Murder in Vegas
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
INTRODUCTION: 10,000 EYES IN THE SKY
THE SUNSHINE TAX
PASSLINE
DUST UP
10:00 a.m., April 20 Red Rock Canyon, Nevada
10:00 a.m., April 20 Downtown Las Vegas
10:50 a.m. Red Rock Canyon
5:00 p.m., April 20 Downtown Las Vegas, Nevada
THE KIDNAPPING OF XIANG FEI
KILLER HEELS KILL TWICE AS DEAD
IGGY’S STUFF
A TEMPORARY CROWN
THE GAMBLING MASTER OF SHANGHAI
HOUSE RULES
ROLLING THE BONES
ODDSMAKER
THE DOPE SHOW
DEATH OF A WHALE IN THE CHURCH OF ELVIS
NEIGHBORS
THE END OF THE WORLD (AS WE KNOW IT)
NICKELS AND DIMES
EVEN GAMBLERS HAVE TO EAT
THE MAGIC TOUCH: A PETER PANSY DETECTIVE YARN
CATNAPPING
MISCAST
LIGHTNING RIDER
GRIEVING LAS VEGAS
COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Copyright Page
INTRODUCTION: 10,000 EYES IN THE SKY
There is a saying in Las Vegas that is as crude as it is accurate. What they say is that in this town there is a paddle for everybody’s ass. What they mean by that is that you can’t know everything about Las Vegas. Just when you are foolish enough to think you do, just when you are dumb enough to think you have it figured out, a new paddle comes along and you get knocked down again. There is no sure thing in Las Vegas. There is no sure bet.
Las Vegas is a destination city. Whether you come here to live or to just play, it is one of the few places on the planet where most people come from somewhere else. They come with their hopes and desires on their sleeves. Their greed, too. But the city carries a big paddle in return. The city pays out in the smallest margin of returns. Not just at the tables, but in everything. Everybody who comes here with his or her dreams of a new life and a new existence faces a limited return. And that’s what makes it attractive to writers of mystery fiction. This town represents the ultimate long shot. For everyone who makes it, who hits the jackpot in life or at the blue felt tables, there are ninety-nine who don’t. And the line between those that do and those that don’t is where the grist of high stakes character and drama arises.
That’s what this book is about. Those ninety-nine people who walk away empty-handed. Vegas is the unifying vision, of course, but beneath all the neon and glitz is the unifying desire to win, to start over, to begin again. That is the true character of this place. Each one of these stories is in some way the story of a dreamer and a schemer. Someone looking for a small redemption. These are stories of characters at the raw edge of humanity. Why not place them in the city that represents the raw edge of our society?
Las Vegas may be the most monitored city in the world. On the strip alone there are more than ten thousand eyes in the sky. Those are the cameras that track you from the moment you step into a casino to try to take away their money until the moment you leave—with or without it. And that ten thousand doesn’t even count the cameras in the garages and elevators and hallways. Over the intersections and above the people movers. In the restaurants and showrooms and focused on the pools. When you come to Las Vegas you are never alone for long. Yet here is the place that draws the schemers. Here is the place where people transform themselves, where they become alter egos and the kind of people they are assuredly not when they are back home. Despite the unblinking eye of the camera, there is a dark freedom afforded by the neon city. It is its greatest draw.
The characters in these stories have been drawn by that darkness. Ride with them to and through this place. You’ll be met at the Nevada border by a seventy-five-cent grifter and from there it is onward to the city of sin. You’ll learn what it’s like to play craps when you have to win. I mean have to win because you’re just one step ahead of the kind of debt collector who takes late payments in blood. You’ll meet schemers who are out-schemed by other schemers or even their own marks. You’ll meet a class of clientele to which violence is a given. (I mean, when the first line of a story is “Is he dead?” and is delivered by a character named Snake, then you know you are riding in dark territory.) And then, when perhaps you think there is no hope left for humanity, you’ll come across a woman who just wants to preserve something good and natural in the desert from which the mirage of Las Vegas rises. So press on and you will find moments of human grace in these stories as well.
