Sleepless in Las Vegas

“I’m sorry. It must have been very difficult.”

“I don’t want person...persons...to know I hire private eye.” Marta leaned forward and whispered, “Only you and me to know.”

Val blew out a pent-up breath. It’d be sweet to drive her air-conditioned car again. No more walking in summer triple-digit heat, fighting for seats on crowded buses. She stared at the money. The beauty of cash was nobody could trace it, and this being a one-time gig...she felt a stab of guilt at what she was thinking, but...Jayne would never know.

Besides, one day Val would own her own agency, and maybe she would accept the occasional honey-trap case. This was her chance to gain experience, something she’d never get while interning with Jayne.

“Just you and me to ever know,” Marta repeated.

Val glanced at the photo of Nanny. By the time she was fifteen, she and her grandmother had swapped their parent-child roles. Val grew accustomed to making decisions for the two of them, often on the fly. Sometimes it was like walking into mist—she might not be sure what her next step would be, but she would learn. Over time, when faced with a choice, she discovered she gained more by forging ahead than standing, undecided, at the crossroads.

She picked up a pen, shoving aside her niggling conscience. “I need to get some information, like where he’s going tonight, the type of car he drives...”

* * *

AT NINE O’CLOCK that night, Drake Morgan stepped from the air-conditioned strip club, Topaz, into the outdoor sauna called summer. In his thirty-two years born and raised in Las Vegas, he’d never grown accustomed to these mind-frying temps. But then, there was a lot he’d never been able to accept.

Like why his brother Brax—the manager of Topaz—kept associating with known criminals. Drake had checked the corporate papers for Topaz and discovered the club was owned by a corporation named Dusha, the same corporate entity that owned Braxton’s luxury condo. Drake ran the word Dusha through an online translator and learned it meant “soul” in Russian.

Yeah, real soulful. His brother was tight with the Russian mob.

Tugging off his suit jacket, he looked past the stream of traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard at Dino’s Lounge, a watering hole his dad had frequented. Back before lines got drawn and doors were closed, Drake and Braxton would join him there to watch a game, shoot some pool. He and his brother had been tight then. Thick as thieves, their dad would say.

Today, the third anniversary of their old man’s death, Drake had thought a lot about things his father used to say. Sometimes he had to dig deep in his memories, because his dad hadn’t been comfortable expressing himself. Oh, he liked to kid around, jaw about some news item or what sports figure had hit a milestone, but when it came to divulging how he felt about something, or even saying a simple “I love you,” he had struggled with the words.

On his deathbed, he had asked for three promises from Drake. The first was for Drake to stop gambling. He had, that very day. The second was for Drake to learn how to swim—he had carried the name “Aqua Man” since high school after jumping into a pool to save a bikini-clad damsel in distress. She’d gotten out fine on her own. Took two lifeguards to haul Drake out of the water.

Just like his dad to throw humor into life’s darker situations. Aqua Man took a few swimming lessons.

The third promise was to take care of his grandmother, his mother and especially his brother. His mom and Grams were easy, his brother was a pain in the ass. Drake had asked Brax to dump his gangster chums and build his own business, but he’d refused. Seemed to think being under the thumb of that no-good scum Yuri Glazkov was the path to success.

Yuri, what a slick bastard. Brax had done things for him that should have put him behind bars, but Yuri’s high-profile lawyers made sure the charges against Braxton didn’t stick. It sickened Drake that his brother thought he was better than the law.

If he had his way, he’d do what their mother had done—close the door on Brax—but he had made that promise to their father.

So here he was tonight, hunting down his brother to check up on him, try to talk sense to him again about living his own, law-abiding life.

Drake had another reason, a personal one, to quiz his brother. Yuri, recently back in Vegas after an extended stay in Russia, was up to something. Drake could smell it. He wanted facts about the thug’s life, the kind his brother could supply, because he had a score to settle.

But so far, all Drake had gotten was the runaround from his brother’s employees at the strip club.

Have no idea where Brax is at, man.

Mr. Morgan is unavailable. If you would like to leave your name and number, I’ll be sure he gets the message.

Yuri? Never heard of ’im.

