Murder in Vegas Read online

  “This doesn’t look like the older Ann-Margret we had at our ceremony, the one with the pointy bra.” She turned to the detective. “Do you still think an ice pick was used to kill him?”

  “Something just a little bigger.”

  “Like a number three knitting needle? Hidden in a boot?”

  “That would work,” he said. “Who knits?”

  All eyes went to Carol Ann.

  “Go get your needles,” said Amanda. When Carol Ann didn’t move, Amanda pulled the bag out of the closet, holding out one badly bent needle and the long red wig from the beauty salon.

  “Don’t be silly! I can explain. I sat on it! And I didn’t even know we weren’t going to get the money.”

  “Yes you did, honey. I told you about the marker when I called from the fight,” offered Robby.

  “Shut up, you idiot!” she shouted. “We’re married, you can’t testify against me!”

  “You didn’t murder him, did you?” asked Robby, looking younger than his years.

  “As a nurse, you’d know just where to aim,” said Amanda, “and you’re used to shifting bodies around.”

  “Someone had to stand up to him,” she hissed at Robby, “and it clearly wasn’t you.” She stared at him with loathsome eyes. “We needed that money your dad promised! You lost almost that much in the casino last night, and with the baby coming …”

  “What baby?”

  “Ours, you dope. Why else do you think I married you?”

  He sank back against the bed pillows, his freckles standing out like black pips on white dice.

  The detective had heard enough. He escorted Carol Ann out the door, leaving a stunned family to wonder what to do next.

  “I’m ruined!” whispered Sylvia. “Now everyone back home will find out about this.”

  “They won’t hear about it from me,” said Ken. He looked at Amanda. “Well, should we call and see if the chapel is free? We’ve already paid for it.”

  “I’ve been thinking. I don’t think I want to start my married life in Sin City after all. I think we should head home, and Mom and I will start planning a nice, small church wedding. How about that, Mom?”

  Sylvia reached out and hugged her daughter, smiling for the first time since she’d arrived back in Las Vegas.

  NEIGHBORS

  JOHN WESSEL

  Harry Chase sat in the back of a small casino chapel watching as bikers dressed in wedding casual—black leather, chains optional—exchanged prayers for endless roads, a long happy life together. He was wondering if the Bulls had covered the spread. Another man might have been praying for his own wife back in Lockport, Illinois—another man wouldn’t have put five large on the Bulls in a rebuilding year—but Harry knew better than to ask for any favors. He assumed God was a player and had his own action.

  It was early evening, Harry’s favorite time in Vegas. The chapel was full of dreams, the night was young, anything was possible. He would hit the buffet, eat light—he had another two pounds to lose, he was avoiding dairy—and then head for his favorite roulette table, number six, where Jackie the Beneficent turned the wheel—St. Jackie, goddess of the lucky spin, the perfect bounce.

  A group of tourists peeked into the room. He watched them come up the aisle, heads craned, hands full of cameras, guidebooks, postcards. They held a lot of celebrity weddings in here—third-rate sitcom stars, eighties musicians—Harry knew the place as well as the guides, he thought. He’d listened to enough of them give their tired spiel.

  This group was Italian, most in their fifties, with dice-shaped nametags from EZ Tours in New York. Harry turned and watched them finding seats, listening to the guide run through the history of the casino and the wedding chapel. She wasn’t bad, Harry admitted. As a guide and as a woman. Tall, little granny glasses, a nice figure. Long blond hair, newly cut. She had a cute way of leaning against the pew, using one tan loafer to scratch her calf. Harry wondered if she was local. He’d never seen her before.

  One of the men seemed to appreciate her, too. He sat directly in front of her, listening intently. He laughed at her jokes, smiled at her references. Harry knew just enough Italian to follow along. He stared at the man, then examined the others in the group, studied their clothes, their shoes. He watched, and waited for a sign or tell—a sideways glance, a half smile … . I see you, Harry … .

  There were three men, but only one of them stood out. The one asking all the questions. He had a scar on one cheek, and a heavy build jammed into a cheap sport jacket. And he seemed to be alone. The other men each had wives.

