Murder in Vegas

by Connelly, Michael

  Larry grudgingly turned around. “What is it now?”

  Marge took off her sunglasses. “Something’s over there. By the flowers. It’s glittering.”

  “It’s probably a frigging gum wrapper.”

  She headed over. “Then we should definitely pick it up. How could someone even think of littering in a place like this?”

  “Marge …” Larry followed her over, bumping into her when she came to a sudden stop. “What the—?”

  “Look!” Marge pointed. Behind the flowers a piece of metal was sticking out of the sand.

  “Lemme see.” Larry squinted and crept closer. “Looks like some kind of box.” He peered at it, then felt around it with his shoe. They heard a metallic thump. Larry’s eyebrows shot up. He bent over the box.

  “Wait!” Marge cut in. “Don’t touch it.” She hugged her arms and looked around. “You have no idea what’s in there.”

  Larry looked up. “For Christ’s sake, Marge, it’s just a box.” He squatted down beside it.

  “Hold on. Stop. Isn’t—isn’t this where they dump all the radiation stuff?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, spent fuel rods, the waste from reactors? Like they talk about on TV? They transport it into the desert and dump it in places where nobody lives.”

  “Marge, that’s in Wyoming. And you’re talking about huge containers. The size of railroad cars. Not little boxes.”

  “Still …” She pleaded. “You never know.”

  Larry shot her one of his looks, the kind where the lower part of his jaw pulsed, the way it did when he disagreed with her. An uneasy feeling fluttered her stomach. “You were right, Larry. This isn’t fun. Let’s go back to the car. We’ll get a nice, cold drink at the hotel.”

  Instead, he knelt down and started scooping up chunks of dry, hard-packed sand.

  “Honey, didn’t you hear what I said?”

  But he kept scrabbling through the sand. Then he stopped digging and sat back on his haunches. Jiggling it to pry it loose, he lifted up a gray tackle box about a foot square and five inches deep. Its surface, at least the part not covered with sand, was dingy and battered.

  Marge was just about ready to go back to the hotel without him. Let him get poisoned by some weird biological toxin. “Larry, you just leave that thing right there.”

  His response was to shake the box from side to side. A swishing noise could be heard.

  “Larry.” Marge started to feel anxious. “It doesn’t belong to you.”

  He looked around, a strange light in his eyes. The sun was casting long shadows across the desert, suffusing everything with a rosy, warm light. No one else was in sight. “It does now.” Cradling the box under his arm, he started back toward the car. “Let’s go. And for the love of God, don’t say a word to anyone.”

  Marge pursed her lips. She knew better than to argue. She’d spent her whole life following the rules. School rules. Secretary rules. Wife in the suburb rules. She pasted “Hints from Heloise” into a scrapbook. She knew ten ways to get out stains, how to keep potatoes from budding, how to keep her husband happy. And anything she didn’t know, she learned on Oprah. Rules were there for a reason. You play by the rules, you find what you’re looking for. So what if she’d been a little restless recently? That didn’t mean she was looking for trouble. She stole a worried look at her husband. She never understood rebels.

  As they hurried back to the parking lot, a man in a car at the edge of the lot flicked a half-smoked cigarette out his window. He seemed to be watching them, Marge thought. She shook her head. She must be imagining things.

  Mirrored bronze panels reflected a series of chandeliers that drenched the hotel lobby in a giddy display of light. The casino was off to one side. Larry gave it a wide berth and headed for the elevators, but Marge peeked in as she passed.

  A room as big as a football field, the perimeter was rimmed with slot machines for the little old ladies and pigeons. Circular pits for poker, roulette, and blackjack took up the center, with rectangular crap tables around them. It was barely six o’clock, but coins were already clinking, cards were being dealt, roulette wheels clacked. Loud electronic music made it impossible to think. But then, that was the point, wasn’t it? Hundreds of greedy souls flocked to the place every night, each thinking they were the exception to the rule. They would beat the house. Larry had been one of them, Marge thought.

