by Phil Swann
Yes, I know, I was an eight-year-old boy, and Michelle was a grown woman who should have known better. But still, to this day, anytime I see a big house on a hill, I look at it, and a small part of me—the part that’s still an eight-year-old boy—wants to go fight Dracula.
I pulled into the parking lot of the LVPD and sat in the car for a moment before going in. I debated on how much I should, or could, tell Barnard about what had transpired that day. The debate didn’t take long. I decided any pretense that I was working on a Top-Secret mission was now, to say the least, utter nonsense. I also concluded that with Square Head and Tonto nowhere to be found, Clegg and I needed all the trustworthy friends we could get. I was going to tell Sam everything. Well, almost everything.
I found the detective hunched over his desk and looking more disheveled than usual. I set the small box I’d carried in from the car down in front of him.
“Donuts?” he asked, hope springing eternal in his voice.
“A baker’s dozen from Willie’s. That’s your favorite, right?”
“You know, Callaway,” he said, opening the box, “you’re all right.”
“I do my best, Sam.”
He bit into a jelly filled, and as the red goo exploded down his chin, he rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Man, is this ever what I needed.”
I sat down across from him and waited until he finished consuming the sacrificial confection. Seconds later, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, picked up his coffee mug, drained it, and then sat back in his chair.
“Tasty?” I asked.
“Manna,” he replied.
I smiled.
“Okay, Trip. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I scanned the busy squad room. “Can we go for a walk?”
“Why?”
“Because I need to talk to you in more private surroundings.”
“What are we talking about?”
“Your case.”
“You know something?”
“I do.”
Barnard leaned forward and put his arms on his desk. “You know where Michelle Wu and her son are, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“And you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Right.”
“And why not?”
“Because if I did, you’d have to tell your superiors, but after I tell you what I’m going to tell you, you’ll understand why you can’t do that. So, I’m not telling you where she is because I don’t want to put you in that position.”
“Well, isn’t that considerate of you?”
“Yes, it is. Besides, I’m pretty sure Michelle didn’t kill her husband.”
“Oh, it’s Michelle now? And you’re pretty sure she didn’t kill her husband.”
“I’m sure.”
“Uh-huh. And Clegg?”
“Seriously, Sam. Not here.”
He nodded and stood. “Okay, I could stand to stretch my legs.”
“Thanks,” I said, getting up too.
“You know what, Callaway? Knowing you sure makes life more interesting. Not better, mind you, just more interesting.”
We left the squad room, walked out of the building, and onto the street. Once we were outside, Barnard lit a cigar. He looked at me, but said nothing, implying that was my cue to start talking.
I told him everything, starting with how Clegg had enlisted me into the Army and I was now, supposedly, Lieutenant Callaway. After Barnard finished laughing harder than I’d ever heard the man laugh before, I continued. I told him the details of my undercover surveillance mission at the Wu house, as well as learning the Feds were the ones who picked up Michelle. I told him about how the old magnesium factory had been converted into an Army base, and how Clegg and I had orchestrated Michelle’s jailbreak out of it. I even told him about Jean-Claude showing up on my doorstep. The only thing I left out was where I stashed Michelle and Jean-Claude, and the name of the person who told me the old magnesium factory was now a place to buy heroin. Barnard didn’t interrupt me once, although when I told him Clegg knew nothing about the espionage investigation into Michelle, I know he wanted to.
After I finished, he blew out a puff of smoke and tapped out his cigar.
“And you saw this Wilson guy get out of a car at the base?”
“He was arriving as I was departing.”
“And Wilson’s the big game hunter Michelle was meeting at that motel because he claimed he’d found her father.”
“Right.”
“And this guy named Cavendish, who’s he?”
“No clue.”
Barnard scratched his head. “An Army base selling heroin. What the blazes is going on?”
“I don’t know, Sam. But Clegg told Pennington he thought someone was running an unofficial, secret operation. He didn’t know who or why.”
“And you think that’s why Clegg sacrificed himself to get Mrs. Wu out of there?”
I nodded. “He absolutely believed she was in danger if she stayed. Now, who knows what is happening to him.”
“Nothing good, I’d bet. Okay, so what do you want me to do?”
“What I want you to do is to storm the place with about a hundred of your best men, save Clegg, and arrest everybody else. Then we could all relax and figure out what the heck is going on. But you’re going to tell me you can’t do that.”
“I can’t do that,” he replied. “It’s a military installation, which gets tricky if not impossible for local law enforcement. I had a case out at Nellis a few years back that was a jurisdictional nightmare. And speaking of jurisdiction, I don’t even come close to having it out where you say that town is. I think I should contact the Clark County Sherriff, and the F.B.I and see—”
“No,” I interrupted. “Nobody else can know about this until we know who to trust. I learned that rule the hard way a few months ago.”