I guess what I am trying to say is that there is a paddle for everybody’s ass in this collection. Don’t think you know anything about Las Vegas until you ride with this group. But be warned. Don’t think you know everything there is to know about Las Vegas. Not ever.
Michael Connelly
THE SUNSHINE TAX
JAMES SWAIN
“Welcome to Nevada,” the convenience store manager said.
The manager’s name was Huey Dollop. He was fifty, and he had tobacco-stained teeth and a head shaped like a honeydew. His store was the first thing motorists driving from California to Las Vegas saw when they crossed the state border on 1-15. A concrete pillbox sitting off the highway with a neon Budweiser sign in the window.
The couple who came into Huey’s store looked beat. Two tired kids driving a Volvo they’d stopped making fifteen years ago. The girl had red hair, and eyes that said she’d seen a lot. The guy, maybe the same age, wore a Dodgers cap and was built like a stump. He made a bee-line for the cold beverages, leaving the girl at the counter.
“Good afternoon,” Huey said. “What can I do for you today?”
Huey said his lines with a smile on his face. It was the way he addressed every customer that came into his store. It always put them at ease.
“This is our first time visiting Las Vegas,” she said, nodding at her boyfriend in the back of the store. “Troy won a chunk of change on the lottery, and figured maybe it was time to give lady luck a spin.”
Huey nodded. He’d been running his store twenty years, and had heard a lot of stories. Most were hard luck. This one wasn’t, only the girl seemed afraid, like she sensed that they were about to get taken. A pair of virgins in Sin City.
“Ever gambled before?” Huey asked.
She nodded. Then said, “We taught ourselves on the Internet. It was fun. But …” Her voice trailed off, and she lowered her eyes and stared at the faded counter top.
Huey picked up an open can of Dr. Pepper, and took a sip. They made it with prune juice, gave it a unique flavor. He said, “But?”
“We weren’t playing with real money.” She lowered her voice. “Troy’s afraid of getting cheated in a real casino. You know, like once he starts to win.”
“Casinos don’t have to cheat,” Huey said.
“Hey, Amy, what you want to drink?”
“Yoo-Hoo,” the girl replied. To Huey she said, “What do you mean?”
“The house has an edge in every game. That’s how they pay their bills.”
“An edge? Like a percentage
?”
“That’s right. Locals call it the sunshine tax.”
“But do people ever win?”
“Sure,” Huey said. “People win all the time.”
Amy leaned her thin frame against the counter. “People like Troy?”
“People just like Troy. Last week, a man came in who’d won a million dollars on a slot machine at the Bellagio, looked just like Troy.”
“The what?”
“The Bellagio. It’s a casino on the Strip. It’s got the fountains in the front.”
“Did he tell you which machine?”
Huey smiled, and took another sip of his soda. Troy came to the front. He placed two drinks and some food on the counter. He wore a faded tee shirt with the words I’M BLIND, I’M DEAF, I WANT TO BE A REF!
Amy said, “This man says the games aren’t rigged.”
“I told you that last night,” Troy said, taking his wallet out. Throwing a twenty down, he said, “We just need to know which casinos to play. They all don’t have the same rules. Guys at the shop told me that.”
Amy looked at Huey. “That true? Are some places better?”
Huey rang up the items. “Several casinos have liberal rules for blackjack, and looser slot machines. They’re definitely better places to gamble.”
“Which ones?” Troy asked.
Huey lifted his eyes and met the big man’s gaze. “The Riviera, the Sahara, the Stardust, and all the casinos in old downtown, like the Nugget and the Horseshoe.”
“What are loose slot machines?” the girl asked.
Huey tore the receipt from the register’s printer, and handed it to Troy along with his change. “The management sets them to pay out better. Sometimes they have signs outside that say ninety-eight percent payoff on slots. Go to those places.”
