Royal Flush

by Stephanie Caffrey

  I got myself ready for work and walked over to Cougar's a half hour early. One of my regulars gave me grief about not dancing as frequently as I used to, which I took as a good sign. I still had it, whatever it was. During my one o'clock break, I checked Jojia's Facebook page again. Still nothing. And nothing more from the mysterious Janelle Petersen either. I had noticed that Jojia was using hashtags in a lot of her posts, with most of her selfie photos being accompanied by some inane comment like #keepingitreal or #2gorgeous. One photo was even tagged #admiturjealousofme, setting a new bar for obnoxiousness. When it finally dawned on me to check her Twitter account, it proved to be a gold mine. The long and short of it was that her friends were meeting up at XS, the nightclub at the Wynn casino-resort. Jojia's party never stopped, apparently, and neither did the money.

  After another hour on stage, I packed it in and got myself ready. I had planned ahead this time, bringing a sleek and much classier black cocktail dress along, and with the right shoes it made for a winning ensemble. Staring at myself in the mirror, I had to admit that the dress wasn't just good—it was hot.

  Carlos was off that night, though, and he wasn't answering his phone, so I was going to have to fly solo. A cab dropped me in front of Wynn, and from there it was a long walk through the casino and into the promenade connecting Wynn to Encore, its sister hotel. About forty people were milling around in a poor attempt at a line, but I walked straight to the front. I forced myself to make a big smile and wink at the bouncer, and after an appreciative up-and-down review of my figure he nodded curtly and opened up the cord to let me in.

  I had never been to XS before, so I cautiously skirted the perimeter as I tried to take it all in. The noise was hard to get past. The thumping rhythms seemed designed to distract rather than entertain, but I supposed the common goal of clubbers was to get whipped up into a kind of frenzy, fueled by alcohol and whatever else they needed, and the music had to match that mood. I didn't see any sign of Jojia on my first go-round. Unlike the Hakkasan nightclub, XS was more open, and in fact a good part of it extended to encircle the pool at Encore.

  I ordered myself a gin martini at the bar, which appeared in a ridiculously fast time, and then made the rounds near the pool area. It was hard to believe that the club would allow so many young, drunk people to hang out near water, but I supposed there were insurance policies that covered just about anything. Off to the side of the pool, several cabanas, burgeoning with pretty young people, were lit from within by large faux candles that made the shadows dance on the walls. Tiny little waitresses pranced in and out, lugging full-size bottles of vodka and bourbon, the Las Vegas equivalent to Bavaria's beer fräuleins.

  I leaned against a pillar and discreetly checked my phone to see if there were any updates on Jojia's social media sites. They were both quiet, which made me wonder whether she was still here. It was only 2:30, which wasn't very late for her crowd, so I wasn't ready to give up yet.

  I decided to take a slow stroll past the cabanas, trying to peer inside without being too obvious.

  A tap on my shoulder caused my heart to skip a beat. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

  I turned around and looked up at a black face smiling down at me with perfect white teeth. His hazel eyes were so captivating that it was hard to remember to speak.

  "Um, have we met?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

  "My name's Charles. I think we've danced before. Or something." His voice had a conspiratorial tone to it, as though we'd shared more than just a dance. He had seen my left breast, but I wasn't sure he remembered that it had been my breast. They'd all been drinking a lot that night.

  "Well, good to see you again," I said. I was embarrassed and caught off guard at the same time, so my only instinct was to flee. "I've got to go bring this drink to my friend," I said lamely, excusing myself. As I walked away, I could feel Charles's eyes watching my backside.

  But where to flee? I had no friends here and nowhere to hang out in private, except for the bathroom, which is where I found myself within a minute. I was taking deep breaths and staring at myself in the mirror. I wasn't the only one. Four or five other girls pressed themselves together at the sinks, touching up their makeup and teasing out their hair, half-empty drink glasses resting on the counter in front of them. Eww. One of them kept leaning forward to see how her cleavage looked at different angles. She had platinum blonde hair and wore a stunning low-cut satin dress that showed off a giant emerald pendant. She caught me looking at her in the mirror and gave me a shrug, as if to say, the things we women do.

