Ten minutes later, Chris appears out of nowhere and plops down on her towel. I sat up quickly, “Where have you been Chris? Did something happen over there; I saw security running around on the other side of the pool.”
She stares at me with an evil grin, her face was flushed with anger, “I went with this guy to his apartment for a massage and he wouldn’t let me out of the room.”
“Whaaat? What are you saying?” I was trying not to scream, even though there were only a few people around the pool area. I am feeling helpless and meaningless right now. I wanted to grab her by her shoulders and twist her. I wanted to smack her in the face so hard that she would cry, but she would probably punch me in the face. I knew that, and I was trying to think of a way to find out what happened without annoying her even further because she had the look of already being annoyed and pissed. So I sweetly asked her if this creep had been here at the pool earlier on.
“Yes,” she said. And then she proceeded to tell me that he didn’t want to pay her for the massage; he thought she liked him and was going to his room for sex.
“Well, of course he did Chris; if you go with a total stranger to his room, he’s going to assume you want to have sex!” Why the hell would you do this? You can’t run around Las Vegas selling massages to strangers—it’s crazy, its nuts, and its insane bullshit.” I toned down my voice because I knew things would escalate if I continued lecturing her. I tried calming myself down so I could find out what happened, and I removed my sunglasses so I could see her face and talk directly at her. I lit up a cigarette and leaned into her….
“Tell me what else happened over there, Chris.”
Chris positioned her bikini clad body on her towel as if she had already shrugged off this incident and was ready to get down to the business of sun bathing.
I said calmly, “Please tell me what happened Chris—are you okay, did he hurt you?”
I could still see the anger on her scrunched up face as she ignored me for a minute, then she sat up and started fiddling with her bikini top. I refused to press this issue any further. If she wasn’t willing to tell me about it, then fine. I’d just have to live with that.
Suddenly, she erupts in a quick speech, “No, well, maybe, I mean he threw me all over the room. I was trying to grab the phone on the night table and the lamp fell over. I threw the lamp at him and it crashed into the wall; it didn’t seem to bother him at all. I was sprawled across the bed and he was dragging me off, and when I fell near the phone I picked it up and dialed the office.”
I pictured this scene in my mind and felt extreme anger building up inside of me. She had actually had a brawl with this stranger in his room, and security had to come and rescue her. I didn’t even think of asking her what they had to say. I guess no one cared about this crazy shit in Vegas. Chris didn’t care either. I could tell by her wide-eyed expressions of excitement that she was (unbelievably) enjoying this craziness, and again I felt like punching her. Instead, I just took deep breaths, sighed and grabbed my peach lipstick from my cigarette case and smeared it all over my lips, then had to wipe most of it away with my towel.
I put my sunglasses back on, and sat there silent, but my heart was pounding and I was scared. I had to think about this for a while, I was starting to have feelings of panic about who I came out here with, and I suddenly didn’t know this girl who was sunbathing next to me; I didn’t know her anymore, and she was ruining a nice vacation with her erratic behavior. Who could I call? There was no one to call, I didn’t know anyone in her family, and I felt completely helpless to do anything; there was nothing I could do—nothing.
I resigned myself to ignore her. She made me nervous and wrought with anxiety. We would be roommates in the small apartment, and I would make my plan of escape back to Pittsburgh following the fights. She had talked me into going and I had agreed, but now I didn’t want to go anywhere with her. She was so excited about the fights that I felt I couldn’t break my word. She asked me to help her with doing her hair and makeup, and I wanted to do that for her, I truly did. It was just getting hard to be around her, not knowing what explosion was going to happen next. She was a firebomb waiting to go off in an instant. A little voice in my head kept screaming at me, “Is this girl stupid or what?”…then the other little voice would answer saying, “No, I think she just hasn’t been out of Pittsburgh much.”
The word my brain was searching for was naïve, and my heart was telling me that Chris was just going to do what she wanted to do and that was it—an attitude I related to for myself and my own stubbornness of refusing to listen to anyone in my own life.
The bold, the brave, the stupid, the naive, the bad choices—were all descriptions of myself at an earlier time in my life. I knew them well, although I never quite understood why I never paid any attention to red flags either. I saw myself in Chris but not quite at this level of impetuousness.
Chris was angry that she hadn’t been able to control what happened in that man’s apartment. Come to think of it, the entire time she was telling me the story of what happened, she displayed no fear whatsoever.
There was something subtlety shrewd here that I could not digest. I felt naïve suddenly and didn’t understand the feeling because I didn’t consider myself to be naïve; I thought I knew everything there was to know in life at this point in time. I never thought about scheming people. Not that I hadn’t ever been affected by them, because I had been—in office jobs from the past, in high school friendships, and in life in general, so when I felt this feeling now, it baffled me that the feeling emerged at this moment. It was starting to feel like Chris had turned into a monstrous schemer here in Vegas, and it felt dangerous to me, it gave me chills down my arms. How could a person take a vacation in a strange town and start scheming about anything? Truly, her attitude was beyond my comprehension. I had lived in New York and Toronto with Rick; I knew what real operators were, and Chris did not fit that description for me. She exuded Pittsburgh in her demeanor and her mindset and the words cool operator did not come to mind. I believe that someone had implanted in her a confidence that she was a cool operator from Pittsburgh—a place I’d lived all my life and had never encountered any. Pittsburgh people notoriously revealed their inner most thoughts and feelings to strangers in the grocery store on a daily basis. There was nothing to hide in Pittsburgh, only for the secretive clans that operated beneath the radar of everyone else’s momentum. These types were far and few between in Pittsburgh.
