Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  “What’s Luther got on the stove, Shorty?” I asked.

  “Jambalaya made with shrimp, chicken, andouille sausage, and lots and lots of love. Had a plate earlier, thoroughly enjoyed it.”

  “You sold me with the love.”

  “I knew I would, Trip.”

  Shorty went back to the kitchen to put in my order. I took a big gulp from my mug and turned my head in a circle. My neck snapped, crackled, and popped like a Buddy Rich solo. Shorty soon returned with my grub, and I dug in. He was right, I could taste the love. I was halfway into Luther’s magnum opus when Betsy appeared, lugging a box of bottles. She hoisted it onto the bar next to me.

  “You look like you’ve been rung through the ringer,” she said, wiping her forehead

  “You can say that again, Bets.”

  It was either how I said it, or I truly did look like I’d been rung through a ringer, but Betsy’s tone changed. She took a seat on the stool next to me. “Is everything okay?”

  “Truthfully, Bets? Nothing is okay.”

  I proceeded to tell her everything. It felt good to have someone hear my story and not think I was totally fruit loops.

  “Do you figure your apartment was broken into by the same guys who tried to kidnap you?” Betsy asked.

  “Maybe, whoever they are. Or that guy Clegg, whoever he is.”

  “The men in the Cadillac, what did they look like?”

  “Big. Real big. Serious types. Dark hair, square jaws, no personality.”

  “That sounds like the men who were in here Saturday night with Mr. B.”

  “Yeah, sort of thought they might be one and the same. Eighty-Eight said they were Ken’s friends. What do you think? Did they seem like his friends to you?”

  Betsy shrugged. “When it gets busy, I have my hands full just making sure everybody gets served. I only remember those men from Saturday because Mr. B usually comes in alone.”

  I nodded.

  “Except for Friday night…or maybe it was Thursday…no, it was Friday.”

  “Why? Was he with them Friday night too?”

  “No, he wasn’t with them, he was with a girl. A pretty one, blonde hair, fancy type. They came in late. Sort of figured she was workin’ on account girls like her don’t typically go for fellas like Mr. B unless there’s a whoppin’ exchange of cash involved.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “A lady like that sticks out around here. They came in after last call and caught some of Eighty-Eight’s last set, but Shorty served them anyway. They sat at Mr. B’s usual table.”

  “Bets, that sounds like my friend Lydia.”

  “No kidding? So she really was his girlfriend?”

  I didn’t respond because I was trying to get my mind around Ken and Lydia being in The Jam Jar together the night before she was murdered.

  “She sure was a pretty thing, can’t believe she’s dead,” Betsy said. “And the police don’t have any record of you reporting her murder?”

  “As far as they’re concerned, Lydia quit her job and moved away. And apparently she did quit her job. But Bets, I saw what I saw. Now Ken’s dead too.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised something bad happened to Mr. B if he worked at that place he told you he worked.”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Oh, yeah. I probably shouldn’t have, but I’ve heard of it all right. People come in here all the time with crazy stories about the goings-on up there in the desert. Really strange unholy stuff too, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t,” I replied.

  “They talk about things flying around in the sky that ain’t supposed to be up there. Like flying saucers from outer space. Some say they got real live Martians up there.”

  “Betsy, that’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m not saying I believe the stories. I’m just telling you what I hear. People come in, have a drink or two, and start talking, that’s all I’m saying. You know, awhile back a couple of the regulars decided to go up there and check things out for themselves.”

  “And what’d they find?”

  “Don’t know. They ain’t been back in. And no one’s heard from them since.”

  I was about to ask their names when Luther walked up.

  “You going to sit there yappin’, baby girl, or are you going to get to stocking that bar before the crowd starts showing up?”

  Betsy jumped up. “Calm your horses, old man.”

  Luther winked at me and smiled.

  Betsy said, “Daddy, Trip’s got a problem. You need to talk to him.”

  “No, Betsy, your father doesn’t need—”

  “What’s going on, Trip?” Luther asked, taking Betsy’s place on the barstool.