  "Lookin' good," I said, truthfully. I wanted to tell her she looked like Cybill Shepherd, but I doubted she was old enough to know who that was.

  She gave me the once-over. "Look who's talking. You're smoking. I hope I look like you when I'm your age."

  I cringed at the backhanded compliment. It had started out so well—I was smoking—why did she have to add that when I'm your age part at the end? Even so, I was thankful for the temporary distraction. Seeing Charles wasn't that big of a deal, I told myself. Ideally, I would have been able to observe Jojia and Charles without their knowing I was here, but I reminded myself that Charles had no earthly idea that I was watching him, much less that I was a private detective. The fact that we had bumped into each other twice at nightclubs wasn't surprising at all, since it seemed as if the same crowd made the rounds at all the local stops. But now that I was outed, I had to find a way to be especially careful about them, particularly since they might be involved in something they didn't want anyone finding out about.

  I picked up both my clutch and my cocktail off the vanity and followed Cybill Shepherd out the door, trying to shield myself behind clumps of people milling around. It wasn't the most efficient way to move around the club, but I managed to work my way back to the cabanas, where I saw Charles lingering outside. Nursing a clear beverage, he was chatting with a young woman who seemed to be having trouble standing upright. She was unabashedly hitting on him, with no success, and he appeared to be trying to shoo her away. Once again, it seemed as if Charles was manning a post rather than enjoying the club like everyone else. It wasn't just his dreadlocks that made him stand out, but his whole way of carrying himself, his whole purpose for being there seemed at odds with the party motif of the place.

  I wanted to do a walk-by to see what was going on in the cabana, but it would have been too obvious with Checkpoint Charlie standing out front, especially since he seemed to have an eye for me in particular. I sidled up to a pillar to watch the scene. Apart from the drunk girl hitting on Charles, no one seemed to be coming or going from the cabana. As I leaned my head down to take another swig of my drink, I caught a sashay of satin parading toward me. The blonde from the bathroom mouthed a hi at me and smiled as she passed.

  I turned to follow her. "Just a second," I said. She turned to face me, confused.

  "I need a quick favor," I said. "You see that guy standing over there? The guy with the dreadlocks?"

  She squinted so hard that I thought I could hear her face cracking. "Sorry," she said. "I really need glasses, but, you know."

  I knew. Thick spectacles weren't "in" at the moment. Hadn't she ever heard of contacts? "Um, this is kind of weird, but I wonder if you could help me." I pulled out my phone and turned the camera on, setting it on video. Then I pinched my fingers on the screen to make it zoom in to the full amount.

  "This is for a good cause, trust me. I just need to know what's going on inside that cabana."

  She cocked her head to the side. "And you want me to take a video?"

  It was crazy—I had to admit. But I reached inside my clutch and pulled out my private detective ID. "This is for real," I said. "Plus, it could even be fun."

  The girl thought about it for a minute. "Um, no. You seem like a nice person, but…"

  "I understand," I said. "It's a little crazy. How about if you go over and chat up that guy? He's pretty hot, you have to admit."

  "Remember, I can't really see
him that well. But if he's as good looking as you say he is, I'll go talk to him, sure. What's the worst that could happen?" She smiled at me and giggled. Apparently she was a little drunker than I'd thought.

  The girl handed me what was left of her drink and headed over to the cabana. It was a time-tested trick: if a girl's walking around without a drink, it gives men an opportunity to buy her one. I didn't believe Charles was going to bite, but if she could distract him for just a minute it would allow me to take a peek in the cabana without Charles or Jojia knowing about it.

  My new friend sauntered jauntily over to where Charles was standing, slowing as she got closer. She seemed to be examining him to see if he lived up to billing, then she approached. I couldn't tell what she was saying, of course, but her body language told me all I needed to know. And Charles wasn't trying to get rid of her.

