I don’t even look up. “Yes.”
“Both of them? At the same time?”
“I doubt one would stand still while I kill the other.”
We start walking again, only now she’s walking much closer to me.
14.
“How much do you charge?”
“What, to guard Lucky?”
We’re back in the kitchen. It’s four p.m. Gwen has just polished off beer number four.
“To kill someone.”
“Depends on the job.”
“In general.”
“Each job is different.”
We’re sitting across the table from each other. Gwen is twisting her hair with her thumb and index finger. She’s not drunk, but not sober, either. She’s in that middle zone, where endless possibilities reside. Tipsy enough to exude sensuality, but sober enough to know what she’s doing. And saying.
“So,” she says. “If I hired you to kill one of the guards out front, what would it cost me?”
“Nothing.”
She perks up. “What do you mean?”
“I’m on the clock. I’d kill them both for free, if they tried to hurt you or Lucky.”
“Oh,” she says. Then says, “But say they weren’t trying to hurt us. Say I just wanted one of them dead?”
“I’d need a reason,” I say.
“I thought hit men killed ’cause it’s their job.”
“We kill for lots of reasons. I’m one of those who never used to ask questions.”
“And now you do?”
“Depends on the client.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re what, twenty years old?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you were twice that, I probably wouldn’t need a reason.”
Her eyes widen just enough to show I offended her. But not too much.
“Are you saying I’m not mature enough to make that decision?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“But if I had a good reason?”
“I’d do it.”
She nods. “For how much?”
“Those guys at the gate?”
“They’re pretty tough,” she says. “Lucky wouldn’t have hired them if they weren’t.”
I nod. “Ten.”
“Ten thousand?”
“No. Cents.”
Gwen’s smile blooms before my eyes, and spreads across her face.
She says, “Would you be offended if I gave you a real kiss right now?”
“You mean here, at the table?”
“For now.”
“What about Lucky?”
“He’ll have to wait for his kiss.”
“The answer is no.”
Her smile fades. “Why not?”
“I meant no, I wouldn’t be offended.”
She smiles again, climbs into the chair next to mine, puts her arms around me, and gives me a long, slow, hot-breathed kiss. When she pulls away, her face is flushed. She stands and says, “That was nice, Donovan.”
“Nicer for me, I expect.”
“Maybe,” she says. “And maybe not.”
With that, she turns toward the opposite hall.
“Where are you off to?” I ask.
She stops, turns around. “My bedroom.”
“A nap?”
“Eventually. First, I’m going to lock the door, remove my clothes, climb into bed, and, um…think… about what just happened.”
“Wow! I hate to miss that!”
She smiles. “Disregard any gasps you might hear.”
“Maybe you should leave the door unlocked. You know, in case you need help.”
“The area I plan to focus on is very small. I think I can handle it myself.”
This time when she turns, she keeps walking until she’s out of view. A moment later, I hear a door close. I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
Then I start searching the house.
15.
I don’t see Gwen again till 8:15 p.m., when she enters the kitchen, dressed to kill.
“Wow!”
“The one word a woman loves to hear when she dresses up,” she says.
“Again, then. Wow!” And I meant it.
“Zip me up in the back?” she says sweetly, turning away from me.
She’s wearing a simple black sweater with the sleeves rolled up to just above the elbows, tucked into a black, pleated skirt, and fire-engine red boots with black heels that have rhinestone strips attached over the toe, and above the upper ankle. The boots stop mid-calf, leaving plenty of leg showing. I move behind her and pull the material toward me enough to peek down her back.
“You cad!” she says.
“That word is way too old for you,” I say.
“Nevertheless, it applies.”
“How so?”
“Come on, Donovan. We both know you were checking to see if I had panties on.”
“Guilty. Sorry.”
“That’s all right. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t want to see.”
“Why?”
“It’s a girl thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand enough to know it isn’t easy matching panties to those boots.”
She spins around and finds herself quite close to me.
“You’ll have to back away quickly,” Gwen says, “or I’ll wind up smearing my lipstick.”
I take a couple of steps back, reluctantly. I don’t know what it is about this young woman that’s getting to me. Yes, she’s beautiful. Enticing. But there’s more. She’s incredibly sensual, in a bad girl sort of way. Not “hooker sensual,” or “prison bad.” More like: college girl-who’s-fucking-her-dad’s-business-partner bad. She heads to the fridge to get one last beer before we leave for the airport.
“Want one?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t drink much, do you.”
“I’m a bourbon guy.”
“You should’ve said. Would you like one now?”
“Maybe later.”
Gwen twists the top off and takes a long swallow. When she looks back at me, I ask, “How well did you know Phyllis?”
“Phyllis the Willis?” She shrugs. “Phyllis did some work on me. Boobs, chemical peel, laser hair removal. Mostly I spent time at the spa. I mean, we spoke, but she didn’t like me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Because?”
