by Mike Dennis
"She's still inside," I said. "But you've got to get her to the bus station right now. I'll follow in my car."
Emily opened the door, allowing Patty inside, but not me. In a minute or two, they came out. Emily, carrying a duffel bag, wore the UNLV hoodie pulled up over her head.
As we went around to the driveway, a black Chrysler suddenly whipped into it, blocking Patty's exit. Two men jumped out, both young and with blond hair. They rushed Emily. One of them grabbed her, the other shoved Patty out of the way. As I swung him around, he caught me with a left to the jaw, sending me down.
The other one pushed Emily toward him, shouting, "Clyde! Take her!" He reached inside his windbreaker as I scrambled to my feet. Ducking behind Patty's car, I knew the shooting was about to start.
I pulled my .357 out faster than I thought I could, and came up firing. Bobby was lucky to get one shot off, which ricocheted off the side view mirror, while I put three rounds in his chest. Clyde had thrown Emily to the ground, reaching for his own piece in his waistband rig. By the time he got it out, he took two of my bullets, one in the stomach, one in the head. I gave his head a solid kick as I passed by him, but he was beyond feeling it.
The girls were hysterical. I hustled them into Patty's car, but I had to slap Patty a time or two to get her in shape to drive. I quickly scanned the street. No people, no cars. But it wouldn't be that way for long.
"Pull your car around theirs and over the curb! When you get to the bus station, park in the lot across the street. I'll meet you there. Do it! Now!"
I ran to my car and pulled away, while shoving a fresh clip into my weapon. I didn't turn my lights on for two blocks.
8
THE drive to the bus terminal took a little longer than it should have because of a wreck on Main and Washington. It looked like it just occurred, because I couldn't see any flashing lights up ahead. The inevitable big jam-up was taking shape, so we had to turn around and go back the long way, taking Las Vegas Boulevard to Bonanza, then back over to Main, then on to the bus station.
The girls were waiting for me in Patty's car, parked across the street from the station. They looked like they had calmed a little, but only a little. Emily, especially, looked like she might lose it any second, wobbling on her feet as I got them out of the car, and moaning beneath her sweatshirt hood. Patty's arm was around her, and even though Patty was still shaking, she was much more in control of herself, and of Emily.
I very carefully led them across Main Street. My hand was inside my jacket, gripping my weapon every step of the way, as I threw quick, hard looks up and down the street.
Inside the terminal, we walked rapidly to the ticket counter. My eyes flicked around the room several times for any signs of trouble, but everything looked normal. Emily bought her ticket. It said Miami, but I knew better. She was going to get off somewhere along the way. I also knew there was no point in asking her where.
Soon they called down the Miami passengers. People began filing onto the bus. Emily and Patty hugged several times, as tears flowed between them. I said a few kind words to Emily, but she didn't respond. I watched her get on the bus, taking a window seat on the door side, near the front. She pulled the hood back from her head.
As the bus backed out of its long space and rolled down Main Street, beginning its journey to Florida, Emily waved through the window, but I saw blankness in her eyes. And no wonder. She was leaping into the unknown, with death in hot pursuit. That kind of apprehension and anxiety will put that look on a person's face.
My body quivered. I'd seen that look before, years ago, back in LA. On Lyla's face. Through the driver's side window of her car, right before I let her drive away from my apartment. They found what was left of her a month later. And I had fucking let her go.
I ran after the bus shouting something, I can't remember what. The Greyhound wound upward through the gears and beyond the green light on Main Street. Still I chased it, hoping I could catch it, pound on the side of it until the driver stopped, maybe coax Emily off and save her, but the big bus picked up too much speed and left me sucking its exhaust. I watched it vanish around a distant corner toward the freeway ramp.
Patty rushed to my side, dragging me out of traffic.
"Jack, Jack. Are you all right? What were you doing?"
A little short of breath and gasping from inhaling the exhaust, I just gazed at her while she pulled me to the sidewalk.
She propped me up against a building while I got my breath back.
"What is it?" she said. "What's wrong?"
Finally, I said, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Just some memories coming back to fuck with my head."
I straightened up as best I could and took Patty's hands in mine. "Look," I said, "call Emily tomorrow. Try to find out where she's going, then let me know. Whatever you do, of course, don't let on to Beck about any of this."
She said she would let me know, then we hugged. I was going to hold off on contacting Lansdorf until she got back to me … I really wanted to be able to tell him where Emily was.
Patty and I got into our respective cars and drove off in different directions.
≈≈≈
Later that night, I finished up some bill-paying and turned on the 11:00 news. It was nearly half over. They were just concluding a story on how there was no end in sight to the booming Las Vegas real estate market.
Then Patty's picture came up on the screen behind the female anchor, who said, "A local prostitute was found murdered earlier tonight in an apartment complex just off the Strip. Patricia Ann Dahlgren, 25, was found beaten to death in her home at the Arrowhead Apartments on Sierra Vista Drive, near Maryland Parkway. According to police, a neighbor heard a commotion around eight o'clock this evening, and looked out his door to see a man in a leather jacket running from her apartment. The neighbor then went in and found her body. He could not provide any further description.
