Nobody Dies in a Casino

  That’s exactly what Charlie was afraid of. A roomful of people had seen her flying over Groom Lake with Evan and company. It was documented on film. “You mean the government?”

  “Might as well be. You’re Evan’s agent, ask him.”

  “Where did Pat live?” Bradone asked.

  “Here. He had too many girlfriends to move in with one. But a sister—what the hell.”

  Bradone reached across seventy-five pounds of cat fur to right a picture frame lying facedown on the end table next to the couch. She held it up for Charlie to see and then for Caryl Thompson.

  “That’s him. Patrick,” Charlie said.

  Patrick’s sister just looked away.

  “He was beautiful.” Bradone laid the picture frame down as she’d found it. “I’m sorry for your loss. But why would he risk so much for Evan Black? What did he want out of life?”

  “His own plane. That’s all he ever wanted.”

  “Evan was going to buy him a plane?” Charlie thought that sounded too generous for a low-budget producer. “Why?”

  “Pat would share in the profits and buy a plane. Eventually, he hoped to own a charter service.”

  “To produce something of this size, Evan will have to go to a studio. There won’t be any profits. Not after production costs and wages and once Evan Black and Mitch Hilsten take a percentage. There’re never profits.”

  “Is that really true?” Bradone asked, “or just Hollywood paranoia?”

  “Well, if there are, they get absorbed in the grease that’s cooking the books.” That’s why damn good agents demand every cent they can squeeze out of a project up front for their clients and why the guilds make all the salaries so expensive.

  “Pat was to be paid up front,” Caryl said, as if reading Charlie’s thoughts. Then she stood, so they also had to. “And now I will be paid instead.”

  “Paid for what?”

  “For goods delivered.” She walked to the door and opened it.

  “Just one more thing,” Charlie pleaded. “That fancy phaser-wand thing one of the robbers waved around in the film—that was special effects? Or some real doohickey from, say, Groom Lake? That and the gizmo that turned off the lights at the Hilton? And what else, Caryl? Was your brother killed for smuggling secret stuff out of Area Fifty-one?” What kind of trouble had Evan gotten Charlie into?

  Caryl Thompson ushered them out onto the patio without answering and even opened the gate for them.

  “Pat wanted a plane. What do you want out of life, Caryl?” Bradone insisted.

  “I want to help Evan get even with the people who ordered my brother’s death.” And she closed the gate and then the door as she went back into the house.

  * * *

  Charlie whispered an explanation of the wand-phaser to Bradone in the cab that had waited outside for them and the effect it supposedly had on those caught in the dark at the casino robbery. “I’d bet it was Evan waving it, and I just assumed he was showing off, that maybe it had some connection to the Star Trek Experience at the Hilton. If it was real, it was awesome.”

  “If only the heavy woman could move, it might mean that the phaser couldn’t affect her as much because she had more mass to penetrate.”

  “That could be faked. There’s little Evan can’t do with film—although there wasn’t time to work up computer animation. But if Patrick persuaded one of the workers to spirit some secret weapons off the Groom Lake base for Evan’s conspiracy project…”

  “For the price of an airplane of his own,” Bradone said thoughtfully. “‘Goods delivered.’ Wonder what all those goods were?”

  “The infrared camera and goggles can be bought on the open market. Could be just copies of important papers or plans that Evan could use in the project.”

  “Whatever it was, its theft explains why Caryl’s brother had to die.” Bradone tapped a tooth with her sunglasses, nodding sagely. “The keepers of the secrets out there might have wanted to make an example of him among workers and those who fly them to work. And why Emily Graden’s husband was going out to the Janet Terminal.”

  “The question, Detective McKinley, is Evan Black’s role in all this. I’m not sure I’d trust him as far as Caryl Thompson does. And Loopy Louie’s offering Evan some kind of way to get, I thought, all his winnings out of the country. Sounds like he’s bidding against others for the job. I wonder if it’s also to get some secret doohickys out.”

