Jane, Vegas PI

by Jane Brooke

  I was hit up mesmerized, turned on watching her heaving tummy and those tattoos, little girl blues, watching her get off, squirm, dance, vibrate there on the white sheets, telling me that she loved me.

  That will never do.

  All us dynamite bitches have heard that shit before. You know Cuming makes people engrave promises that they can’t keep, ever, and we’ve all heard that crap in the dead of night when the fucking is over.

  Geese, maybe doll, we can see each other again, ride a Ferris wheel and buy some lime snow cones later.

  The usual bull shit from some guy as he sneak thief’s out before the crack of dawn, only thing left, a salt block he pix axed into your cunt as a reminder that once again you didn’t get off.

  We kept it up through the morning. I wanted to be a good hostess so I broke out my sex girl tool kit and tool belt. There’s lots a cool stuff on it, dildos and such, other toys a girl needs when having a good time.

  We dildoed up, back and forth, around and around, up and down, hurt like fucking hell. That was of course between the multiples climaxes I had. I needed that pain, cleared my mind, orgasm after orgasm, both of us, much needed for this girl.

  Then I was done, bubkus left, sapped, brain sparking fire like when those Santa Ana winds fuel those forest fires in So. California. Those little white sparks in my head, you know when you stand too soon were usually my TELL.

  Usual warning flares that I was satiated; exhausted and I better stop what I am doing or I will flame out.

  Glenda, a trooper, last stand had leered at me, sweat everywhere, me, her as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she moaned in a final orgasm. She muttered something in Sanskrit and, then passed out.

  Down goes Frazier, down goes Frazier.

  She was out for the count, thank fucking god.

  THAT was days ago, and now, because I am a hopeless romantic, I have another girl, MY Zoe here, my EMO girl, I am insatiable.

  I was really feeling so achy and sore and all from the fucking Tina had given me at Lizzie’s. I wanted to have a beer, go to bed, get some Zee’s and conk out.

  But there she was Zoe, so thin, so naked and so white, a shard of sparking lace, pigeon toed and leering at me through that thick, black eye liner. I was a goner.

  These kids love E, and she had taken a hit while we were toddling across Vegas. Therefore, she was all lovely feely and the way she was leering at me, I knew something wonderful was going to happen.

  Promises are promises, I always keep them, so I coyboyed Up.

  I’m so strung out, well, it kinda went like this.

  There was lots of madness, kissing, hugging, touching and X-tasy moments for her. You know you love everyone and everything on E and I had done my share when I was youngin’, but no more.

  It must have lasted for hours, and man could she love my cunt, like DUH, the kid was a Kansas threshing machine and very exuberant eating me almost to a coma.

  Always trying to be a wonderful hostess, I reciprocated, and as she climaxed over and over, I thought OMG I had never seen anything as miraculous as her tiny tummy touching her back bone as her lithe body undulated on my black sheets.

  Me, exhausted and, then I threw in the towel, as she went all crazy-girl on me.

  Unable to protest or protect myself and feeling dreamy, and a good helpless and wonderful I simply lay back on my sheet’s, knees flopped to the sheets, as she fist fucked me almost to death while her pink tongue played J Lo on my clit.

  It hurt like hell, but I loved it, my comatose sex as I put myself into a self induced coma, closed my eyes and had about a zillion dreamy orgasms.

  Again, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but it was atomic fission, our girl sex and I loved every fucking minute of it.

  Finally I woke up, and it looked like finally, thank God, the E had worn off.

  I got her off of me, laid her sweetly on the sheets, whispered to her that I loved her. Little white lies now and then are OK in my book.

  I got a tender kiss and I put a sweet kiss on her lips and a. “I love you too Janie.”

  I put the sheets under her little EMO chin, kissed her on the forehead, did the Great Escape and got a beer, sucked it down and flopped on the couch, down for the count.

  Couldn’t sleep much and now as the sun is poking through my windows I’m in my usual get up, black hip hugger Levi jeans this time, no leather, got blood on them and a broken zipper to boot.

  I’ll make a little visit to Chang’s dry cleaners down stairs later. The guy is a Zen master at getting blood outta my clothes.