“What’s the payout like at the other casinos?” Amy said.
“About ninety-four to ninety-five percent,” Huey said.
“That much less? That’s cheating.”
Huey said, “That’s the sunshine tax.”
Troy put his change into his pocket, and handed Amy the receipt. Then he scooped his things off the counter. Huey saw the girl’s eyes wander, and said, “I’ll tell you one other little secret about the slot machines.”
She looked up at him expectantly.
“The looser machines are usually near the doors, or places where people congregate inside the casino,” Huey said. “The management does that to create excitement, and entice other people to play. Play those machines.”
“Near the doors,” the girl said.
“That’s right.”
“Thanks,” she said under her breath.
The couple started to leave. Huey said, “One more thing,” and they came back to the counter. “This is really important,” he said. “Always bet the maximum number of coins the machine will take. That’s the only way you can win the jackpot.”
Troy looked at the girl. “You remembering all this?”
Amy recited the names of the casinos, and the pearls about the slots, saying it like it was the most important thing she’d ever been told.
“Much obliged,” Troy said.
“Good luck,” Huey replied.
Through the curly-cues of the Budweiser sign, Huey watched the couple get into their old Volvo. The car started up, and went about twenty feet. Then it stopped, and the girl got out, and marched into the store.
“Forget something?” Huey asked as she approached the counter.
She was holding the receipt, and pointing at it.
“What’s this?” she asked.
Huey stared at a charge for $.75. He scratched his chin. His eyes drifted to the Three Musketeers bar on the counter, next to the cigarette lighters. Picking it up, he said, “Your boyfriend didn’t take his candy bar.”
She shook her head. “Troy don’t eat no candy.”
“My mistake.”
Huey put the candy bar on the shelf behind him. Then he hit the NO SALE button on the register. The cash drawer popped open, and he fished out three quarters, and laid them onto her palm. She left the store without saying a word.
The Volvo left a cloud of dirt in the parking lot. When it settled, another car had taken its place. Four young women piled out. In the back of the car, Huey saw pillows, and guessed the women were planning to share a room.
He took the candy bar off the shelf, and placed it back on the counter on the spot it had occupied since he’d opened his store. The women came in, and he smiled at them.
“Welcome to Nevada,” he said.
PASSLINE
S. J. ROZAN
Oh yes, he’d always hated Vegas.
The gambler’s Mecca. In the old days bad enough, fading shabby casinos forcing smiles. Putting out like weary whores: free drinks, cheap rooms. As though he gave a damn. He never gave a damn.
The first time, when he was young (he was very young), it was pulse-pounding thrilling. Staring out the window the minute anything below looked like desert (he’d never left the East before, Pittsburgh—Jesus Christ, Pittsburgh!—as far as he’d been). Leaned that way an hour, waiting. (Catch him doing that now. Forget it, now he took the aisle.) Practically first off the plane (but he’d never been first), laughed like a kid to see slots at the airport. Had to stop and play them. Lost forty bucks. That was funny, too.
Then the rented car. (Red Thunderbird. Oh, he was one impressive stud, all right.) Then the ten-minute drive. (Too long for him, drumming on the wheel, bopping to the radio.) Then the truth.
The room small, too cold, the sun too hot, burning, relentless. Sand on the wind, stinging. The music too loud, the drinks watered, the girls smiling like their feet hurt.
He wondered if Muslims hated Mecca when they finally got there. Same-same, anyway: hideous buildings, sun and sand.
And Vegas just got uglier. Each time he came, he marveled. (Did pilgrims do that in Mecca, too?) Pirate ships and dancing water (in the desert!) and the Brooklyn Bridge. And hey, you want to talk who knew what and when they knew it, tell me why they never built the Twin Towers into the skyline of New York, New York.
He’d said that to Bennie a few months ago, like Bennie would know, like he’d give a damn.
