Murder in Vegas

by Connelly, Michael

  “How about the Justice of the Peace?” he asked. “I hear she’s a real character.” More silence.

  “The Venetian does that incredibly romantic ceremony in a gondola, on the canal,” countered Amanda, snuggling up against his arm.

  He estimated that would cost at least a couple of grand, and quickly rejected the idea.

  “What you two need is a rockin’ wedding at the Church of Elvis, like we did.” The voice floated back from the seats in front. A blond-tipped crew-cut head popped up to eye level. “They pick you up in a pink Caddy. Dad would love it, Sis. Who doesn’t like the King? ‘Love Me Tender’? ‘Hawaiian Wedding Song’?” Robby, her brother, and his new wife, Carol Ann, had come along to stand up for them. They had eloped two months ago, causing quite a stir. He’d dropped out of college and so far hadn’t found a job, so she was supporting them with her two-year nursing degree, working the night shift in a nursing home. They’d jumped at a chance for a free trip to Vegas.

  “Robby wanted that Viva Las Vegas package, the one with Ann-Margret in those crazy hot pants. It was great!” said Carol Ann, pausing from her knitting.

  Amanda thought this over, a smile tickling her lips.

  “That would be fun, and Mother adores Elvis.”

  Ken sighed and began to relax, winking a thank-you to his future brother-in-law.

  The plane landed at Las Vegas International, and Ken and Amanda each grabbed their carry-ons. Robby hurried down the aisle while Carol Ann struggled to get their bag from the overhead compartment. Once off the plane, they rushed through the terminal, drawn to the Mecca of adult pleasures like dieters to chocolate, darting between bug-eyed gamblers leaving, joining the flow of fresh hopefuls arriving. Amanda marveled at the slot machines lining the walls.

  “Is nothing sacred here?”

  “Nothing,” answered Robby. “I’ve even seen machines in the cans.” He stopped to check his wallet after being jostled by a tanned man carrying no luggage and wearing shades. “Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘nonstop entertainment.’”

  They exited the terminal just as a sleek white limousine slid to a stop at the curb. George Duncan lumbered out the rear door, his hulking frame squishing through the opening and expanding to full size just as he enveloped his daughter in a hug.

  “Princess!”

  “Daddy!”

  Ken stared at the limo, hoping it wasn’t coming out of his windfall. He’d already agreed to put everyone up for two nights at the Bellagio. Carol Ann found him a great rate on the Internet because it was the slow season, but he didn’t want things to get out of hand.

  “A limo?” she asked, eyeing her father.

  “Nothing’s too good for my little girl!” He clapped Ken on the back with his pawlike hand, causing him to lurch forward, then ushered Amanda toward the car. The driver took the bags and stowed them in the trunk. Climbing in, she found her mother, Sylvia, sitting pristinely in a cool aqua shantung silk pantsuit, unwrinkled even in the desert heat. She wore Chanel sunglasses, the new pearlized ones, that obscured her eyes. Amanda smoothed her own rumpled shift, wondering how the salesclerk could have sold it to her as ‘the new-carefree-linen’ with a straight face.

  “Mother, how are you?” asked Amanda as Ken slid in beside her.

  “Fine, dear. How was your flight?”

  “Fine. Just fine.”

  Ken nodded to his soon-to-be mother-in-law. He found himself tongue-tied in her presence, awed by her ageless beauty. She was kind to him, and generous to a fault, but she had a cool demeanor that discouraged close contact. He’d never seen her hug anyone, only be hugged by George.

  As soon as they were all in, George opened the refrigerator and uncorked a bottle of Dom Perignon. Beads of sweat popped out on Ken’s forehead, not entirely from the warm desert air. As if reading his mind, George smacked him on the knee.

  “This one is on me, tiger!” The cork popped out, rebounding off the window and landing in Sylvia’s lap. She flicked it off, and Amanda reached over and blotted the champagne droplets with a wadded-up Kleenex from her pocket.

  Glasses were passed around while Carol Ann raided the snack tray, twisting open ajar of green olives. Everyone except Sylvia and Carol Ann took a glass of champagne. George made a toast to the couple.