  I lace my feet into my white gym socks and into my black work boots. I paint on my black body shirt and my black jeans hip huggers. Taking a peek at my shoulder holster, gun hanging on the bed post I smile. I can’t forget that. I grab it, sleeveless arms, cut like copper cables, glance in the wall mirror. I groan, god, fucking vanity, I’m a slave to it and am working on that. Jane needs a lot of work but I have work to do, an early morning sit down with a client.

  Needing to get to my office, I move to one of my huge loft windows that-faces another loft across the alley, step to the side of it and sneak a peek.

  A voyeur, I have a secret and HE lives in an artist’s loft across the alley. Seems no one is home, but I am obsessed with all of it. More on that man god obsession later.

  Anyhow, PI business for the morning.

  Gal I know, young daughter went missing. There’s nothing new about that in Sin City, and so I gotta scoot.

  I am glad about Zoe snoozing. I’m not one of those gals who like’s too hang around after fucking. You know breakfast, chit chat, reminiscing, holding hands, making promises I can’t keep.

  Crickey, it’s my guy traits. I can be very butch at times. I’m working on that too.

  I’ve got my PI office on an off shoot of this 4,000 sq ft loft.

  I will leave Zoe the standard girl escape note. You know.

  Fab, marvelous, magnifico, let’s hook up next time, a great time had by all.

  No mention of love, I can’t get the words out of my throat.

  Presto change I am on sneaky tip toes and next to the note, I leave a C note for Zoe too on her pillow, just in case the kid needs a cab. She can find her own way out.

  I’m gone.

  No sleep, no time to sleep. I feel pretty good, except ever step I take hurts, hurts a lot. I feel like I have a drill bit stabbed in my cunt. Don’t mind though for it brings smiles to my face, proves I’m alive. I’m always willing to pay the VIG for a good time, which I had on multiple levels last night.

  I stroll in to my PI office. Stylish place, twenty foot ceilings, sky lights, like the rest of my loft tattooed into the ceiling, pine floor, couple of old Persian rugs, two Kileems, a Bokhara, I love old stuff.

  I scavenged some old English pine antiques, desk, chair, comfy cushion for my tiny ass, thank god.

  Love old English stuff and have a couple of armoires, tables, love Steuben, Dom Nancy lamps, got three of them scattered around the room. Bright lights hurt my eyeballs. Place looks soft, bathed in morning mauve, low golden light bulbs, soothes my hectic mine. I need coffee, bad, light up my coffee machine, smells sweet, pour it in to my Visit Las Vegas mug

  I take a sip, the door bell buzzes down at the bottom of my private stair case. I don’t wear a watch, and the digital feed on one of my two Apple machines says 8 AM.

  Perfect, Ginger is right on-time. I appreciate that.

  Look at my monitor’s street video feeds. N. Vegas is a treacherous place, street people, drug addicts, gang bangers, a girl can’t be too careful. I see Ginger. That’s good as I smack the button, my security iron-gate clicks. I watch Ginger enter, time to go to work.

  Talked to her on the phone, got some of it; not all of it. Apparently her gorgeous thirteen year old daug
hter Missy, a waif, met her once on Fremont street has gone missing. Seemed like a real sweet kid, bad roll of the cubes, her ending up with Ginger, seen her once when I was peddling my bike around Vegas, a Shimono. I love that ride.

  Anyhooo, Ginger, I heard, had a bar maid gig over there at Jason, one of the only other clubs in Sin City N. Vegas that is worth setting your boot heels in. Special, elegant, a real class place, private, very private. The bistro has a fabulous bar, kitchen, top chefs, booze, real silver, china, crystal and a nice little cozy dance floor. Its Cuban cool, locals only, run by one of the most stunning and spooky females on the planet.

  Stunning blond bitches name is Wind and she’s a real stylilist.

  She owns the place, no tourists, ever. You only get in if she OK’s it, and I guess if she digs your vibe. This Wind doll, well, she’s got a heart a gold, they say. Lots a rumors, lots of echo’s pinging of who she really is. Rumor mills say’s, she’s killed men, lots of men. Guess she hired Ginger because she’s got a big heart. Tons of last chance broads show up there, most flaming out in the end.

  More, about this Wind babe later.