“I think it’s because she was fucking Lucky.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know for sure. But it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Why not?”
“She seriously didn’t like me. Always made me feel uncomfortable. I hate to say it, but I’m glad she’s dead.”
“Because she didn’t like you?”
“Because they were always together. She was on the board of that company, Ropic Industries, and Lucky’s the major stockholder.”
“Is the stock doing well?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
I suddenly hear something, and jump to the side of the kitchen door.
“What?” Gwen says.
“Someone’s coming in the back. Duck behind the counter!”
I crouch, ready to strike.
“Relax, killer. It’s Tina.”
Turns out it is Tina, the housekeeper, returning from wherever she’d been all afternoon. Gwen introduces us and tells her which bedroom I’ll be camping in tonight. Tina immediately grabs some sheets from the laundry room and heads toward the bedroom that’s situated between Gwen’s bedroom and the kitchen.
Gwen says, “Lucky’s such a jerk.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tina’s usually gone by five. But her daughter had an operation today, so naturally she wanted to be at the hospital with her. Lucky said fine, but she’d have to work late to make up for it.”
“Wow.”
“Great guy, right?”
While Gwen
had been napping and showering, I searched every room on this side of the house, trying to find the device. And came up with nothing. While she was getting dressed, I called Lou Kelly, who told me that Lucky’s twenty million dollar investment in Ropic Industries was practically worthless. According to the terms of his stockholder purchase petition, he can’t sell his shares for several months. By then, the company will be bankrupt. This, according to one of Lou’s SEC buddies who said they’re about to publicly announce a full-scale investigation of Ropic’s accounting practices.
I don’t care about Lucky’s financial problems, I just want the device. After talking to Lou, I walked through the rooms one last time, to see if I’d overlooked something obvious.
I hadn’t.
If a professional had hidden the device, I’d need a week to conduct a proper search. But Gwen’s a civilian, and I’d bet serious coin she hasn’t hidden it in the rooms I’ve searched. Which leaves Lucky’s office, their bedroom, bath, and closet.
“I should check out your bedroom,” I say. “For security reasons.”
“You’ll have to wait till Lucky gets home.”
“Why?”
“His command center adjoins it.”
“Command center?”
“It’s where he makes the magic. No one’s allowed in there.”
“Not even you?” I say.
“Not even.”
16.
“Donovan?” Gwen says.
“Yes?”
“Don’t pay any attention to how I act when Lucky gets here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll probably be all over him.”
“Okay.”
“But it’s an act.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s a good life.”
“Is it?”
“When I’m not bored out of my skull.”
While waiting, I take a minute to wonder why pretty girls are always bored at home.
Soon she says, “Here he comes. In the cowboy hat.”
“They’re all wearing cowboy hats.”
“He’s the one looks stupid in it.”
“You don’t mean…”
“I do. That Jesus freak in the sandals? Wearing the cowboy hat?”
“That’s Lucky?”
“In the pock-marked flesh.”
He looks worse in person than he did in his photo.
Thirty minutes later the three of us are in my car, heading toward PhySpa. Lucky’s riding shotgun, Gwen’s sitting behind him.
Gwen says, “When we get to the next intersection, turn right.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Lucky says.
“I want Mr. Creed to see what he’s protecting.”
“He’s protecting us.”
“C’mon, Lucky, it’ll only take a second.”
He sighs. “Fine.”
I take the next right a half block, turn left into a paved entrance that ends twenty feet into the vacant lot.
“Put your brights on,” Gwen says.
I do. The extra wattage illuminates a large sign, thirty yards in front of us. It says, Future Home of Vegas Moon! Underneath that, in smaller script, are the words Greatest Sports Book under the Sun!
“This is the most valuable vacant lot in all of Las Vegas,” she says.
“I don’t doubt it.”
“And it’s going to be named after me.”
“Shut up, Gwen,” Lucky says.
“I’m just proud, is all.”
It’s not my business to ask what she means about the name, so I say, “Well, it’s a great piece of land.”
“That’s where I’ll be buried someday,” she says.
“Oh Jeez,” Lucky says. “Not this again.”
“I’m going to be buried there someday,” she says. “And you have to respect my dying wish. If I die before you open the sports book, I want you to bury me right smack under the sign.”
“I will,” Lucky says, “Sooner, instead of later. If you don’t shut the fuck up.”
I think it’s an odd thing for her to say. I seriously doubt the city fathers of Vegas would allow someone to be buried on commercial land a half-block off the strip.
“Can we go to Phyllis’s office now?” Lucky says.
I follow his directions to PhySpa, then do a drive-by to check the lay of the land. I make a circle, pull into the parking lot, circle the building.
“Looks clear,” I say.
Phyllis’s car has been moved, so I park in her space and sit there a minute, looking around. It’s too dark. Phyllis would want a light back here where her car is.
