Skin Game

by J. D. Allen

  “Do you always need an escape route?”

  “Nope. But best to have one planned for the times you do.”

  They reached a bar. Its surface was bright and appeared to be slithering along like a neon snake as lights danced under the semi-opaque surface. The wall of liquor bottles behind it was equally opulent. Backlit bottles lined the thing from one end to the other, probably sixty feet, and then up at least fifteen gleaming rows high. Jim pulled a chrome-and-black stool out far enough for her to climb up.

  Movement from the side caught Jim’s attention. Mike Stands was making his way over. Mike was an older guy, very distinguished-looking in his black suit, white shirt, and neat black tie. “Jim Bean.” Mike stuck out his hand. “What brings you out to the Springs?” He glanced at Erica. “Whatever it is, the company you keep has improved dramatically.”

  “Mike.” Jim ignored his comment about Erica being his company. “I could ask you the same thing. Last I saw you was at the Rio.”

  “Zant bought this place a few months back. I got promoted. Front-of-the-house manager.” He pulled on his jacket lapel as if to straighten the perfect coat.

  Jim grunted, not happy that Zant owned this club as well. Didn’t bode well. The evidence was piling up enough that Jim had to accept Zant was involved with Chris’s disappearance. Maybe not directly, but …

  A young girl, also dressed in all black, approached from behind the bar. “What can I get you?”

  Jim ordered a Scotch. Erica asked for hot tea.

  “I’m looking for info.”

  Mike indicated he was listening with a tilt of the head.

  “You have any girls go missing lately?”

  He shrugged. “Not that I noticed. Maybe some regular turnover. But I’ve only been up here a few weeks. Carl takes care of the girls. That would be back of the house.”

  The bartender slid Jim’s drink in front of him and a large mug of hot water and a shiny tea caddy on the bar. Erica seemed overly excited about the tea. After looking at the selection, she chose one and dunked the bag into her mug.

  Jim took a small sip. “Does the name Chris Floyd ring a bell?” He said it while the bartender was still there. The girl showed no reaction at all to hearing Chris’s name.

  Once she stepped away Mike leaned closer, lowered his voice. “Sorry. If you want to talk to one of the girls, wait a little bit. Two more songs and most of them will go back and change for individual performances.

  “Thanks.”

  He leaned closer still. Gave Jim a stern look. “No trouble, Bean. Seriously. I can’t afford to lose this gig. The old lady will kill me.”

  Jim raised his glass. Tipped it toward the guy. He didn’t have any intention of making trouble. Never did. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Just for you.”

  “Right.” Mike straightened his tie again. Maybe he didn’t trust Jim so much. He had no reason as far as Jim could think of, he hadn’t busted up the Rio when Mike was running things. Not that he remembered anyway.

  “The dressing rooms are behind the DJ booth. I mean it, Bean. No trouble and don’t scare the girls.”

  16

  Jim smiled as nicely at Mike as he could. “I’ll leave them all unscathed. Scout’s honor.”

  Mike didn’t look convinced. “I would bet my wife’s boob job you were never a scout.”

  Oh but he had been. Eagle Scout, as a matter of fact, but that was all before. Regardless, Mike had little to worry over. Pissing off Banks yesterday had been stupid enough.

  Jim turned to look out over the show. It was loud and Vegas-style gaudy, with the strippers all dressed in the coordinating costumes. The difference between the chicks here and real showgirls was that in about two minutes most of these girls would be buck naked and hanging around the scattered tables dancing up close and personal for tips. Showgirls stayed on the stage like it was theater. No table dancing.

  “Enjoy your stay, Miss.” Mike gave Erica a slight bow. “If you need anything, let me know. Anything at all. I’ll be happy to arrange transportation for you if the need arises. You won’t be the first date to abandon this one.”

  “Funny guy.”

  Jim watched Erica flash her gorgeous smile at Mike. “I’m fine. Thank you,” she said.

