Sin City

by Max Allan Collins

  He glanced up to see Brass’s Taurus turning off Gym Road into the Thomas & Mack parking lot near Tropicana Avenue. Then he shifted his gaze around, as if aimlessly looking at this and that, so that anyone watching him wouldn’t realize he’d been keeping tabs on the unmarked car.

  The CSI had almost made it to the Jean Nidetch Women’s Center when a male voice called out to him from the shadows. “Bro!”

  Warrick swiveled that way but stayed on the sidewalk. He said nothing.

  The voice from the darkness said, “You lookin’ for somethin’? Or you jus’ lost?”

  “That depends. What kinda map you sellin’?”

  A figure took a step closer, remaining in the shadows, but now visible as a slight, sketchy presence. “Roadmap to bliss, bro—happiness highway.”

  Warrick settled into place on the sidewalk. “Who couldn’t use a little happiness?”

  The guy took another step toward the light. Warrick got a better look at him now: a tall, gangly man in a silk running suit, a Dodgers stocking cap perched atop a tangle of dreadlocks. Just a kid, Warrick thought, maybe twenty-one tops.

  “You lookin’ for happiness, I got it. Just not out there, man—light hurts my eyes. Ease on down the road.”

  After a glance around, Warrick stepped out of the pale circle of streetlamp light, and into the shadows in front of the guy…

  …who fit the intern’s description of Lil Moe like a latex glove. Long time since I hit a jackpot in this town, Warrick thought.

  The dealer was saying, “What kind of happiness you in the market for?”

  “You might be surprised what makes me happy.”

  “Hey, bro—I’m strictly pharmaceutical…strange sex stuff, try the yellow pages.”

  “Not sex, Moe…”

  Eyes and nostrils flared. “How you know my name? I never done bidness with you.”

  “Information, Moe—that’s all I want.”

  “You want infor mation from me? Do I look like a fuckin’ search engine? What am I, some Yahoo Google shit?”

  Lil Moe snapped his fingers, and before Warrick could move, a third party grabbed his left arm, wrenched it behind him, and pain streaked up his arm, spiking in his shoulder. He heard a sharp metallic snick, and suddenly felt the point of a blade dimple his throat, next to his Adam’s apple. He froze—and hoped to hell that somewhere Brass was watching this, somewhere close, calling in some backup.

  “I’m gonna ask you again, homey,” Lil Moe said, moving in on Warrick, the dealer’s face contorted, waving his hand like a pissed off rapper. “Why you want information from me?”

  The knife pressed deeper, and Warrick felt the sting before something warm began trickling down his neck. Behind him, whoever held his arm was strong, and kept Warrick’s hand high between his shoulder blades, the muscles stretching and ready to explode, if the assailant snapped the bone.

  In front of Warrick, the young man in the Dodger stocking cap hopped from foot to foot, as if the sidewalk were a bed of coals under his expensive sneakers. “Who sent you, man? What’s this about?”

  Forcing himself to slow his breathing and to remain calm despite the situation, Warrick’s mind raced over possible outcomes—most of them grim.

  “I’ll pay for what I want,” Warrick managed.

  “Oh, you gonna pay, all right! Who you workin’ for? You with Danny G?”

  His unseen assailant’s breathing came in sharp, rapid gulps, breath hot on Warrick’s neck and reeking of liquor and garlic. The assailant sucked his teeth as if trying to control his salivating over the urge to plunge the blade into Warrick’s throat.

  And the dealer was singsonging, “You better fuckin’ talk, boy, while you got your vocal cords.”

  Rasping, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, Warrick asked, “You don’t wanna cut me.”

  Looking older suddenly, Lil Moe eyeballed the CSI, the anger shining through even in the darkness. “Aw fuck this, Tony—fuckin’ cut him, man!”

  Even as Warrick tensed for the cold invasion of steel, he felt the pressure go slack on his arm and the blade drew away from his neck. Then he heard steel clatter to sidewalk, followed by Brass’s quiet voice saying, “Smart move—and I didn’t even have to tell you to drop it.”

