STATELINE: A Dan Reno Novel

by Dave Stanton

  “Did you know her?”

  “Not really. She left about two weeks after I started. I stayed away from her.”

  “Why?”

  “She was the ultimate hard-ass chick. Nothing but trouble.”

  “Do you have any idea where she is?”

  “No, but I know who probably does.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “Come to my room, and I’ll tell you afterward.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “Is this person here tonight?”

  “Yeah, she’s here.” She looked down the bar and around the room. “I don’t see her now, but she’ll be around.”

  “It’s important that I talk to her. I’ll wait here until she comes out. Could you just point her out for me?”

  “Honey, I’m working. You come to my room, and I’ll find her for you when we’re done.”

  “I’d rather wait for her,” I said. Just then a man in blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt sat down on the barstool next to her. He had glassy eyes, a smarmy smile, and his hair hung in his face. She turned toward him, and I touched her arm.

  “Okay, Joanna, let’s go,” I said. “You just promise you’ll take me to her.”

  She took my hand and led me down a long hallway to her room.

  • • •

  I walked back to the bar a half hour later and $150 lighter in the wallet. Joanna brought an Asian woman to where I sat. “This is Connie,” Joanna said, then she winked and fluttered her fingers at me as she strutted away.

  “Hi, Connie, I’m Dan.”

  “Actually, I just changed my name,” she said. “I’m Sasha today. But you can call me Con, or Lola, or Sue Lin, or your little minky fuck toy. I don’t care as long as you buy me a drink.”

  I ordered her a vodka Collins and decided to have a drink myself.

  “Two cherries,” Sasha yelled at the bartender. She looked about thirty. Her figure was slight, her chest relatively modest, but she had bedroom legs and perfect skin.

  “Sasha, I’m working for a family that wants to find their daughter. There’s been a sudden illness in the family, and they’d like her to know. I’m looking for Samantha Nunez. Do you know her?”

  “Sure, we’re buds,” she said. Her features were a little too pronounced to be Asian—maybe she’d had plastic surgery or was part European. Her eyes were dark diamonds, and she had a wide smile and great teeth.

  “When was the last time you talked to her?”

  “I didn’t know she had family.” She put a cherry in her mouth and pulled on the stem until it popped off, then rolled the cherry around with her tongue and licked her lips. She smiled at me like we were sharing an inside joke.

  “They’re in LA,” I said.

  “Really. So one of Samantha’s relatives is sick?”

  “That’s right. They want to reach her before it’s too late.”

  “Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll call her?” She smiled again.

  “I don’t know Samantha. But my guess is if someone in her family is dying, it’d be best for her to hear it from her family.”

  She tilted her head. “I guess that’s logical. Okay, she called me a couple days ago and said she’s gonna go work a six-week shift at the Cat’s Meow Ranch down near Vegas. Said she was tired of the cold up here.”

  Or more likely running from the heat, I thought. It was the break I needed—at this point I felt it was a given that Samantha Nunez was the key to the case. I thanked Sasha and walked out into the morning, but the sky was still black, and the distant glare of the moon shined in my eyes as if it was mocking me.

  16

  A while ago, I think it was in a bar, someone asked me if I believed in god. I don’t remember what I said—the conversation probably shifted before I could come up with an answer. The truth is I’m not a religious man; it’s been years since I’ve even gone through the pretense of attending church. But I don’t reject the possibility that god, in one form or another, probably exists. I’m open-minded on the subject, and I consider that a victory of sorts.

  As I drove back north toward Reno, I wondered if god would approve of the expansive sex trade in Nevada. I decided he would; my half hour with the blond vixen Joanna had certainly been heavenly.

  • • •

  It was dawn when I pulled into my cheap hotel in Reno and fell into bed with my clothes on for the second straight night. But this time I didn’t even bother taking my boots off. I slept like a lodged stone for a few hours, and when I woke I called the airlines from bed and booked a three o’clock Southwest flight to Las Vegas.

