Nobody Dies in a Casino

by Marlys Millhiser

  Mitch, Evan, Bradone, Caryl, Mel—Charlie counted. “Not everybody made it, huh? I broke somebody’s neck shoving you all downstairs, didn’t I? I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Oh God, there she goes with the guilt again.” Bradone grabbed the flask from Mel.

  “Where’s Toby, and Louie Deloese? Was there someone else?” Charlie had no idea how many people were in that house sending orange-red flares up into a dawning sky.

  “Last I saw of Loopy Louie, he was dragging Toby ‘Merlin’ Johnson out around the wall to the next yard,” Mitch told her. “I was so busy dragging people to the boat, I didn’t have time to go after him. But they were on the pile of us you left out on Evan’s pool deck.”

  “Don’t worry, my men will get them.” Detective Jerome Battista rolled over to face her.

  “You? I thought you were with them,” Charlie said.

  “Them. You. You sure you know the difference?”

  Actually, she wasn’t. She’d sort of hoped he knew.

  All that questioning and public confession in the screening room was meant to show the whole story. There should be no need for inquiring minds, like Charlie’s and Bradone’s, for instance, to continue inquiring. If that didn’t do it, the still pictures of loved ones should have made the point. And Battista had been in on it up to that point.

  Everyone had been left with a terrible thirst and, except for Charlie and Bradone, with varying degrees of lost time.

  “Could it have been that wand you used on the casino patrons at the Hilton?” Charlie asked Evan.

  “It’s possible they found it, turned the power up to black people out that long. What do you say, Detective, were we zapped with a fancy handheld laser developed at Area Fifty-one or stolen from aliens who landed out there in a giant orange?” The writer/producer turned his dual expressions on Jerome Battista.

  Battista returned the look as calmly as he could with eyes still watering from smoke and coughing. “You all saw the film—there is no air base at Groom Lake, or Area Fifty-one, and that orange mist was stage smoke—thus there’s no fancy laser either.”

  “They left me and Bradone conscious in a closet that didn’t lock, with Richard and Mitch outside in the hall, in need of rescuing, tucked the rest of you and Louie Deloese and Toby away unconscious in closets to burn to death. Bradone and I would be so busy dragging Mitch and Richard to safety, we wouldn’t have time to look for you.”

  “Give ya twenty to one ol’ Loopy and his nephew land on their feet, somewhere out of the country,” Evan said.

  “You’re on,” Battista snapped back. “We got witnesses.”

  Charlie would never understand men. “What happened to old Grizzlehead, your undisclosed flabby sidekick? What about Eddie Hackburger? I mean, why did I get the feeling that the three of you were running that show? And Bradone and I had been given all this unsolicited information so we could be witness to the facts as they wanted them presented. What made them think we’d be chucking up all that misinformation to the press right now in Evan’s backyard while the rest of you were burning with the house? I don’t get the logic.”

  Evan and Battista took turns explaining that the retired ARPs expected to be believed no matter what, because their say-so should be enough.

  “They are strangely out of the loop and can’t handle people flaunting strict orders, questioning authority that has permission to use deadly force. Hey, they watch Good Cops, Bad Guys instead of The X-Files.” Jerome Battista added, “This is off the record you, understand. I’ll deny any of it.”

  “Even with all these witnesses?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All of which makes them wonderful tools for private and public security forces at all levels.” Evan cut the engine and they drifted into a dock somewhere across the small lake from the burning house. The sirens and the helicopters did not sound that far away. “Even for police departments, casinos, and other corporations. And your government.”

  “They have an intimidating air of authority and can get things done faster than public institutions, which get so much press coverage.” Detective Jerome Battista grimaced but met the eyes of a hushed and somber group of survivors. “The system could not function without them. There are so many limitations imposed on law enforcement.”

  Charlie couldn’t see well enough to be sure that all the expressions on the boat mirrored the haunted one she knew she wore. But she couldn’t see why they wouldn’t.

  “They do tend to meet untimely ends, if that’s any consolation,” he tried to reassure them.