  As she crossed to the elevator, she wondered how long it would be before someone noticed the bald, pudgy man with a dingy box under his arm. He did look suspicious. She slipped in front to shield him. She knew this wasn’t a good idea.

  “But I had it when I checked in.” A brassy redhead in tigerstriped pants complained loudly at the front desk.

  “Ma’am, I’m doing everything I can.” The desk clerk’s tuxedo was wrinkled, and stringy hair grazed his shoulders. He fingered one of several earrings in his ear. Marge wasn’t partial to men with earrings, but she knew she was supposed to be tolerant.

  “I talked to housekeeping,” he was saying. “Put up a notice in the employee lounge. I even put a reward out for the bracelet.”

  “Sure you did.” The woman glared. “You got some nerve, you know? Our money’s not good enough for you. You gotta steal everything that’s not nailed down.”

  The desk clerk broke eye contact with the woman and—impolitely, Marge thought—looked around. His eyes swept past them but then came back and focused, Marge realized with a start, on Larry and his package. She stepped closer to her husband, but it was too late. The lady in tiger pants was still carping, but the desk clerk couldn’t take his eyes off Larry. As the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside, he picked up the phone.

  Back in their room, Larry took the box into the bathroom. He wiped it down with a damp towel, then felt around the seam.

  Marge stood at the door. “Please, Larry. It’s not too late. Don’t open it. What if it’s anthrax?”

  “Marge.” He growled. “If you aren’t gonna help, at least get out of the way.”

  Her mouth tightened. “At least let me try to find you some gloves.”

  “Huh?”

  “Rubber gloves. I saw a drugstore around the corner.”

  Larry shook his head. He didn’t care about germs. Something was inside that box. It was a sign. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. What with the lousy economy, he hadn’t made his quota last quarter. Then there was last night. He needed a break. And God was finally sending him one.

  “Let me wipe it with a little bottle of bleach,” Marge persisted. “It destroys viruses.”

  He caught his wife’s reflection in the mirror. She’d always been a little loony, but now it had become big time. Quoting all those bimbos on TV. Yakking away about the environment. Refusing to let him eat fries or Cap’n Crunch. Too many carcinogens. He didn’t know what she wanted anymore. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been trying. He’d agreed to come here, hadn’t he, even though he liked the Dells just fine. But Marge wanted something new. Exotic. Well, he scowled, she sure got that in spades. He picked up the box and looked underneath.

  “I’m going to put some alcohol on it.” Marge pulled out a bottle of alcohol from her travel kit. Saturating a cotton ball, she dabbed it on the box. A sharp, antiseptic smell filled the room.

  “For cryin’ out loud, Marge.”

  He snatched the box out of her hands. She was acting like Donna Reed on steroids. He wanted to pry open the box, but the lock seemed to be warped, bent at an odd angle. Even with the right tools, it would be tough to open. But he didn’t even have a screwdriver. He wondered if he should call a repairman. An “engineer,” they probably called them here. A fancy place like this probably had a slew of them, ready to pocket a huge tip just for changing a frigging light bulb.

  He grabbed the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. In the mirror he saw Marge paw through her bag again. Frigging thing was big enough to hold an entire Wal-Mart. She pulled out a small, chunky red plastic
object. With a white cross on it. A Swiss Army knife! He spun around. How the—

  She smiled as if she was reading his mind. “I was reading this survey of female travel writers—you know, in New Woman magazine? It said if you don’t have a travel alarm or a Swiss Army knife, you’re not properly packed.” She handed it over. “Most women like the scissors and the small blade, but I kind of like the bottle opener.”

  Larry swallowed his astonishment—every once in a while, his wife still amazed him. Snapping it open, he started levering the blade in and out of the box.

  “One woman actually fixed the engine of her rental car with it,” Marge went on. “Another fixed her hair dryer. Of course, you have to check it in your luggage these days. But it’s worth it.”