  I left the hotel at noon, hurrying out to the nearest shopping mall in my rumpled, dirty clothes, and bought two new pairs of Levi’s, a long-sleeve plaid button-up shirt, some t-shirts, and a six-pack of underwear and socks. I made it back to the hotel by quarter after one and called Edward Cutlip. He answered on the first ring and asked for a progress report.

  “I was up until dawn chasing down leads,” I said. “I’m getting on a plane and flying to Las Vegas this afternoon.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve identified a call girl who was in Sylvester’s room. She’s gone underground and is hiding out in Vegas.”

  “Do you know exactly where?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll let you know when I find her.”

  “Ah, okay. I need to tell you that Raneswich and Iverson just left here. Raneswich tried to discourage Mr. Bascom from sending a PI after their case.”

  “What did Bascom say?”

  “Well, he asked them if they had any leads or if they were near making an arrest. Iverson said they were still waiting for toxicology and forensics results, and they were interviewing a number of potential witnesses, but it didn’t sound like they had anything solid. Bascom told them flat out that he hired you because he isn’t convinced they know what they’re doing. You should have seen Raneswich’s face. He turned red as a tomato. They left in a huff a couple of minutes ago.”

  I laughed. “Bascom doesn’t mince words, does he?”

  “He’d tell the president of the United States he was doing a crappy job if that’s what he thought. He’s a straight shooter, all right. Anyway, it’s going to take some time to get those bank records you asked for. Sylvester’s bank is telling me standard processing time is two weeks.”

  “Typical. Turn the heat up on them. Use John Bascom’s influence; tell them it’s a murder case.”

  “Got it,” he said. “I’ll try again. Have you made any more progress on the drug-dealing angle?”

  “Maybe. I think it’s still possible Sylvester’s murder was drug-related, but I haven’t got a clear direction on it yet. Once I talk to this hooker in Vegas, I should know more. By the way, Edward, my expense report is getting up there. I had to spend a hundred fifty last night on, well, a kind of irregular expense.”

  “Do you have a receipt?”

  “No, it wouldn’t be that kind of thing.”

  “What was it, a bribe?”

  “Yeah, sort of. It was the price of a piece of, ah, information.”

  “I’ll need more detail to get it through accounting,” Edward said.

  “Oh, I see. Well, you’ll see it on my expense report.”

  “You might as well tell me now so I can talk to accounting, or your check might be delayed.”

  “Right, then,” I said. “I had to pay the money to a prostitute.”

  “A prostitute?”

  “Yeah. She gave me the link to the witness, but she wouldn’t talk unless I went with her. I’m serious.”

  “God, our controller’s going to love this. Where did you find her?”

  “One of the cathouses out in the desert.”

  “No kidding, huh? I’ve never been to one. What did she look like?”

  “Blonde with a body that wouldn’t quit,” I said, deciding to test Edward’s character. I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure I could trust him.
/>   “You know, I think I’d be interested in visiting one of those places. Not that I would partake. I’d just be interested in observing.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “So, when will you be back from Las Vegas?” he said.

  “Hopefully tomorrow.”

  “Well, maybe we can go when you get back.”

  “I promise I’ll hurry,” I said. We hung up, and I decided he passed the test. If nothing else, it meant he was a regular guy. I lay back on the bed, smiling at the casual camaraderie between men. The best times always involved the most basic common denominators: loose women and booze.

  • • •

  I spent the packed flight to Vegas crammed in a seat next to a fat, drunken man who complained incessantly about the lack of room. Halfway through the flight, he passed out and began snoring loudly, embarrassing his wife and teenage son. When we landed, he woke and started babbling about how he was going to break the bank at the casinos. This is why I like to drive, I thought.

  I rented a new four-door Cadillac and decided to check into a first-class hotel. If Edward had a problem with the expense, I’d blame it on Sin City’s decadent influence. Las Vegas had rapidly expanded in the last decade to accommodate the growing hordes of gamblers, conventioneers, and sightseers. Half a dozen new hotels had opened recently, each of them immense productions with over two thousand rooms, gigantic casinos, shopping malls, numerous restaurants, and extensive children’s fun centers. Apparently the inexhaustible flood of gambling money was driving the city’s expansion.

