hagen. But history can most certainly kill you.”

  Zahn let the statement hang in the air for a moment. Then he waved his hand to dismiss the thought. “But this is all very morbid. Let’s not get caught up in threats and accusations. The only question that remains is how do we want to complete this business of ours? I’m prepared to be reasonable. You have acquired the hand through your own diligence and I am prepared to reward you for that diligence. Let me suggest this—if you are prepared to give us the hand, we are willing to negotiate a small fee for your services. Would ten thousand dollars be sufficient?”

  Ten thousand—wasn’t that what Winnie the Poof had off ered him? Hagen smiled. “I don’t have the hand with me.”

  “But you can get it, certainly. So let’s say I give you two hours—two hours to retrieve the hand from wherever you have hidden it and to bring it here to me.”

  “I’ll take fifty thousand.”

  “As you wish. I think I can arrange that price.”

  “Or maybe a hundred thousand.”

  Zahn said nothing. The cocktail waitress returned. She handed Zahn a stack of five ten-dollar chips. Zahn raised a finger, bidding her to stay for a moment. “Would you be so kind as to place a bet for me?” He dropped the chips into her hand, asked her to set them all on a nearby roulette table—“Number six, please.” The waitress gave Hagen an amused look, wondering if this was some kind of gag. It wasn’t. She carried the chips over to the closest roulette table, spoke to the croupier. Set the chips down on the number Zahn had asked for.

  “Let’s see how my luck is,” Zahn said.

  While Hagen and Zahn watched from their seats at the bar, the croupier spun the wheel. The black ball bounced along the wheel, clicking against the metal rungs. The wheel slowed. The ball slipped into a cup. The croupier called the winning number, then pulled in Zahn’s stack of chips with his paddle. The cocktail waitress gave Zahn an apologetic look. Zahn smiled, nodded to her.

  “How quickly things change,” Zahn said, turning to Hagen. “One moment I have a stack of chips, the next moment they are gone forever. When one takes chances, one can lose everything in the blink of an eye. Don’t you agree? It seems to me that it might be more prudent not to tempt fate.”

  “Thanks for the object lesson.”

  Zahn drained his glass and set it on the bar. “You wanted to discuss things. Now we’ve had our little talk. Two hours, Mister Hagen. You have two hours’ grace. Call me on the telephone when you are ready. If I do not hear from you in two hours, all the bets are off, as I think the saying is. And we will proceed to do what needs to be done.”

  Zahn raised his finger to the corner of his eyebrow—a parting salute. Then he got up and walked away. Hagen watched him disappear back into the crowd of gamblers. But the Arab Legionnaire remained seated at the end of the bar. And the Japanese Legionnaire—he was still watching Hagen from the bank of slot machines. Hagen looked around casually. The Legionnaire in the football jersey and the one in the leather jacket were both lying low now, and Hagen didn’t see any other men who were obviously Legionnaires. But he knew they were there. Zahn had suggested that he had fifty men in Las Vegas. How many of them were in this casino right now, waiting for Hagen to step outside?

  Hagen checked his watch, then ordered another bourbon. He worked on his drink, smoked another of the bartender’s cigarettes, just sitting there, letting the clock tick. After twenty minutes the Arab Legionnaire left the bar and disappeared. Ten minutes later Hagen decided that it was time to leave too.

  Time to play his hunch.

  Hagen signaled to the bartender.

  “Call security for me,” Hagen said.

  The bartender looked alarmed. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Yes, you can call security for me.”

  Hagen, walking briskly across a casino floor—

  Off to his left, a tall slot machine in the shape of one of the pyramids of Giza. In front of him, Egyptian hieroglyphics covered the surface of a wall the color of North African sand. On his right, a cocktail waitress dressed as Queen Nefertiti served a tray of martinis to a table of businessmen making off-color jokes about needing a mummy.

  When Hagen reached the long wide hallway he broke into a jog.