  “Driver, take the Strip in. We want to see the lights.”

  As they turned from Tropicana onto the Strip, Ken stared at the realistic skyline of Manhattan displayed at the New York, New York Casino. A screaming group of tourists flashed by, belted into the roller-coaster seats.

  The Strip glittered like jewels in the navel of a giant belly dancer, sucking up enough power to run a third world country for days. People milled around in shorts, jeans, and little black dresses that had cost someone a small fortune. You could smell the money on the warm, desert breeze.

  Amanda pointed back to the castlelike structure of the Excal-ibur, but Ken was noting the location of the Denny’s up ahead, hoping several meals could be eaten there.

  His eyes bolted forward to the Aladdin, and Amanda gasped as the fountains in front of the Bellagio burst into life. Colored lights played against the sprays of water that danced to classical music, throwing a welcome mist on the dazzled onlookers gathered at the water’s edge.

  They turned down the drive to the Bellagio, and a bell captain rushed forward as the limo stopped.

  “This way,” he said, ushering them into a private entrance, away from the main one. Their bags were swiftly unloaded and they were shown to a special desk for check in. Ken fumbled through his duffle bag, looking for the Expedia confirmation of their reservations.

  “See the treatment you get when they think you’ve got bucks?” beamed George.

  A gush of warm air behind them announced the arrival of another guest. He was dressed in a matte gray silk suit cut to perfection for his formidable frame. Gold glinted from his cuff links and the ring on his right hand. Brushing past them, he moved with the air of someone accustomed to preferential treatment. Startled, they stood aside and gave him a wide berth.

  “Natelli? I think you have a suite for me.”

  Amanda thought she heard a small gasp from her mother. When she turned to look, Sylvia stood with her back to them. She had slipped her sunglasses back on. She was studying an Italian oil painting that Amanda prayed was a copy, because if it wasn’t, they could never afford this place.

  “He must be one of those high rollers, a big fish,” whispered Ken. “I think they call them sharks.”

  “Whales,” corrected Robby.

  The man glanced back at them, smiling absently as if that would excuse his behavior. The receptionist pulled his account up on the computer, then reached for a packet with his name neatly printed on the outside. She pressed a buzzer, and a man in a maroon jacket with gold braid quickly appeared from behind a sliding panel.

  “Here you go, Mr. Natelli. Glad to have you with us, sir. Your suite is on the sixteenth floor, overlooking Lake Bellagio. Antoine will be your personal valet for the duration of your stay.” The young man tipped his head as he was introduced. “If there is anything he can do to make your stay more comfortable, please call him. Anytime, twenty-four/seven.” She tried dazzling him with a sparkling smile, but he failed to notice.

  As he turned to follow Antoine, he paused, staring at Sylvia.

  “Lucky—is that you?” His tanned face erupted in a smile, and his eyes gleamed with hope.

  Time froze for a split second while they all tried to reconcile their image of Sylvia with this saucy nickname.

  Amanda giggled, then looked at her mother.

  “You must be mistaken. My name is not Lucky,” she said. George moved protectively to her side.

  “Sorry,” said Mr. Natelli, “it’s just that you look so much like …”

  “You’re wrong,” said George.

  Natelli looked directly at him, and George stared back. They were like two bull elk getting ready to battle it out in an ancient rutting ritual. Th
en Natelli glanced around at the others. Backing up one step, he turned and strode down the hall after his valet.

  Ken found their confirmation slip and handed it to the woman. She read it then glanced up at him.

  “But your reservations are for our budget rooms … made online.”

  “Yes, through Expedia.”

  “Then you check-in in the main lobby. Straight down the hall, then veer to the left.” She handed the paper back to him, dismissing him and returning to her work at the computer.

  “What? No Antoine for us?” quipped Robby.

  They shouldered their bags and proceeded to the lobby, awed by the Fiore di Como, a garden of glass flowers hanging from the ceiling created by Dale Chihuly. Blooms of every shape and size exploded in glorious color overhead.

