Also by Megan Edwards
Roads from the Ashes:
An Odyssey in Real Life on the Virtual Frontier
Getting Off on Frank Sinatra
Strings: A Love Story
IMBRIFEX BOOKS
Published by Flattop Productions, Inc.
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Las Vegas, NV 89123
Copyright © 2017 by Megan Edwards. All Rights Reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the express written permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. For further information, please contact the Publisher, Imbrifex Books, 8275 S. Eastern Avenue, Suite 200, Las Vegas, NV 89123.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
IMBRIFEX® is a registered trademark of Flattop Productions, Inc.
Set in Adobe Caslon, Designed by Sue Campbell
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ISBN 9781945501005 (paperback)
ISBN 9781945501098 (e-book)
ISBN 9781945501104 (audiobook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017934397
First Edition: November 2017
For Margaret Sedenquist
Champion
Crusader
Benefactor
Blonde
“The job at the Bucks County Reporter is perfect for you.”
“It is. You’re right.”
“Darling, you’ll love Pennsylvania!”
“No, Mom. I’m going to Las Vegas.”
This little interchange took place last April, right after the letter carrier had dropped off two pristine white envelopes to my parents’ house and I had opened them in the kitchen while my mom drank her late-morning coffee.
I remember it as though it happened ten minutes ago. I had graduated from college three years earlier. The internship scene in New York City was getting old, as was commuting from my parents’ house in Connecticut.
All at once on that crisp spring morning, I had two genuine full-time job offers. I read them both to my mother, prompting the interchange I reported above.
Things might have been so different. If, for example, the offer from Bucks County had arrived a day earlier instead of in tandem with the one from southern Nevada.
Or maybe if it hadn’t been the era of “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas.” If I hadn’t seen—and enjoyed—all those seductive commercials promising guilt-free anonymity in Sin City, who knows how I would have responded to the lovely offer of an assistant editorship on the right side of the tracks in Pennsylvania?
But the slogan was ubiquitous and irresistible, and as I reread the letter offering me a position at The Las Vegas Light, I could swear it glowed with a hint of neon.
Of course, Mom was right that Pennsylvania was the safer choice. But even she had no inkling then of just how right she was. Even with her often overactive imagination, my worrywart mother couldn’t have dreamed up what actually lay in store for me. Looking back, I wonder if things would have been different if she had been able to foretell the future.
Copper, burglars are going to ransack your apartment. A thug in a ski mask is going to slash you with a knife. You’re going to get mixed up in murder. And that’s not the worst of it. Copper, darling, you’re going to make friends with a prostitute!
It wouldn’t have mattered. I was twenty-four and itching to build a career. Las Vegas was a beehive of pop culture, and stultifying suburban security held as much appeal as an iron lung. Once I decided to go to Las Vegas, no one could have talked me out of it.
Chapter 1
Friday, December 9
I carry business cards that read “Copper Black, Assistant Editor.” To my parents, they’re reassuring proof I’m a bona fide journalist, but what my title really means is that I update show listings and bring caffe lattes to Chris Farr, the arts and entertainment editor. But my parents are in Connecticut, where it’s far more satisfying to imagine me interviewing celebrities.
“Copper,” my mother will say on the phone, “I read that Bill Clinton was in Las Vegas last week. Did you meet him?”
No, Mom. I was standing in line at Starbucks.
Not that I haven’t learned a lot in my nearly eight months in Las Vegas. I know about high pollen counts and flash floods, the shortage of obstetricians, and the abundance of Mormon churches. I’m an expert at giving and following directions using casinos as landmarks. I know that when real Nevadans said “Nevada,” the VAD rhymes with MAD. Only newscasters broadcasting from Rockefeller Center say Ne-VAH-da. Well, I used to, too, but I’ve acclimatized.
Even so, I still have a lot to learn, even about subjects as ordinary as the good old-fashioned Yellow Pages. Remember those big fat books we used to use as booster seats and doorstops? I thought they had died out along with phone booths, but there’s a whole bookcase full of them at The Light. They’ve been relegated to the far side of the lunchroom, probably their last stop on the road to extinction, but there they are. I was eating lunch alone that Friday, so out of curiosity, I pulled one out to keep me and my ramen noodles company. I had just returned to my table when a familiar but unwelcome raspy voice fell on my ears.
“Hey, blondie, help me out and turn to ‘Entertainers’ in the Yellow Pages you’ve got there.”
I looked up to see Ed Bramlett leering at me from his usual spot near the windows. He covers business at The Light. Next to him, wearing a similar expression, was J.C. Dillon, who has the local government beat. They both have at least thirty years on me, and they liked nothing better than to see me blush. When I first arrived, they could turn me crimson in a matter of moments, but I’ve toughened up.
“It’s Copper,” I said, looking back down. “Do you need some entertainment, Ed?” I hoped I sounded sufficiently sarcastic.
“Not when I have you, sweetie,” Ed said. J.C. emitted a snort that was supposed to pass for a laugh.