Barnard nodded. “Point taken.”
“What if…”
“What if what?”
“Detective Barnard can’t bust into that town, but there’s nothing that says Sam Barnard can’t—You know, in an unofficial capacity.”
Barnard rolled his eyes. “Nothing except laws against trespassing on government property.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not so sure about that.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Look, Sam, I have to get to Clegg out of there. Also, I’m certain these people, whoever they are, are looking for me right now.”
“I can protect you.”
“Against the Department of Defense, the U.S. Army, the Triad crime syndicate, and who knows who else? No, you can’t. And, even if you could, what am I supposed to do? Abandon Clegg, and leave Michelle and Jean-Claude over at—”
I stopped myself when I saw Barnard cock his head.
“I have to get back on that base.”
“And you have a plan on how you’re going to do that?”
“Maybe. Did you check out Johnny and James’s alibis?”
“Of course. Johnny was at a card game on The Strip like he said. All the players confirmed it.”
“Sam, it’s Johnny Wu. He could have forced those players to say that.”
“Really? I didn’t think of that seeing how I was born yesterday. We’re checking to see if anyone outside the card game can confirm he was there, and that he didn’t leave. Nothing yet.”
“And James?”
“He was at a poetry reading like he said.”
“Where was this poetry reading?”
“At a new place over on Paradise Road called the C33 club. Ever heard of it?”
Bingo, I thought. “Yeah, I have. Stay close to the phone, Sam. I have to go.”
“Where’re you going?”
“I need to check something out.”
“Maybe I should come with you.”
“No, we don’t know who’s watching. Just go back inside, and keep doing cop things. Is there a way to find out when the government purchased that old magnesium factory?”<
br />
“County records should have something. Why?”
“Not sure. But if it was once a privately owned company, and now it’s a military base, at some point the government bought it. I’d like to know when.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you later.”
I headed for the Caddy.
“Hey, Lieutenant Callaway,” Barnard yelled.
I stopped and turned. “Very funny. What?”
“Be careful.”
“I wish people would stop telling me that, it’s making me nervous.”
Believe it or not, I was a good college student. I made the dean’s list at Indiana University every semester and was typically first in my class among all music majors. I was only asked to leave the school in the middle of my junior year because, what I considered to be nothing more than a harmless prank, they considered to be an egregious violation of the code of conduct rules. It’s a long story. At any rate, I believe one of the reasons I excelled in academia was due in large part to being a voracious reader. I read everything, textbooks, novels, plays, magazines, the instructions on a tube of toothpaste, still do. I was especially fond of the works of Oscar Wilde. Most notably, his hilarious farce The Importance of Being Earnest. It was because of my knowledge of the man that I understood the significance of a club named C33. But even if I hadn’t, I still would have known what kind of club C33 was.
Places like the C33 club weren’t a secret in Las Vegas, but they didn’t advertise, either. They weren’t illegal, in and of themselves, but they were prone to police raids under the draconian morality laws still on the books in Nevada. I’d caught wind of the new club via the chorus boys who worked at the Sands, and the reviews couldn’t have been more glowing. It was said to be classy, yet understated, and most importantly, safe and properly discreet. It was also known to offer up superb jazz on any given night. Because of the latter, I’d always planned on swinging by and checking it out. I wished I had, given my first visit wasn’t going to be under the most festive of circumstances. As I expected, I saw James’s green E-Type Jag parked in the lot as I pulled in.
The inside of the club looked very much like the inside or any small club in town. Only this one might have been nicer. It was still early by Las Vegas standards, so there were only about a half dozen or so patrons in the place. Still, I could see why the C33 club was spoken about so favorably. It was dark, but not so dark as to be uncomfortable, and the air, unlike most small nightspots, didn’t reek of cigarettes and cheap perfume. There were ample tables with the obligatory red candle globes on them, with brown leather booths lining the walls. The dance floor was in front of a small stage at the far end of the club, where Billie Holiday was preaching “God Bless the Child” from a jukebox set off to the right. A framed picture of Mr. Wilde hung behind the bar. I took a stool and was attended to immediately.
“Good evening,” the bartender said, placing a cocktail napkin down in front of me.
“Good evening,” I said back.
“What can I get you?”
“Bourbon, neat.”
He poured my drink, I thanked him and tossed a five on the bar.
“I’ll get your change.”
“We’re good, keep it.”
He smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
“That’s a great picture,” I said, pointing to Mr. Wilde.
“Isn’t it? I found it in L.A. last year and had to have it.”
“Is this your club?” I asked.
“It is. Saved up years to get it.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.
“The Ballad of Reading Gaol.”