  “Wish we could talk to Evan while avoiding the police, the murder or murderers, and—”

  “Richard Morse?”

  “And Richard Morse. Don’t underestimate the man’s usefulness to you, Charlie. He has great admiration for your abilities. In his way, I think he’s very proud of you.”

  And you’re getting tired of him. And I’m tired of small favors Richard’s pride lets him drop, “in his way.”

  * * *

  They left the cab on a street corner and walked a few blocks to a deli with outdoor seating in an inner courtyard. Bradone made a discrete phone call to her butler before their salads arrived. She made another after they’d been served and spoke to Evan Black himself, giving directions to their location.

  “Someone named Mel will pick us up in about forty-five minutes. So we can relax and enjoy our meal.”

  “Mel is Evan’s cinematographer. What are they up to?”

  “Same thing we are, trying to avoid the police. Evan left word with Reed so we could get hold of him. It seems Metro has taken Richard Morse in for questioning.”

  “Richard doesn’t know anything. He’s been so smitten with you, he won’t listen to what I’ve been trying to tell him about all this.” Charlie put down a fork full of radicchio, sprouts, arugula, and godknows. “What? That’s not all. I’m not being intuitive. You look funny.”

  Bradone speared a cucumber slice and took an eternity to chew it. “Looks like we’re going to get our chance to talk to Evan.”

  “God, are there more bodies?”

  The unreadable expression on the stargazer’s face grew even stranger. “Evan doesn’t want to spend time with the police because of an important meeting. And he wants you there too. I guess I get to come along by default.”

  “What meeting? Will you stop this?”

  “Charlie, Mitch Hilsten is in town.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “DO YOU KNOW parents drive kids to schools two blocks from home in neighborhoods so safe no kid has been molested by anybody but relatives and family friends for decades?” Evan Black, the young genius, swung his legs from side to side over the edge of an upper bunk and gazed down on them all. The hanging light fixture over the table, a gas lantern with a lightbulb in it, swung in rhythm with his legs across his little round glasses. “Kids are safer out on the streets than in the house.”

  He was making Charlie seasick. She and Bradone sat on the bench on one side of the galley table, Mel Goodall and Mitch Hilsten on the other. Mitch leaned against the bulkhead of the boat Evan had borrowed for the meet, tied up at a marina somewhere on Lake Mead.

  “All because the media makes big on false statistics and rare but memorable occurrences in a small portion of the population.”

  Mitch had one elbow on the table and one on the sink counter. He was in his denim mode—clothes faded to powder blue, like his eyes, like Charlie and Bradone’s pants. He faced Evan, hands clasped in front of his mouth, biting one knuckle, watching the writer/producer with skepticism.

  Charlie blinked. Skepticism? Mitch Hilsten, who believed in every kooky thing that came down the Ventura Freeway? Maybe he was acting. Hard to tell with this guy.

  “And then the rest of the entertainment industry picks up on the latest fear—books, movies, documentaries of odd events make us feel they’re common. Somebody figures out how to train police and psychologists and publishing houses on how to handle the fear, discover it, treat it, prosecute it, recognize it. Hell, a whole new industry or three are invented right there, job descriptions and new college studies—not
to mention pulp genres. It’s beautiful, man.”

  Mel Goodall pretended sleepiness but watched Charlie through slits.

  “People are even afraid of the fucking sun. Kids get fat and turn into listless couch potatoes because nobody wants to smear sunscreen on them every time they want to go out and play. Old people suffer from vitamin D deficiencies because the sun will give them cancer. Hell, life will give you cancer. Everything’s gotten out of hand. One baby is swiped out of a nursery in one city and every hospital in the country’s got to have surveillance cameras and security checks on the obstetric wards,” said the man, responsible for stealing government secrets, joyfully. And he’d already involved Mitch in that theft by announcing his probable participation in the project.