  I hemmed and hawed, but Luther has a way about him, so I eventually relented. I started off by explaining how I didn’t want to drag The Jam Jar into the middle of things. Luther, not surprisingly, blew off my concern with a roll of his eyes. I then proceeded to tell him everything like I’d told Betsy, including the attempted filching of yours truly by Square Head and Tonto, and the complete demolition of my apartment. When I finished, Luther was firm in his directive.

  “You’re staying here until this matter is sorted out.”

  “No, Luther, that’s not—”

  “You’re staying here,” he repeated. “Now listen, I’ve done up the apartment upstairs. I plan to start bringing in acts from out of town, and I want to be able to house those folks without having to rent hotel rooms. I think it looks real nice too, bathroom, little kitchen, private entrance. You’ll be real comfortable.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll actually be doing me a favor. Kind of a dress rehearsal before the real thing. As a professional musician, you can let me know if it’s acceptable, or if you think I need to do anything else to it.”

  Friends, there are those rare souls who walk this earth who are just good through and through. Luther Beaurepaire was one of those souls, and I’ll fight anybody who says differently. I had a genuine lump in my throat when I replied, “I’m sure it’s perfect. Thanks, Luther.”

  Chapter 10

  I needed to go back to my place to get some clothes, and Luther insisted on coming with me. We took his old truck because he thought my yellow Falcon was too conspicuous. His exact words were, “They could spot that canary from Utah.” I thought he was being overly cautious, but I’m glad we did take his truck because he had some empty boxes in the bed I used to put my clothes and a few of my favorite records in. As for my record player, Luther said it didn’t look so bad, and he thought he could fix it. I don’t know if he was just saying that to make me feel better, but if he was, it did. We were in and out of apartment E and back at the The Jam Jar in under an hour.

  It was a single L-shaped room, bare walls, and sparsely furnished with a bed, a desk, two chairs, a coffee table, a dresser, and a sofa. Those were my new digs. Though small, about half the size of apartment E, it was exceptionally clean and surprisingly comfortable. True, there was little doubt I was living above a night club—I could hear every brilliant note Eighty-Eight tinkled on the ivories as well as every drink order Betsy yelled out to Shorty—but the cacophony wasn’t all that annoying, and I even found it kind of comforting.

  After settling in, I wasted no time returning to my east and westbound trains. I grabbed a pen and paper and plopped down on the couch. On the surface, my excursion to Lydia’s gleaned nothing. But the more I thought about it, the more things nagged at my noggin. I jotted them down as they came to me, and the more I jotted, the more things kept coming to me. It was like dominoes; every time I toppled one, another fell, then another, then another. Here’s what I mean: Cowboy Dan said he left Saturday morning for Reno. Given Lydia was killed early Sunday morning…that meant she must have written the note informing him she was moving out sometime Saturday before going into work. So, the question was, what happened Saturday to cause her to suddenly quit her job and move out of her apartment? Which led me to this: Cow
boy Dan said Lydia didn’t own a car. Okay, she didn’t own a car. Not that unusual, I suppose. But if she didn’t own a car, how did she get her stuff moved out of her apartment so quickly? She must have had help. But who? And where did it all go? Also, how did she get to Ken’s house the night she was killed? Somebody drove her out there, and I knew it wasn’t Ken because he was at The Jam Jar—both Betsy and Eighty-Eight saw him. If I had any hope of answering these questions, I knew what I had to do. Luther wouldn’t approve, but I had to venture out again, this time alone. Moreover, I had to return to the Sands and see somebody I wasn’t altogether sure wanted to see me.