  “But they turned on you too.”

  “We’ve worked with these same freelancers before, to our advantage. Problem is, you never can be sure who else they are working for at the same time. In this case, they had their own agenda, and I should have seen it coming. They are highly patriotic and totally lacking in humor. Evan’s project and everything about it would be a slap in the face to that crowd. I was not let in on the very last play in this particular game.” Battista sat up straighter and clutched his ribs. “Which reminds me, Mr. Black—about the money from that illegal wager I’ve been hearing so much about—”

  “All burned up,” Evan said sadly, and he and Mel began handing Richard and Bradone onto the dock. “Charlie saved you but not the loot.”

  “It’s still illegal—the wager itself.”

  Mitch reached down to help the homicide detective out of the boat next. And then reached for Charlie’s hand, but all movement between dock and deck stopped when what was left of Evan’s house exploded. Sudden bolts of lightning flashed from a cloudless sky.

  “Jesus, what could have done that?” Richard grabbed Bradone as if to save her. She pushed him away.

  “Must have been the water heater, huh, Battista?” Evan watched the smoke roil and billow—turn orangy like a volcano or— “Couldn’t have been anything from an air base that doesn’t exist, huh?”

  “Talk about your conspiracy theory,” Charlie told Evan as she left the boat. “You can’t claim it was just our paranoia that created this whole last week.”

  “In a way, it was, Charlie. Somebody’s paranoia.”

  CHAPTER 39

  “CHARLIE, ALL I can say is how sorry I am for doubting you.” Bradone stood on the curb with the luggage she’d reclaimed from the lobby of an empty Loopy Louie’s. Hotel guests had either taken planes out or relocated to other hotels after the raid. “I forgot in all the mayhem that you were a sensitive.”

  “Sensitive about what?”

  “About lying in front of those people, about the orange spaceship and what we really saw on Merlin’s Ridge. I should have known you knew the truth all along. And you saved all our lives.”

  “I didn’t know any truth.”

  “But I wanted to simply get Richard and Mitch and us out of the house to safety when we smelled smoke, like the elderly ex-ARPs wanted us to. You ran back upstairs, looking for the others. You must have known something I didn’t.”

  “No, I just figured that’s what I’d do if I wanted to get rid of some of the people left unconscious in the house and use others who had been convinced to cooperate, by threatening their loved ones, to explain what happened afterward. That’s why the silly confession staging to explain all the dead bodies ruining my vacation and why and how nothing of importance really happened out at Area Fifty-one. I was surprised they wanted to get rid of Detective Battista though.” And Evan Black had to know more than he admitted. What really happened to the real money?

  “And burning down the house might also get rid of the true film shot by Mel on Merlin’s Ridge.”

  “And any other secret goodies spirited out of Groom Lake by Patrick Thompson.” Like lightning out of a cloudless sky. “Can’t find what you want—burn the place down so nobody else can find it either.”

  “Mel’s film in its real state might prove my abduction, and maybe yours too.”

  “Nobody was abducted, Bradone. I’m a sensitive and I know these things.
” Jeesh.

  But they hugged good-bye as the stargazer’s limo drew up to take her to the airport. It stopped right where the hunk pilot Patrick Thompson died. Charlie wanted to go home too. Richard was finding them tickets.

  Back in the lobby, some guests still sorted through piled luggage. Others looked for someone to complain to because they couldn’t find theirs. The news sources reported the raid as a massive drug bust and excused the closing and search of the casino on evidence that Louie Deloese was a drug lord.

  Charlie figured it was Evan’s bet money the authorities were looking for here too, especially if he’d taken Louie up on his offer to provide a conduit to get it out of the country. It would have been embarrassing to reveal Evan Black’s successful stunt of the decade. Charlie wondered if Loopy Louie’d been had by the authorities, both official and non. If Evan was about to make his first-ever big-budget picture. Louie might appear small and inconsequential, but Charlie wouldn’t want him for an enemy.

  Was the undisclosed motive behind everything ultimately to ensure Groom Lake remained undisclosed?