  And Charlie, caught in a quandary, watched Evan. Hard to square this boyish, excited, earnest, creative creature with the man who showed no emotion other than impatience with Charlie when she insisted on discussing with Officer Graden his personal pilot’s death on the street in front of Loopy Louie’s. The man who promised Patrick’s sister he would get even with the people who ordered that death and yet told Charlie he wasn’t sure that it hadn’t been an accident. Who were the people who hired Sleem and the bald bouncer to walk Patrick into the traffic? How did Loopy Louie fit into all this?

  Again, she looked to Bradone for guidance, but the astrologer had zoned out the minute Mitch Hilsten came into view. She squirmed every time he inhaled.

  The boat, sort of a motorized sailboat, rocked with the lantern light crisscrossing Evan’s glasses, nudging the dock gently. Nobody but Charlie seemed to suffer from indigestion.

  “So, what’s all this got to do with Groom Lake?” Mitch slid a studied glance at Charlie.

  “It’s the ultimate in conspiracy. Okay, maybe along with Roswell.”

  “But what’s the purpose? To poke fun at people’s beliefs? Eccentricities? What?”

  Charlie gave Evan an “I told you so” smirk.

  “No, man, to poke fun at their fears. We’re talking concept here. Theme. Groom Lake is the epitome, but only symbolic, of the way conspiracy has taken over our lives. We don’t trust anybody in a position of authority because the press and entertainment industry, one and the same, blow mistakes and corruption out of all proportion. And you know what, man? They’re … we’re going to make our fears happen. And that is the theme behind Conspiracy. We’ll start with the small stuff—like perfectly healthy kids in bad need of exercise being driven to school two blocks away, never allowed outside without sunscreen, women in grocery stores scared to death the food’s unsafe in the cleanest country in history—all the way to the billions spent on things that aren’t needed, like Star Wars, all because of fear.”

  “Is there any script here?” asked Mitch, still skeptical but now showing some interest.

  “Script it as we go. You know me, or you’ve read how I work. But see? The conspiracy is us, Mitch, living our lives out of fear of things that mostly don’t happen or don’t happen to most. The cause of the fear is not the dangers real or imagined in this world, but the media hyping them out of proportion to their impact in the name of news-entertainment. Fiction that becomes fact because we believe it so strongly. We could be missing the best days of our lives, Mitch, the best days of our country, the best days of our planet.”

  There were smears on both of Charlie’s contact lenses—she could be missing something too. How do you finance without a script? And why hadn’t he pitched this way to the moneymen at the screening? He’d have had them pulling out checkbooks in droves instead of groaning.

  Hell, because they were groaning and pulling out cash instead. To pay off the stupid bets that Evan couldn’t pull off a casino heist or which casino it would be. Did he really have enough money from that wager to produce the film himself?

  Even given her mistrust of him, there was no mistaking this producer’s energy and enthusiasm now. Charlie could feel it in the small space.

  “What do you think, Mitch? It’s okay, tell me.”

  “Well … it’s kind of murky.”

  Charlie took another look at the superstar. Was this a new Mitch Hilsten? She thought he ate murky for breakfast.

  “I know this is long for a pitch, but you’re a deep mind.”

  “Where do I fit into this?” the deep mind asked.

  People will flock to see you do anything. Even if it’s stupid. That’s how you fit in.

  “You, Mitch, are a pilot for Janet. You know what that is?”

  “Call name for a certain airline flying workers out to Groom.”

  Charlie was not surprised he knew that. Mitch probably knew all about compounding and DRIPs too. Even with smeared lenses, she was seeing all kinds of holes in this theory, but wouldn’t think of interrupting a young genius and a superstar. AIDS, for instance. Cigarettes, for another. Or were they not part of the conspiracy theory because they were very real dangers?

  “Your wife is the one taking your young children to school, panicking at the fresh-vegetable bins at the local grocery because of a TV newscast reporting one child dying a mysterious death after eating an avocado or something. This is all short background playing behind the front credits.”

  “Hope my wife isn’t Cyndi Seagal. She drives me nuts.”

  Evan had him and knew it. His smile said it all. As his agent, Charlie should be happy.