Tossing his jacket over his shoulder, Drake glanced across the street at the green neon sign. Last Neighborhood Bar in Las Vegas. Lots of businesses had closed during the recession, but Dino’s Lounge had stayed open, just as it had for five decades.

He decided to walk over, leave his pickup parked in its secluded spot. Later, he would head back to Topaz, and if he didn’t find his brother’s car in the lot, he’d do the question routine again. Try different employees, see if one of them might get hit with a pang of conscience and tell the truth. He’d help that pang along with a bill or two.

Because in a town like Vegas, everything had a price. Especially an honest answer.

* * *

VAL SAT IN the rental car, a Honda Civic, in the Topaz lot, watching the guy standing outside the strip club. He fit the description Marta had given her earlier: a little over six foot. Buzz cut. Wearing a suit. Before he removed the jacket, the gray two-button number had looked like something Don Draper might have worn on that TV series Mad Men. From the way this guy walked—carrying himself like he owned his space and some of everybody else’s, too—he had more than his share of mettle.

Marta said his name was Drake, but didn’t want to divulge his last name. Even after Val recited the confidentiality spiel she’d heard Jayne give to new clients, Marta refused. Said she had her pride. No last names. Besides, couldn’t Val do the honey trap without knowing that?

Val had agreed, partially because she wasn’t sure what else to do...and then there was the money.

Drake headed toward the street.

Time to report in. Val reached for her cell phone and punched in a number.

“What news?” Marta answered. No hello. “I am anxious.”

Join the club, Val felt like saying. Wearing this skimpy outfit and blond wig, which she had used at her last job as a card-dealing Christina Aguilera look-alike, and sitting on her first surveillance in a rough Vegas neighborhood outside a strip joint, was nerve-racking.

But she couldn’t let on she was tense. Had to act cool, knowledgeable, as though this were her hundredth surveillance gig. After all, Marta thought she’d hired a professional, not an amateur.

“He left Topaz,” Val said, “and he’s walking toward Las Vegas Boulevard.”

“Where he park?”

“At Baker’s Service, one street over.” A guy in a retro suit driving a ’79 Ford pickup didn’t fit Marta’s sleek designer style. Val guessed they were one of those opposites-attract relationships.

“Baker’s,” Marta repeated.

“It’s an appliance store.”

After she observed him walking into Topaz, Val had circled the block and found the pickup parked in front of the store. The business was closed, its lot dark, and he’d taken the extra precaution to position it behind some palm trees.

After parking a short way down the block, she had walked back to the truck, a faded brown-and-gold two-tone with rusted chrome strips, and pointed her miniature flashlight into the bed, where she spied a toolbox, tarp, several chew toys and a small doggie bed. Next, she perched herself on the metal step below the driver’s door—not easy in high heels—and pointed the light at the front seat. A closed notebook and coffee-stained foam cup were on the ripped vinyl seat. A video camera lay on the floorboard.

“How long he at club?” Marta asked.

“Forty minutes. Now he’s crossing the street...there’s only one bar over there, so that must be where he’s going.”

“You go to this bar.”

Val looked at her outfit. The skimpy top and skirt could pass for a sexy summertime outfit, but fishnet stockings? They had seemed like a great addition when she thought she’d be conducting a honey trap outside a strip club, but they’d look sleazy, over the top, in a regular bar.

Even Vegas had its limits, didn’t it?

Screw it. Sitting at the crossroads would get her nowhere. “I’ll go.”

She reminded herself that this was Sin City, the unconventional capital of the world. On a scale of one to ten on the weird scale, fishnet stockings were probably a five.

She slipped the cell into the pocket of her skirt and turned the ignition.

CHAPTER TWO

DRAKE SNAGGED A stool at the bar. Behind the lighted displays of bottles, the smudged wall mirror reflected hazy red pool table lights and the words Dino’s: Getting Vegas Drunk Since 1962 in large white letters on a back wall.

His old man had groused when they had first painted that sign. “Makes the place sound like a bunch of blottos.” By then in his seventies, he hung out most afternoons at Dino’s with a group of fellow retirees who called themselves the Falstaff Boys, in honor of the “late, great” beer. But after the painting of the sign, they changed their name to “the Blottos.”