  They made their way to the desk and registered. After receiving keycards, everyone but Robby headed to their rooms to unpack. He darted into the casino.

  After a quick shower, Amanda decided to call her parents to see if they would join them for dinner.

  “Ah, honey, that’s not such a good idea. You kids go have some fun. We old folks will just rest up for the big day tomorrow.”

  Ken suggested they eat at a nearby casino using a coupon for an all-you-can-eat buffet he found in a tourist guide. They rousted Robby from the craps table, interrupting what appeared to be a whammer of a losing streak, and headed off.

  After filling their plates at the buffet, they commandeered a booth and began unloading their trays. The food proved to be unremarkable, except for the quantity. But they were hungry, and ate in silence the first few minutes.

  Amanda marveled at the amount Carol Ann was able to eat and still keep her figure, although she looked a little plumper than she had in her wedding pictures. She’d have to make sure she didn’t gain weight after she and Ken were married.

  “Did you call the chapel yet?” asked Carol Ann.

  “No,” said Amanda. “I haven’t had time. Which one was it you guys use?”

  “The Church of Elvis,” announced Robby. “They were awesome.” He sliced into a rubbery prawn. “Hey, think we can score some tickets for that heavyweight bout tomorrow afternoon?” he asked Ken.

  “I don’t know; Tyson’s looking pretty hot, and I heard they were all sold out.”

  “Dad got tickets,” said Amanda, swallowing a tough bite of prime rib, “but don’t tell him I told you. Act surprised. It’s your bachelor party.”

  The men erupted in a hoot and slapped palms across the table while Amanda rolled her eyes.

  She suggested the ladies get their hair done while the men were gone, and Carol Ann agreed.

  The couples strolled hand-in-hand down the Strip in the direction of the Treasure Island Hotel to catch the evening performance of the swashbuckling pirates doing battle with HRM Navy. Then they returned to their hotel, stopping to watch the fountains soar over a thousand feet in the air, then cascade down through incandescent lighting.

  Ken and Amanda hailed a cab, heading to the Marriage License Bureau. That made one less thing to do tomorrow. Robby and Carol Ann retired to their room.

  The phone jarred Amanda awake shortly after dawn.

  “Yes?”

  “Sweetheart, you’d better come to our room.”

  “Now, Dad?”

  “Yes, now! And bring everybody else, too.”

  She called Carol Ann, who agreed to meet them there after she located Robby, who had returned to the casino last night to recoup his losses and hadn’t come back to the room yet.

  They all stumbled through the door to her parent’s room about the same time, Robby looking exhausted and smelling of smoke, the others just dopey from sleep. George was alone, pacing.

  “I ordered up some coffee. Grab a cup and have a seat.”

  They obliged, sitting in the chairs and on the foot of the bed.

  “Dad, where’s Mom?” asked Amanda as she started to sip her coffee.

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know!”

  Cups halted in mid air.

  “You lost Mother?”

  “No. Yes! She left sometime during the night. I was asleep.”

  Amanda glanced around the room again, noticing several tiny bourbon bottles from the honor bar sitting by a bottle of branch water.

  “Were you drinking?”

  “Not me, honey. Your mom.”

  “Mother doesn’t drink.”

  “Correction. Your mother doesn’t start drinking, because she doesn’t stop.”

  While Amanda tried to make sense of this, he went on. “Your mother has a drinking problem. And a small one with gambling, too.”

  “Stop it! She does not!” Amanda jumped up and paced in front of the window looking out on the mute fountains. “I’ve never seen her take so much as one drink.”

  “That’s true. As long as she attends her meetings, she’s fine.”

  “What meetings?”

  “She’s in AA, the twelve-step program, for drinking and gambling.”

  “That’s impossible! When did she have time for that?” Sylvia was always on her way to work or to the church for some committee meeting.

  “Let’s just say she doesn’t really drive a bookmobile every afternoon.”

  “I can’t believe I never knew about this!”

  “She stopped drinking when she found out she was pregnant with you. And then when we got married …”

  “You mean she was already pregnant when you got married?”