  The black glass of the pyramid-shaped Luxor hotel and casino danced in the late-afternoon sun, but when I pulled in, the valet parking attendant told me they were sold out. I drove across the street and tried the mammoth MGM Grand, and they also were full, so I headed over to the Excalibur, which had vacancies, and checked into a room. The hotel had a medieval castle theme but inside it looked a lot like every other casino. The clerk pointed me across the gambling floor, and I lugged my bag for the length of a football field over to the elevators, then went up to my room on the twelfth floor.

  I found the Cat’s Meow Ranch in the phone book and called for directions. I didn’t want to show up there until later in the evening, when a full shift would most likely be working. That left me with a couple of hours to kill, so I went downstairs and found a small Italian eatery. I ordered a meatball sandwich and washed it down with a glass of cheap Chianti, then I walked out to the main floor of the casino, checked out the action, and almost stopped at a bar. Instead I decided to head outside and see the sights. On my way out I saw the same family that had been on the airplane. The man appeared to be arguing with his wife, then he turned away and sat at a blackjack table. The teenage son looked over at me, his face as sad and resigned as a beaten dog’s.

  I made my way down the crowded sidewalk on the Strip, walking through the cold, dry air. I zipped up my old red ski jacket and impulsively ducked into a small neighborhood lounge that had somehow survived the recent development.

  The locals were enjoying the Wednesday twilight happy hour, sipping cocktails and munching popcorn in the mellow hideaway. A middle-aged couple was shooting pool while the bartender stood on a crate fiddling with the TV set. I took a seat at a small table, ordered a whiskey highball, and watched the bartender pour a real drink—a relief after too many crappy casino highballs. I pulled my cell phone out and thought about calling Wenger, or maybe Jack Myers, to ask if he’d seen Sylvester’s toxicology reports yet. And then I thought of Mandy.

  I guzzled my drink and ordered another. An image of Mandy walking away from me naked stuck in my mind, like a slow-motion fantasy. I could see her toes sink into the carpet and her golden hair swish back and forth against her bare back. I shook the thought from my head, and the image was replaced by one of her leaning back at the breakfast table with her arms crossed under her breasts. My god, the woman was something else, she had a power that, if harnessed, could have limitless potential—to manipulate and control, I thought darkly. What the hell was her involvement with Osterlund? It occurred to me I should talk again to Zelda Thomas, Osterlund’s mom. It might be an interesting conversation. But it would have to wait.

  I left the bar at eight o’clock, picked up the Cadillac from the valet, and drove west into the black abyss of the Mojave Desert. The Caddy’s high beams pierced the night, and the narrow two-lane highway unfolded like a thin ribbon across the bleak terrain. My foot rested heavily on the pedal, barbed wire boundary fences raced past in a blur, and old wooden telephone poles flashed by every few seconds, like ancient signposts marking the pathway through an uninhabitable wasteland. The road turned north toward Death Valley, led over a modest rise then fell back, and I brought the Caddy up to 110. There wasn’t another car in sight, and once the tripometer showed I’d gone a hundred miles, I slowed, watching for the Welcome to Pahrump sign. I passed it three miles later, took the second right, and drove another five miles into the desolate hills. I had a good suspicion I was lost when I saw a small, weather-beaten sign for the Cat’s Meow Ranch.

  There were about twenty cars in the dirt and gravel parking lot. The whorehouse stood lonely and forlorn against a shallow hillside, its windows barred, the paint peeling and colorless. A white lamp over the chain-link gate flickered weakly, as if it was the last beacon of hope in a dying land. The wind blew a tumbleweed off the hillside, and it rolled out of the blackness and moved silently across the parking lot, like a ghost in the night. Somewhere in the darkness a solitary coyote howled at the stars, its sad wail echoing thinly in the cold.