“Well, look what the Mojave winds blew in.” Sally, a thirtyish female bartender, stood behind the bar wiping dry a glass. She had small blue eyes set in a narrow face that could use some sun. She and Drake had a history that made him a bit uncomfortable.

The muscles in her arms flexed as she reached to set the glass in the overhead rack. Her black T-shirt crept up, exposing a faded tattoo on her side, a skull adorned with a crown of roses. She’d once told Drake it was from her Deadhead youth, but now that she was clean and sober she no longer listened to jam-band hogwash.

“Hasn’t been too windy lately,” Drake said.

“Yeah, just hot. Monsoon season is late this year. City could use a downpour or three. Fortunately, the air conditioner in this place is built like a tank.” She tossed the towel over her shoulder. “Bud?”

He nodded, wondering when she’d cut her hair. These short, spiky styles on women confused him. He liked long hair on women. Long and straight, the simpler the better.

“Hey, Aqua Man.”

He turned, recognized a buddy from high school. Still slim, but his face showed wear. He wore a gray shirt with “Easterman’s Plumbing” on a pocket.

“Hey, Jackson,” Drake said, “how’s it going?”

“Got divorced.” He shrugged. “You?”

“Never been married.”

“Smart. How’s your brother?”

“Fine.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Smart.” Jackson nodded. “Well, take it easy.”

As he left the bar, Sally slid a bottle toward Drake. “Poor guy. Just got divorced.”

“Figured it was still fresh. Thanks, Sally.” He took a swig. The frothy chill soothed his mood a bit.

“Work keeping you busy?” She focused intently on washing another glass.

“Some.”

“See Viva Las Arepas moved?”

The Venezuelan fast-food place had operated out of the kiosk in Dino’s parking lot for several years. When he’d walked past, the place had been dark, its windows boarded, although a few stools remained outside. “Thought it had closed.”

“No, moved to a bigger place in that strip mall down the street. Mr. Arellano’s been driving a shiny new Hyundai, so they must be doing good.”

“They survived.”

“Yeah. Recession didn’t kick their butt. Didn’t kick Dino’s, either.”

He raised his beer. “To Dino’s.”

She picked up her tip glass and clinked it against his bottle. As he took a sip, she pointed to the framed photo over the cash register. “Some TV producer was in here the other day, saw the photo. Told her it was Dino and Benny.”

“Benedict.” Drake bristled at his father’s nickname being tossed around by people who didn’t know him.

“Kristin calls him Benny.”

“Good friends, Benny. Everybody else, Benedict.”

“Anyway, this TV producer was here ’cause they’re thinking of filming a reality TV show at Dino’s.” She read his look. “I know, just what this place needs—more reality. Speaking of which, didja hear the story about one of our regulars...”

Her voice floated over his head as he stared at the faded color photo. Taken in ’85, when Dino still had most of his hair. He stood next to a pool table with Drake’s dad, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, the two of them grinning at the camera. Guys from different generations, but they had a lot in common. Family men who believed in working hard and watching out for the little guy. Both veterans—Dino in World War II, his father in ’Nam—although neither had talked about those days.

Drake had followed the family tradition and joined the military, a career he’d thought would be for life, until 2006, when he’d returned home to help with his dad, who had been diagnosed with ALS. He worked in hotel security for a few years before opening his own one-man P.I. agency.

“...to this day, the wife still doesn’t believe the girl accidentally fell asleep on her husband’s car hood.” Sally pulled in a long breath. “Now that would’ve made a good reality TV show.”

He nodded as though he had been listening.

She offered a small, tight smile. “Good to see you again. Summer must bring in a lot of cases, huh?”

“The usual.” He paused. “Sorry I didn’t call.”

With a nod, she turned her attention to washing.

After a few moments of awkward silence, filled with the pinging of video games and murmured conversations, she straightened and said, “That was a dumb stunt I pulled.”

“No, Sally—”

“Yeah, it was. I mean, how juvenile can a lady get to write her phone number inside a matchbook and hand it to a guy, claiming he dropped it. I mean, a bartender pulling that old trick.”

When she had passed him that matchbook, he had been busy texting a client, had paid little attention. Hadn’t known the phone number was inside until days later, when he’d pulled the matchbook from his pocket. After running a reverse on the number and learning it was Sally’s, he’d been surprised. Both at her feelings about him, and that he hadn’t read the signals.

