Divas Las Vegas (31 page)

And then Bart noticed Tabitha, and his repugnant face
lit up.

"Oh, joy," Tabitha said, between her lipstick-smudged
teeth, "the fucker's glad to see me."

We girls waved a yoo-hoo to our working men. Both came
over to join us while there was an apparent lull at the bar.

"You're looking foxy as ever, Tabitha," Bart said as he
went to plant a wet one on my friend's lips. She's a fast one,
though, and managed to turn her head just in time to catch
it on the cheek. I, however, let Zahir give me a big one on
my ruby lips. Then I started in on my drink. (See, I do have
my priorities in order, after all.)

"So, baby, whatcha doin' later?" Bart propositioned
Tabitha.

"Going out with you, Bart?" she asked, batting her
lashes and then attacking her drink.

"You betcha," he said, grinning inanely at her. I doubted
he got very many second dates.

"And me?" I asked, looking up at Zahir.

"Anything for my Marilyn," he replied. Too bad when
I batted my fake lashes one fell off. Luckily, Bart was too
enraptured to notice.

Justin dragged us out of there quick, but not before
we agreed to meet the fellows back at the disco at eight
for our-hopefully-final dates. Though I'd be sad to say
goodbye to Zahir, the chilly environs of San Francisco were
calling me back home. And since the clang, clang, clang
of the slots was calling as well, we decided to kill, for lack
of a better word, time, before said dates. Yes, hours go by
like minutes when you're gambling away what little money
you have, meaning we had just enough time to change into
something pretty before we had to meet back up with the
boys. Of course, I hoped to be out of my outfit soon after
my date began.

We arrived back at the disco just as Zahir and Bart
were getting off work. They greeted us at the entrance and
promptly escorted us out. Zahir steered me to the left. Bart
took Tabitha to the right. We waved at each other over our
shoulders. I hoped that our separation would be a brief one;
we had, after all, tempted fate enough over the last several
days, and I think it was getting pissed at us.

"Zahir needs to get Marilyn out of that dress," he said
to me when we were outside.

"Ooh, Marilyn would like that," I replied, but then realized that going back to my hotel room was a big no-no. I
didn't think Zahir would be too happy finding his brother
back there. So I added, "But I think Tabitha plans on going
back to our hotel with Bart. Maybe we should go to your
house instead."

Pause. He had to think about that for quite some time
before he answered. I was almost deeply offended while he
hemmed and hawed and then finally said yes. I couldn't
begin to imagine what the big deal was.

We arrived at his home, a lovely two-bedroom, nice-sized ranch house just outside the city, and I let out a big "Wow."
Then added, "I didn't know bartending paid so much."

To which he gruffly replied, "Family money."

It was even lovelier on the inside. All leather furniture,
warm high-napped rugs, candles, and crystal knickknacks
throughout. Either Zahir had missed his calling as an interior decorator or he had enough of that family money to
hire one. Either way, I was impressed and said so. Zahir
seemed less than enthused at my gushing. As a matter of
fact, he quickly ushered me in and, without so much as a
brief tour, showed me to the bedroom. Well, I thought, at
least he wanted me badly enough that he was willing to
show me his rude side to get me naked and in bed.

He mellowed out as soon as we were behind the bedroom
door and I started to undress. "Oh, Em, you are much more
sexy without that dress on," he said as I slithered out of my
Marilyn gear. He too looked sexy, splayed out on the bed,
his big, hairy calves poking out from beneath his pant cuffs.
I put the dress and purse down on an overstuffed side chair
and got into the bed with him. He held me in his big, dark,
hairy arms for some time, then he said, "Please excuse me,
Em, I need to make quick phone call. Can I get drink or
something for you?"

"Sure, whatever you're having is fine by me," I replied
as he got up and left me alone in the room. He closed the
door behind him. I guessed that it was a private phone call
because there was a phone right by the bed that he could've
used.

Not being one to be able to just sit there and do nothing,
I got up to look around. His bedroom was just as nice as the
rest of the house and extremely well furnished. Next to the
television were pictures of him and Ahmed from their teen
years. They looked a lot happier together than when I had
seen them last, at Caesar's.

And that's when I noticed it out of the corner of my eye: a little white metallic sticker in the left rear corner of the
television. I'd seen them before and knew what they were
for. I leaned down to get a closer look, and sure enough,
Property of the Venetian was printed across the label. My
heart started to pound. Then I went over to the VCR and
flipped it around. This time, Property of the Mirage was on
the sticker. Uh-oh. Not good. I told myself that he'd probably just bought it all hot. Zahir was a good genie, not an
evil one like Bart. And I almost believed that until-

"Here you go, sexy man. Champagne and shrimp cocktail. Nothing is too good for my Em," he said, plopping
back down on the bed with a tray that held two champagne glasses, a bottle of Dom Perignon-which I knew for
certain was way out of a bartender's price range-and a
plate full of some very large and yummy-looking shrimp,
plus a small bowl of cocktail sauce. Now, normally, a plate
of seafood would have put a smile on my face and a growl
in my tummy, but not this time. My brain hearkened back
to our night in the cab when my beloved Zahir had insisted
we not to go the Lobster Tail because of his allergy to shellfish. Guess what? The delicious-looking shrimp lying before
us was shellfish, as I'm sure you already knew. Something
didn't add up.

And then I remembered all those murders and got
scared.

"Um, Zahir, I need to use your restroom," I said, and
got up off the bed as nonchalantly as possible. I knew better
than to tip him off to my newfound knowledge. Though I
still didn't really know anything.

I headed for the bathroom, picking up my purse on the
way. "Medication," I said by way of explanation. He nodded
an okay and started in on the shrimp. My heart skipped,
and not the good kind of tra-la-la skipping.