  I rang the buzzer and went through the gate and into the foyer, which was well heated and larger than I expected. My footsteps thumped loudly on the wooden floorboards, and then I stepped onto the thick red carpet of the parlor, where six prostitutes stood in a lineup.

  A buxom blonde introduced herself as Sheri, a young dark-haired girl was Melissa, and a younger blonde in a bikini stared me down with a big smile and said, “Hi, I’m Wild.”

  I’m sure you are, I thought, and reminded myself I was there on business.

  Two very black hookers went as Randi and Brandi, and at the end of the line stood a tall, slender woman with long black hair falling over her shoulders. She had light-brown skin and wide-set, almond-shaped eyes. Her cheekbones were high and looked carved from marble, but there was a noticeable discoloration along her left jawline. I let my eyes wander up and down her body like an appraising customer. Her legs weren’t quite full, but they looked muscular. A narrow scar running a couple inches up from her belly button marred her stomach below her primary attributes, a pair of huge double-D-cup breasts that stood out straight from her chest in a classic conical shape. She wore skimpy lingerie that barely covered her nipples.

  “Tina,” she said.

  I asked if she’d like a drink. She nodded, and I followed her to the bar, where two men were sitting with prostitutes, grinning like jackals and talking in loud, drunken voices. The bartender wore tan pants with a black stripe down the side, and carried a holstered .38 revolver on a black gun belt. Armed security guard, doubling as bartender at a cathouse in the middle of nowhere. Seemed like a novel gig, but he just looked bored.

  “A Bombay up,” she said, then shifted her eyes to me. “What’s your name?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t to me if it doesn’t to you.” She lit a cigarette, letting the smoke drift out of her mouth. Her voice didn’t sound jaded or disinterested; instead it was cool, aloof.

  “Are you in Vegas with a convention or a gambling trip?” she asked.

  I turned on my barstool, looking at her directly. Her eyes were a pretty dark brown, and she met my stare, our eyes locking long enough for both of us to consider who would look away first, and when I didn’t she finally did, with the beginning a smile, or maybe a smirk, on the corner of her mouth.

  “Do you like my eyes?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I do,” I said. I was aroused and felt stupid abo
ut it, but I let myself be drawn in. She mirrored my gaze, and after a moment she narrowed her expression, then stamped her cigarette out in the ashtray.

  “I think we’d better go to my room,” she said. “You look like you’re ready to party.”

  I followed her down the hallway to a door toward the end. Her room was just big enough for business: a queen-sized bed, a small lamp on a night table, a portable boom box set up on the dresser.

  “Take a seat,” she said. “How much are you interested in spending?”

  “Uh, I’ve got a hundred bucks.”

  She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “That’s the house minimum, and I don’t work for that. I’ll show you a good time, but my rates start at four hundred.”

  We bargained back and forth, and I finally agreed to two hundred. She told me to take off my clothes and wait, said she’d be back in a minute, then left the room.

  I quickly went through her dresser. Only the top two drawers were filled, mostly with assorted lingerie and undergarments. I opened the drawer to her nightstand, saw a tube of lubricant, a box of condoms, and a small makeup bag lying on top of a People magazine. I looked under the magazine, and found a black, pocket-size address book. I zipped it into my coat pocket and sat waiting on the bed. A half minute later, she came back through the door.

  “You’re supposed to take your clothes off,” she said, pulling her shoulder straps down.

  “How about if we talk a while first, Samantha?” I said.

  She froze—her exposed breasts looked plastic and unforgiving. Her brown nipples extended before my eyes, like a dog’s fur rising on the back of its neck. She pulled her top back up.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “I came from South Lake Tahoe just to see you. The shit’s really hit the fan back there.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, you do. Your gig last Friday at the Crown Ambassador. Somehow it went bad, real bad, and your trick ended up stabbed to death. I went to the autopsy and checked out the knife wound. Pretty damn gruesome.”