  Lil Moe’s eyes went wild, his mouth dropped open; no words exited, but he did: spinning on his heel, he ran like a starting gun had sounded. Turning, Warrick saw his assailant, a wiry black kid, this one in baggy UNLV jersey and baggier jeans and no more than sixteen, the nose of Brass’s automatic kissing the boy’s right temple.

  “You just gonna stand there bleeding?” Brass asked Warrick. “Or are you gonna go catch him?”

  Warrick took this gentle hint, and spun and sprinted after the drug dealer.

  Moe had a good twenty-yard head start. But he was also stoned and pumping his arms wildly, his knees pistoning up and down, his stride lengths varying as the drugs kept him from running smoothly. And instead of heading toward the mass of buildings to the east, where he would have had options for escape and possibly obstacles to benefit his youth, he had taken off across the vast expanse of the parking lot.

  Before he’d got halfway to Tropicana Avenue, Moe started to slow, and—by the far side of the lot—Warrick caught up and grabbed his jacket, slowing him as they both ran. “Stop!…It’s over!”

  Lil Moe fought frantically with the zipper, trying to escape the jacket and still keep running at the same time. The drugs prevented him from doing either very effectively. Suddenly lurching to the right, Moe snatched the jacket from Warrick’s grasp, but tumbled, elbows and feet flying at odd angles, and he whumped onto the cement and rolled and came to a skidding stop at the parking-lot curb, in a fetal position, one hand going to his face, the other arm wrapping around ribs that were at least cracked if not broken.

  Barely breathing hard, Warrick bent down over him. “That’s it—there ain’t no Moe.”

  Sweat beading on his face and looking like he couldn’t decide whether to bawl or vomit, the young man stared up, all the fight gone from his face. “Okay, man, okay—so I’m Lil Moe. You five-oh?”

  Warrick grinned. “Criminalist.”

  “What-the-fuck ’ist’?”

  “Don’t sweat the details—you’re still in a world of trouble.”

  Brass strolled up, towing the other one by his elbow, the kid’s hands cuffed behind him. “Brown—you caught him,” the detective said, looking very pleased. “Nice job.”

  Touching the small wound on his neck, Warrick returned his attention to Lil Moe. “You got a customer named Owen Pierce?”

  The young man was shaking his head before Warrick finished the question. “Never heard of the dude and I ain’t sayin’ shit till I see my lawyer.”

  Looking down at the dealer, Brass asked, “You got a name?”

  “Told you! Talk to my lawyer.”

  “He admits he’s Lil Moe,” Warrick said.

  “What’s your real name?” Brass asked.

  “Lawyer me up, or kick me, Barney Fife!”

  Brass sighed. “Who’s your lawyer?”

  Lil Moe shrugged. “P.D. my ass.”

  Brass rolled his eyes and Warrick felt himself growing very weary. Public defender—this was going to be a long night.

  “I got Band-Aids in the glove compartment,” Brass said.

  Warrick said, “I’ve been cut worse shaving.”

  “Probably.” Brass managed one of his rumpled smiles. “But that you can’t brag about.”

  And they hauled the drug dealer and his scrawny “muscle” back to the Taurus.

  12

  AT JUST BEFORE TWO A.M., WAITING IN THE PARKING LOT for Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle, Detective Erin Conroy for the umpteenth time questioned the wisdom of her decision to apply for a police position in Las Vegas. How glamorous it had sounded, how inviting the travel books had made the desert mecca seem, how foolishly she had booked Rat Pack-era images into the theater of her mind.

  Only r
ecently had Erin admitted to herself that she missed her family—her folks, her sister and husband; and almost immediately she’d longed for the changing of the seasons. There were no beautiful autumn colors in Nevada, no leaves putting on their last mighty show before exiting to make way for the white blanket of winter—no sledding, no sleigh rides…and you could get hot chocolate, sure, but what was the point?

  In the desert, they had…the sun. Winter sun, spring sun, summer sun (with the bonus of unbearable heat), and now, in the fall, just for a change of pace, more sun…with these cool desert nights the only respite.

  Erin Conroy fought to shake off her melancholy and tried to dismiss the thought of another Christmas with no snow, no family, and not even the prospect of a New Year’s Eve date.

  “You all right?” Willows asked.

  The homicide detective hadn’t even seen Willows and Sidle exit CSI. “Uh, yes, sure, fine.”