"Police say Dahlgren, originally from Bismarck, North Dakota, had a record of arrests in Las Vegas for prostitution dating back to 1997. Police also speculate the murder was the result of either a violent trick or a drug deal gone bad. There are no suspects at this time."
The anchor turned to her right, pasting a big TV smile on her face. "So, Chip, got any letup from this cold weather?"
My heart felt like it stopped. My insides suddenly turned to ice. I don't think I breathed for a long time.
9
I stayed drunk for two days, never leaving my apartment. Finally, on the second night, I felt I could keep something in my stomach. I pulled myself together, then went out. I decided to go downtown to Magnolia's, the coffee shop in the Four Queens.
The meal went down well. I needed it. After paying the check, I walked outside to Fremont Street.
It had warmed up over the last couple of days, with the temperature now feeling almost comfortable. The downtown light show was just beginning. Crowds of tourists with cameras were furiously snapping pictures of the overhead spectacle, while its thundering sound effects boomed through more speakers than you could count. I sauntered over toward Binion's, knowing there would be a poker game.
As I crossed Fremont, I gathered my thoughts. Beck undoubtedly got to Patty, beating her senseless to make her tell where Emily was, but, of course, she didn't know. By the time Beck realized that, Patty was quite likely almost dead, so he probably just finished her off out of principle. He'll get away with it, I'm sure. Nobody cares when a hooker dies.
Of course, I hope she didn't tell him who killed Bobby and Clyde, but if she did, I'm sure Beck will find me soon enough. And I'll be waiting for him.
As for Emily, who knows? I can only hope she stays safe. If she does, maybe Beck will give up the chase and one day, she can be reunited with her family.
I'm going to call Lansdorf in the morning. I don't really know what I'm going to say, though, except I know I'm not taking the twenty-five hundred he owes me.
How do you tell a man you watched his daughter disappear?
How do you tell him another girl had to die so his daughter could live?
It's not right, it's just not right. And usually there's not a goddamn thing we can do about it.
But every so often, there is.
Once inside Binion's, I headed for the front desk.
"Can you mail this for me, please?" I asked.
The desk clerk nodded and I handed her the padded envelope containing the videotape, addressed to Las Vegas Weekly.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After thirty years as a professional musician (piano), Mike Dennis left Key West and moved to Las Vegas to become a professional poker player. He turned to writing when his first novel, The Take, was picked up by a publisher in 2009.
His next book, Setup On Front Street, was the first in a series of Key West noir novels. The series is called Key West Nocturnes, and it will lift the veil on that town, revealing it as a true noir city, on a par with Los Angeles, New Orleans, or Miami.
The Ghosts Of Havana, a tale of old vendettas that will not die, is the second book in that series. The third novel, Man-Slaughter, is now available, and the fourth, The Guns Of Miami, will be coming in 2013.
Temptation Town is Mike's first novelette, and the first in the Jack Barnett / Las Vegas series, centering around a reluctant ex-private investigator. Drawn on Mike's years in Las Vegas, the tale takes the reader to areas of Sin City that never appear in tourist guidebooks.
The second entry in the series, Hard Cash, is now available, while a full Barnett novel, The Downtown Deal, is also currently available.
Mike also has published short stories for Kindle, including Between The Devil And The Deep Blue Eyes and The Session. Also, a collection of short stories, Bloodstains On The Wall is available. In addition, his stories have been published in A Twist Of Noir, Mysterical e, Powder Burn Flash, Slow Trains, and The Wizards Of Words 2009 Anthology.
Mike has an experimental rockabilly novel, Cadillac's Comin', a hard tale of the chaotic early days of rock & roll. It's now available.
In late 2010, Mike moved back to Key West, where he enjoys year-round island living with his wife Yleana, whom he married on a warm night in December of 2012, on the rooftop of an apartment building in Havana, Cuba.
Contact Mike Dennis / [email protected]
Please send me your email address so I can notify you when my next book comes out. Note: I DO NOT SPAM! You will receive only ONE email each time a new book is about to be published.
Visit Mike's website http://mikedennisnoir.com
Please leave a review.
OTHER BOOKS BY MIKE DENNIS
The Key West Nocturnes Series
SETUP ON FRONT STREET
THE GHOSTS OF HAVANA
MAN-SLAUGHTER
THE GUNS OF MIAMI (coming soon)
Available in digital and paperback
The Jack Barnett/Las Vegas Series
TEMPTATION TOWN
HARD CASH
THE DOWNTOWN DEAL
Available in digital and paperback
BLOODSTAINS ON THE WALL
Three stories from the dark side
Available in digital and paperback
THE TAKE
A novel of human desperation
Available in digital and paperback
CADILLAC'S COMIN'
A rock & roll novel
Available in digital and paperback
BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND
THE DEEP BLUE EYES
A Las Vegas noir short story
Available in digital only
THE SESSION
A short story of broken dreams
Available in digital only
HERE IS AN EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW OF
HARD CASH
The second installment in the
Jack Barnett/Las Vegas series
by Mike Dennis
A NOVELETTE
NOW AVAILABLE
HARD CASH
© Mike Dennis, 2011
I
THERE’S this place in Las Vegas they call the Neon Boneyard. It's where a lot of the old casino and hotel/motel signs are stored. They call it a museum, kind of like the city's version of the Guggenheim, but the place is really nothing more than a big walled-in outdoor lot in a pretty creepy neighborhood on the north rim of downtown.