“Stay put,” I say, then get out of the car and look around. By the time my eyes get to her roof line I notice her security light isn’t working. I get back in the car, drive it to the business next door, and park behind their dumpster.
“I’m wearing heels, remember?” Gwen says.
“Why didn’t you stay where you parked the first time?” Lucky says.
“The security light was aimed at us.”
“So what? It was probably broken.”
“It could be on a timer. If the timer’s off by a few hours, the light could come on and attract attention.”
“Wow,” Gwen says. “You think of everything!”
“It was obvious,” Lucky says. He’s annoyed. I would be too, if I’d had a colonoscopy this morning and spent the last six hours on a plane.
Gwen picks up on it, too, and calls him sweetheart, as in, “Why are we here, sweetheart?”
“Creed and I have business here.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Come in with us, and sit tight.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Find something she hid.”
“What?”
“I can’t tell you. But it’s important.”
I park the car. As we remove our seat belts, Lucky gets a call. I make eye contact with Gwen in the mirror. She blows me a silent kiss.
Lucky, on the phone, says: “Any way we can make it tomorrow? Well, does Surrey have to be there? Oh. Right. Well…” He looks at his watch. “Fifteen minutes? The Candlewood? Okay. Yeah, I’ll get us a table. All right, we’ll see you there.”
“The Candlewood?” Gwen says, whining. “Really, Lucky? We’ll be there all night!”
“Guy’s got ten million to invest. He wants to eat at fuckin’ Denny’s, that’s where we go.”
“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?” she says. “I’m tired.”
“You believe this shit?” he says to me. “Twelve hours ago I’m in Jamaica with the Roto Rooter man adding a pipe extension up my ass, and this one’s tired.” He glances behind him. “You’re always tired! When I was your age, I wanted to do it ten times a day. But you? You’re too fuckin’ tired. Tired from what? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“I’m sorry, Lucky,” Gwen says. “I know you’ve had a bad day. Not to mention your fucking girlfriend got snuffed, and put my life in danger.”
Lucky looks at me. “You believe this shit?”
“I’m not from here,” I say. “What’s the Candlewood, a restaurant?”
“Yeah,” Lucky says. “A little off the beaten path. Good food, shitty service. But you won’t notice either.”
“Why’s that?”
“Eddie’s bringing Surrey with him.”
“Who’s that?” Gwen says.
“His wife.”
“What, is she supposed to be beautiful or something?”
He laughs. “You’ll see.”
“How do I get there?” I ask.
“Go straight, get in the left lane. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
Ten minutes later, as we pull into the parking lot, Lucky says, “Gwen? Listen to me. Whatever happens, go with it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see. But don’t fuck this up for me. I’m cash poor right now.” To me, he says, “That doesn’t apply to you. I’ve got y
our money, no sweat. I’ll pay you in advance, when we get back to the house.”
The parking lot is only half full. I find a good spot, pull in, turn off the engine. Before we get out, Lucky puts his hand on my arm and says, “Prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
“The strangest dinner meeting you’ll ever attend.”
17.
If you were to ask, “Creed, what’s the strangest dinner party you’ve ever attended?” I could tell you at least a half-dozen stories you’d be hard-pressed to believe. In my years overseas with the CIA I had numerous occasions to dine under extreme circumstances, during which I was often exposed to some of the zaniest, most bizarre situations imaginable.
In short, I don’t know what you might consider the strangest. But to me, it’s the time I saw tribesmen eating human feces at a dinner table in the jungle, sniffing it like a fine wine, touching it to note the texture, and savoring each mouthful as if it were the most delicate pate de foie gras. It was all I could do not to gag, which probably would have caused an international incident, as fucked up as everyone gets in that part of the world over the most ridiculous things. After sampling from each pile and enthusiastically nodding, as though they could discern some subtle nuance of flavor between each morsel of turd, two warriors brought me a steaming pile of excrement no one else had been allowed to sample.
“No thanks,” I said to the translator. “Sadly, I ruined my appetite eating bird shit all afternoon.”
When he translated my message, the warriors grew agitated.
“You have just insulted the entire tribe,” the translator said. “And their wives.”
“How did I manage to insult the wives?”
“Their wives worked all afternoon to create the meal. And the Chief’s wife personally made your dinner.”
I was about to ask what the hell he was talking about, then had that Oh, God! moment where I realized exactly what he was talking about. I tried not to picture the Chief’s fat wife nude, squatting over the plank of wood they’d just brought me. But once an image like that is stuck in your head, it’s there for the duration. I’m sure the look on my face had something to do with the sudden appearance of the Chief’s knife at the dinner table.
The translator said, “The Chief’s wife prepared your meal. It is the highest honor the tribe can bestow on an outsider.”
I said, “See? This is why I hate my fucking job. It isn’t enough we come in here and kill all their enemies, expand their safe zone, bring them medical supplies and save their God-forsaken village. Now they’re insulted, ready to kill me over a shit dinner.”