  XXX

  Beautiful girls die in Vegas, and I’m thinking that as Ginger walks in and I internally gasp. She looks ravaged, strung out, blue welt kissing one closing eye. Her lip is cut, she’s about forty two, meaning she’s pressing a cold, hard sixty, in Vegas years.

  Youth evaporates real-quick here. You know, like one a leaf mulcher eating tree limbs you see those Mexican gardener’s using all the time on the street.

  She thin, not like a healthy thin like moi. She’s emaciated, more like a meth thin, you know, sunken eyes, black circles, dirty blond disheveled hair, once pretty white like mine, but not anymore. Her clothes don’t look right, blue jeans stained with something, flip flops, dirty feet and spindle arms struck out of an old lime green tank top. Her hands are noticeably shaking, eyes darting everywhere like some kind of lab rat.

  She pulls out a pack of smokes, generic, looks at me, I nod OK. She can barely find the tip of the smoke with her plastic Bic as smoke stacks out of her small nose. I nod at a chair. She sits as I groan. I don’t like any of it, any of it at all.

  She is of course is the poster girl forever young stunner that ever got off a Grey Hound Bus from Banger, Biloxi or Fresno. You know, once tall, beautiful, stupid, having dreams of something, anything.

  She was a gal dreaming of something better for her-self. Anything better than being sodomized by a drunken father, as then, her dreams turn into horrific night mares. They might as well give these hopeless girls play sheets when they abort the bus, you know.

  First, they blow some puke for a job as a show girl, if they have any talent at all. Then the drugs, clubs and endless drug inflicted partying at night clubs. You know Rage, Tao, Badda-Bing, Ghost Bar, Voodoo Lounge, and then the predators set in, and it’s all about the Voodoo. It is a black world that suddenly becomes these girls reality.

  They descend, rich men, older guys, clothes, gold chains, Benzes, Porsches, Beamers, goblets of dough, lies, bastards, palatial cribs over their in “The Lakes.”

  That’s how it goes as these ignorant, insane girls usually end up with these vampires men. If their lucky a rare few don’t get mixed up in the toilet that is Vegas and somehow get out alive. That is, a rare few.

  It’s the fringe characters that eventually get IM.

  Addicted gamblers, sweet talkers, road bump abs, drugs, booze, thugs and sketch artists of crime, pimps, real garbage, that’s what sweeties end up with. Then the girl’s burn out, turn out, next step stripping and, then whoring, in call and cocktailing.

  Of course all of that is followed by corner rendezvous off of Fremont Street, then death, or a bus ticket back home, dying locust, lives over. Nothing left but bad memories of their one minute of fame.

  That is Gingers MO, sans the bus ticket back to nowhere-ville.

  So let’s crack it. I do not like those bruises on her face, but I’ve seen it all before. So I get to it.

  “So, what’s happening? Something about Missy, talk to me?”

  I can see she’s crawling out of her skin, joansing. There are yellow stains on her fingers from letting too many dying butts burn down to low. She kills the smoke in my ash tray, mouth ticks, eyes ticks, she looks at me. I drill her straight with my eyes.

  “Ayah, yeah Jane, I ain’t seen her for three days. I been busy Jane, got in a little trouble, lost my job at Jason’s, you know Vegas. Needed a little time so I got Bobby to baby sit her. Ya know, he’s her dad, thought she’d be fine...fuck, I...I don’t know...”

  “Fuck” I murmur audibly.

  Bobby O’Brien, a real dirt bag, a piece of filth. He runs the decadent night shift over there at that den of inequity “The Spearmint Rhino.”

  It’s a puke and notorious nude club here in a bad part of N. Vegas. A true drug addict, he runs in call whores, drugs, a habitual liar, criminal, runs numerous scams, addicted to the crap tables. He’s got a cop jacket as long as my arm. Alright, time for the gruesome details.

  “You don’t know WHAT?” Where the fuck is your daughter?” I bark, like the pissed off Doberman that I am.

  My bark wakes her up out of her coma. She lights another smoke. I want to shove it in her nose, and scream. “WAKE UP BITCH, YOUR FUCKING DAUGHTER IS MISSING.” I don’t.

