Murder in Vegas Page 18

  “So that’s why Doug moved in.” Here I’d been thinking of Chuck Owens with the styled hair and the custom tailoring, extremely personable and eminently presentable.

  “I must’ve looked like some loser putting the arm on the great Al Milledge.” By the tone, a fat grin shaped Chuck’s voice. “Page let me see the bulge of his gun when he braced me. Good man. A suspicious mind in a strong body.”

  The car made its final stop and we got out.

  “Mind if I ask why the desert-ratting?” Just making conversation as I gestured toward my suite.

  “Every now and again I need to get away from civilization. Call it rest and recreation. How about you, Al? Aside from your little foray just now, do you ever leave the Dulcimer?”

  “Haven’t got sick of it yet.” I came up against a door. “Here we are.”

  I got out my card key, felt for the electric lock. On the second swipe I faced the magnetic strip the right way through the slot. Once inside, I turned and held out my hand.

  “Thanks, Chuck.”

  “I’m coming in. To see you safe, and to talk.”

  “Fine.” If he wanted to pick my brains, I wanted to pick his. I pointed to where the wet bar ought to be. “Help yourself while I find the eye ointment in my medicine cabinet.”

  “Take your time, Al. Mix you anything?”

  “Plain soda, thanks.” I wanted a clear head while dealing with him.

  I guessed he felt the same way. I heard no stirring or shaking while I tended to my eyes.

  After we raised glasses, I beat him to the punch with what had been on my mind. Within the past week, three of the biggest bookies in Las Vegas had gone missing, leaving a big hole in my calculations.

  “Chuck, I’m worried about Rinker, O’Dea, and Todman. Have you heard anything?”

  “Exactly what I meant to ask you. I’m left dangling too. Laid bets with all three. Got no feedback. Reason I’ve hopped to Vegas.” The drawl drew closer. “When’s the last you heard from any of them?”

  “Monday night Todman phoned to ask what I knew about Goforit. I drew a blank, so I stalled him; said I’d get back to him in a few minutes. Figured Goforit was the name of a horse. But when I checked the records I couldn’t find a Goforit in any stable. Called back to tell him so, but Todman never answered.”

  “Cops ask you about that?”

  “No. I felt it was confidential, so didn’t report it, and apparently the cops haven’t traced his calls.” Bookies and oddsmakers tend to use cutouts to spare tender Fed ears when we might seem to be tendering betting advice.

  “I see your point, Al. The—”

  Teletype chatter interrupted. Weekend scores coming in. Though I had put gauze pads over my eyes, I brightened. This is when it all comes together, and I could barely rein in my drive to pore over the figures.

  Chuck’s smile-shaped voice. “The man of action.”

  I swung my head around for a blind look at the devices that keep me in touch with the sports world. “I guess I do cover a fair bit of action.”

  “A man of virtual action, I should say. I bet you love the stats better than the players and the teams and the games.”

  The words were mild but the scorn in his tone stung.

  My real world was this room. True, I had an easy life at the Dulcimer. Everything I needed was at hand. But my world was a solipsistic construct, narrowed by an eye condition and a loner inclination, ruled—no, inhabited—by a man unable to share it with the woman he loved … .

  I heard Chuck making to leave my world. I stood up and put on a grin. “You got me pegged, Chuck. I factor in the pulled groins and the muddy tracks and the shaved points to arrive at the numbers, but the numbers themselves are whole and clean and elegant.”

  “Keep crunching ’em, Al. See you around. Take it easy.”

  I stuck my hand out and braced myself for a bonecrusher but he seemed not to have seen it.

  After he left, I stood rooted inside the door, unclasped hand still outstretched.

  Take it easy, the man had said. Disdainfully.

  Did I already take it too easy? Deep down, did I fear to go out there and put myself on the line? Had I walled myself in with a psychosomatic ailment?

  I tore free. Found my phone, thought to hell with eavesdroppers, dialed by feel. Reached the unlisted number of Lee Vandemark, a Wall Streeter of some note. Made with the amenities.

  Then, “Lee, what’s your take on Chuck Owens?”

