Fifteen minutes was too big a jump to make up, especially against my XKE, but we were pushing it. Coming around a sharp bend on 158, the only thing that saved us was Kam’s extraordinary driving skill. He saw car headlights heading straight for us on our side of the road, and the white stripes veering sharply to the right. He yelled “Damn,” and cut the wheel sharply to the left, head-on into the oncoming car. We braced for the crash and nothing happened, other than we heard the tinkle of broken glass. We got out of the car and realized someone had rigged a clever stunt. A large mirror had been propped up across the narrow highway to make it look as if a car was heading straight at us as we rounded the curve. Black roofing paper covered the center stripes and shoulder markers. Additional paper had been painted to show the lane heading straight over the embankment. “How the hell did you figure that?” I asked Kam. He answered, “I saw my own license plate number reversed in the mirror, and went for it.”
About fifty feet down we spotted the headlights of my car. Leon had not been so skillful.
“Oh my God, no!” Polly moaned and started over the side.
Howie stopped her, and held her. Kam and I made the climb down.
I cupped my hands and shouted to Polly and Howie, “He’s alive, but hurt real bad.” The seatbelt and roll bar saved his ass.
Kam told Howie to lower the winch. We rigged a stretcher of sorts using the canvas and struts from the convertible top. Secured it and the unconscious Leon to it with duct tape from the boot of my wrecked car. We made sure his neck and spine were immobilized. Kam on one side, me on the other, we let the winch pull us up as we kept the stretcher and Leon from hitting the rocks.
After getting Leon to the emergency room at Mountain View Hospital, I sent Kam and Howie to roust out Dandy Randy and see what he’d been up to. No more pussyfooting around—hurt the sonofabitch if you have to. Polly and I would do the pacing and keep them apprised of Leon’s condition.
Two hours later, Leon was brought out of surgery, with a positive report. Several broken bones, all reset, and in casts. Concussion, severe enough to cause a major headache that would last for days, but no permanent damage. Internal hemorrhaging, in check. He was in critical but stable condition. Sedated though he was, Polly relaxed a little after being let in to see him.
Kam called me first, and I gave him the good news. He gave me news as well. He and Howie had snatched Randy from Rita’s parking lot, restrained him, and brought him to Kam’s. He was not the one on the mountain. There were plenty of witnesses to attest he had performed that night. His story was, Yes, he had pulled those pranks on Howie. But someone, a stranger, told him about the tunnel complex and Gerald’s changing of his will. He broke into Finegold’s office to check the will for himself, and also visited the labyrinth. He did not kill Gerald. However, after the murder, he took the opportunity of stealing the trick. Randy felt he was set up to be a fall guy. I said he’s full of crap, has an accomplice, and did it all. I told Kam to keep him there for me, I would be home as soon as Leon wakes up from his anesthesia.
Polly and I were sitting in Leon’s room in the Intensive Care wing, when a man wearing scrubs came in. He pointed a .45 automatic first at Polly, then at me. “Zak,” Polly said, “my Lord, what are you doing?”
“Shut the fuck up, slut. You two almost made me kill my son.”
“Zak, I …”
“I told you to shut the fuck up. You just listen. For years I’ve been watching you and my son. You never even told him about me. If you had, I would have come back. He didn’t know that the shit-for-brains TV producer you married was not his real father. How could you do that?”
“I nev …”
“Don’t you say one more word or I’ll blow your brains out right now. The last straw was you getting Gerald to give him a job. I watched his admiration for Gerald grow. Your fucking ex-lover, my fucking cheating ex-partner earning the fortune that should have come to me, and getting the love and respect from my son that was rightfully mine. So I killed the bastard slowly on his own stinking trick. I …”
It was my turn to get in on the act. “You sick bastard, you’re going to kill us anyway, so do it now. I don’t want to hear any more of your Goddamned pitiful story. You’re making me cry.”
“You think I won’t? You think I won’t?” he repeated, his hand trembling.