I should have ignored them, but I flipped to the “E” section. I know now that I should not have been expecting discreet ads for piano players, but I was still a Vegas newbie.
“FULL SERVICE BLONDES,” read the three-inch headline staring me in the face. I looked up, and Ed smiled triumphantly as I felt my cheeks warming. I am the world’s fastest blusher, and I was glad I had worn my hair long that day. It covered my ears, which always heat up even more violently than my face. But I wasn’t embarrassed. I was angry. Ed had succeeded in turning me red again.
“It means they bring you coffee,” Ed said, and J.C. snorted again. I slapped the phone book shut. Clutching it in one hand and my cup of noodles in the other, I stalked out of the lunchroom.
Back in my cubicle, I turned the pages once again to the letter E. The section dedicated to “Entertainers” went on for at least a hundred pages, and most of the ads were just like the one Ed had needled me with: “Full Service Blondes,” “Barely Legal Asians,” “College Hardbodies in Short Skirts.”
I called David Nussbaum, thanking God as I dialed that at least one of the reporters at The Light didn’t treat me like an inflatable doll.
“David, this is Copper. I’ve got some questions about prostitution in Las Vegas. It’s illegal, right?”
“Yeah, it’s illegal in Clark County. Why?”
“Is it really, thou
gh? I mean, there are those trucks that drive up and down the Strip advertising ‘Girls direct to your room.’ And those guys who snap little cards at you on the sidewalk. And … well, I’m just flipping through the Yellow Pages, and the section under ‘Entertainers’ looks a lot like—”
“Call girls.”
“Yeah. ‘Discreet and Confidential.’ ‘Full Service.’”
“The ads aren’t illegal, even though what they’re promoting is. What’s ironic is that the legal brothels over in Nye County can’t advertise like that, even though they pay taxes and follow all the rules. But why are you so interested in prostitution all of a sudden? Thinking of a career change? Tired of being Calendar Girl?”
“Don’t start, David.” I told him about Ed Bramlett’s latest gambit.
“Copper, there is nothing more threatening to an old reporter than young talent. He’s just jealous.”
“Of the coffee chick whose assignments mostly involve chasing down lounge singers?”
“Of youth. Of beauty. Of a degree from Princeton.”
I was so glad David and I had Princeton in common, even though he graduated before I got there. I never fully appreciated the value of old school ties until I got this job. I was still an outsider, but at least there was somebody of the same species in a nearby cubicle.
“Got any good plans for the weekend?” David asked.
“I was thinking about driving up to Zion tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve never been.”
“It’s really beautiful with snow on the ground. Have fun.”
“How about you?” I asked.
“Working.”
I really had nothing to complain about. Coffee-bearing Calendar Girls don’t have to work on weekends.
I finished my lunch in my cubicle. David said Ed Bramlett would count it as a victory, but I figured screw the old goat. He didn’t seem to have the vaguest inkling that I could nail him with a sexual harassment suit, and he was lucky I didn’t come to Vegas gunning for sexist pigs. I knew I had to be tough to make it in journalism. I stayed in my cubicle so I could get some work done. I didn’t have time to waste sparring with a leathery old misogynist.
Chapter 2
Monday, December 12
David was right about Zion. It was fantastic, fully deserving of its National Park status. I hiked the Riverside Walk and made it back to my car just in time to see the sun set on a huge red-rock formation called the Temple of Sinawava. The only thing that could have made my day better was if the man who held the keys to my heart had been there with me.
Daniel Garside was the one person who could have kept me on the East Coast. When he got an internship at the National Arboretum after college, I tried to find a job in Washington, D.C. New York was the closest I could get, which at least allowed us to spend a lot of weekends together. I figured we’d find a way to live together once he decided on a graduate school, but then he got a Wilberforce Fellowship and flew off to Costa Rica to study tropical mistletoe. We talked almost every day, but I hadn’t seen him in the flesh since February. The countdown to Christmas seemed interminable, but somehow I had to make it through another twelve days.
I had breakfast in the house with my sister-in-law before we both went to work. We watched The Morning Show while we ate. Kathie Pitchford was interviewing a woman named Victoria McKimber. Even though Victoria looked like she was on the wrong side of forty, she had masses of curly platinum blonde hair. It had to be a wig, although her fair skin and blue eyes made me wonder if it might be real. Then again, maybe the fair skin and blue eyes were fake, too. Anyway, she was wearing a tight, low-cut knit top that showed off a pair of casabas that were either very expensive or a sure sign God loved her.
“When you entered American Beauty’s Queen of Sales contest, did you tell American Beauty the true nature of your profession?” Kathie asked.
“No,” Victoria replied, “and they didn’t ask. The contest was open to active distributors of American Beauty products, which I have been for the last ten years.”
“So you didn’t tell them you work for—”
“That I’m a prostitute? No. There was no reason. Prostitution is legal where I work in Nevada.”