As soon as I was in the bathroom and had shut the door
behind me, my knees started to buckle and I broke out in a cold sweat. We never should've attempted all this by
ourselves. We should've let the police handle it all along.
We should've told the Feds everything we knew. I should
never, ever have listened to Justin. I sat on the toilet, shaking
my head.

Then, as luck would have it, I noticed my purse. It wasn't
mine. I must've switched mine with Justin's.

And you know what that meant.

Those fabulous Rufies were in this one, along with some
nice blue Xanax for yours truly. Needing all the help I could
get, I downed one, lickety-split. Now I just had to slip Zahir
the Mickey to get out of there alive.

"Come back to bed, baby. Zahir misses his Em," he
yelled from the bed, where he was now laying naked and
hard. (Just my luck-champagne, shrimp, and a hard,
naked man, and all I could think of was how on earth do I
get the hell out of there.)

"Okay, sweetie," I said, slipping back into bed with him.
But that's when my usual clumsiness worked to my distinct
advantage. Em, plus bed, plus cocktail sauce, equals one big
mess. The bowl spilled almost as soon as I got comfortable.
Zahir jumped up to get a towel, and I slipped him the Rufie.
Didn't even have to use my brains to figure that one out,
which was a good thing, as it was my brains that got me into
the mess in the first place.

I stirred the pill into the champagne and watched as it
dissolved. Zahir returned, towel in hand, just as the foaming
action abated. If he detected any chicanery, he didn't let on.
Besides, he was way too concerned for his satin sheets to
have noticed.

"I'm so sorry, Zahir. Please let me make it up to you,"
I said, displaying my body in a most provocative manner.
Well, that did catch his attention. He threw the towel in
the closet, gingerly placed the tray on the nightstand, and
hopped back into bed with me. That woody of his returned remarkably fast, which wasn't a good thing for me.

"How about a toast, Zahir?" I said, quickly grabbing for
the champagne glass as he went diving for my neck.

Looking a bit peeved at the interruption, he grabbed his
glass, clinked it to mine, and downed his drink in one fell
swoop. Aaah... My body relaxed a bit. (Though that may
have been the Xanax kicking in.)

"Now," he said, "where were we?"

Okay, so I had sex with him. What choice did I have?
Anyway, I knew he'd be out cold in a few minutes. Though
Zahir's a pretty large fellow (everywhere), and a few minutes
was more like an hour. I was actually getting quite nervous
again, despite my own medication, until he let out a big
yawn and said, "Hmm, I'm getting kind of tired. Mind if I
take nap?"

Needless to say, I didn't mind at all. A minute later, he
was out like a Palestinian light and I was, once again, temporarily safe. So I got up and had myself a good look-around.
Sure enough, every appliance in the house had originally
come from a hotel. And both bathrooms were full of hotel
linens. But that was nothing compared to his garage. Judging
from what Glenda and Justin had said about Bart's, Zahir
must've hit the mother lode. I even found several pieces of
dinnerware from the Lobster Tail, which may have been
the real reason Zahir didn't want to go there that night.
And that's when my rattled brain put it all together. Ahmed
said that the real coup would be to find Bart's boss. I think
I had just found him. It sure went a long way to explaining
Zahir's obvious control over Bart, and Bart's willingness,
albeit reluctant, to go along with Zahir's wishes. It also
explained how two men could get by tending bar during the
day in a disco. That was probably where they worked out
of. It certainly provided a good cover.

And I could only assume that Ahmed was working
for Bart, but he didn't know about Zahir, and vice versa.

Which was probably why Zahir was so eager to get rid of
Ahmed. Ahmed probably told Zahir exactly what kind of
mess he was in, and Zahir freaked out when he realized that
Ahmed could get them all in a load of trouble. But why the
murders? Well, that I could wait to find out later, and, hopefully, not firsthand. I thought it best to get out of there fast
before Zahir woke up, found me with his stash, and then
made me the fourth victim.

I slid on my dress and ran out the door as fast as my
little pumps could carry me. But now what? Where was I? I
could barely see the lights of Vegas. Then, to make matters
worse, guess whose favorite Feds pulled up? Do those guys
have some sixth sense or what? Now, I know I should've
waved them down with Justin's purse and gotten the whole
mess over with right then and there, but I wanted my friends
all together and safe first. And I wanted to make sure that
Ahmed got into as little trouble as possible-though, for all
I knew, he was somehow involved with all the murdering
going on. Plus, I really didn't want to be in some holding cell
in drag. (What an awful mug shot that would've made.)

Instead, I hid in a bush and waited for them to leave,
which they did-twenty-five minutes later! My poor dress
was a shambles. And it was starting to get chilly out there
in the desert at night. Too bad there was nothing in that
purse to help me forget about the cold. What I needed was
a hot coffee with some Kahlua. What I found, instead, was
Justin's cell phone, which he had remembered this time.
Once again, it was Glenda to the rescue. Seriously, I just
know she's keeping track.

Soon after, the cab pulled up, with Glenda in the backseat. "You're a mess," she said as I got in.

"Nice to see you, too. Now let's go find Justin and go
get the police. I know who Bart's boss is, and he'll be awake
and probably very angry in a few short hours."

Oh, to be so lucky.

On the way back to Caesar's to get a change of clothes, I
filled Glenda in on the events of the few past hours. She was
less than happy.

"So let me see if I understand this correctly," she said,
counting off on her fingers. "You're dating the bad guy, who
may or may not be a murderer as well. Justin's on a date
with the bad guy's assistant, who may also be a murderer.
And I'm stuck in a cab with a guy in a ripped dress and a
purse full of Rufies. Why did I leave San Francisco again?"

"Because you were bored and you missed us?" I
answered.

"Next time, stop me," she moaned, glaring out the
window.