“I know you will, but you’re going to make us listen to more of your shit first. Well, I for one … ,” I started to say while turning to Polly. As I did, I whipped my .357 magnum from the gold lamé holster under my jacket and put a slug into his forehead, dropping him on the spot.
“Jesus, Pete, how did you know you could do that?”
“The hammer on his .45 wasn’t cocked, and with him waving his hands around while spewing his venom, I knew he couldn’t cock it and get a shot off before I got him.”
Leon didn’t win the estate: Abe and the Babe did. But they kept Leon on and gave him a piece of the action. Dandy Randy is still wowing them at Rita’s. Kam went back to being the plain old Number One Drag Queen in Vegas. Abe and the Babe, and Leon, designed an act for Howie that, at my insistence, included him talking. I also named his act, Howie the Hayseed Houdini. Beside my fee, Howie also replaced my XKE.
And me …
As is my habit, I was sitting in my office at Numero Uno Rodeo Drive, wearing Gucci loafers, an Armani suit, Lagerfeld shirt, and a gold lamè shoulder holster, in which I keep “Golda,” my gold-plated .357 with mother-of-pearl grips. I was laid-back, listening to the honeyed tones of Johnny Mathis, sipping on a Perrier, just waiting for who knows who to come in and ask me to do who knows what, who knows where, when I got a phone call from my friend, Kam.
Now, that’s an End
CATNAPPING
GAY TOLTL KINMAN
When I hit Las Vegas, which wasn’t often, I usually headed for the MGM and a certain blackjack table, my heart palpitating over its normal range—not good for a guy at fifty, and a beefy 6’2” one.
This time I strode into the Mirage, my heart in the same condition. A pair of beauties they were, I was told. Blue-eyed, white, with paws as big as dinner plates, the Siberian Tigers held court in their den with all of their admiring subjects on the other side of a thick glass partition.
The male paddled around in his pool, and just like every other male of any species, watched her, the female, sprawled ladylike on a ledge, one leg draped over the edge, asleep.
Perhaps.
Was he waiting for her to wake up so he’d have company? Or an audience? Was she sleeping, or just pretending? Would he wake her up when he couldn’t stand to be alone anymore?
Was he any different from me?
Everyone loved those tigers judging by the crowds in front of the glass, and in the shop buying stuffed replicas.
But someone loved them a lot more.
And that’s the real reason I was here.
Someone was planning to steal them. I was here to stop him.
“Why” was a question, but not the question. The question was how. If I knew that, my job as a P.I. would be a lot simpler. I liked simple these days, but that wasn’t what I was getting.
The other reason I was here was Marge. She’s a dental hygienist in Los Angeles, and she was attending a convention at the hotel.
I could tell them right off from the other conventioneers. The jokes. Like what ride in amusement parks do hygienists like most? The molar coaster. How can you not like them?
Oh, yeah, there was a third reason I was here.
My daughter.
Marge said I had to call her this time, arrange to meet her, blah, blah, blah.
Marge knows how to get me to do what she wants. So the call was on the agenda, but first I had to stop a catnapping.
Before I let the management know I was ready to start work, I started. I closed out those beautiful furry bodies and looked around the den. Fake rocks, cavelike on three sides, with a ledge on the left, walkways and a real cave on the right. Above, blue sky.
Nothing in between.
Couldn’t imagine trying to steal those two. Pussycats they looked like, but I wasn’t going in there to find out. Not on your life, or rather mine.
I took out my notepad and jotted down a few things. Can’t believe how much I forget things these days. It can only get worse was a thought that didn’t thrill me, so I didn’t think about it anymore.
Instead, I took a moment to think about the good things in life—Marge, the tigers, and dinner tonight at Tillerman’s, where the locals go. A nice Chivas on the rocks in the lounge first, then seated at my favorite table with fresh lobster—and it always was, ironic for a place out here in the desert, but that’s Vegas—with a bottle of Raymond Cab.