  “We signed out a Tahoe—we’ll follow you over.”

  The trio planned to call on the late Jenna Patrick’s roommate, Tera Jameson.

  “Oh?” Erin said.

  “Yeah,” Willows said, “we have to meet our video wizard, Helpingstine, back here at four A.M.”

  “Has an early flight out,” Sidle said.

  “Does he have anything good for you?” Erin asked.

  “Guess we’ll see.”

  The CSIs in their Tahoe followed Detective Erin Conroy in her Taurus through typically bustling Vegas wee-hours traffic to the three-story motel-like apartment house where Tera Jameson (and Jenna Patrick had once) lived.

  Again Erin led the way up the stairs to the third floor and around the building, stopping in front of Tera Jameson’s door; no light filtered through the window curtains. The detective knocked and got no answer, knocked twice more and again got no response. The three of them looked at each other for a long moment.

  “She does work nights,” Sidle said.

  Willows raised her eyebrows. “Should we try Showgirl World, you think?”

  “She isn’t scheduled there tonight,” Erin said. “I already checked.”

  “Maybe she’s asleep,” Sidle offered.

  Erin used her cell phone, dialed the police department switchboard and got Jameson’s number. She dialed again and they could hear the phone ringing, inside. Finally, the machine picked up: “It’s Tera. You know the drill: no message, no call back…’bye.”

  “We could use a warrant about now,” Sidle said.

  Erin left a message for Tera to contact her, then punched END and turned to start the long walk back around the building and down the stairs. “You two go on back and keep your date with that video techie.”

  “Gonna stake the place out?” Sidle asked.

  “Maybe…but first, I’ll think I will drop around Showgirl World and see if maybe I can’t get a line on her, there. Maybe she traded shifts with somebody, last minute.”

  “Call us if you need us,” Willows said, in step with the detective. “And sooner is better than later—Mobley’s on our case about all the overtime.”

  Erin nodded and kept walking. She’d gotten the same memo; problem was, some nightshift work simply had to be done during the day, and there was a rivalry between them and day shifts that discouraged helping each other out.

  Soon the Tahoe was peeling off in one direction, and the Taurus in the other, as Erin Conroy drove across town, to Showgirl World…

  …which was everything Dream Dolls and so many other strip clubs in the greater Vegas area wanted to be when they grew up. The exterior was black glass and blue steel, the sign a green-and-blue rotating neon globe with SHOWGIRL WORLD emblazoned across it in red neon letters that chased each other to a finish. Erin parked in the massive lot, which was almost full—though it was approaching three in the morning, that was prime time in Party Town.

  She opened the door, took a step inside a foyer whose gray-carpeted walls were arrayed with framed black-and-white photos of the featured dancers and had to pause until her eyes adjusted from the brighter parking lot. With the spots before her eyes dissipating to a hard white glow, Conroy approached the doorman—a big, bald, olive-skinned, Tony Orlando-mustached ex-linebacker in a white shirt, black bow tie and tuxedo pants.

  “Fifteen bucks,” he said, voice naturally gruff but tone noncommittal, his eyes on hers nonjudgmentally. Erin plucked her I.D. wallet from her purse and showed the doorman her badge and a smile.

  “Or not,” he said, and—completely unimpressed—waved her on through.

  Stepping through the inside door, Erin had to again stop and allow her vision to adjust, as the club itself was much darker than the foyer. The ventilation was better in here than Dream Dolls, but a mingled bouquet of tobacco, beer, and perfume nonetheless permeated. Techno throbbed through the sound system at a decibel level just a notch below ear bleed, and Erin could feel the beat pounding in her chest, like a competing heartbeat.

  Where Dream Dolls had cheap industrial-strength furniture, Showgirl World had heavy black lacquered wooden tables surrounded by low-slung black faux-leather chairs. Each table accommodated five chairs and those along the mirrored walls squatted within partitioned-off nooks that largely screened patrons from view while allowing a full view of the stage. Even the chairs lining the stage were comfortable swivel affairs, albeit bolted to the floor.

