by Chris Ewan
All things considered, it struck me as an ideal moment to smoke a cigarette. A little nicotine, some fresh desert air, perhaps as much as a minute to relax and try to shut out the prospect of being shot in the back of the head somewhere in the middle of the barren Mojave . . . It didn’t seem too much to ask, so I headed around the side of the casino towards the main entrance of the hotel, where the valets and doormen and bell staff looked as if they’d just started in for the day. They had on cotton polo-shirts and khaki shorts, and they fairly bounced on the toes of their smart white sneakers as they hailed cabs and stacked suitcases and ushered guests in and out of the hotel foyer.
The cab passengers themselves were a different story. Bedraggled women in skimpy outfits; middle-management types in creased suits; honeymoon couples still reeling from their Drive-Thru vows; all of them wearing dazed smiles and blinking in the early sun as if their retinas might burn.
I cracked the seal on my precious cigarette packet, flipped back the cardboard lid and inhaled the new-box smell. I slipped a filter between my lips, and just the weight of it caused me to groan and close my eyes in satisfaction.
One of the bell staff obliged me with a light in return for a dollar tip and I might go so far as to say it was the best dollar I’ve spent in my entire life. From the instant I inhaled, I could have wept at how perfect the cigarette tasted, at how full the smoke felt in my mouth, at how wonderful it was to experience the familiar warmth spreading out through my chest.
Two draws later, and I felt so light-headed I could have believed the cigarettes packed a mildly illegal punch. It didn’t help when I saw a group of men pacing across the asphalt towards the revolving glass doors in matching Elvis costumes. They had the side-burn wigs and the gaudy plastic shades, the fake medallions and the powder-blue jumpsuits; they even had the platform shoes. The formation they walked in went from slim through to fat, with the belly of the last guy bulging against his jumpsuit as though he was pregnant with Tom Jones.
My, but cigarettes were wonderful things, and as if to prove as much, I was about to catch one heck of a break. I put it entirely down to the smokes. After all, if I hadn’t been standing at that exact spot, inhaling that exact cigarette, I might never have seen the yellow Ford Crown Victoria taxi pull up and deposit two Nordic blondes with very fine legs. And if those same legs hadn’t belonged to those same blondes, my attention might never have lingered on the cab they were vacating. And, well, if none of those things had happened, I almost certainly wouldn’t have seen the advertisement on the cab roof.
The advertisement was pasted to a triangular pod, and it was colourful and arresting in the way that any decent ad should be. The main image featured a troop of performers lined up as if they were standing on water, with fountains bursting and fireworks exploding from behind them. The troop included showgirls and clowns, acrobats and trapeze artists, jugglers and sword swallowers, elephants and tigers and snow-white stallions. Above them all, in a bold aqua font, were the words: The World-Famous Fate of Atlantis, at the Atlantis-Las Vegas Casino Resort.
It was a busy poster, made even more crowded by a couple of ‘sensational’ quotes from the local rags, and it might have caught my eye regardless. But the reason I stared particularly hard, and even went so far as to approach the taxi to get a closer look, was that I recognised two of the performers. One was the trapeze artist in the skin-tight Lycra, hanging upside down from a horizontal bar with a waif-like girl suspended from his wrists. The other was the clown at the front of the troop, who looked no taller than a child. And although the trapeze artist was the wrong way up, and the clown wore white face paint with a blue rubber nose, they sure looked like the unlikely couple who’d come calling for Josh.
It would have been nice to have studied the poster for a little longer, but all of a sudden I heard a door thud closed and the burst of a throaty carburettor as the cab pulled sharply away. I suppose I could have run after it, or yelled at the driver to stop, but the truth is the taxi was gone before it even occurred to me.
There were at least a dozen more cabs waiting in line to be called upon, but none of them featured the same advertisement. I walked among them just to make sure, feeling as though I should perhaps shake my head and acknowledge that I’d experienced some variety of hallucination. A large part of me wanted to believe that my lack of sleep, combined with that first cigarette, had somehow made me see something that wasn’t really there. But the reality was that I finally had a lead to follow up. And if only I could pull my wits and my guts together, I thought I might be so bold as to do just that.
TWENTY-ONE
The watery theme of the Atlantis-Las Vegas was painfully apt, since the resort-casino had fallen into administration twice in the last five years, and gags about it ‘going under’ or ‘sinking without trace’ still lingered. If the casino’s latest owners had possessed the funds to remodel the place, I’m sure they would have done just that. But apparently they didn’t, and evidently they hadn’t, and the Enchanting Lost City Beneath the Waves (as the publicists would have you remember it) went on struggling to stay afloat, not helped by its position at the very end of the Strip, way beyond the comic book Manhattan skyline of New York-New York, the castle turrets of the Excalibur and the burnished exterior of the Mandalay Bay party casino.
Even from the outside, the Atlantis looked and felt like a downmarket option; inside, that impression wasn’t helped by the stench of chlorine from all the fountains and ponds, not to mention the giant water slides that weaved through the ceiling space above the casino floor.