  Or was that a cover too?

  Relax, Harry, he thought. It’s been ten years. You’re a thousand miles from home. Not even your family knows where you are. You covered your tracks like a goddamn Indian.

  He needed a drink.

  Looking back on it now, Harry saw the events that drove him from his home in Chicago as a series of unfortunate natural disasters. The point guard from Kansas twisting his ankle in the final four, for example … the wet track at Arlington that wiped out Harry’s trifecta … even the wild left hook that floored Harry’s boy Eduardo in the second round—a a freak thing, really, one in a million, all the papers said so—these things were out of Harry’s control, something he explained, repeatedly, during a series of conversations in a west Chicago storefront, where Harry signed a series of forms that took his restaurant, his car, his house, eventually his name. At first it seemed best to apologize, plead, beg. And then it seemed best to run.

  He’d heard good things about Canada. So he left one morning the way any commuter might, with no bags, just a brief case, climbed on the 151 bus, transferred at Union Station, took the 10:08 north to Toronto, moved from small town to small town like a circus carny, finally settling in Saskatoon. A year later he moved on to Thunder Bay, then Vancouver Island, Winnipeg, Fairbanks. He bought a new name in Nogales, Arizona, from a man amused to be selling fake paper to a gringo; bought a used Blazer and kept his possessions to what would fit in back. He worked either as a bartender or a short order cook—he’d learned to cook in the army, and there was always a diner or greasy spoon needing a grill man. There was always a local sports book to take his bets.

  As for his wife … their marriage had been shaky at best. My fault , thought Harry, lying in his bed one night in British Columbia, a rented cottage, a diamond-blue lake. Harry still getting used to the silence. No garbage trucks, no sirens. No thumping bass from the floor above. The gambling had made her crazy, drove them apart. That was all my fault …

  For the first year or so he sent her cryptic postcards—Hong Kong unreal … looking forward to the Seven Corners—relayed through relatives, family friends. She had a collection of small teacups … . He bought one or two, wrapped them carefully in bubble wrap and packed them beneath his socks, carted them from city to city. He underlined the local attractions in a Lonely Planet book and drove to each one, taking pictures of waterfalls and scenic overlooks and seeing them less and less through her eyes. One morning—the streets full of snow, Chicago weather—he bought a cloned cell from a street hustler in Montreal and phoned her. He couldn’t decide which was sadder, that he had to identify himself to his own wife, or the way she said nothing, then hung up on him. He mailed one more postcard. He left the teacups in a Chinese restaurant.

  It’s for the best, he thought. This way they’d leave her alone. Someday he’d make it up to her. And the next time he met someone … he’d make better choices. Be a better man.

  Harry had no illusions about his own fate, though. Someday, someone would find him …

  “What’ll it be tonight, Harry?” Reverend Tim, the ponytailed bartender in the Dealers Lounge, was already reaching for Harry’s brand. He was used to seeing Harry about this time every night, used to Harry’s vague answers about his day and his past. Everyone in Vegas had baggage, came from somewhere else. He’d worked on Wall Street himself, before receiving the Word and a mail-order ordination.

  “Crown Roya
l?” said Tim. “Single? Or double?”

  “What did the Bulls do tonight?”

  “Spurs by eleven, Harry. I keep telling you, don’t bet against the Spurs.”

  “I don’t like the Spurs,” Harry said. “I like the Bulls.” He climbed on the barstool carefully, as though getting on a horse. “Better make it a double.”

  He was on his third drink when the guide came through the lobby, off duty now, her plastic name badge gone. Her name was Anne Turner, he’d caught that much in the chapel. He watched her hesitate before finally taking a seat a few stools down from Harry.

  “Bacardi and tonic, please,” she said, putting her purse on the counter. He noticed the white skin on her ring finger. Harry’s wedding ring was currently in a pawnshop in Reno.