  Vandemark’s tone changed as he shifted a quid pro quo in his cheek. “Funny you should call right now, Al. I’m taking a good friend out to Aqueduct in a few minutes. It would be nice if I had a winner to impress her with. Is there a hayburner you like?”

  I grimaced. An oddsmaker doesn’t pick winners. An oddsmaker sets odds to make events even. Like everyone else, Vandemark misunderstood. He expected me to make like the Delphic oracle.

  “Give me a minute, Lee.” I visualized my morning line and made my pick.

  The fifth at Aqueduct was a 1-1/16 mile race for fillies and mares. The $150,000 purse would draw decent competition. Miss Sugar, a dark chestnut filly in good condition, had shown she could run on sod, was comfortably weighted. Yet most bettors trying to handicap the race would be passing her up. What they would see as a negative was a positive. Her last race had been seven furlongs on dirt against colts and geldings, and she had eaten their dust. Still, she had fought for her head to make more speed. This meant the rider was saving her for her next race. As far as equine speed and endurance go, seven furlongs on dirt equates with 1-1/16 mile on grass. So now, running against her own kind, and with the crowd underrating her, she would win at the best possible price. Price didn’t matter to Vandemark; he wanted a winner. But all the public selectors had overlooked Miss Sugar, so that she was an overlay, had a longer price than her real chance of winning. To me, she seemed a shoo-in—unless the saddle slipped after a half mile and the jockey couldn’t handle her properly, and unless a thousand other mishaps.

  I spoke with assurance but crossed my fingers. “Bet your wad on Miss Sugar in the fifth.”

  “Meshugge?”

  I corrected him. He thanked me. I got him back on track.

  “So, Lee, the bottom line on Chuck Owens?”

  “Thinking of buying DBA stock? Don’t quote me, but I wouldn’t. He’s spread himself too thin. Built a house of cards. Has to come up with a lot of cash soon or fold his hand.”

  “Does he own property in the desert around Vegas?”

  Thoughtful silence, then, “Owns personally, directly? Not that I know of. But at several removes he controls Goforit.”

  Goforit. Todman’s last talk with me. “What the hell is Goforit?”

  “A ghost town.” We wound up the amenities. Goforit. A ghost town, not a horse. And Chuck Owens had chosen not to set me straight on that.

  I asked around, starting with the Dulcimer’s concierge.

  Goforit turned out to be a gone and almost forgotten straggle of deserted buildings along a lone dusty street in the middle of miles and miles of miles and miles. Goforit stood a half-day’s drive north of Las Vegas, on a desert track that ran off a side road west of US 95. Goforit’s hopeful founders in 1872 thought they were in California. Goforit, the whole ruined and abandoned shebang, went for chump change a dozen years ago when Caravan Pictures bought the ghost town with the idea of using it as a film location and tourist attraction. But Caravan itself had given up the ghost, become a shell corporation with just the rights to its old films and a few odds and ends like Goforit. And Chuck Owens’s DBA had acquired the successor shebang for inflated chump change.

  As soon as I could see comfortably, I looked it up on the Internet. In a brief flurry of publicity that I had missed at the time, Caravan had touted its plans for Goforit, though the Web site had faded with Caravan. But the ghost of the Web site was cached, and I found thumbnails of Goforit. The full-size images showed your generic western street: shots of the buildings lining it, from the livery s
table at one end to the undertaker at the other, with the saloon and the hotel and the bank in between, and the boothill off to one side.

  My doorbell rang. The peephole imaged a distorted Doug Page. I let him in.

  “What is it, Doug? No trouble, I hope.”

  “Just making sure you’re okay, Mr. Milledge.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You look better. Thinking of going out?”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “The concierge tells me you been inquiring about ghost towns.”

  “A particular ghost town. Goforit.”

  “Yeah. He says he told you Goforit is private property, no trespassing, but he has a whole list of other ghost towns around here you’re free to visit.”

  “Not interested in other ghost towns. Goforit or bust.”

  “Some special reason?”

  You can never be sure of a man’s price, but so far Doug had a good track record for trustworthiness. I leveled with him. “Just before Todman went missing, he phoned me and mentioned Goforit. Todman’s a friend, and I’d like to nose around there, sniff what I can sniff.”