  Right now, the main, kidney-shaped stage—around and over which red and blue lights flickered in sequence—held two statuesque if bored-looking women, gyrating more or less in time to the music, occasionally draping themselves on one of two brass poles to swing their forms around, sometimes upside down. To the left, a bar extended toward the back, behind which a four-foot-high mirror ran its length. Three bartenders in tuxedo shirts and black ties worked briskly, mixing drinks and raking in money as fast as possible.

  Erin approached the nearest one, a guy older than she would have expected to find working in a place like this; he was in his mid-fifties, easy, with short, neatly trimmed gunmetal-gray hair, darker-gray-rimmed glasses and the burly bearing of a cop or, anyway, security man.

  Pulling out the badge-in-wallet again, Conroy asked, “The boss around?”

  “We’re clean, detective,” the bartender said, reflexively defensive. “Everything here’s aboveboard.”

  “That’s a good answer—I just don’t remember asking a question that goes with it.”

  He made a face. “All right, all right, don’t get your panties in a bunch—I’ll get him.” The burly, bespectacled bartender moved to a phone on the back counter, punched a button, spoke a few words, listened a second, then hung up. He returned with his expression softened, seeming even a little embarrassed. “Boss’ll be right out…. Look, detective, I didn’t mean to give you attitude.”

  “I’ll live.”

  “No, really. It’s just that I used to be on the job, myself, and I know these guys run a clean joint. I just don’t like to see ’em hassled.”

  “No problem. Vegas PD?”

  The guy shook his head. “Little town in Ohio. Moved out here when I retired. Looking to get away from the midwest winters.”

  Conroy nodded, smiled. “Only now, you miss them. How long were you on the job?”

  “Twenty-eight years.”

  Erin frowned, curiously. “Why didn’t you stay for a full thirty?”

  “They put me behind a desk and I couldn’t take it…. Now look what I’m behind.”

  She chuckled, and a door she hadn’t realized was even there, down at the far end of the bar, opened like an oven to blast a wide shaft of light into the darkness of the club, only to be sucked away as the door swung shut. A brown-haired, thirtyish, stocky man in a dark business suit approached her warily. He glanced at the bartender, who nodded her way, then seemed to get very busy farther down the bar.

  The new arrival stuck out a hand. “Rich McGraw,” he said, his voice deep.

  She introduced herself, practically shouting to be heard over the blare of music. She showed McGraw her
I.D wallet, but the fine print was lost in this pitiful light, though the glint of her badge made its point.

  “What can I do for you, Detective Conrad?”

  “Conroy,” she said, almost yelling, and explained the situation. A new song came on but the intensity of the volume had lowered just enough to make conversation possible, if not easy. Now and then she had to repeat herself.

  “She’s not here,” McGraw said.

  “I know—I called earlier. I don’t think it was you I talked to, Mr. McGraw.”

  “Must not’ve been.”

  “I’m hoping to get in touch with her tonight, or tomorrow at the latest. When does she work next?”

  “You tried her place? You got that address?”

  “Yes, sir.” Then she repeated: “When does Tera work next?”

  But he shook his head. “She won’t be back till day after tomorrow, earliest. Said she wanted a few days off.”

  A sinking feeling dropped into the detective’s gut. Where the hell was Tera Jameson? And why had she picked now to disappear?“Say where she was going?”

  Again, McGraw shook his head.

  Erin wondered how he managed that so well without the benefit of a neck. “And you don’t know when she’ll be back?”

  “Nope. Maybe day after tomorrow.” Shrug. “She’s gonna call in.”

  In the mirror, Erin noticed that the two girls dancing to Samantha Fox were not the ones who’d been on when she arrived—a bosomy brunette and a leggy black girl were reigning over their male court.

  “You seem to give Tera a lot of leeway, Mr. McGraw.”

  “She’s popular. Exotic. She was in Penthouse, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t. Could I see her dressing room?”

  “She’s okay, no prima donna, like some of them. So I give her leeway, yeah.”

  “Her dressing room?”

  The oddly handsome features beamed at her. “You got a warrant?”

  Erin shook her head.

  He half-smiled, his expression almost regretful. “I don’t mean to be a prick about it, lady, but I do have to protect the privacy of my employees—and we are talkin’ about one of my star dancers, here.”