  “Nah, she’s too old. We’ll come up with somebody.”

  Cyndi Seagal, younger than Charlie by several years, was a client of Congdon and Morse Representation, Inc., on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. And a favorite of Richard’s. She was also a hell of a lot younger than Mitch Hilsten. She and Mitch had starred together in the hit that had rejuvenated his career. Didn’t seem to be doing as much for hers.

  “But the point here is Groom Lake—Area Fifty-one is the ultimate showcase of what happens when people feel victimized by what they perceive to be a conspiracy. Their fears come true. Their belief in those fears, instigated by a callous media, make them so. And nowhere more than on the vast military-owned desert spaces of Nevada. This is no big Spielberg extravaganza, Mitch. It’s a quiet, low-toned, ‘creep up on you and you’ll never forget it’ film.”

  “Psycho meets The Player,” Charlie interjected.

  “Exactly.” Evan’s approval was discouraging. She’d thought she was being funny.

  “Where are you going to get footage to pull that off, Black? Fake it in a studio? Computer animation?”

  “Don’t have to,” Evan said.

  “Already in the can,” Mel said. “Right, Charlie?”

  “You’d have seen it by now, if I could get in my house. There’s a lot of it Charlie hasn’t seen either. Most of it, in fact. Some great satellite stuff.”

  Mitch turned his full attention to Charlie now. “Hear you found the bodies. Rough. I’m sorry. Tell me you’re not going to do any investigating.”

  “I’m not going to do any investigating.”

  “Charlie?” Bradone came out of her trance.

  “I’m just helping Bradone. Tagging along, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” Mitch turned around to face Charlie and thus Bradone across the table. The astrologer sunk back into her trance. “But Maggie says you’re in bad need of a vacation, and this doesn’t sound like one.”

  Oh really? “You talked to Maggie Stutzman?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t answer my E-mail.”

  “Everybody’s ganging up on me. Jeesh.”

  “See? Conspiracy.” Evan rubbed his hands in obvious glee. “Charlie’s indicative of the national mood. Everybody who sees this film is going to relate. And they’ll never forget it was Mitch Hilsten who was flying for Janet. How did you know it was called the Janet Terminal, Mitch?”

  “The Internet.” But Mitch was still glaring at Charlie.

  “Well, okay, enough. Maybe we better go topside and let you two have a big fight and then kiss and make up or whatever you kids do.” Evan jumped down from
the bunk and held an arm out to Bradone. “Come on up and tell me about your investigations, Detective McKinley.”

  “Wait, how do you know that nameless government guy with Battista hasn’t confiscated this footage you’re so proud of?” Charlie called up after him. And all that cash Loopy hoped you weren’t keeping at home?

  Mel Goodall rose and stretched, chuckling. “Because the can wasn’t in the house.”

  “Was it there yesterday when those three men were murdered?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe that’s what they were looking for.”

  But Mel and his long, lean Dockers disappeared above deck, leaving Charlie and Mitch to stare at each other across the table.

  “Sounds like you’re going to deal.”

  “Certainly going to think about it, and seriously. Evan Black is becoming an icon in the industry. I keep thinking I should pay you instead of Lazarus. You’ve done more for my career.”

  “Mitch, I admire Evan’s work as much as you do. But this project is being financed illegally, and I think you should walk away from it. And I didn’t do anything to get you this part.”

  “You suggested me to your client for it.”

  “He wanted me to ask you because he thinks I’m your girlfriend. He thought he was using me. But I didn’t ask you. He merely mentioned my name to your agent, hoping that you’d think I lined this up. I didn’t do anything, Mitch. I’ve been too busy with all the dead men.”

  “And you didn’t get Richard Morse to suggest me for the role in Phantom of the Alpine Tunnel when Eric Ashton walked at the last minute, I suppose. The role that turned my sliding career around.”

  “I’ve told you a million times, Richard called me to approach you for the part the morning after our one infamous night together in that rat-infested motel in Moab. He thought he was using me too, but I didn’t do anything that time either.”