  Doug let out a heavy breath. “Todman’s a friend of mine too.” His glabella creased; he pinched his philtrum. “Tell you what; I got time coming, and a new Hummer itching for a workout. If you’re game, I’ll drive you there and help you look.” Again the workout with the space between the eyebrows and the indentation under the nose.

  Before I thought, I said, “You’re on.”

  “Great. We can leave in an hour, if that suits you.”

  I nodded.

  He turned, turned back. “Slap on sunscreen and insect repellent, wear Western boots and a Stetson. I’ll get spring water and picnic lunches from room service and gas up.”

  “Fine. By the way, Doug, is Chuck Owens still at the Dulcimer”

  “Yeah. Booked as Bud Kesten. Comped for as long as he wants.” He shook his head at himself. “I know the A list; I shoulda made him on sight.” He cocked his head. “Thinking of asking for his help?”

  Already I regretted mentioning Chuck’s name. “On second thought, I better not. His time is too valuable.”

  While I changed, I caught the Aqueduct results. Miss Sugar had been scratched. Vandemark couldn’t fault me for that.

  Doug returned as I secured my braided-leather bolo tie with its turquoise-nugget-center Navajo-silver slide. A gift from Betty. Seldom worn because of the “tie” connotation but reassuring now on leaving the Dulcimer.

  He looked me over. “All set?”

  I nodded, and passed him a Mapquest printout of the way from the Dulcimer’s mosaic threshold to the dead heart of Goforit.

  He grinned and drew pints of spring water from a pocket of his bush jacket. “Gotta keep ourselves hydrated.” He uncapped them barehanded, handed me one, raised his. “One for the road.”

  I lifted mine and drank.

  A throbbing headache knocked me awake. I felt weight on my wrists. I traded inner flashing for a squint at outer glare, and saw shiny handcuffs. I shot up—in my mind. In body, I sat up stiffly. Upon a bunk in a jail cell. At the head of the bunk, touching the wall, my Stetson rested upside down, my wraparound sunglasses folded inside. I put them on.

  My cell was one of a pair, with matching glassless barred windows that showed the thickness of the adobe bricks.

  In the other cell a bundle of clothes lay on the bunk.

  I swung my feet to the floor, balanced myself upright, and stumbled to my window. Endless desert stared pitilessly back; its hot breath blew past. I could put words to its whisper: Thirsty? Too bad.

  I turned from the voice of the sand breeze to the ticking of a clock. It hung beside the door in the facing wall. The minute hand quivered at ten to twelve. Nausea hit me. I dry-heaved in the chemical toilet.

  The bundle of clothes in the other cell twitched and sat up.

  Doug Page.

  He rose painfully. A black eye, a sheepish look. He opened his lopsided, puffy mouth as though to speak, but only blood trickled out. He sleeved his lips two-handedly; handcuffed like me.

  I eyed him stonily, accusing him with my gaze.

  He turned his head away, admitting guilt. He had slipped me knockout drops and delivered me to Chuck Owens.

  Bootsteps broke the heavy silence.

  Doug stiffened, then backed into the far corner of his cell.

  The door opened. I saw the sheriff’s tin star before I saw the sheriff’s tan face.

  Chuck Owens. An outsize revolver weighed down his gunbelt. Another gunbelt and holstered revolver hung over his left shoulder.

  I found as I spoke dryly what speaking dryly is. “What role you playing, Chuck? Kidnapper? Holding me for ransom?”

  Chuck smiled broadly. “Ransom? A drop in the bucket. A pee in the sea. If you want it by the numbers: You’re under arrest. I’ll read you your right.”

  “Supreme Court cutting ’em down to one these days?”

  “I’m the Supreme Court.” His right hand slapped his holster. “You have the right to outdraw and outshoot me—if you can.”

  “Trial by gun duel? What for?”

  “Same as Page here. Your life.” He thrust the spare gunbelt through Doug’s bars. “Here, Page. Take your weapon.”

  Doug shrank farther, trying to be the shadow of himself.

  Chuck dropped the spare to the cell floor, made a lightning draw and triggered a thunder shot. I had heard of the new Smith & Wesson’s .50-caliber Magnum revolver. Now I had both seen and heard it.