“You’re an asshole, Taylor.” That’s what Bennie said. That’s what Bennie always said, unless you were placing a bet or paying one off. Or he was paying out, paying you. That did happen. Not often and God knows not to Taylor lately, but it did. Then Bennie handed you your cash and said, “Fuck you, Taylor.”
“Pleasure doing business with a gentleman,” he’d smile at Bennie. He’d always smile.
Bennie’d say, “Fuck you, Taylor.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the stewardess, which was sort of the same as, “Fuck you.” He buckled his seatbelt. The plane banked, dove, bounced, stopped. He sat and waited. People in pastels yanked luggage from overhead. Taylor bet himself how many would get clonked with carry-ons before the door opened. He’d have bet the guy beside him but he was one of the yankers. Taylor’s number was four. By the time the line in the aisle charged forward—a slow-motion charge, like the OJ low-speed chase—he’d only seen three. Losing already, Jeez, that was great.
He stood in the empty aisle, took his case down, brought up the rear. Exited the jetway and the slots still stood, blinking and dinging. Nothing funny about them.
Nothing much funny at all, except that he’d gotten this far.
Could be Bennie was asleep at the switch. But Taylor thought not. Bennie knew where he was. Knew what he was doing and was letting him try, because this was his last time. Win or lose, Bennie was through with him, oh yes. Taylor could almost see him, washing his pudgy hands. (That was metaphorical: Bennie didn’t wash much.) Taylor figured, twenty-four hours. All Bennie’ d give him. All he’d need.
And shit, in this loud-mouthed, self-important, soulless town, all he could take. (Could Vegas see itself in a mirror? No, uh-uh. He was sure.)
He did know, though, after all th
ese years he knew why the glaring neon, the fiberglass, the dancing water. The swollen buildings, the music aimed like a pile driver at the base of your skull. He knew why each casino was huger and stupider than the last one, what all the over-the-top shrillness, bigness, brightness was about.
It was the desert.
The heat, the distance and the hard flat sand would suck the life right out of you. The second it got a chance it would dry you and desiccate you until (weightless, colorless, crisp as a snakeskin) you’d scrape and tumble along. Finally, roped by a hot gust, you’d whirl over the hills and disappear.
At first they’d named the casinos The Sands and The Dunes. That was a mistake and they’d figured it out. Now it was Bellagio, Treasure Island, Luxor, and Grand. You needed bracing here. Shoring up. You had to think of the desert as a vicious, insidious sea. It would take you if it could. And it didn’t have to rise up, throw itself around, pound things and howl like the ocean. It just had to wait.
Taylor knew. He thought, really, everyone knew. He thought, really, that was part of it for every hustler and high roller who came here. The rush, the adrenaline high when your heart thumps and your skin sizzles and you hold your face like marble and keep your body quiet while the lightning rages inside you: the rush speeds fastest when the stakes are highest. Inside the Bellagio and the Luxor (looming windowless liners sailing nowhere) people watched the wheel spin and the cards fall, fed endless chump change into ravenous electronic mouths, and knew. Knew what waited outside, if they lost.
And the people who built this place (not the first time, not the old days, but now), they knew, too. They built everything huge and so obviously fake because of it. No one talked about it (that was part of it, the shared secret) but they didn’t want you to forget it. They knew the rush was better because of the desert. They knew the illusion only worked because of the truth.
And the truth was, if he didn’t come home with $400,000 for Bennie, Taylor was a dead man.
Bennie had people here. Or Bennie’s people had people, someone had people and they’d be watching him. They already were. On the plane, maybe the bored guy with the crossword puzzle book, maybe the middle-aged lady who actually ate the lunch. Maybe the eight-year-old who kicked his seatback all the way across the country. That would be like Bennie, to send someone to kick his ass. Make sure he didn’t turn and run. Slip out as soon as he checked in, fly off to L.A., Honolulu, Sulawesi, Pago Pago. He didn’t really care because he wasn’t going anywhere. No. He’d taken every cent he had with him and he was going to play it all. Dead man playing. Maybe they’d make a movie.