  I sprang into action and shadowed a couple of guys who were decked out in expensive-looking tracksuits and lots of gold bling. They provided me enough cover to peer into the cabana, but only for a second. When I got into position, they moved on, leaving me exposed and reliant on my blonde friend's charms for cover.

  The cabana proved to be empty, except for Jojia and a pile of purses and other personal effects. At the moment, she was discreetly opening a small Louis Vuitton handbag and rifling through its contents. When she found the wallet, she opened it and laid out three or four credit cards, plus a driver's license, and methodically snapped a photo of them. Then she flipped them upside down and repeated the process, glancing up every few seconds to make sure her lookout was still standing guard.

  I had seen enough, so I decided to move on. Unfortunately, Charles was a better lookout than conversationalist, and he had already gotten rid of the blonde girl. From twenty feet away, his hazel eyes were boring right into mine. This time, he didn't smile.

  A chill ran down my spine and my face got so flushed that my eyes teared up. I couldn't hold his gaze any longer and turned away, abruptly, mad at myself and embarrassed for being caught. I walked away quickly, aimlessly, negotiating my way through the hazy air and throngs of people as I staggered toward the little corner I'd come from.

  I needed to regroup. Breathing deeply, I propped myself up against the wall near the ladies' room and pretended to be using my phone, my standard do-not-disturb pose. Everything seemed obvious now. All of the fake friends Jojia had made, the use of Charles as a lookout. She was befriending all of these young people, showing them a good time at the clubs, getting them drunk or high or both, and then stealing their identities and credit cards while they were out on the floor dancing. It was a crime I found elegant in its simplicity. Young people had more money than ever, or at least more credit than ever, and at that age they were desperate to be popular, to have friends, and especially to have glamorous friends who themselves had lots of friends. Who wouldn't be flattered to be invited out to the clubs with someone like Jojia, who was pretty, rich, and had gobs of friends herself? It was the perfect crime. Had Melanie stumbled onto it, I wondered?

  I finished the dregs of the drink the blonde girl had given me. It was a little sweeter than I was used to, but it took the edge off my nerves and steeled me for the walk home. Even at three in the morning, the Strip was a safe place. It seemed to be common knowledge that casinos had hundreds of hidden cameras everywhere, and with all the neon it never got darker than twilight, as long as you kept to Las Vegas Boulevard itself.

  I emerged from the casino and crossed over to the west side of the street, where the Fashion Show Mall was. An escalator took me to the bridge over Sands Avenue, and another one took me down to the front of TI, which I still thought of as Treasure Island. People moved slower at this hour, despite the fact that the temperature had dropped into the fifties. In front of me, an overweight, middle-aged couple were stumbling their way back from God-knows-where, happy as could be, impossibly cute, their hands firmly implanted in each other's back pockets.

  I wasn't in the mood to lollygag, so I reached down and pulled off my heels and started double-timing it on my bare feet. It might not have been the best idea I'd ever had, but there was more than enough light to allow me to avoid the obvious dangers, like shards of broken glass and little sharp-looking bits of asphalt or rocks. I padded my way past the middle-aged couple, and made good time up to the next stoplight, which miraculously turned green as soon as I arrived, allowing me and a couple of tiny Hispanic guys to cross together.

  I slid past them and continued making good time up to the Mirage, still managing to avoid major foot injury and not caring the slightest that I must have looked pretty silly walking barefoot. My condo was only about a half a mile away, and I was already entertaining thoughts about making a grilled cheese sandwich and eating it in bed.

  As I prepared to cross the driveway leading into the Mirage, however, a car turned right and pulled in front of my path, defying the red light. It wasn't a car, I realized, but a white SUV. A Range Rover. I couldn't see who was driving it, but glaring at me from the passenger seat was the now-familiar face of Charles. "Get in," he yelled.