He blamed his surprise on being preoccupied with other issues. Had a lot of those weighing on his mind these days.

“No need to apologize. I was actually flattered.”

One pencil-thin eyebrow arched. “Yeah?”

“Really. It’s just...I’m not...”

“S’okay. No explanation necessary.” She tugged the towel off her shoulder and began rubbing the same glass she’d just finished drying. Realizing it, she stopped and smiled a little sheepishly. “Gee, hard to guess I’m nervous.”

“Glass still had a spot on it.”

She smiled, a real one this time. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

She placed the glass in the overhead rack. “How’s that brother of yours?”

“Wish I knew.” He took another swig.

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He gets a lot of business at Topaz. Nights when I close, that lot over there is packed. Limos lined up with tourists from all over the Strip. Guess that’s why you’re here tonight. Looking for him.”

He nodded.

That’s how they’d met eight months ago, when he’d wandered into Dino’s one night for a beer. He’d learned she had recently been laid off from her floor supervisor job at the Riviera Casino, none too thrilled with her new job slinging drinks.

Because he had asked so many questions about the strip club across the street, it had only seemed fair to explain why. Otherwise, he didn’t like to talk about Braxton.

“For a while, I didn’t see that yellow Porsche of his,” Sally continued, glancing at a young couple entering the bar, “but lately it’s been parked in that same spot near Topaz’s front entrance.”

“What time?”

“Sometimes when I first get to work, around seven. More often when I close.”

“About three a.m.?”

She nodded. “Sometimes four.”

“Ever see a black four-door Mercedes?”

She thought for a moment. “Yeah, in the past week. Don’t remember seeing it before that.” The couple sat at the far end of the bar. “Gotta go. Customers.”

Taking another swig, he weighed this new piece of information. He’d been tracking Yuri’s black Mercedes for a little over a month now, whenever he had some down time. Had videotaped several hours of Yuri’s comings and goings, hoping to capture clues of any illegal projects in the works, but so far, nothing pointed to anything. Had some footage of Yuri unloading tables at a warehouse, but he owned the tables and the warehouse, so nothing strange there.

Based on past experience, he wondered if Yuri might be planning a heist. He was good at those, just like the one he had set up years ago that had cost Drake his career, his reputation and a fiancée who’d grown skittish. Couldn’t blame her. Hard to lean on someone who’s standing in quicksand.

If he thought about it too long, he could still get pissed that his brother had played a role in that heist. Of course, Brax had said that he’d had no choice, that Yuri had threatened his life. Afterward, he had promised, over and over, he would have nothing more to do with the Russian.

They obviously placed different values on their promises.

Drake rolled the bottle between his palms, wishing Brax’s deceit was the only problem weighing on him. When he had dropped by his mom’s house this afternoon, he and his grandmother had talked about his dad, which led to stories of the family, which led to the family heirloom ring—a constellation of diamonds representing family marriages going back a hundred and fifty years. The ring was gone, and Grams missed it more than she liked to admit.

Drake blamed himself. It had been only a few weeks ago that Grams had finally told him the whole story of what had happened in 2009 when Drake’s gambling debts had gotten him into trouble with a loan shark. Until then, he’d thought his dad had pulled money from a trust to help pay off the obligation—he’d had no idea the ring had been collateral.

In 2009, he had been a secret gambler, burying himself in debts. Desperate, he had borrowed money from Yuri. By the time the Russian had tacked on his extortionist interest rates, Drake’s debt was hitting fifty grand. His father—who’d never said how he learned about Drake’s troubles, although Drake guessed that Brax had told him—had insisted on helping. Said he could pay Yuri twenty grand, and a family friend could loan Drake the rest. His only condition was that he and Drake would keep Yuri’s name between them. Your mother’s heart has already been broken by Braxton’s dealings with that Russian.

Since then, Drake had paid off the thirty grand to his dad’s friend. He’d made payments to his dad, too, who’d secretly had his wife deposit every penny into a savings account in Drake’s name. A few weeks ago, when Drake made the final payment to his mom, he’d been shocked when she handed over the savings account. His dad had asked his mom to do this, in memory of Benny, upon Drake’s final payment. By honoring his debt, he’d earned it.