  He turned his attention to the rest of the room as Mike walked away. “Our time with the girls will be short.”

  She sipped her tea. “Okay.”

  “Mike will tell the back-of-the-house guy we’re here, but he’s giving us a little time. So when we get back there, pick one. I’ll take a second. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  She nodded. The song ended and another started. The girls moved around the room, changing tables, enticing money from different men. Four or five headed to the dressing room. “Let’s go now.”

  Erica didn’t question his decision. She got up and matched his pace to the DJ booth. Even that was big, and a half story up. They found the stairs behind it, passed the guy spinning the songs for the girls. The walls were black. The door to the dressing room was black. Without the bits of reflective tape on the corners and by the push plate, he’d have missed it.

  He pushed in. It looked like a locker room. Several rows of wooden lockers were to the right. On the left was a bank of mirrors, well lit and with vanities in front for makeup. He headed that way. Pointed Erica toward the four women by the lockers.

  There was one sitting alone in front of the mirrors. She was a little too old for this new shiny club. Big-money clubs were the playing field of the young. If she was working this room, she’d been around.

  He set a twenty on the counter. “Just a question.”

  She looked down at the bill and started on her lipstick in the mirror.

  “Chris Floyd?” He pulled out a picture. Held it up. “You seen her here?”

  “Who’s looking?” She looked at the pic and back to the money.

  He set another twenty on top of it. “Jim Bean, PI from Vegas.” He nodded at Erica across the room chatting with the other women. “Her sister’s looking. No cops.”

  She finished her lips. Picked up some kind of black pencil and started in on her eyebrows. None of which was helping her cause, in Jim’s opinion.

  “Could be. But, sayin’ so ain’t worth the trouble for that.”

  “When?” He put another bill on the stack.

  She put her hand on top of the stash and pulled it off the vanity. She folded it twice and tucked it in by her belly. Jim did his best not to notice any of it. “About three weeks ago. She was green. Real green. Then she weren’t here anymore.”

  “You talk to her at all?”

  The woman made an amused grunt. “Don’t do no good to make friends around here. Specially with the green ones.”

  He glanced at Erica. She was pleading, just like she had been with Edmond Carver. The girls were giving her the same kind of pity-filled look. But none seemed to be talking.

  The door slammed open. Another man in a suit came through. Was most likely Carl, back-of-the-house man. Carl was big. Not Banks big, but Jim didn’t want any trouble. Time was up.

  He smiled. Pressed another bill onto the counter. “So I’ll bring the birthday boy Tuesday.” It was loud enough for the big guy to hear and it covered her. “You’ll take care of him?”

  “You bet your ass I will.” She scooped up the additional bill.

  “Let’s go, babe. I’ve got it all arranged.” Erica had a pale face. But she came to his side and let him take her hand. “Great place you have here.” Carl stepped out of the way as they passed. “We’ll see you Tuesday.”

  He ushered her out. “The big girl,” Erica said as they made their way back past the DJ booth.

  “Not yet. We need to be out of here to keep the girls out of trouble.” He made it straight for the door. It came open without needing to be buzzed from the inside.

&nbs
p; He led her back toward the car. “Now tell me.”

  “I thought she might have fit the bigger costume. So I talked to her more directly. I showed her Chris’s pictures. They all looked scared. But she almost cried. All of them denied seeing Chris, ever, said they were very sorry for me. But they’ve seen her, Korey. I know they have.”

  He didn’t comment on the mention of his real name. She was starting to cry again.

  “I figured that too. But the old girl didn’t know where she’d gone. Said Chris was green.”

  “They didn’t say they’d ever seen her, but you can tell when people are lying. Scared and lying.” Erica was trying to slow down.

  Jim nodded. Kept walking toward the car with his hand at her back. They were being watched, he was sure of that.

  “She did tell me something strange just before we left. Once the guy came in.”

  “What?” He opened the back door to the SUV and let her in.