  He watched Tim light her cigarette, watched as she crossed her legs, did that thing with the loafer absentmindedly scratching her leg. She looked tired. Harry thought she was near his age, thirty-five or so, a graduate of one of those women’s colleges—Smith or Vassar or something—where she’d learned Italian and maybe French as well, thinking she’d use them on leisurely trips to Europe, traveling in much different circumstances than EZ Tours provided—Harry could construct a whole life for her if given enough time; it was a bad habit of his.

  He asked if he could buy her a drink.

  “I have one, thanks,” she said, then looked at him closer, as if studying his accent hanging in the air. “You’re from Chicago?”

  “Born and raised,” he said. “You?”

  “Rockford,” she said. “Small world, huh.”

  “A big old goofy world,” Harry agreed. It was unusual for him to give out personal information so freely. But there was something disarming about her. “I saw you in the chapel, a little while ago …”

  “Herding my sheep,” she said, stirring her drink. “I shouldn’t complain, they’re a good group. Better than most of the faculty groups.”

  “You left out a few of my favorite stories,” Harry said. “The one with the midget wedding, for example. Always a crowd pleaser.”

  “I wasn’t so sure how that would translate,” she said, smiling—a real smile, too, not the kind she used on her job. It left her face softer, a bit weary. “Academics don’t have the best sense of humor.”

  “So this group … they’re all professors? From Italy?”

  “One or two are from Columbia,” she said. “I think it’s some sort of exchange program. But everyone’s practicing their Italian. You must speak it if you were listening before.”

  “A little. My family’s from there, originally. And my old man slipped into the vernacular whenever he had too much wine.” He could smell her perfume now, competing with the smoky air in the casino. “New York’s kind of a change from Rockford … .”

  “Tell me about it.”

  They talked for a while about New York and Italy, and Chicago, and Rockford.

  “I miss it sometimes,” she said. “Not the town. My family …” Her sister had twin girls. Her father raised dairy cattle. He asked her a few questions; she seemed reluctant to say more. He didn’t press her.

  “Here’s to the great Midwest,” Harry said. “Farmers, corn, and soybeans.”

  “And cows. Don’t forget the cows.”

  “Let’s drink to the cows.”

  It had been a while since he’d done this, talked to a woman who wasn’t a dealer or a pit boss. He was slow to notice the way she slipped off her shoes and grew more comfortable around him, slow to catch the signs she was transmitting, letting him buy her a second drink, then a third, not pausing a beat in her story when he moved to the stool next to hers.

  “—two weeks in Guadalajara, a week in Paris, I never know where they’re gonna send me next. Which makes it sort of fun. I just have to cram for each trip like finals in college. Read the guide books.” She shrugged. “Fake the rest.”

  “How long have you been doing it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Forever.”

  “Some of the men must give you a hard time. That guy tonight in the blue sport jacket, for example … he looks like a handful. He sure doesn’t look like a professor.”

  “Mr. Rossi? He’s a sweetheart, really. I think he teaches comparative lit. But his Italian needs some major work.” She checked her watch, slipped her shoes back on. “I should get going …”

  “When does your group leave tomorrow?”

  “Nine a.m. We’re going to Red Rock Canyon. Lots of cactus, apparently. According to Frommer’s.”

  She was staying in the hotel. “A very tiny room,” she said. “A very tiny bed.” This was not a sign even Harry could miss.

  They were upstairs, kissing, when Harry told her he thought the room would do just fine.

  Housekeeping woke him at ten, presented him with fresh towels. He’d been dreaming of blue seas and dark mysterious fish, an underwater world glimpsed through the windows of a glass-bottomed boat. He showered and shaved and used the small coffee maker and wondered at his luck in finding Anne. The note she’d left—if it’s Tuesday, this must be Red Rock—struck the perfect note; no complications implied. He had a vague memory of her slipping from bed, her hair down. He remembered how small she’d looked in the moonlight.

  His own job was at the far end of the strip, a small trendy restaurant—New Southwest cooking, served on square metal plates—where he waited tables and sometimes tended bar; his own home was an hour away, a two bedroom apartment in a very untrendy suburb. He’d lived there a year. The walls were still bare. There were lawn chairs in the living room, an old chaise lounge for a couch.