Enough of that, back to work. I went to the Security Office and met up with Doug Hassenfeld, the Chief. We’d worked LAPD together. I’d done a few cases for him before.
We chatted a bit about life in general, what was it like back in Los Angeles now, how’s the wife. He knew mine was dead, the big C, about the time he took the job here. I hadn’t introduced him to Marge yet, but I would.
He had another officer, Karen Grafton, and one of the tigers’ trainers, Melissa Caldwell, show me everything. I mean everything. Somehow those two pussycats weren’t looking so cute anymore, particularly when I learned the amount of poop they produce and what it looks and smells like. Not too surprising that there was a lot of it when I saw what they ate. They ate well. But, again, that’s Las Vegas.
They herded the two out while I climbed around the den in borrowed boots. The smell was something I hadn’t expected. Did I think they’d smell of baby powder? Open at the top, the tigers got the desert heat but misting was a constant so it was damp and coolish.
“The tigers were bred in a wildlife park,” Melissa told me, “not a jungle, and they never had to hunt for food. They’re used to humans now, but that doesn’t mean they won’t revert to their wild nature in a blue-eyed blink.”
I didn’t plan to find out. Ever.
They showed me the security system—cameras, sensors, alarms, you name it, top of the line as far as I could tell—Las Vegas again. No way could anyone steal those two.
I shook hands with Melissa and Karen as we were now on a first-name basis. Melissa gave me her card. As soon as I was out of their sight, I jotted down that she talked about them like they were her children. She was maybe in her mid-twenties, Karen about five years older.
I heard my name being called and turned around. Melissa. “I forgot to ask you, Mr. Kendall,” she said, “when will the south camera be back in operation?”
I don’t think my mouth dropped physically, but it sure did mentally.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Your company said they were going to replace the south camera, but it’s still not working.”
“The south camera? I’ll check on that for you.” I pulled out her card. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Okay!” She strode off, her ponytail swinging.
South camera?
I looked around the walls and finally found a camera swiveling to watch the crowds. On the bottom of it was the label, “Kendall Security Agency.”
I sat down in the nearest chair.
Coincidence?
I didn’t think so.
I thought back to the way Doug had introduced me to them and that I was setting up a security system for a proposed wild animal park. News to me, but I thought that was supposed to be part of my cover.
Neither of them had even blinked.
They thought I was Kendall of Kendall Security Systems.
But I wasn’t.
I put that thought aside and thought about what Doug had really hired me for. The attempt was supposed to be made sometime during the July Fourth parade with fireworks, when the hotel’s security staff was watching out for pickpockets, room thieves and all the other arts of war that go on in a hotel. Especially a Las Vegas hotel. Doug had hired extra security, but there’s only so much that can be done. Doug couldn’t change the place into an armed camp. And even that might not work. Not many people knew about the proposed crime. I had learned about it from a guy I caught trying to burglarize one of my clients. Before I handed him over to LAPD, he tried to trade the information for a lighter charge. Told him I’d think about it, got on the horn to Doug and gave him the info. Silence on the other end of the line for a bit. Then he asked me to come over, look around and do what I could do. I went back to my guy in lockup and told him I needed more information. Too sketchy, he could have made it up. I let him think I was on his side, believed him, and that I was doing a little horsetrading with the D.A.’s office on his behalf. But that was all he had. Nada else. He’d given me his whole wad. I wanted to get him out so he could get more information for me. Especially the ‘how.’ Armed robbery, bail and transient are not used together positively in one legal sentence. So that option was out. I had to go with what I had, hoping he could pick up something else in jail which wasn’t an option I expected to be able to take to the bank.
I knew the target and the timing and that was it.
I went back to the den but all I saw was one of the workers hosing down the cement rocks. I knew what he was sluicing off. Then he hopped down into the drained pool and scrub brushed the sides and bottom.
Yuk.
A plan formed in my mind.