  A new hole through the adobe wall let in daylight. The blast had blinded me to the fact that he had nicked Doug’s left ear; he could have blown it off.

  Doug touched his dripping ear, looked dully at his bloody fingers, wiped them on his bush jacket, shuffled forward as though shackled with leg irons, bent for the gunbelt, tried but failed to get it around and on.

  Chuck leaned against the facing wall, arms folded, watching patiently—too patiently, enjoyably—till Doug figured out a way. Doug stretched the gunbelt across his bunk, lay down, brought the ends together over his waist, and buckled up.

  A slow, steady creaking outside brought a twisted smile to Doug’s face, a mere twitch, as though he had for a flash forgotten his fix.

  The creaking continued. Not the swinging of weathered signs or loose-hanging doors in the breeze, but a heavy tread and the agony of put-upon boards. Then one last loud creak, and silence.

  Chuck grinned and glanced at the clock. Five minutes to noon. “Showdown time.”

  He unlocked Doug’s cell door.

  Doug’s wounded mouth withdrew into his last line of defense—tight silence. Without looking my way, he shuffled out, still as though shackled.

  I strained to hear beyond the closed door. At noon on the dot, Chuck’s voice rang out. “Go for it!”

  A full minute passed. An empty full minute. Then one thunderous gunshot. Hard upon its echo, a creepy giggle.

  Chuck slid a beaten copper tray into my cell, then leaned back under three o’clock.

  I couldn’t muffle belly rumble, but damned if I’d rush to grab food and drink. I gave the thick ham on rye, the beaded can of Sprite, and the polished Granny Smith apple a bored glance, waited a few long beats before picking the tray up. Slowly I carried it to the bunk, slowly seated myself, slowly pulled the tab, slowly swished a cold mouthful before slowly swallowing.

  Now I could speak without croaking. I nodded at Doug’s cell. “Why?”

  “Because I can.”

  “No. The real reason.”

  “That is the real reason. I need to and want to. And because I can, I do. Business and pleasure. Dual reason, duel method.” Chuck smiled boyishly. “You’re wondering how I select my—uh—opponents. Never at random. Serially. One thing leads to another. Take Rinker, O’Dea, and Todman. Couldn’t let ’em put the squeeze on me for my losses. Gave each his chance to settle accounts. And you were next in line.”

  “Why me?”

&n
bsp; “Because I respect you. You’re the likeliest guy in Vegas to figure out what’s happening and who’s behind it. So you were already my mark when Page interposed himself. Don’t weep for him. He jumped at the chance to put the snatch on you. Another twofer; I’ve offed a double-crosser, forestalled a shakedown.”

  “He had it coming. But I can do without your respect”

  “In a way I’m doing you a favor. You’ve been playing the game of life with abstractions. Now face up to reality, play with your life.”

  I put the apple core on the tray beside the empty Sprite can and fat stripped from the ham.

  He beckoned for the tray.

  Damn. He was too watchful; I had no hope of slicing it through the bars at his Adam’s apple.

  On his way out, he paused and turned. “Since you’re playing under a handicap, I’ll give you a rare treat. I’ll be back at five and show you around Goforit.”

  After his footfalls faded away, I tested the window bars. Blistering to the touch. I found a handkerchief in my otherwise empty pockets, padded a hand, tested again. Shakeproof.

  The edge of my bolo slide served to flake adobe from the base of the central bar.

  At six to five, I knocked off, and brushed and blew the handful of dust outside.

  Chuck’s face loomed in the window. “Chip away, Al. The bars are set deep, top and bottom.”

  Small satisfaction that some dust had got on his face.

  On our way out through the sheriff’s office, Chuck tossed his key ring into a desk drawer.

  The open air closed in on me. But this was the shady side of the street, and the Stetson and the sunglasses helped hold daylight at a tolerable level.

  Across the street, the Nye County Trust was another adobe building. All the rest were warped and weathered frame unpainted the gray of time. One fresh touch: ugly bright blue bench in front of Jeff’s Hardware.

  No signs or doors creaked in the hot breeze.

  Nobody in the street. No body in the street.