Читать книгу Sleepless in Las Vegas - Colleen Collins - Страница 11
ОглавлениеCHAPTER 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?
Those big brown eyes implored him. “I didn’t mean to—”
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much money did they give you to play this game?”
For a girl who liked to talk, her silence was a message in itself. She was holding something back, but what? He no longer thought she worked as a stripper at Topaz—Brax liked his girls to wear sleek outfits, not castoffs from a Yankee Doodle Dandy parade. Plus, Brax liked to do his own talking. He would never send someone, especially this someone, to do it for him.
Yuri, on the other hand, was crafty, pathologically so, but immature. Maybe the Russian got the itch to dig at Drake, throw him off, so he’d hired this girl, maybe minutes before she walked in here, with hasty instructions to play on his father’s death. Maybe she was hard up for money, feared the thug or both.
“Why don’t you stick to what you’re good at.” He gave her a scathing once-over. “Although anybody who has to advertise to that extent probably isn’t all that good. Who hired your sorry ass?”
She opened her slick red lips to say something, but nothing came out.
Sally appeared, pushed a coaster toward his neighbor. “What can I get ya?”
Miss Who Dat swerved her stricken gaze to the bartender. “I, uh...”
He set down his bottle, hard, on the bar. “Order something. We have some talking to do.”
“Cherry cola?” she asked in a wispy voice.
Sally gave him a what’s-up look. He flashed her a mind-your-business one back.
“Maraschino juice in a cola okay?” Sally asked.
“F’sure. Thank you, ma’am.”
“Sally. And you’re?”
“Uh...” Her gaze darted across the bar. “Remy.”
“Nice to meet you, Remy.” She pointed to Drake’s bottle. “Another?”
He shook his head as an old Sinatra tune, “Luck Be a Lady,” started playing in the background.
Remy tapped her fingers on the bar. “I like this song.”
“Fine. Who put you up to this?”
She gave him a blank look. “Nobody.”
“Sticking to that story, eh?”
The way she lowered her thick black lashes, then raised them slowly, made him think of a theater curtain. He wondered what show he would see next.
“Like I told you,” she said, oozing earnestness, “I don’t know a Brassell or Yuri.”
“Braxton.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” He’d pulled that same stunt a hundred times. Mispronouncing a name to pretend he didn’t know the person. Playing dumb when you actually knew everything about the person, from the city where they were born to their cat’s name.
She acted like some kind of psychic nut, but he got the sense she was a lot sharper than she let on. No way was he going to get information from her. Not the truthful variety anyway.
“What you claim to have heard could not have been my father because...” He paused, swallowed an ache he’d been fighting all day. “He’s dead.”
There was a stupefied look on her face. Then she keeled forward and hugged him. “Oh, mercy!” she murmured, her voice breaking. “I had no idea.”
He set down the phone, trying to ignore the curious looks of others at the bar. Placing his hands on her trembling shoulders, he peeled her off him.
Her eyes glistened with emotion. Her chin quivered. What an actress.
“You knew.”
She sucked in a loud, indignant breath. “That he’s de— passed? No, of course, I didn’t know—how would I have? Even if I did know, I wouldn’t have shared what I heard...or sensed maybe is more like it, because to tell you the truth, I’m not all that sure I have the gift...but even if I was sure, I would never have said something like that without believing it offered some comfort.”
He frowned. “What?”
She waved her hands in the air. “Never mind.” She paused. “What are you pointing at?”
“That photo over the register. My dad was the original owner’s best friend, and a lifetime member of the Blottos who still hang out here most afternoons. If somebody wanted to learn facts about my father, all they’d have to do was buy one of those regulars a drink.”
“I don’t know any facts.” She looked at the photo. “He must be the gentleman on the right. The other one is too old.”
He said nothing.
After several beats, she said quietly, “You’re right. Those pulsations likely were your phone on vibrate. Sometimes I think I’m picking up on vibes, but...” She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “My nanny, though, she had the gift.”