  “Well, guess this is it till next year, huh?” Mitch Hilsten, superstar, said behind her.

  “Next year?” Charlie turned with resignation. I should be so lucky.

  Fans still blew the gauzy veils around on the ceiling. The one above Mitch hid and then revealed a nasty-looking scimitar with regular and sad monotony. Loopy Louie’s had been gloriously, unabashedly silly in a seriously silly town.

  “My astrologer says your cycles are winding down as you get older and—”

  “As I get older? You’re the one who has to eat raw oysters and insure all your parts. Not to mention that you have well over ten years on me.”

  He put a finger to her lips and drew her close as cameras buzzed and clicked and whirred around them and mikes on booms lowered overhead.

  “Yeah, but I’m a famous superstar.” He had to whisper in her ear so she could hear over the rude chorus of rude questions.

  “Jesus, wait till Libby sees this.”

  “I think it’s about time Libby gets a life.” And then the jerk kissed her for the benefit of the rude intruders. “Charlie, would you consider becoming my—”

  “No.”

  “Agent?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? I get more work and publicity through you than I do Lazarus.”

  “Tell me you and Evan aren’t going through with the conspiracy project. Mel Gibson and 60 Minutes and Oprah and everybody already has. It’s going to take more than free money.” They stood close, spoke low. Charlie hoped all the noise the reporters were making would cover their conversation.

  Evan Black had waited until the rest were on the dock before he took off with Mel and Caryl and presumably “the can,” leaving Battista shouting threats after the disappearing boat. The detective had been duped by the freelance ex-ARPs and now by a real professional—a Hollywood producer.

  “You bring charges against my client,” Richard Morse warned, “you’re going to open up a can of crocodiles. There are too many witnesses to Groom Lake and to your interrogation methods.”

  Mitch said now, “I wouldn’t miss this one for anything. Not only do I get to work for the young genius but we got stuff in the can, Charlie, that will make Spielberg jealous. Trust me.” And he was gone, half the cameras following and, damn him, the other half attacking Charlie.

  She took a lesson from Loopy Louie and said nothing. Just lowered her head and pushed through the swirl around her, having not a clue where to go. She looked up once and thought she saw a familiar face behind one of the booms. When one of the eyes on that face winked, she recognized Toby “Merlin” Johnson, the dark curls disguised by a eunuch wig, the face still bruised, but both eyes open. She would have liked to thank him for saving her at Merlin’s Ridge but didn’t dare expose him. She’d saved his life too now, she supposed.

  She walked on with her half of the pushy, increasingly insulting entourage, most demanding to know where she and Mitch had been hiding and if they’d secretly wed, until an arm pulled her through a concealed door into a Loopy Louie’s security area, all its monitor screens black now. Mr. Undisclosed, with the close-cropped hair and crooked teeth, held out her purse. The freelance ex-ARP who evidently did not die in the fire that destroyed the house and its secrets.

  He was so quiet after the paparazzi, she could barely hear him. “Since you’ve been cooperative, I’m going to make you a deal.”

  Just your small black unassuming strap bag with too many pockets.

  “Your driver’s license, Social Security card, business cards, keys to your home and car and office, your cash, credit and ATM cards. Your identity really.” He jerked it away when she reached for it and pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket. “I will return all to you for your promise and your signature on that promise.”

  It was an official-looking letter, nicely typed, but with the ubiquitous errors made so convenient by computers. It had an embossed seal—THE GOVERNMENT OF THEY UNITED STATES—and an eagle as letterhead, and various important and official-sounding departments listed across the bottom.

  “Nice paper,” Charlie said.

  I, Charlie Greene, do hear here by swear upon my oak that I won’t not reveal, promote, write about, or represent anyone who does.

  The letter went on to describe what she would not reveal in lengthy terms that avoided mention of Groom Lake or Area 51. It did mention Nellis Air Force Base, which was sort of a pseudonym for southern Nevada. The thing was three paragraphs long, the last two all one sentence, phrases linked with semicolons and colons, but nary another verb until the last phrase, So help me God.