  Larry ignored her. Jimmying the blade, and then the screwdriver, he slowly widened the space between the lid and the base. Finally, a sharp upward tug of the screwdriver sprang the lock, and the box flew open. Larry took a breath, said a prayer, and looked in.

  “My god!”

  “What is it?” Marge crowded in behind him.

  He lifted out a large plastic bag. Inside were at least a dozen smaller baggies, all filled with a white, powdery substance. He gingerly opened one of the bags, stuck in his pinkie, and brought it to his tongue. It tasted bitter and tingly. Maybe a slight numbing sensation.

  He gazed up at the ceiling and smiled.

  The knock on the door made Marge jump. She and Larry exchanged looks.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Larry started toward the door, closing her in the bathroom. “You stay in here. And keep the door shut.”

  “But what if—”

  “Just do what I say.”

  Marge obediently sat on the toilet. Shivering, she draped a towel over her shoulders. They always kept these rooms too cold. Through the door she heard muffled voices. Larry’s and someone else. A woman’s.

  “No thank you,” he was saying. But the heavily accented voice—Spanish, Marge thought—drifted closer.

  “I turn down beds. And put towels in bathroom.” Marge pictured a Hispanic woman with dark hair and a gold cross at her neck.

  “No!” Larry yelped like a wounded dog. “I’m sorry,” he added. “I mean—my—my wife’s in there. She’s not feeling well.”

  “I give towels. She feel better.”

  Something jingled as she swished across the carpet. Keys. Maids carried those big silver rings, didn’t they? The jingling was followed by a smacking sound. Marge knew that sound. Whenever Larry was upset, he slapped the palms of his hands against his thighs.

  Larry’s hands smacked back and forth. The jingling edged closer. Marge’s heart thumped. If she didn’t do something, the maid would burst through the door. Jumping up from the toilet, she locked the bathroom door and slid open the door to the shower. She carefully stowed the box in the bathtub as far away from the shower head as she could, then turned on the water. As a cold spray gushed down, she slid the door shut and plopped back on the toilet.

  The jingling stopped.

  “See, I told you,” Larry said weakly. “She’s not feeling well.”

  Silence. Then, “Ees okay. I help.”

  Good Lord, Marge thought. What would it take? She quickly grabbed the towel and bunched it in front of her face, hoping her voice would sound like she was inside the shower stall. “Just leave them outside.”

  “You sure, meesus? I get medicine.”

  She was about to issue a sharp retort when it occurred to her the woman was just doing her job. Following the rules. Marge was annoyed with herself—she should be more tolerant. “Thank you. I’ll manage. Just leave the towels on the floor.”

  Eventually, the jingling retreated, and the door to their room slammed. Marge waited a full minute before coming out of the bathroom. Larry was looking through the peephole, still slapping his thighs. The scent of cheap perfume hung in the air.

  “That was close,” he whispered.

  “Is she gone?”

  He nodded and headed back toward the bathroom. Marge grabbed his arm. “Larry, we can’t do this. It’s wrong. We’ve got to hand it over to the police.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “It’s not worth it. If we get caught …”

  A nervous laugh cut her off. “It’s a little late to worry about that.”

  “It’s never too late to do the right thing. We all do things we wish we hadn’t.”

  “This isn’t one of them. Anyway, what cop in his right mind’ll believe we found this in the desert?”

  “But we did.”

  “Sure. And while you’re at it, don’t forget to tell ’em it was your Swiss Army knife that got it open.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re in this up to your neck, too. You’re an accomplice, Marge.”

  Marge stiffened. All she’d done was pack her toiletry bag according to New Woman’s rules: a little detergent, cotton balls, and, of course, the knife. Did that make her a criminal? Larry had to be wrong. Maybe this was some kind of test. Of their values. Their relationship. She lifted her chin. “I’m going to the police.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You can’t.”

  “We have to follow the rules.” She started for the door, but Larry caught her by the arm.

  “Marge, don’t. Please. The box—it’s a sign. I know it.”