“I don’t care if there’s a radio frequency scanner embedded in your skull, you have no right pretending to know Benedict Morgan.”
His brother had his issues, but Brax would never stoop so low as to fabricate a story involving their father. This evening was getting weirder by the minute. Time to go home, grab some shut-eye before his three a.m. return to Topaz.
He stood, retrieved his wallet from his pocket.
“Please, sir,” she whispered, “it was just a...funny coincidence.”
He turned away as he leafed through the money in his billfold. At least with his back to her, she’d get the hint their exchange was over.
“You got me wrong,” she continued.
So much for that theory.
“I sat next to you because I liked you. I walked in here and I thought, ‘Wow, that’s one good-looking guy. Sharp dresser, too.’ Maybe we could talk, get to know each other, but then your phone dropped...”
He turned so abruptly she jumped. “Let’s end this nonsense now,” he said in a low rumble. “You claim nobody sent you, fine. You call that...other part...a funny coincidence, okay. I halfway believe you because nobody in their right mind would hire a flake to put some mental muscle on me. But you can’t fool me about the rest of your performance. I’m not buying, sister, so sell it elsewhere.”
“Sell?” She actually looked affronted. “You think I’m...a hooker?”
“I’m giving you two pieces of advice. That ingénue act might work on out-of-towners who’ve never been to the big city, but don’t test-drive it on the locals, baby. And the next time somebody asks your name, don’t pick one off a bottle, Remy.” He snorted a laugh. “I suppose your last name’s Martin.”
Another guilty look. “F’true, you got me there. But you’re wrong about the rest. I’m not selling anything.”
“Right,” he muttered, “and I’m Mickey Mouse.”
Sally appeared, set the cola in front of the girl.
He tugged loose a five and handed it to Sally. “Keep the change.”
“Going home?” She slipped the bill into the tip jar.
He nodded. “Time to take my dog for a walk.”
“Don’t be a stranger.” She pulled out her cell phone and headed down the bar.
He didn’t look at “Remy” as he plucked his jacket off the high back of the stool. Folding it over his arm, he headed to the door as the music swelled and Frank warbled a long, long note that faded to nothing.
Drake stepped outside, and the heat hit him like a blast furnace. He wondered when he’d last taken a breath that didn’t smell like exhaust and warm asphalt.
Looking up at the night sky, he picked out the Big Dipper. When he was a kid, the skies had been cleaner, the stars brighter. But like everything else in life, things changed.
He was tired of change. It demanded too much and left too little. Never understood why people liked to say “embrace change,” as though it was fun, like wrapping your arms around the waist of some hot babe on a Harley, the two of you streaking toward some exhilarating destination. Change was more like sitting in the back of a taxi with some hard-nosed cabbie who drove recklessly, padded the fare and dumped you at the wrong address.
That was the problem with being a practical man. You knew life was no easy ride.
Sometimes, though, he envied the dreamers of the world, wondered what it was like to hope. To believe without the benefit of physical evidence. Staring at the stars again, he wished he could trust that something lay beyond life’s closed door, because he sure as hell couldn’t find the answers here.
He walked across the parking lot to the darkened kiosk, brushed off the seat of an abandoned stool and laid his jacket neatly over it. Rolling up a shirt sleeve, he watched the traffic along Las Vegas Boulevard. Cars, trucks and those life-changing taxis streamed past, filling the night with scraps of laughter, music and the occasional horn blast.
He scanned Topaz’s parking lot. No yellow Porsche parked in its regular spot. No black Mercedes, either, but it could be parked in a section not visible from here. He’d walk through the lot on his way to his truck, see what was there.
Fighting a yawn, he rolled up his other sleeve. He felt drained. Time to close the lid on today’s troubles, go home, walk his dog, then get some rest.
Click click click.
“Hello, sir?” called out a too-familiar female voice.
So much for closing that lid.