  He worked the lunch shift, left at four, brought home a Cobb salad and ate it standing in his kitchen: He reviewed the horses scheduled for tomorrow at Churchill and Arlington Park, phoned in a few bets, mostly offshore books. He took his second shower of the day. What was Anne doing? He pictured her hiking through the Canyon. And what was she wearing? Cute walking shorts maybe. White sneakers. He looked through his wardrobe and tried to remember when he had last shopped for clothes.

  There was an outlet mall a few miles from where Harry lived. Sammy’s Sportswear promised designer clothes at insanely low prices.

  “Just like Versace,” the salesman said, when Harry picked up a pair of slacks and found a shirt he liked. “Better, really. Because this you can wash. The dry cleaning eats you alive these days, am I right?” The shoes were half-price. He told the salesman to bag his old clothes.

  At seven Harry walked through the casino’s main lobby, stopped briefly at the gift shop to buy a paper, saw Anne with her group inside Chow’s; she waved at him with her chopsticks. She was surrounded by the three men from her group. The big one in the blue sport jacket sat just to her right. He looked over at Harry, a smile that doubled as a smirk.

  He played video poker for an hour or so, just killing time. He talked to Jackie, his favorite roulette girl at table six, but didn’t play. There was always a buzz in this place, from the crowd, from the action, it pulled you in, but for some reason tonight Harry felt beyond its grasp.

  “Finally,” Anne said an hour later, appearing suddenly at his side. Her perfume took him back to last night. “They’re going to see the show at the Bellagio. I think they can make it two blocks without me.”

  “How was the desert?”

  “Dry,” she said. “Very dry. I need a drink.”

  He took her away from the Strip, to a place Harry liked with a small trio and good Scotch and they played pool, straight eight ball; she had a nice, soft touch. He introduced her to the owner and the waitresses and then drove her past a few other favorite haunts, local bars mostly but a few artsy spots too, that house where so and so lived, the famous writer, the hot singer, galleries, a sculpture garden mixed with cactus and white sand. I’m acting like a tour guide, he thought. It had been a while since he’d felt like sharing these things with anyone.

  “This is nice,” she said at one point, sipping a Mai Tai through a straw. He liked her sundress and
sandals, her bare legs, the way she changed the radio station without asking. He liked just about everything about her.

  It was midnight when they stopped at Molly’s, a casino/taco joint used by locals the way gamblers in other states use lottery machines, a daily quick fix; just three tables and a single-zero wheel, wedged between a Laundromat and take-out Thai. The wheel wasn’t smooth like those on the Strip; it made loud clicking noises with each turn, like a car with a flat. They sat on bar stools and watched chips being moved on the layout. Harry explained the rules, a bit of strategy.

  “I have to bet something,” he said. It felt like his lucky night. Nineteen red was his usual bet but he moved it one over one for the hell of it. In honor of Anne.

  “Because we’re neighbors,” he said to her, smiling. A Rockford girl.

  “Aren’t the odds rather bad in roulette?” Anne said.

  “You did your homework. It depends on the table, how you bet. But yes, you’re better off at blackjack, or even slots. I like roulette, though. Watching the bounce. You play this number or that number and the rest is fate.”

  He was moving chips around now, making inside bets, corner bets, he felt like it was his night. And he kept winning. Nothing big, he didn’t want to jinx the feeling by pushing it.

  “I could really use your help tomorrow,” said Anne. “It’s gambling day, for my group.”

  “Doesn’t the casino provide someone?”

  “They have a little presentation planned,” she said, nodding. “But I don’t think they stick around. If you’re not busy, maybe you could come over and help me answer questions … it would really help.”

  “Sure.” Her leg warm against his.

  Slow down, Harry …

  In the parking lot he had this sudden urge to tell her who he really was. Just confess, get it out there for once. The moment passed. They held hands, kissed leaning against the hood of the car, like teenagers. He felt insanely happy.