I knew things wouldn’t get any better, and I believed that from this point on we would become acquaintances only. There was never a friendship between us. Chris was en-grossed in whatever it was she was planning, and she wasn’t telling me her plans. I got only bits and pieces of stories and I knew that there was never a real friendship with her. I must have made it up in my mind, for the Chris that I wanted to be friends with was the one who tickled my son and played with him like a small child would.
I didn’t like the feeling of offering up my sincere emotions and being stepped on for doing so. I didn’t like her constant state of anger, and I didn’t like Marty, even though I had never met him. There was so much I didn’t like at this point that I turned off everything in my brain, and once I turn myself off, I was done feeding the monster.
Even if a person stops feeding the monsters, they will still come looking for you. There is no guarantee in life that not feeding them releases you from their attention. They seek you out, they mark you for their prey and they devour you.
Being the victim of a monster has nothing to do with whether or not you seemingly set yourself up to be victimized, or whether you’re naïve or worldly, or whether you’re an innocent bystander. Monsters are monsters. They look for their victims in different ways, smell them out with senses that regular people never think about.
Monsters were closing in on their prey.
FIVE: THE PRIZE FIGHTER
“Some choices we live not only once but a thousand times over, remembering them for t
he rest of our lives.”
–Richard Bach
I wake up early out of habit. Being a single mom has many disadvantages, and one of them is that there is no one else to share the wakeup call in the morning with your child.
You are it. It becomes habit.
Chris, on the other hand, is a late sleeper. So I’m quiet while making my coffee this morning, because I sense she’s not getting up early—but I’m wrong.
She is already in the bathroom having a shower as I come back in from the patio with my coffee, and then she’s getting dressed. She’s putting on the white professional masseuse outfit that she purchased, and she’s packing up lotions and oils in a case that looks like something masseuses might use in their trade. I had completely forgotten about the tickets from the fight promoters.
She’s ready to leave and the sight of her in all white with her hair slicked back in a tight bun was a shock to me. Once she put on her glasses she looked exactly like someone who would be working in a health club with a professional clientele, and I’m impressed.
She heads for the door with her carrying case and mumbles on the way out, “I might see you later on at the pool.”
Yesterday’s craziness is forgotten. I’m going to do some laundry and then Larry and Kathy are picking me up to go to some different casinos to hit the slot machines. It’s all starting to become mundane to me, and I’m feeling somewhat bored—like maybe it’s time to go home. There is only so much you can do in Vegas if you don’t have money for shows, dinners and tourism. I am not the tourist type in any sense of the word.
During lunch Chris explodes through the front door of the apartment and she is all smiles. Looking up from my tuna sandwich, I felt happy for her already, “Hey, how’d it go over there?”
She starts throwing off her uniform and unpacking the masseuse case and talking at the same time, “Oh, it was wonderful. In fact, it was fabulous. Steve is the epitome of polite gentleman with class, and funny, too—so funny—so funny! He was impressed with my knowledge of deep tissue massage, and we talked and talked about sports, mainly boxing of course, and he’s just the greatest guy—he tipped me a hundred bucks and told me to call him when I open my health club here, and he’ll see if he can recommend some clients.”
“You’re opening a health club?” I said almost choking on my sandwich.
“Yes, that’s my plan,” she said, a bottle of lotion in each hand. “I met this guy at the health food store in the plaza the other day when I went shopping for my uniform. He’s looking for a partner, so we’re talking about it. I don’t really know where it’s going right now, but I’m making my own plans, too. I’m going to do it one way or another.”
I smile at her and I feel happy for her, and as I get ready to respond, she is already changed into her usual sweat pants and tank top and she says, “Hey, I have to leave; I’m going to buy a bike so I don’t have to walk to the plaza anymore. Then I’m going over to the health food store to meet that guy again. Maybe I’ll see you later on.”
“Okay, see ya later Chris.” I wished that she could be this happy and cheerful all the time.
This was the first realization that she was planning to stay in Vegas. And I am planning to leave soon; I’d have to see how things were going with my boredom of sunbathing and slot machines. I wasn’t ready to think about it, I just wanted to stop thinking about Chris and her daily encounters, and I wish she could have more positive ones, such as this one, which obviously made her day. She had been given some positive reinforcement by feeling worthy of something in the form of an accomplishment, and I felt it. It seemed to have provided her with an immediate jolt of energy and sense of achievement. She felt respected for her knowledge and abilities. I knew these motivations well from being in sales since leaving high school.