“She’s a hooker,” Sierra said, her mouth full of cinnamon toast. “I knew it. Although she’s farther over the hill than most.”
“How do you know?” I asked, though I wasn’t surprised she did. My sister-in-law had been my main source of information about Nevada culture ever since she and my brother invited me to move into the apartment over their garage.
Sierra’s a native. She even worked as an “exotic dancer” after she graduated from Bonanza High School. That’s a secret, though, at least as far as my parents are concerned. Sierra’s convinced they’d die of blue-blooded shock if they knew their son was married to a woman who used to give lap dances. She’s probably right. They have a hard enough time telling their Fairfield County friends that both of their children live in Las Vegas—by choice!
“Oh, come on, Copper, look at her. She’s closing in on fifty. Most of them are your age—mine at the outside.” Sierra turned thirty-two on Halloween.
We kept watching as Kathie elicited all the details of Victoria McKimber’s rise to Sales Queen fame. She’d won local and regional contests before heading for Kansas City, where a few days ago she beat out a dozen other American Beauty distributors to win a tiara, a pink Impala, and a year-long contract to star in American Beauty’s television commercials.
And now, American Beauty was going to take it all away. Accusing Victoria of concealing information that she knew would damage the company’s reputation, American Beauty’s top brass had rescinded her crown, cancelled the Chevy, and torn up the contract.
“When I revealed my profession at the first pageant, they were horrified, but they hoped I’d lose the regional competition and just disappear,” Victoria told Kathie. “They were total jerks about it. And then I won, so they threatened to take away my distributorship.”
“And that’s when you hired an attorney?” Kathie asked.
“Yeah, I got a lawyer interested,” Victoria said, “and she told them to go pound sand. But now that I’ve won the crown, they’re freaked about one little ol’ working girl—” She paused, looked straight at the camera, and shook her mass of blonde curls. With a smile, she went on. “They think I’m out to destroy their brand, so they’re pulling out the big guns. But I’m not going down without a fight. This is the United States of America, and I’ve done nothing illegal.”
“Oh, my God,” I said, looking at my watch. “I’m late for work.”
The one very bad thing about having to bring morning coffee for your boss is that he always knows if you’re late. Fortunately, Chris Farr was even later than I was, and his latte was cooling on his desk by the time he arrived.
I was on the phone with a publicist from the Golden Sands when David Nussbaum appeared at my desk.
“Yes,” I was saying, “I got the press release on Friday, and it’ll be in this week’s Dazzle section.” I hung up. “The Golden Sands is having open tryouts for a new Golden Girl.”
“You get all the fun stories, Copper.”
His comment didn’t deserve an answer.
“Remember how you were asking about call girls on Friday?” David continued. “Well, I’ve got to interview one today, and I thought you might like to come along.”
“What’s the story?”
“She won a national sales contest sponsored by a cosmetics company, and—”
“Victoria McKimber?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“I saw her on TV this morning,” I said. “But she was in New York. She was on The Morning Show.”
“She would have been on Late Night tonight, but she had to come home.”
“Home?”
“Yup, she’s one of our own. Works at the Beav
ertail Ranch in Pahrump.”
“I’d love to go, but I can’t leave now,” I said. “It’s Monday, and—”
“I know,” David said, “but she doesn’t get in until this afternoon. I’m meeting her at the Silverado at five. You can ride with me if you like, and I can bring you back here afterward.”
The Silverado is a “locals’ casino” a few miles south of the airport. I had never been there even though the person handling their publicity offered me free tickets to a magic show every time I talked to her. I was going to have to skip lunch and talk fast to get all my Monday calls and calendar updates done, but Chris Farr had an editorial meeting at four o’clock. If I got caught up, he wouldn’t mind if I left half an hour early.
I was about to meet a real live hooker who was smack in the middle of her fifteen minutes of fame. And for fifteen minutes, the Calendar Girl could feel like a real reporter instead of the title of an old Neil Sedaka song.
David Nussbaum reappeared at my desk just as I was making my last call, and we walked out to the parking lot together. David is an East Coast Jewish preppie who wears tweed jackets, rimless glasses, and Hush Puppies. But instead of the Saab that would complete his Ivy League style, he drives a Jeep, and it isn’t one of those upscale soccer mom models. It’s a basic canvas-topped Army man vehicle. It’s even got two extra gas cans strapped to the back, as though David’s never sure when he might get an assignment in the middle of Death Valley.
Not that I think it’s fair to judge someone on the car they drive. I mean, I hope no one thinks mine is a four-wheeled personality statement. I drive a white Chrysler minivan, a “Town & Country” I would never in a geologic age have selected for myself. My father chose it using the flawed logic that I’d be safer driving a large vehicle. He drove the thing—“right off the lot”—out to Princeton in October of my senior year. My mom followed in their BMW, and they handed the keys to me over dinner. “Happy Birthday!” they said. My birthday’s in March, so the car was definitely a surprise. So was the fact that it looked like the sort of thing a suburban housewife with a large brood might drive.
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