  “She grabbed my hand and said the back of the place was hardly ever cleaned at night.” He looked at her through the rearview as he started the truck. “She’s saying there is something out back we should see, isn’t she?”

  “Sounds like it.” He pulled out of the lot. Turned south.

  “Then go back.”

  He looked out into the dark night, trying to see past the headlights. Go back? To snoop around a Zant property? When doing so might implicate Andrew Zant in a missing persons case? Actually, two missing persons cases … possibly a murder. Possibly three murders.

  Not likely.

  Zant owned Jim Bean at the moment.

  17

  Erica’s voice was so high she was almost screaming, the sound piercing his eardrums like ice picks. It’d gotten slowly higher the farther they’d made it away from the club. He got it: she was scared and sure the strippers had been telling her Chris was dead.

  “You have to go back. Call Miller. Chris’s body might be back there somewhere.”

  He’d kept his mouth shut. Wasn’t sure what the fuck he was going to do. But he needed a moment to think. He pulled into the back parking lot of the Hotel Anonymous, stopped the car, and turned to face her in the seat.

  “Look at me.” She did. She was gripping her purse tightly. “Take a deep breath. They would not be so dumb to leave bodies out behind their club, on their own property, for days in the Nevada sun. Would they?” Jim made it a question on purpose. She’d have to think it through. Consider.

  “No. I guess not.”

  “I need you to trust that I know what I’m doing. Give me a few hours.”

  She nodded but still looked like she was ready to shatter at the slightest touch or breeze.

  “Can you do that? Trust me?”

  She looked as if she was concentrating, trying to see his logic. He tried not to think back to Ohio and the last time he’d counted on her to trust him. And maybe this time she shouldn’t. He wasn’t sure of himself or his actions at this moment. She took a few more steadying breaths. “Yes. I will.”

  He wished now he’d worded the question differently. He didn’t want her trust now. He no longer deserved it. He wasn’t sure whose interest he would serve first if it came down to it—hers, Chris’s, or his own. But she was making the decision to be strong, and that he needed. “Do you have the cash you were going to use to check in at the Paris with you?”

  She nodded again.

  He nodded to the no-tell motel, as she’d called it. “Go in. Check in. Two nights. Use another name. Say you lost your driver’s license.”

  “Two?”

  “More cash. Less reason to care about your missing license. Grease makes things work easier.”

  “Makes sense. What are you going to do?”

  That was a good question. First, he needed to think for a minute without her in his grill. She’d been in his head for two days. He’d thought more about her and the past than he had this case. Hadn’t taken it seriously enough. He needed to figure this thing out. Or … Maybe he’d just head for Florida. Not look back. Leave and not face this mess. He’d gotten good at that. Avoidance, the therapist had called it.

  “What I’m trained to do. Relax. Watch cheap cable. Rest.”

  She stepped out of his truck.

  “Erica.”

  She straightened, turned.

  “If you don’t hear from me by morning, you call Adair. Follow the plan. Get in your rental car. Fly home.”

  Because by morning, Jim might well be on his way to the Keys. The Showgirl being a Zant-owned establishment made it pretty clear the man was involved on some level with Chris. That meant Jim could not be involved. His cousin Alexis and her son would be put in danger if Andrew Zant found out Jim was nosing around after the girls in his clubs. Mike had seen him, and Banks most likely saw him too. He was in it up to his bloodshot eyeballs.

  “Is it that bad?” She closed the back door and leaned on the hood looking at him. “You think she’s dead and you want me out of the way?”

  “It’s bad. It’s been bad all along, only I didn’t see it. I figured Chris was shacking up with some bouncer, maybe just got hooked on something, got off track. I was wrong. They know who you are. If someone did kill Chris, you’re now next. You’re a target. I should have sent you home right away.”

  Her face was drawn, her eyes despondent. “If you don’t show, I’ll go home. But then what? Try the police again? Call the feds?”

  “Noah Miller. No one else.”