  “Geese Jane, I fucking don’t know, aaah, uummm, seemed OK, when I done it...Fuck, Bobby said he lost her...Said she was playin’ with a doll or somethin’, she just was gone, he don’t know where...What Am I gonna do, she’s my baby, I fucked up, please, can ya help me, I need her real bad.”

  “Fuck.” I groan again to myself.

  She starts shaking, tears rolling down her savaged cheeks, mascara running everywhere, just making her look more hideous. Smoke is screaming out of her running nose. Her eyes look like dead bolts, leering at me. Of course me, being me, knows about missing kids in the USA.

  The truth is, the darling kid could be on a fucking Jumbo Jet to Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Qatar by now.

  The white sheet set will pay a fortune for trafficked sweet young girls, top dollar.

  You know, suppress your own women. Keep the boot to their necks. Trick I’m out in wool Snuggies with eye slits in a hundred and twenty degrees heat. Make I’m into servants, wash the dishes, pick up the dog poop in the sand, pump out the kids, virtual slaves. While the men sit around in the souk, sip mint tea, smoke hashish and fuck around all day. But, I don’t think it went down that way. Bobby’s just not that bright, though he can be a dangerous little weasel at times.

  “He lost her Ginger? You’re fucking kidding me. What is she, a set of keys? I’m assuming you didn’t call the cops, right?”

  She’s ashamed, terrified, lying, I think. She nods that I am indeed correct, and then stutters. “Naw, Bobby said she’d turn up, tol me to stop moaning all the time, then he beat on me. I guess I deserved it. You know Jane he’s been real good to Missy and me.”

  Sniffle, sniffle, sniffle.”

  I want to reach across the desk, and beat on her two, knock some daylight into her brain.

  FUCK, how many times have I heard this same story in so many different versions?

  Well I can’t count the ways.

  Suddenly, I feel gutted, for, the last forty or so hours are finally catching up to me.

  I pretty much know what I’m going to do, whether she gives me the green light or not. Three things I hate more than anything, guys who smack women, with out permission of course, me being a permission girl when the mood is right. The other is some fuck wad hurting a kid or an animal. I flash back to the day I saved my pooch Bijoux from a sadistic pig that was beating on her.

  Good times and more on that later.

  So as Ginger stutters on, I’m thinking at the moment about a terrified sweet little girl t
hat disappeared into the cesspool Vegas is and always will be.

  So I have to be coy, smart, because she loves this creep Bobby O’Brien. All it will take to reconcile is a bunch of dead red roses to turn her, even give up the kid, if it came to that. Drug addicts are like that.

  “SO Ginger, you want me to ask around, look into it a little, you know discreet. Bobby doesn’t have to know. How’s that sound?” I ask.

  She’s fidgeting, eyes like a lab monkey as I’m taking inventory of what kind of weapons I will need when I visit Bobby O’Brien, hopefully in the next half hour.

  “Aaah, yeah, Ok, I ain’t got no money Jane, can I pay ya later...ahh.”

  “Sure doll, no problem.” I lie. “Now scoot, I’ll ring you up when I find something, OK.”

  “Geese’s Jane, you’re the best, I can’t tha...”

  “Go, NOW.” I seethe, trying to keep it together.

  She sees it, the blood fury in my melting eyeballs. Committing a homicide on her cigarette butt in my ash tray, she stands, sways, looks at me one last time.

  Like that rabid lap monkey, my agitated eyes flick at the door. She swallows, turns and flip-flops down the stairs, out the security iron bars and she’s gone. Into what; I can only fucking imagine?

  I know she’s lying, I know there’s something else. There’s always something else. When I get the bit in my perfect teeth I can be a bit edgy, focused, on the clock.

  I need to make a phone call. Get an update, news from my buddy over there at N. Vegas Metro. He’s my best amigo, homicide dick, a Lieutenant, one Victor Garcia. His troops call him LOU.

  That’s cops lingo, most cops in America call their lieutenants.

  Vic, a big roly-poly Hispanic cop, big smile, big personality and we go back a few years. We met at The Bent Club of all places.

  Seemed there was a serial killer killing the homeless folks in N. Vegas. He figured the Wind babe knew something, for she hung with this very hard, brilliant artist stud, drop deadly handsome, guy named Maurice. He has an old mechanics warehouse he converted into an artist’s loft, just a couple a blocks from mine.