There’s a theory I was beginning to subscribe to that says you can judge the success of a Vegas casino by the cocktail waitresses who work there. True enough, while the drinks at the Fifty-Fifty had been served by women who looked as though they modelled in their spare time, and Space Station One undoubtedly had its fair share of beauty pageant winners, the Atlantis was staffed by mere mortals, of the kind I would have felt comfortable talking to if it wasn’t for the outfits they were required to wear. Skimpy is an understatement – you’d see less flesh at a burlesque review.
I guess just before seven o’clock in the morning wasn’t the fairest time to gauge the success of the place, but from the looks of how empty the casino happened to be, I didn’t think it would be long before it went bust yet again. Not that the lack of people concerned me. After all, it made finding the theatre an awful lot simpler.
Alas, the theatre was closed, which I supposed was understandable, considering how few people would be likely to queue before breakfast to buy tickets for a water-themed circus review. The main doors to the Oasis Stage were roped off, the concession stand was in darkness, and the ticket counter was secured behind a metal grill. The lock on the grill was worth no more than thirty seconds of my time, but I wasn’t intending to pick it. I was far more interested in the framed show posters displayed on the walls surrounding me.
The posters were enlarged versions of the advertisement I’d seen on the roof of the taxi cab, and I was certain by now that I’d tracked down the two men I’d seen outside Josh’s room. It wasn’t simply that the trapeze artist and the clown looked like the men I’d spoken with, it was also that their roles in the show made complete sense to me. A trapeze artist would need exactly the kind of physique belonging to the tall, muscular Eastern European, and I guessed his little pal had traded on his size to carve out a career in showbiz. As I peered into his eyes, staring out from behind his clown make-up, they erased any doubts that might have remained. The only problem now was finding them.
Sure, it was possible that they lived in the hotel, but it would be helpful if I could narrow it down a little further than that. There was a television screen above the ticket counter, screening footage of show highlights and information about performance times. I didn’t relish the prospect of waiting until the next show. Even supposing I could somehow access a backstage area, there was no guarantee they’d talk to me, and my deadline would be looming.
I picked up a flyer and turned it in my hands. No solution jumped out at me, but I read over it a second time, paying attention to the detail. Some of the stars of the show were mentioned, and it seemed the trapeze artist went by the name of Kojar and that his female partner was called Kitty. The lowly clown didn’t merit a name check, which was bad news for him as well as for me.
I scanned the rest of the flyer, and was almost done with the thing completely, when my eyes snagged on something at the bottom of the reverse side. I looked closer. Yep, there it was. Amid the show credits, in a tiny, light-blue font, I could just read the words: Producer Maurice Mills.
Now okay, it was a long shot, but I’d never met a chap called Maurice in my entire life, and I didn’t believe it was a common American name. Yes, there were likely to be more than a few men called Maurice in the Las Vegas metropolitan area, but how many men called Maurice could there be who happened to be connected to a seven-foot gymnast and a four-foot clown? Who also happened to be a part of the Las Vegas showbusiness fraternity, to which Josh Masters belonged? Who also happened to represent my only tangible lead?
Granted, it was tenuous, but I couldn’t afford to doubt myself, because once that happened, I’d start to worry about how little time was left, and whether Victoria was mad that I hadn’t returned to her yet, and if Ricks was giving her a hard time. And since I didn’t want to do any of that, it was far simpler to move forward without second-guessing myself.
Moving forward meant finding Maurice Mills, and I’d written enough mystery fiction in my time to know that finding Maurice Mills meant asking questions.
I started with a nearby cocktail waitress, doing my best to talk to her eyes rather than her cleavage. At first she played dumb, and then I discovered that she wasn’t just playing at it, and so I tried one of her colleagues who was working the keno pit.
This second waitress was a mousy brunette who shook her head when I pointed at the flyer and mentioned Maurice’s name, but she did it a little too fast for my liking. As in all the best private-eye novels, I tried asking again, only this time with the assistance of a twenty-dollar bill. Miraculously, her response changed, and she directed me towards a male dealer on a nearby blackjack table.
After playing two hands, and leaving another twenty-buck tip, a pit boss was summoned to talk with me. The pit boss had a hairless scalp and a barrel chest and an attitude that told me to get right to the point. I explained who I was and who I was looking for, and I dropped the name Josh Masters along with some more of the cash I’d stolen from the Bolton Babes, and without another word he approached a telephone behind a small podium.
Five minutes went by, and then a startlingly attractive woman in a fitted business suit came and shook me by the hand before escorting me out of the casino and ushering me into a waiting town car with tinted windows. I didn’t catch the address she gave the driver and I didn’t have an opportunity to thank her. The car pulled away before I’d even fastened my seat belt – and it wasn’t until the Strip was far behind us and we were racing along the bleached expressway that I started to wonder if I’d made a terrible mistake.
TWENTY-TWO
The town car stopped outside a squat, Spanish-style villa in a modern gated community. The villa had terracotta roof tiles, white-washed walls and a double garage with a soft-top sports car out front. The lawn grass was lush and finely trimmed, and two palm trees leaned on one another at the entrance to the paved driveway, like a pair of amorous drunks.