  “A sign?” She searched his face hopefully. Hadn’t she just been thinking the same thing?

  “We can make a killing if we’re careful. Do you know how much that stash is worth?”

  Her spirits sank. “I don’t care.”

  “Maybe millions!”

  Money. She looked away. They weren’t even on the same planet. Dr. Phil said there was a point you had to rescue a relationship or it died. They’d discussed it at her women’s workshop: Marge, a newly pronounced lesbian, and two others so bitter over their divorces they couldn’t possibly launch, much less rescue, a relationship.

  “Our luck is about to change. All we have to do is find someone to sell it to.”

  “But that would make us …” she whispered. “ … dealers.”

  “N … no. Not really,” he said. “It wasn’t ours to begin with.”

  “Exactly. That’s why we can’t do this, Larry. We’ve got to play by the rules.”

  Before he could stop her, she wriggled out of his grasp and bolted through the door.

  Marge crossed the lobby, aware that the desk clerk with the stringy hair was watching her. She picked up her pace.

  Outside, darkness was falling, but it was a false, noisy darkness. Gaudy neon displays sputtered. Fountains gurgled. Horns blared. Electronic dings spilled out from the casinos. As she pushed through the crowds on the Strip, she grew uneasy. She didn’t like this city where night was day and dark was light. An air of abandon, a go-for-broke chaos, permeated everything, all of it sizzling in the desert heat. Marge fanned herself with the flaps of her sweater.

  Finally, she caught sight of a black and white cruiser on the next block. Two cops lounged against its side. She was hurrying to flag them down when she felt a presence beside her. She quickened her pace, but the figure loomed closer. When she tried to break into a run, he clamped a hand on her arm. She started to scream, but her attacker grabbed her around the waist and buried his mouth on hers in a hard kiss. With the other hand, he jabbed something hard and cold in her side. She knew without seeing that it was a gun.

  Alone in the room, Larry paced and slapped his thighs. The stash would more than make up for his losses. All he had to do was unload it. But he was a salesman from the Midwest. Where could he find a drug dealer in Vegas?

  He pulled out the shirt Marge bought him before they came. You can’t wear a golf shirt and chinos in Vegas, she’d said. Even if everyone else does. He slipped it over his head and checked himself in the mirror. Some slinky yellow material. He looked like a frigging Italian.

  Italian. Everyone knew the casinos were fronts for the Mafia. The M
afia ran drugs. If he went down to the casino, maybe he could find someone—a card dealer maybe—who knew somebody. But what would he say? “Hey, you want to score—it’s upstairs in my room?”

  He pulled on the new pair of pants that matched the shirt. A tan weave. At least they weren’t white. Damn. He sounded like Marge with all her frigging rules. He opened the box, took out one of the baggies, and stuffed it into his pocket. She hadn’t always been this way. She’d been quite a number when he spotted her in the secretarial pool years ago. When had she changed? They were in their forties. The kids were living their own lives. You’d think she would have loosened up.

  He closed the box and looked for a place to stash it. The safe? No. That was the first place someone would look. Under the bed? No. That was for amateurs. He looked around, his gaze settling on the mini bar. Twisting the key, he opened the tiny refrigerator, took out the nuts, candy, sodas, and tiny bottles of booze, and slid the box in. It fit perfectly. He threw the food into a laundry bag and shoved it under the bed.

  He opened the door to the room. He half-expected to see the maid standing there, her arms full of towels, but the hall was empty. He rode the elevator down and crossed the lobby, nodding to the desk clerk as he passed. His luck was about to change. He knew it.

  The moment she was accosted Marge wondered why she ever thought a trip to Vegas would be fun. She should have gone to the Dells. Larry and she could have stopped at the water park, like they always did, then shopped for cheese. They might even have taken a boat ride.

  Now the man snarled in her ear. “You’ve got something that belongs to me.”

  Funny how your mind works, she thought. Here she was on the Vegas Strip, a gun poking her ribs, and she was thinking about the Dells.