Later on that evening, Chris is still gone and I decide to take a cool dip in the pool and then try out the hot tub. There are about four other people at the pool, and among them is a black guy who looks like an athletic type, muscled up and not bad looking. He eventually finds his way over to me in the pool and we start a conversation. He tells me he’s a prizefighter from Philly, who’s there to win some money. I believe him—he looks the part. His name is Fred; that’s all he gives me.
After the others leave, Fred makes a move on me and since I’m horny and desperate for sex, I give in. We are just finishing up a very quick, blank sex act in the pool when Chris arrives on her new bike. I introduce her to Fred as the prizefighter from Caesar’s Palace, and she starts questioning him about the big fight coming up in a few more days. I am feeling the complete stupidity of my ridiculously unsatisfying sex act, and I have nothing to say, while Chris rolls into conversation with Fred.
Fred explains to both of us that when he’s hanging out at Caesar’s and when he has nothing to do, he is walking around taking Polaroid photos of people and charging them so he can make some extra money. Then he invites us both to meet him there on June 11, the day of the fight, and tells us he’ll take some great shots of us both dressed up when we arrive at Caesar’s. So we plan on running into him over there on fight day when we look like movie stars.
Chris and I are back in the apartment and I head for the shower. She is picking up the phone to call Pittsburgh and see how things are with Marty back at her place.
When I come out of the shower, I can hear her screaming at Marty on the phone. She’s pacing the living room with the long phone cord wrapped around her arm and they’re arguing about her cat having escaped from the apartment. She is screeching, “You idiot, why did you let him get out, I told you he would run, I told you he would take off if you opened the door. Don’t let it happen again, do you hear me?”….She’s ordering this macho cop guy, Marty, around like she’s an Army sergeant and he’s a lowly soldier with no rank. I smirked to myself and picked up the hair dryer.
I desperately wanted to avoid even hearing another screaming match, so I started walking towards the patio to dry my hair. She was thankfully calming down though, and the last thing I heard her say to Marty was, “When you come out here bring my fur coat, it’s very cold here at night.” And I thought…Oh, Marty must be coming out here. But I wasn’t going to talk about it or question her on it; I didn’t care. I figured I’d be long gone on my way back to Pittsburgh before any of this happened anyhow. Whatever she was planning, I knew I wouldn’t be there for it—I didn’t want to be there for it.
The fur coat Chris was referring to was her one and only beautiful three quarter length beaver coat that Chuck Werner had bought her. I had borrowed it once, and remembered it’s warmth on a freezing Pittsburgh night. She cherished it.
She hung up the phone and when I looked up from drying my hair she was staring intently at me, “Listen, I’ll tell you right now, don’t ever mention to Marty that I was hanging out with a black man; he would kill me.”
After that comment I assumed she had been hanging out with Fred.
“What Chris, you’re not allowed to talk to a black person, is that the rule?” I said jokingly, and then went back to drying and combing my hair.
She flipped her arm up at me Italian style and then went to the kitchen.
I knew that absolutely I wasn’t going to be in Vegas when Marty the creep arrived, and found myself wondering where he was going to stay when he arrived.
SIX: HOLMES VERSUS COONEY
“Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.”
–Elizabeth Bowen
On the morning of June 11, 1982 in Las Vegas, Nevada, we were both up early. We wanted to get some sun, do laundry and get ready for a long afternoon and evening at Caesar’s Palace for the big event. It would take both of us hours to prepare, as we had to look our glamorous best in case we encountered any movie stars.
I was planning a black dress with pink accents and a matching pink hibiscus flower in my hair. Nothing special. I had brought along a nice cool cotton dress that was Marilyn-Monroe-ish in style and some nice high-heeled, open toed shoes to matc
h.
I didn’t know what Chris had planned until I saw her getting dressed. She had a great looking oriental patterned silk dress that fit her like a glove and showed off all her curves. It was black and mixed with a few other colors, and I liked it a lot. But when she emerged from the bathroom with long curly hair I lost it.
“Chris, where did you get the great wig?” I said, staring at her.
“I bought it, does it look good?”
I pretended to act skeptical, and she got impatient, so I confessed quickly, “Yes, it looks absolutely ravishing, I like the way the curls surround your face and soften it.”
She knew she looked good, and I wanted to do her makeup perfectly so she could smile, be happy and go out the door feeling really good about herself. I was hoping for a calm, peaceful day full of fun at Caesar’s Palace, and anticipating seeing movie stars all over the place.
Chris goes to the fridge and pulls out two small sealed plastic cups the size of shot glasses, and motions like she’s toasting, looks over at me and says, “Do you want to do some shots?”
“Shots of what, Chris?” As I knew she didn’t drink, I wondered what she was holding. She opens one of them and shows me dark green looking goo that looked like spinach. All I could say was, “Yuck, what is that?”
Who Killed Chrissy?: The True Crime Memoir of a Pittsburgh girl's Unsolved Murder in Las Vegas Page 6