I stepped out of the car onto asphalt that was cleaner than most carpets, and approached the front door of the house. There was no sound whatsoever – no birdsong, no insect calls, no traffic noise. I pressed a muted doorbell, and turned to see the town car pulling off along the street, its engine so subdued it might have been running on air.
The woman who answered the door had a doughy, Asian face. Her eyes were dark, worn buttons and the skin around them was pinched and wrinkled like the fabric on an old chesterfield. She wore a button-down tunic that was white in colour, over matching cotton trousers. Her feet were bare, and very small, like the feet of a child. Her toenails were painted a startling lime green.
She beckoned me inside without a word and led me across a floor of white marble tiles and on through a pair of double glass doors into a stark living area. The room was furnished with more of the white marble tiles, a white marble fireplace and brilliant white walls. Two slim-line sofas, upholstered in white leather, faced each other from across the fireplace, and a white coffee-table was positioned between them. I was beginning to suspect that Maurice Mills was a fan of the colour white, and that was before my speechless guide led me through a set of patio doors towards a decked pool area that featured a collection of white marble sculptures.
I could see prancing horses, stalking tigers and leaping dolphins. It might have made a little more sense if the tigers had been emerging from behind some shrubbery, or the dolphins jumping out of the pool, but there were no plants to be seen and the sculptures were all positioned on the pale-grey decking. The combination of the white marble animals, white perimeter walls and sparkling blue water was beginning to make me wish I’d worn sunglasses.
Fortunately, my host appeared to be wearing sunglasses that were sizeable enough to share. They had very large, very round lenses, and were deep black in colour, so that they gave him the appearance of a fly. His fair hair was shaved close to the scalp and I could see a squiggle of purple veins at his temple. His left earlobe featured a matt black stud, and his bottom lip was pierced with a silver ring about the size of a dime. He was dressed in a white silk robe and white pyjama pants. The robe was open at his neck, exposing a pale chest that looked as if it had been waxed smooth.
He was reclining on a white, padded sunlounger, with his right knee in the air and a tall glass of milk in his hand. A white telephone handset and a white iPod were on the deck beside him, and a spare sunlounger was positioned close by, with a rolled white towel upon it.
‘Mr Mills?’
He studied me for a long moment without saying anything.
‘My name is Charlie Howard. I understand that you’re looking for Josh Masters.’
So far as I could tell, he didn’t react. But then again, his eyes were unreadable from behind his sunglasses.
‘I’m looking for Josh too,’ I went on. ‘I met some of your . . . associates. They were trying to find him.’
Still nothing.
‘Listen, I spoke to them just before they broke into Masters’ hotel suite.’
Mills leaned his head to one side and used the tip of his tongue to jostle his lip piercing. He slid a finger up and down his chilled milk glass.
‘You’re mistaken,’ he said, with the barest hint of a lisp.
‘I don’t think so. It was a big guy and a little guy, from your show at the Atlantis. They cadged a room card from a maid, and left Josh a note telling him to call you in a hurry. I know it for a fact, because I broke into his hotel room just after them.’
Maurice moved his lip ring around some more, but he didn’t speak. Usually, I would have waited him out, or at least given it a shot. But I don’t know, maybe Vegas was getting to me. Or maybe it was the sensation of time running out. Either way, I decided to lay my cards on the table.
‘I’m a burglar, Mr Mills. A pro. Breaking into places is what I do for a living.’
My words carried so little impact that I might as well have told him I was a Bible salesman. I shifted my weight between my feet, and turned to my side, so that the morning sun wasn’t in my eyes. I glanced at the freeform pool. The water looked cool and inviting, though my host didn’t seem inclined to ask me if I’d brought my swimsuit along.
‘I see you’re wearing Josh’s wristwatch,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The man’s timepiece. You have it on your wrist.’
I nudged my shirtsleeve back and contemplated the face of the watch I’d stolen. The hands weren’t moving – the mechanism seemed to have st
alled shortly after 3 a.m. If this was one of my mystery novels, the stopped watch would be a major clue. But the only significant thing to have happened at three in the morning was that I’d been brainless enough to fall asleep in a closet. And the only thing the stopped watch indicated was that I might very well have stolen a dud timepiece.
‘He gave it to me.’
‘He gave it to you?’ Maurice stuck out his bottom lip, giving his piercing some air. The back of his lip looked swollen and inflamed, the skin a sickly greenish-yellow. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No?’
‘Is he dead?’
I let my wrist drop, along with my jaw. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘You have the man’s favourite timepiece. He can’t be found.’
‘He vanished in the middle of his show. He ran away.’
‘Where?’
I felt my eyes narrow as I tried to gauge how much I should say. I could have done with another cigarette while I considered the matter. My brain felt sluggish and my thinking delayed. Another jolt of nicotine would sharpen me up. Then again, pausing for a cigarette was unlikely to lend my words any more credence.
‘Hawaii.’
‘Hawaii?’
‘I think so. But I don’t know for certain. That’s why I came to speak with you.’
Maurice raised his glass of milk to his mouth, and I watched his throat bob as the liquid went down. He was studying me from over the rim of the glass, though I didn’t know what he hoped to see. Once he was done, he sucked on his bottom lip, clearing the milk from his piercing.