  Jim put the car in gear before the conversation could go any deeper. No matter what, Miller would fix things. Finish the case or not. Jim could fill him in. Have Miller send a car for her and then Jim could get gone. Clear conscience.

  “Fake name. Fake address,” he reminded her.

  She stepped back. He pulled out of the parking lot. South. He should go home, grab the cat and some clothes, and keep going.

  He drove for twenty minutes.

  Mentally he checked off a laundry list of things that could be behind the Showgirl. He slowed to a crawl.

  Turned the car around.

  And sat at a standstill in the middle of the road. Lights appeared in his rearview. Heading north. He had to accelerate.

  Crap. He pulled over, slamming the shifter a little harder than he intended. The truck jerked to a stop. Jim Bean got out and paced around the deserted road. Dust from the passing car filled his nose.

  Staying involved now would be committing a murder/suicide. Yep. This case would get him and Alexis dead. The deal had been clear. No loopholes for Jim Bean in the negotiations. Zant agreed to let Alexis leave Vegas and stay alive, but only if Jim agreed to owe him.

  And he had paid. More than once. And not in ways Jim was too proud of.

  But it hadn’t been enough. How many favors was Alexis’s life worth, really?

  As many as Zant asked for.

  Working a case that placed Zant into a position that might associate the casino owner with missing girls and a dead body? Well, that was no favor.

  Jim hated it. Hated the thought of ever helping the cretin again, but Alexis and her son were safe. Their continuing safety depended on him.

  And now so did Erica’s. And Chris’s.

  He looked north. The sky was clear. Stars everywhere. How had he been cursed with this shit?

  What was behind that bar that those strippers wanted Erica to see? Probably nothing. Probably used-up drug paraphernalia. Nothing that he would give a rat’s ass about in the long run. He sighed. The mystery would kill him. What if it was Chris’s body? Jim needed to know. The investigator in him couldn’t walk away from that kind of tip. His goddamn curiosity. That and Erica Floyd were going to be the death of him.

  He’d check it out and then decide what to do.

  He killed the headlights as he pulled into the golf course. He crept passed the temporary clubhouse an
d followed the one-lane road to the maintenance shack, pulled behind that. He donned a lightweight black jacket, checked his digital camera for battery life, then checked his boot for his knife.

  He determined the direction of the club by the direction of the low mountains in the distance. Jim started walking, trying not to think too much.

  He was walking directly across the holes so he only got to get a look at about four of them. Golf. When was the last time he got to play golf? Never on a course like this. The course, what he could see of it, was beautiful. It was all he’d see of it. Out of his league, price-wise so he enjoyed the landscaping in the dark as he passed.

  Eventually the lush, watered fairways and putting greens gave way to the rough Nevada landscape. He walked another mile after he came out the far side of the fifteenth hole and around a contrived water hazard. There were no naturally occurring springs or random lakes out here. He glanced at his watch. Three a.m. The moon wasn’t full, but there was enough light he would be noticed if someone was looking.

  The back of that big metal building loomed not too far ahead. Maybe a half mile. The ground was rocky. No trees. Just scrub grass and rocks. And sand. He would have to go in low.

  He started to crawl, military style, a few hundred yards out. His knees hurt by the time he’d made it to the back of the only real cover around. He studied the scene. Fucking dumpster behind the building was the only cover there. No outbuildings, no fence, no landscaping. He watched the camera mounted over the back entrance to the club for full a minute. It was stationary, pointed down, close to the door. Not really practical for capturing the back area. If it was on, it was only monitoring the door. Easy enough to maneuver around that.

  This dumpster was not like the one he’d been painting over near Edmond Carver’s place. This thing was industrial, eight feet tall, ten feet long with sliding doors at shoulder height that locked. Most had big locks. Maybe they could hide a body out here for days. He circled around as far as he could and still be out of camera range. One of the sliding doors was pushed all the way open. He peered inside with a mirror on a telescoping wand. Bottles. Paper. Cardboard. Food remnants. No bodies. No dead-man smell. Very little smell at all.