  Ken and Robby stifled grins, but Amanda saw and ordered them out of the room.

  “Not yet, sweetheart,” said George. “We need them to help find her.”

  Spreading out a map of the Strip, they agreed to start at the closest casino, checking every bar and gambling room until they found her. George would stay in the room by the phone and run command central from there, and he would notify them if she returned. They exchanged cell phone numbers and left.

  Amanda headed north to Caesars Palace, covering the west side of the street, and Ken the east, starting at Bally’s. Robby and Carol Ann ran south toward the Monte Carlo and Paris Casinos. They rushed in and out of casinos, which were moderately full at that early hour, glancing in every bar and cafe along the way. The temperature was rising faster than a fish fart, and the sun pelted them with withering rays when they weren’t inside. By nine o’clock they were wilting from heat and hunger.

  As Amanda entered the Mirage, she noticed the high roller from the night before, Mr. Natelli, arguing with a woman on a stool whose back was to her. The woman slumped forward, slopping her drink down her blue pantsuit. As she turned, Amanda realized it was her mother.

  “Mom! What are you doing here?”

  Sylvia tried to focus, wobbling on the stool, her right hand glued to the pull handle of the slot machine. Her normally coiffed hair hung limp in her eyes, and she’d outlasted her makeup by hours, revealing how much work it took daily to maintain the facade.

  “That’s okay, I’ve got her. You can leave now,” she said, coolly dismissing the man. She was relieved when he let go of her mother’s other arm and walked toward the cage. He spoke with the cashier, signed something and left.

  Amanda placed a frantic call to George, who spread the word that Sylvia had been located at the Mirage, compulsively dinging the $500 slot machine, mumbling something about being $45,000 in the hole. They pried her away from the machine as she chugged the last of what was far from her first bourbon and water. George inquired about her debt, but was told the marker had been picked up. He glanced at her diamond ring, relieved to see it glittering from her left hand, knowing it would hardly make bail on that amount.

  Between the five of them, they got her through the lobby of the Bellagio, but her feet never touched the ground. While Amanda and Carol Ann helped her into a chilly shower, George had a talk with Ken and Robby.

  “I don’t know how to tell you boys this, but I can’t give you the money I promised you. Not yet. I need it to buy back Sylvia’s marker
.”

  Ken glanced at Robby, wondering how much he was getting, and why.

  “That’s fine, sir,” he said, mentally calculating the interest charge on what this weekend would cost him if he had to put it on his Visa.

  “Dad, that’s not fair!”

  “Son, I had no idea your mother was going to have this trouble. With the market down, I’m in a little bit of a cash flow bind. Construction business has slowed down.”

  “Oh, like you’re the only one? I bought that Global.com stock you-know-who recommended.” He glared at Ken.

  “Hey, I said I was sorry! The projected earnings were good … .”

  “Save it. Just don’t ever expect me to ever listen to …”

  “Quiet!” admonished George. “The women don’t need to hear about this.”

  Amanda and Sylvia shuffled into the room, Sylvia wrapped tightly in the complimentary white terry robe as if it restrained what little dignity she had left. She could not meet their eyes, not yet. After two cups of coffee, she started coming around.

  That was when the tears started, both hers and Amanda’s. Carol Ann excused herself and went to their room.

  “You kids run on too,” encouraged George. “You’ve got a lot to get ready. This is your big day!” His forced enthusiasm seemed as appropriate as a stripper at a church picnic.

  Amanda ran ahead to their room while Ken stayed to talk to Robby. She wanted to throw herself down on the bed and cry her heart out, but there wasn’t time. She pulled herself together and called the Church of Elvis. A wedding consultant agreed to come over at noon to arrange the details for the service and collect the payment. When Ken came in, she was rapidly brushing her fluid, blonde hair.

  “So, Robby and I were wondering, do you think your dad will still give us the tickets for the fight?”

  “You have got to be kidding! Is that all you can think about?”

  “Well, he already paid for them, and we have to know by noon.”

  “That’s when the chapel advisor is coming.”