  At the MGM Grand Hagen had slipped two casino security officers fifty dollars to escort him outside. He told them he’d won quite a bit of money and he was afraid that thieves might be watching him. Hagen wasn’t taking any chances. Zahn’s Legionnaires wouldn’t dare to grab him inside the casino, but they might just be bold enough to grab him outside the door and throw him into a car. The two burly security men didn’t buy Hagen’s story about thieves but they didn’t care either—fifty bucks was fifty bucks. They walked Hagen outside and watched over him as he climbed into a cab.

  Hagen told the driver to take him to the Luxor casino. When the cab pulled up in front of the tall black pyramid Hagen tossed the fare to the cabbie, jumped out of the cab and darted inside. A dark-skinned man dressed in the white loincloth and webbed sandals of a Nile barge slave tried to hand him a brochure. Hagen brushed him aside and moved on, past a pair of stone renderings of the Egyptian king Ramses the Second, two stories tall, the sullen king seated and staring mutely out from antiquity. Hagen strode across the casino floor toward the far side of the building. The long hallway that led to the Excalibur casino was just where he’d been told it would be. He jogged down it and into the adjoining casino. Ancient Egypt was left behind and now he was surrounded by medieval jesters strumming lutes while old men and women with wizened faces dropped coin after coin into the rows of slot machines, their eyes dazed, their movements somnolent.

  Out the front doors of the Excalibur, the parapets and towers of the fairy-tale castle rising up behind him, painted in cartoon colors and lit up like a three-alarm fire. A line of cabs stood out front. Hagen paused at a small patch of ornamental landscaping outside the casino doors, picked up a few small stones that he thought he might have a use for, then jumped into a cab. Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up in front of the Circus Circus casino. Ancient Egypt to a Camelot castle to Barnum and Bailey—the
city of Las Vegas had become one big costume party. Inside Circus Circus Hagen pushed through a crowd of middle-aged couples wearing matching T-shirts, the men with baseball caps pushed back on their heads, the women with fanny packs belted around their girth. Hagen ran bodily into a greasepainted circus clown juggling white plates, apologized as the plates crashed to the floor. Hagen saw an exit leading out to the parking garage. As he pushed open the door he glanced over his shoulder. The circus clown was giving him the finger—

  The car was waiting for him. A green Chevrolet sedan. The headlights flashed on and off. The engine started.

  Hagen walked up, climbed into the passenger seat.

  McGrath sat behind the wheel.

  “How did it work out?” McGrath said.

  “I think I lost them.”

  As McGrath pulled out of the parking garage he dropped a pint bottle of sour mash whiskey in Hagen’s lap. “You look like you could use a drink.” Hagen twisted off the cap and drank. The whiskey went down like a hard dose of reality in a city of hallucinations.

  At the MGM Grand Hagen had called McGrath before he called Colonel Zahn. He had asked McGrath to come meet him.

  McGrath was reluctant, told him to call back tomorrow. It was the middle of the night, for god’s sake. “Harry Needles is dead,” Hagen said. McGrath woke up, all ears now. “I’m being followed,” Hagen said. McGrath told him about the connecting corridor between the Luxor and the Excalibur. Go into one hotel and come out from another. A good way to lose a tail.

  It worked. Or seemed to.

  “What’s going on, Bodo?” McGrath said as they sat in McGrath’s car at a red traffic light on the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard and Sahara. Hagen suddenly realized he was tired and hungry. But there was still much to do tonight—this morning—before he could sleep.

  McGrath pulled onto a side street and parked. Hagen handed him the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. McGrath took a drink, handed it back. Then Hagen told him. About Harry Needles. About Colonel Zahn and his detachment of Legionnaires. About Ronnie’s trouble in the Legion and the wooden hand that he brought back with him to Las Vegas. About the woman from Paris named Suzanne Cosette and about Legionnaire Tate and the long drive back to Las Vegas from Laughlin. McGrath rolled down the window, smoked one cigarette and then another while Hagen told him the story of the Hand of Danjou. McGrath’s face was a stone mask. His blue windbreaker was badly wrinkled and smelled of cheap cologne.