  I froze. Sensing that I wasn't going to comply, he opened the door and jumped out, racing up to me with frightening speed. When his hand grasped my arm, I turned away and yelled for help. The scene must have looked as violent as it felt, because the Hispanic guys walking behind me raced up and started yelling in Spanish at Charles. The taller of the two began grabbing his right arm, while the other one reached in his pocket and pulled out a shiny knife. They didn't say anything else, but they didn't need to. A taxi pulled up at the light, and other people had begun to notice what was happening. I could sense Charles's grip on me faltering, and I took the opportunity to yank his arm off of me and elbow him in the gut in the process, which elicited a well-deserved F word from Charles.

  It was obvious he was outnumbered, so he spat on the ground and raced back into the SUV, which performed a tight U-turn in the driveway with Charles's door still open. They got the hell out of there, veering back to the Strip, and flooring it off to the south. A small crowd had gathered around me.

  "Are you okay?" asked the middle-aged woman I had passed earlier. I felt bad for killing the buzz she had obviously been enjoying.

  "I'm fine," I lied. Physically, I was fine, but my nerves were jangled. An attack on the Strip was so brazen, it was almost like robbing a bank in broad daylight. It meant I was dealing with a problem that lacked an easy solution.

  The Latinos were still lingering around. "Thank you," I said. They both nodded and bowed their heads, no doubt pleased with their damsel-in-distress rescue. Part of me wanted to say gracias, but I reasoned that they knew what thank you meant and didn't want to insult their intelligence.

  Someone offered to call the police, and another pointed me in the direction of a cab. I declined, explaining that I lived right up the street. This seemed to placate everyone, and we all parted and went our separate ways, although I made sure to stay within a hundred feet of the Mexican guys, who I hoped were walking in my direction for awhile.

  I finally made it home without further incident, where I ignored my urgent need to use the bathroom and poured myself a half glass of gin and took a deep slug. Gin is not meant to be consumed at room temperature, but I didn't care. It went down hot and hard, so I fetched a couple of ice cubes and reluctantly let the glass cool down while I took care of my other pressing business.

  I sat on my bed and placed the drink on the table next to me. I felt secure enough in my apartment because I was nowhere near here when Charles tried to abduct me in the Land Rover. And it was true that I had talked to both Kent and the fake Kent, and even given them my business cards. So if either of them were in touch with Charles, any of them would know where I worked. But my home address wasn't listed on my card or in the phone book, so they'd have no way of finding me here unless they'd had me watched, which seemed unlikely. If they really knew where I lived, I reasoned, there'd be no reason to stage a dramatic abduction attempt in the middle of one
of the busiest and brightest streets in the world.

  Somehow the TV magically found itself turned on, and I found an old Seinfeld rerun on the DVR. It was the one where Jerry is dating a girl whose stomach makes loud gurgling sounds all night, which causes Jerry and George to pretend the stomach has a personality all its own that only comes to life when the girlfriend is asleep. Naturally, the girlfriend took offense. It got me thinking about my own stomach, and the awful incident in the Los Angeles massage parlor, which got me thinking about how I needed another drink. But laziness won out, not for the first time, and I lay there trying to convince myself that all would be well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  By some small miracle I had actually fallen asleep, and by an even larger miracle it had been a restful night. When my eyes finally pried themselves open, I peered at the clock. It was an unintelligible smear of red that only cleared up after some effortful squinting, my eyes willing the glowing digital blobs to form themselves into discernible numbers. 10:16, it read. I think. I pulled myself out of bed, shielding my eyes from the bright sunlight pouring in, and trudged to the kitchen to make myself some coffee.

  On the counter, the little light on my phone was blinking at me. I had missed a call an hour earlier—slept right through it—and there was a message from Detective Weakland telling me to call him back. A nice coincidence, since I needed to talk to him and tell him about the little identity theft ring I'd uncovered, as well as the half-assed attempt to snatch me off of Las Vegas Boulevard. I didn't know how much he'd care about what I had learned. Although it pointed to a criminal operation between Jojia and Charles, I had never seen Kent at the clubs with them, and Kent was the only link to Melanie. When I dialed Weakland, it jumped to his voice mail, so I left a short message and waited to be it when he called me back.