You go there and you'll see those old neon giants sitting on the ground, unlit, ghostly shadows of their glorious selves back when they towered majestically over bustling boulevards.
I took a guided tour of the Boneyard one cold February afternoon, and somewhere near the end of the tour guide's spiel, I split myself off from the rest of the group to explore on my own. I wandered to a remote corner of the lot where I stood alone under the chill blue sky, without the chattering guide. Dwarfed among the enormous signs, I could feel the spooky silence. Like they were awaiting resurrection.
I wanted to soak up a little local culture. I've been living in Las Vegas ever since I moved up from LA almost two years ago, back in the spring of 2001. All I really knew about this city was what I'd heard, so I thought I'd get out and see some history, or what passes for history around here.
A town like this, you don't have to dig too deep to uncover the past.
≈≈≈
Following the tour, I stepped out of the Boneyard lot onto the sidewalk. As I climbed into my car half a block away, I heard a sudden, violent thump to my immediate left. I spun around to see a man tumble hard to the pavement not fifteen feet away. The tan cargo van that hit him squealed wide around the corner, weaving across both lanes of Wilson Avenue, and sped toward Maryland Parkway, where it would eventually melt into northside traffic. I caught printing on the side and back of the van, but I couldn't grab the plate number.
I rushed to him. Blood streamed from his right ear, and he struggled for breath. When I pulled out my cell phone to call 911, he clutched my forearm as best he could, gasping for words. With thinning black hair, he appeared to be middle-aged, of slender build, maybe Hispanic.
By the time I finished the call, he had reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, unsteadily digging out a thick white envelope. Quaking, he handed it to me. I saw writing, but I didn't stop to look. Desperate brown eyes begged me to listen as he tried to speak. I cradled his head. In the background, I heard a couple of cars passing by. No one stopped.
"G-g-give … to … " He hacked and moaned in pain.
"Give this to who? To who?" Without thinking, I stuffed the envelope inside my shirt. I looked around. No pedestrians anywhere on this back street.
His eyes rolled upward into his head and blood kept pouring out of his ear, flowing across the cold asphalt toward the gutter.
"Who? Who?" I shouted.
His labored breath tried to form words. "Bla … Bl …" He exhaled once, and I knew he was gone.
I departed the scene ASAP. Once the cops got here and caught sight of a corpse, I wanted to be far, far away.
Because I'm Jack Barnett, thirty-six, former private investigator from Los Angeles, and the authorities there revoked my PI license back in the spring of '01. I won't go into it here, but I'll just say I went a little too far on this one job, and my hot temper got me into deep shit once again. Turned out to be a pretty serious affair, so I felt I'd better split town right way. Once I got to Las Vegas, I kept a low profile, realizing California might well have a warrant out for me. So the last thing I need right now is some cop taking my data and running it through the system.
Also, there was the matter of the envelope.
I hustled back to my car and fired it up. I drove away, my eyes shifting between the road and the rear view mirror. No one, except for the dead man, was on the street. I felt the envelope bulging inside my shirt, and from the minute I first touched it, I had a pretty good idea of what was inside. Patting it a couple of times, I headed directly home, without exceeding the speed limit.
Once in the relative safety of my apartment, I relaxed and poured myself a straight-up Dalmore. I took a quick sip.
Now, I have to say right here single-malt Scotch is the only luxury I allow myself. My income has dropped off the cliff since moving to Las Vegas, so I'm forced to live in a sparsely furnished, one-bedroom apartment near downtown, but I make sure I have the good shit to drink.
After the second smooth sip, I sat on the sofa and pulled the envelope out of my shirt. It was larger than your average letter-type envelope and made of heavy paper stock. Two layers of mailing tape across the seal kept its dense contents from bursting it open. Handwriting on the outside: the initials "JBB". Printed in the upper left-hand corner were the words "Blake Enterprises" overlaying a slick-looking corporate logo.
I tore it open. A bundle of loose cash spilled out onto my lap. Hundred-dollar bills, every one of them. Reflexively, I stole a quick look around my empty apartment. There was nothing else in the envelope, nothing to indicate what the money was for, or where it came from. Just the initials on the outside.
I began counting. Ninety-five thousand dollars and two Scotches later, my mind lurched forward, assessing questions about the dead man in the street, the money, and the initials on the envelope.
You can bet your sweet ass I wanted to keep the money. I mean, come on, the guy gave it to me, and I was under no obligation whatever to pass it on to someone else. In addition, if he was run down deliberately, the driver of the van didn't stop to get it himself, which means he didn't know the guy was carrying that kind of cash. That meant he wouldn't come after me for it, even if he knew who I was, which he didn't.