  “Not even a mystery?” she asked in all innocence.

  “Not even a mystery.”

  Charlie took the proffered ballpoint and signed the damn thing up against the wall. He reached for it. She reached for her purse. Neither blinked.

  When they finally exchanged merchandise, he said, “You count to five hundred real slow and then follow me out that door at the end of the hall. Now you be a good little girl, Charlie Greene, and remember you signed a promise with Uncle Sam and he’s watching you.”

  Charlie counted to fifty real fast and opened the door at the end of the hall. It led onto an alley. The man who thought she was dumb enough to keep her promise lay sprawled in the middle of it, a wicked-looking scimitar stuck in his back.

  CHAPTER 40

  CHARLIE SPRAWLED IN the comfort of first-class leather. Richard decided they’d earned some luxury after their vacation.

  She took the blood-smeared envelope from her purse. The letter inside had an eagle and GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES on its letterhead and was signed “Charles Greenwood.” Toby had appeared from behind a Dumpster and handed it to her without a word.

  But he’d held up his left hand, the back of it facing her. His ring finger sported three identical turquoise rings. Mr. Undisclosed was not wearing his.

  Detective Battista had been right. Ex-ARPs tend to meet untimely ends. Thanks to Toby, his uncle Louie got revenge on one of his enemies anyway.

  The extra stud had been removed from the bottom of her purse, leaving a gash in the leather.

  Charlie reached into a zippered pocket stuffed with flattened hundred-dollar bills and checks. She tried to total her loot without taking them out.

  “Jesus,” Richard said beside her.

  “And this was my worst trip ever to Vegas. Doesn’t make sense.” What really amazed Charlie was finding so much of the cash still there after the purse had been handled by all the nefarious “they.” Maybe all of it. She’d lost count of her winnings among the dead bodies.

  A portion of it would be donated to a fund set up by Barry and Terry’s TV station for Officer Timothy Graden’s children and his widow, Emily.

  Richard’s knee bobbed rhythmically. One hand held his scotch and water, the other drummed on the armrest between them in time to his knee. The night without sleep had taken its toll on
his face in a series of lumps.

  “She never loved me, Charlie. She was using me.” Richard, not above using his position to entice young women to his bed, was hurting now. Charlie’d never known the agency to represent any of the hopefuls. He discarded them when he was through. “Not like you and Mitch.”

  “Bradone enjoyed you. That’s a compliment.”

  “It’s not right. Woman shouldn’t lead a guy on like that.”

  “Hey, she wasn’t after your money or trying to get the agency to represent her. She simply had a fling, like you’ve been doing for years.” Richard’s flings with the young discards was the reason Ann, his third wife and the only one Charlie had met, left him. But Charlie knew her boss to be unable to conceive that turnaround could be fair play when it came to women. “Mitch and I just had a fling too. Believe me, it was our last.”

  “Christ, the man’s got everything a babe could want. What’s the matter with women these days? Can’t commit to anything. Thought what you might do when you get old?”

  “Oh, I’ll have hot flashes, watch my money compound and drip, live on a tropical island where nobody drops dead when I play blackjack, string a hammock between two palms near the beach, smear myself sticky with wild sweet potatoes, read only books I want to, maybe write one about what it was like to be a glamorous Hollywood agent at the millennium.”

  Richard Morse watched her with an almost fond expression. “You’re full of shit, you know that, Charlie. But you’re a good kid.” He patted her hand. “And thanks for saving my life.”

  “Richard, won’t the government go after Evan Black Productions if he tries to use illegal film from Area Fifty-one? Even shut down the project? Get an injunction, whatever?”

  “They’ll have to get in line. He’s got pending lawsuits up the gills now. Won’t be shooting it in the States. By the time the bureaucracy gets to it, thing could be in the theaters, and if the government tries to stop it then, they’ll make it an even greater hit. They’ll play right into his hands. He can shout conspiracy, First Amendment, censorship. That guy gets away with murder, don’t he?”