“You know your Oscar,” he replied.
“A little. I know that poem very well.”
“Really? Not many people do.”
I shrugged. “I also know C33 was the author’s pseudonym the publisher used on the front cover when the poem was released. C33 stands for where Mr. Wilde was imprisoned after being found guilty of gross indecency, right? Let me see if I remember this correctly. C means cell block C. Three means the level he was held on, and the other three stands for the cell number. Am I right?”
“You are, indeed,” the bartender answered. “Very impressive. Now may I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No,” I answered.
“You swear?”
“I swear. I’m a trumpet player.”
The bartender stepped back and took a good look at me. A smile spread across his face. “Trip Callaway?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“It’s me, Davey Goldstein. I used to work in the Copa Room as a waiter.”
“Of course, Davey” I replied, extending my hand. “I wondered what happened to you.”
He shook it. “Well, now you know.”
He lowered his voice and squeezed my hand. “I didn’t know you were—”
“I’m not,” I said, retrieving my hand. “I’ve just been hearing good things about this place and wanted to stop by. Word is there’s some pretty hot jazz being laid down here.”
“You heard right,” he said, puffing out his chest a little. “But you’re a little early for it. Generally, the jam session doesn’t kick in until after the shows on The Strip go dark. Hey, Trip, could you drop by one night and play. My customers sure would love you.”
Now that got me. “I’d love to, Davey, just not tonight. Actually, there’s another reason why I’m here. James Wu is a friend of mine, and I saw his car parked out front, but I don’t see him in here anywhere.”
“Jamie is back there in the back booth by the jukebox,” he said, pointing. “You can’t see him because his back is to us. Jamie is in here almost every evening writing. He’s an excellent poet. You know, we do readings here too, you should check that out, as well. You’ll hear some amazing new work.”
I smiled. “You’ve built quite the artist paradise here, haven’t you, Davey?”
“Well, that was my dream. A place where people could come, be themselves, and express themselves.”
“Good for you. Congratulations, Davey. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, Trip.”
“Well, I’m going to go back and say hello to James…Jamie. I’ll talk to you later.”
“You got it. And don’t forget, I want to hear you blowing that horn of yours in my place. It’d be a dream come true for me.”
“Consider it a dream realized.”
I picked up my drink and strolled toward the back. Davey was right, James was sitting in the back booth facing the opposite direction. He was writing in a notebook and didn’t see me walk up.
“Can I read it? Or is it better if I hear it performed by the poet?
James looked up and then shot back in the booth.
“Great song on the juke, by the way. Did you play it?”
He was too stunned to answer.
“Relax, Jamie, it’s okay. Mind if I sit down?”
“Mr. Callaway, what are you—are you—”
“It’s Trip,” I said, sliding in across from him, “and no. I like girls.”
“Then why—”
“I need you to answer some questions for me.”
“What kind of questions?”
“The kind that explains why you would give Michelle the numbers to your father’s off-shore heroin accounts.”
He dropped his pencil. “Who are you?”
“I’m Trip Callaway, trumpet player extraordinaire.”
“You’re a fed,” he said back.
I shrugged. “For the sake of argument, I’ll admit to doing some occasional work for those folks, but I consider myself a trumpet player first.”
His shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes. “And if I don’t answer your questions?”
“Then you don’t. I’m not threatening you, James. I’m just asking you to help me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you’re a good g
uy, and you want to do the right thing.”
His eyes instantly filled with tears. “I just want out. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I want to have my own life.”
“I know,” I responded.
“No, you don’t,” he snapped. “You don’t know what it’s like to have your entire future dictated by who your father is.”
“I guess you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
He grunted. “You think just because he’s dead that changes anything?”
“Did your father know about…this?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“But Johnny did, didn’t he?”
He nodded.
“As did Michelle. She used it to persuade you to get her the information she needed, didn’t she? She threatened to tell your father if you didn’t. Am I right?”
He nodded again.
“And you told Johnny what she was asking for, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And he said you should go ahead and give her the account numbers.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“Because I’m clever, that’s how,” I answered.
James took a drink of whatever was in the glass in front of him. When he put the glass down, I noticed his hand was shaking. “Johnny told me after I did it, both our problems would be taken care of.”
“What problems?”
“For Johnny, it was her. Father was letting things slip, and Johnny blamed her and the boy. He wanted them gone.”
“And for you? What was your problem?”
“Are you kidding?” he laughed. “Being the son of Uncle Charlie, the brother to Johnny Wu, all of it. Johnny said if I gave her what she wanted, I could be free of it all. He said he could fix it so that even father couldn’t stop me.”
“Stop you from what?”
“Leaving. Getting as far away from the family as I could.”
“How was he going to fix it so you could do that?’