  I haven’t said much, if anything, about my legendary, nay, nearly mythical adventures with the opposite sex. My reasons for avoiding the subject are twofold. One, they’re not pertinent to this story. Two, I hold fast to the credo a gentleman doesn’t go around blabbing about such things. Having said that, let me confirm that Trip Callaway is one of the more renowned Romeos gallivanting around this town. Some, I hear, have likened me to a young Valentino—not for me to say. However, this Valentino is also a man with a laser-like focus on his music career and therefore diligent in not letting anything, or anyone, highjack his flight plan. I’m certain I’ve broken many a fair maiden’s ticker with my unwavering resolve, but that’s just how it has to be. Sometimes I think it would be better if I abstained from amour completely, but alas, I’m still a red-blooded American male, and like it or not, man cannot live on bebop alone. That’s why, on occasion, I have set aside my high-minded principles and given into my more primal desires. Rosaria Consuela Lopez being one of those occasions.

  Five six, brown eyes, with long, straight, black hair, Rosaria, or Rosie to those who knew her well, was the most stunning of a bevy of stunning cocktail waitresses working in the Silver Queen, the small room at the Sands. Born in Tijuana but raised in San Diego, Rosie was considerably more beach bunny than senorita, and more woman than most mere mortal males could handle. Generally speaking, she was a sweet, caring soul until she was riled up, at which time her Latin ancestry was revealed in the form of a temper only rivaled by that of a Brahman bull. I was introduced to Rosie by Lydia shortly after being hired at the Sands. The two girls were friends, and Lydia thought Rosie and I would get along swimmingly. And we did. For two weeks. Practically a golden anniversary in Vegas years. But like all my conquests, the time came when I had to set my quarry free. I did it as gently as possible, easing her devastation with a heartfelt, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Now I could only pray she’d recovered from the bitter letdown.

  I entered the Silver Queen and found an empty stool at the bar. Before leaving my new apartment, I took time to don gray slacks, a white shirt, and a fetching blue blazer, an article of clothing Rosie always said brought out the blue in my eyes. I did this not in the hopes of re-wooing Rosie, but rather to soften any lingering hostilities she might still be harboring against me. It was a terribly trite gesture, unless it worked, and then it’d be a stroke of genius. I was about to find out which was true.

  The Eddy Lester Trio was on break, so although the room was filled, the atmosphere was fairly sedate. Johnny, the bartender, asked me what I’d like, and I didn’t hesitate in ordering a shot of courage. I tossed back the whiskey and scanned the room for Rosie. I spotted her serving drinks to a table of businessmen in the corner. I held my breath and waited. When she finally looked over and saw me, a smile as sweet as buttercups and brown sugar washed over her angelic face. Reason number one hundred and two why a man should always keep a blue blazer in his closet.

  “Trip Callaway,” she sang, setting her tray on the bar and kissing me on the cheek.

  “Hello, Rosie,” I replied. “You look lovely as always.”

  “Thank you. What brings you into the cheap seats tonight?”

  “Why does there have to be a reason? Can’t a guy just pop in and say a friendly howdy to one of his favorite people?”

  “No.”

  “I wanted to ask if you’ve talked to Lydia in the last few days. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but she quit over the weekend.”

  “I did and can’t believe it. Why would anyone quit being a Copa Girl?”

  “I was hoping you knew. I haven’t been able to get a hold of her.”

  “Not a clue. She never hinted to me she was leaving, but then again, Lydia and I haven’t seen much of one another the last couple of months.”

  “So you two still don’t ride into work together? I know you live close—”

  “Used to, not anymore. Not since Robert.”

  “Who’s Robert?”

  “My husband,” she answered, holding out her hand, displaying a sliver of cut glass on her finger.

  “You’re married?”

  “Yes,” she answered with a wide smile.

  “When did this happen?”

  “About two months ago.”

  I think my jaw literally fell open. “But Rosie, two months ago, weren’t you and I still dating?”

  “Trip, you and I never actually dated. Sure, we went out a few times, but always with other people. Besides, I told you I was going back to Robert that night a bunch of us went to the Flamingo to see Steve Allen. Don’t you remember?”

  I didn’t and was certain she was recalling the whole affair wrong. But if this was the story she needed to tell herself to get over me, who was I to shatter the fantasy? “Yes, I remember now. Well, congratulations. Robert’s a very lucky fella.”