But his satisfaction had soured after Grams confided that she, his mom and his dad had given the ring to pay that twenty grand.

As soon as Drake had found out, he had gone to Yuri with the intention of buying back the family ring. The Russian had refused to take his money. Said Drake owed him even more in interest.

It shamed Drake that he’d caused his family to lose a cherished piece of their history. He would get the ring from Yuri, no matter what it took. That score had to be settled.

Picking up his smartphone, he tapped the alarm app and set it for two a.m., which would give him time to get to Topaz by three. If Brax’s Porsche was there, he would go inside. But if he found Yuri’s Benz at Topaz, he would wait and follow the Russian to wherever he went next. Sooner or later, he’d find some dirt on Yuri. With leverage, he could bargain for the ring.

The scrape of stool legs against the floor interrupted his thoughts.

In the mirror behind the bar, he observed a young woman taking the seat next to him. Even in this dim lighting, her hair gleamed like metal. Dye job or a wig. She wore so much eye makeup he couldn’t tell if her eyes were brown, black or gray.

His gaze dropped to her top, two triangles of material that sheathed round, pert breasts. A flicker of heat leaped in his chest as he caught the outline of taut nipples, one straining a triangle decorated with white stars on blue, the other overworking a triangle with red-and-white stripes.

She looked like a Fourth of July celebration about to pop.

“Like my top?” she asked in a southern drawl.

With Sally, he’d been rusty at interpreting female signals, but he picked up this woman’s more clearly than if she’d banged a gong in his ear. Just the kind of wake-up call to get outside of his funk, get back to the present.

“It goes with my skirt,” she continued as though it was a two-way conversation.

He knew better than to look, but it was like telling Bambi to stay out of the forest. The skirt was thigh high and red. Below it, shapely legs in fishnet stockings ended in a pair of black stiletto heels with some kind of symbol on the side.

“It’s a fleur-de-lis,” she explained, pointing down at her shoe with a frosty-pink fingernail, “for my boys, the Saints.”

Took him a moment. “The New Orleans Saints?”

“Who dat!” She grinned so wide, he saw she had a slightly crooked front tooth, which almost gave her a sweet, naive quality.

The operative word being almost. Sweet, naive types didn’t wear fishnet stockings, stiletto heels and small, tight triangles into dive bars.

Clunk.

He looked stupidly at his phone lying on the floor.

“I’ll get it,” she said cheerfully.

“No—”

But she’d already scooted off her stool, a mass of red, fleshy curves and stars and stripes...and it was all he could to sit there and stare.

She straightened slowly, a funny look on her face.

He held out his hand for the phone.

But she didn’t return it. Instead, she shifted closer, so close he could see that her eyes were brown. A rich, warm color, like melting caramel. He inhaled a slow breath, caught her scent. Fresh and soapy, as though she’d just stepped out of a shower. Surprising. These girls usually poured on the perfume.

“I’m getting a pulsation,” she whispered.

Took him a moment to realize it was an incoming call. “I don’t like ringtones,” he said. “Keep it on vibrate. Give it to me.”

“It’s not a call. It’s a pulsation...” She waggled her fingers in the air. “From out there.”

“Through my phone.”

She nodded. “I’m getting a message.”

Message. He glanced at her outfit. Was she a stripper from Brax’s club? Someone sent over to deliver a message to him?

“From Braxton?”

“Who?”

“Yuri?”

“I...don’t know a Yuri.”

This was starting to feel like another damn twenty questions and no answers from one of Brax’s employees.

“Are you going to tell me?” he snapped.

“I think it’s from...your father.”

Drake felt numb, frozen. Couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Finally, something inside thawed enough for him to speak.

“Impossible.” His heart banged so hard and fast, his chest ached.

But she was off someplace else. She swiveled slowly on her stool, her head tipped as though listening to a faraway tune.

“He says he loves you very much.” She smiled at Drake.

Enough! As though jolted to life by an electric prod, he bolted upright and blew out a lungful of air.

“Give me the damn phone.” He snatched it from her hand. He didn’t need this. Not from some whacked, high-woo-woo messenger. Was this Yuri’s idea of a sick joke?