I turned away and looked at the small furry tigers in the shop’s window. But I could see the guy’s reflection. Thin, maybe 5’4”, no bulging muscles there. Bet he wasn’t thinking warm fuzzy thoughts about the tigers, as I’d bet that Melissa did all the time, no matter what the work involved. Just like any mother.
He glanced up occasionally. Pigeon shit from pigeons flying en masse around the opening. He was probably saying, “Thanks a lot, guys.” But he had enough sense not to keep facing up too long.
I made another note. “List / employees / access.”
Then I started thinking about the ‘why.’ Money was up there. Always tops the list of motives. But other reasons came to mind. A collector who wants rare things? A publicity stunt? I went through the other motives like the seven deadly sins, greed, revenge, envy. A sloth was not being stolen here. I gave up. Having met so many nutsoes in my days, most of the time their motives made no sense to me.
Time to rendezvous with my dental hygienist and see if I could get some lunch stuck in my teeth. Maybe she’d cut class and do some flossing. Up in our room.
Telephoning, not anything else, was what Marge had in mind. Under her eyes, I called my daughter. Marge stood there while I did it. No pretending I was talking to someone else. Pregnant at sixteen, my daughter had dropped out of school, moved in with the lowlife who’d had a string of petty theft convictions. Maybe that’s how he thought he was going to support his new family. At least she didn’t marry him. Nor did she have the child. She aborted both the baby and the lowlife. And her family.
I had changed her diapers, stayed up with her when she was sick, helped her take her first steps. Couldn’t believe the daughter I raised would do all those things. And at sixteen. When I was her age—Enough of that.
Got bits and pieces of news about her but never from her. She got on a work-study program that the Alhambra Soroptimist Club, a women’s club next to Los Angeles that helps young girls, sponsored and she straightened out. Got a full-time job and kept getting promoted until she worked some mucky muck here in Las Vegas. Bought a house. Bought a nice car. Lived well. Worked hard. So I heard.
Guess those are all the things you could say about me. Yeah, I worked a lot. Loved the job, took all the overtime I could get. That bought us a nice house, nice things. Okay, so I didn’t take many vacations with them, but made sure they went someplace nice.
Know her mother was in touch with her through the years, nothing regular but enough to know she was on the straight and narrow. Somehow I was the villain in all this. Can’t say I didn’t speak my piece in the beginning. Didn’t back down too much. Hell,
I was a cop, thought like a cop and still do. That’s who I am and I can’t change.
Couldn’t understand what she had done and why, and why she just didn’t come home again. We had the money to pay for college. She came to see her mother in the hospital near the end when I wasn’t there.
Gotta say I was there a lot. Found out about her visit from the nurse, not from Lois. Then after Lois died … well, I’d probably do and say the same thing all over again. So there I was, sweating like a pig, when she came on the line.
Marge had given me some suggestions to get the conversation going. Yeah, I’m real good at those kinds of conversations, just like working the room—not me!
Marge stood there, hands on her hips, making sure we were actually talking.
Talking. I was talking to a stranger, and then suddenly I wasn’t. She was my pre-sixteen year old, chatting away, like she’d be home from school soon. I had to get the old handkerchief out. I think I heard Marge laughing when she left.
There’d be three of us for dinner tonight at Tillerman’s. She said. She’d call them to make a reservation. She knew the manager at the Mirage, would have them put us in a suite, stuff on the cuff. Had to whoa her down as soon as I got my jaw back up where it should be enough to talk. I told her we were already getting the room free since I was working for the Mirage on a case. I didn’t go into details.
After I hung up, I realized she must know other people, might have an insight into why the white tigers might be stolen. Suddenly having dinner with a veritable stranger didn’t look too bleak. Old man, I thought, you’re always a cop, working, now you’re going to pump your own long-lost daughter for information.
The young woman who walked into Tillerman’s lounge was my mother. Not that I knew her at twenty-five but I’d seen the wedding pictures. She was so beautiful. No, gorgeous. For a minute my heart stopped, Chivas halfway to my mouth, eyes popping.
Murder in Vegas Page 34