  “Thank you, Trip.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s an electrician for the city.”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied, nodding my head politely. “Well, that’s just terrific.”

  Poor Rosie, from a musician to an electrician. I rest my case.

  Rosie said, “You know, I did see Lyds Saturday morning down on Sixth. I was picking up some of Robert’s shirts from the dry cleaners, and she was coming out of that little market she likes to go to. Ray’s, I think it’s called.”

  “You saw her Saturday? What time?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, about ten or eleven, I guess.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “No, she didn’t see me. I was parking, and she was getting into a car with her groceries.”

  “Do you know whose car?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Trip, a car’s a car to me. It was beige, four doors, I believe.”

  “Did you recognize the driver?”

  “It’s hard to keep up with Lyds’ boyfriends. I think he was wearing glasses. Yes, he wore glasses and had thin brown hair. I remember because I thought to myself he wasn’t Lyds’ usual type.”

  “And you’re sure she had groceries?”

  “Two bags full. Why do you ask?”

  My brain processed the information, and then I asked, “How do you think Lydia got to and from work every night if she wasn’t riding with you?”

  “You’ll have to ask her. Taxi, maybe? Or perhaps she hitched a ride with one of the other girls. Or, maybe she finally broke down and bought herself a car. Heaven knows she can afford one. Those Copa Girls do all right.”

  “Yes, they do,” I responded.

  “Ask Wheels, he’s carted her around more than a few times.”

  “That’s a good idea, I’ll do that.”

  “So, why all the fuss over Lydia? I’m sure she’ll check in with you eventually.”

  I hated lying, but as long as the company line was Lydia had quit her job and moved on, it was best I go along with it. “Like I said, I haven’t been able to reach her, and I have some albums she loaned me. I want to make sure I get them back to her.”

  “Well, when you talk to her, tell her to call me. We need to catch up.”

  A knot formed in my stomach. “I’ll do that, Rosie. I promise.”

  “I have to get back to work. We have a new assistant food and beverage manager working the floor tonight, and he’s all over us trying to imp
ress the boss. Take care, Trip. Great seeing you.”

  “You too. Hey, do you know if Wheels is working tonight?”

  “Has Wheels ever taken a night off?” she said, grabbing her tray.

  “See you later, Rosie. And congratulations again.”

  Rosie waved her fingers over her shoulder as she walked away. A feeling of sadness washed over me knowing Rosie would never actually be able to catch up with her friend.

  I left the Silver Queen and headed back into the casino. One or two croupiers I was friendly with nodded as I strolled by, but my mind was so preoccupied, I can’t confirm if I returned their greeting or not. The ring-a-ding-ding of the slots and the sporadic cheers from the craps tables were nothing but a faint underscore to the drama being played out in my head. The dominoes were falling again, and all Rosie succeeded in doing was adding more plot twists to an already confusing mystery. Like a zombie, I walked past the front desk and headed outside.

  It’s no secret Las Vegas is a satellite local for certain family businesses that may or may not be exactly…let’s say kosher. These family enterprises are, by and large, headquartered in places like New York City, Chicago, and Miami. As a rule, they don’t have much use for certain departments within the US government and are generally somewhat opaque in their financial transactions. Although their workforce is typically very loyal, should someone in said workforce turn out to be not so loyal, well, these businesses have been known to frown rather harshly on that sort of behavior.

  Wheels, a.k.a. Jimmy Catalano, had the official job title of bell captain, though to my knowledge no one had ever seen him lift so much as a briefcase let alone a piece of luggage. Unofficially, he was the go-to guy when someone needed something done that didn’t have a job description, such as running errands, giving special attention to VIP guests, or being a driver for whoever needed a quick lift around town. It was not a unique job position insomuch every property on The Strip had one or two Wheels on staff. It’s said Jimmy got the nickname Wheels because no one could move a baggage cart through a hotel lobby with more alacrity. I happen to know that’s not the true origin of his nickname, and I’ll leave it at that.