No Legal Grounds (24 page)

Driving east on Highway 15, the lights of the city illuminating the night sky like forbidden candy, Sam remembered how much he hated Las Vegas.

He’d come here with his law school classmates, each semester after finals. Five or six of them would rent a single motel room and play no-look poker to see who had to sleep on the floor. Then they’d all go down to the Golden Nugget and spread out to blackjack tables or the crap games or maybe some roulette and start on the inevitable enterprise of drinking and losing money.

Oh, what high-stakes gamblers they were too, Sam feeling the pinch if he ever lost up to twenty dollars. Then he would take a long break and walk around, cooling off before going back to the one-dollar blackjack game and more edge-of-the-seat excitement.

It was during one of those jaunts in his third year at UCLA, to the place the veterans called “Lost Wages,” that Sam finally got his fill.
He was between losing stints at blackjack in one of the downtown casinos when he wandered through the copper-smelling sea of slot machines and was engulfed by the unmistakable sounds of obsession — the ringing of coins fed into holes at the top and jangling down into the bowels of the machine, followed by the mechanical pull of the knobbed arm, then the snap upward after a hopeful letting go, followed by the tumblers spinning. Pretty pictures of cherries and lemons and eyes. And numbers. Every now and then there’d be a small payoff and a few coins would splatter into the metallic mouth at the bottom. The happy player would squeal or clap or just look at the winnings dead-eyed, scooping them up and throwing them into a cup filled with other coins. Then immediately the ritual would continue, resulting most often in loss.
Sam never could figure out the allure of the one-armed bandits. There was no skill involved, just a blind, repetitive feeding

and pulling, feeding and pulling. They were even starting to put in machines where the player just punched a button. No thought involved, just plain luck, most of it bad. What was the attraction?

There was an old episode of the
Twilight Zone
in which an older man was hypnotized by a slot machine and couldn’t stop losing his money to it. That’s what it had to be, Sam thought. Mechanical hypnotism. No rational person would keep throwing money away in the mad hope that the machine would return a jackpot. Or would they? Was he any different tossing dice or trying to beat a dealer at twenty-one?

He was lost in such thoughts, lazily eyeing the people on the slots, when he heard a woman scream. He looked to his right and saw a woman of around sixty, dressed in a skin-tight leopardpatterned outfit — one that would have looked ridiculous even on a woman half her age — being tugged by a man in a Western shirt with a large gut overhanging an ornate belt buckle.

“Lemme go!” she yelled as the man spoke to her in low tones. “That’s enough,” he said. “Come on, honey, let’s go and get — ” The woman screamed in his face, “I ain’t good and ready and

I’ll tell you when I’m good and ready and I ain’t right now!” Clearly she was drunk, and she was alternating the cup of coins in her hand with a cup on the ledge next to the slot machine. That cup held beer, no doubt, which was served free to the players. That’s what the casinos loved. Nothing filled their coffers faster than drunken gamblers with high hopes.

As the woman jerked away from the man, Sam saw her right hand was almost all black on the underside, the side that grabbed the arm of the slot machine. How long must she have been there to get a hand that dirty?

“Now, honey,” the man said, moving in closer to the woman and reaching his arms around her body. She jerked away from him again and now the coins went flying out of the cup and she swore at the top of her voice and cried, “Now look what you did! You leave me alone and keep your big fat nose out of my business!” Then she dropped to her knees, spilling more coins as she frantically used her blackened right hand to sweep up the coins on the floor as if they were dust bunnies.

A beefy young man in a casino blazer rushed over and started to help the other man get the woman to her feet. She kept screeching, like a caged animal. She was crazy with liquor and gambling, and Sam would never forget the jiggling fat of her arms as she batted at the coins, making the whole thing seem monstrous, like a scene out of a Victor Hugo novel.

As the screaming woman was pulled up and restrained by the two men, Sam noticed a small crowd had gathered and the people were laughing, laughing at this distorted image of humanity. Sam didn’t laugh. He thought how ugly it all was, this huge community of excess planted in the desert, sucking people in for no other reason than to get them to forget themselves in the vain pursuit of easy money.

He’d had no use for Las Vegas ever since, had never returned, even when one of his good friends invited him to a wedding there, promising “the party of a lifetime.”

Now here he was, returning because he had to. Because the worst form of humanity was not in the casinos but somewhere out there, beyond the lights, holding hostage his only daughter and making him dance. Nicky held all the cards, as the gamblers said, and Sam had to follow his instructions to the letter.

And as the city lights got closer and brighter and more gaudy, Sam’s insides shimmied, like a dancer in one of those shows in the big hotels. He saw a big, bright billboard on the right, shouting its message in gold lettering —

Heather’s arms were throbbing now against the ropes. The lowlife had her on a chair, facing him. Her head was still clearing from
something.
What was he going to do to her?

How had they gotten here anyway? She had no memory of it. This was a house of some kind, but sparsely furnished and dark. She had the sense it was daytime, but the windows were all covered with heavy black drapes. The chair she was secured to was plain and hard.

Lundquist was reclining in a soft chair, his feet up on a coffee table. Above him, on the wall, was a print of a skeleton riding a motorcycle. On another table was a cage of some sort. What, the guy had pets?

She told herself not to let him get the best of her. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.
“No, you don’t.”
“You want me to pee all over myself?”
“Might make a good song lyric.” He smiled.
“You’re pathetic.”
“Not a way a wife should talk to her husband.”
Heather’s own stomach twisted. Was he saying, actually saying, that he wanted her to marry him? “You are so sick.”
“Honey, that wasn’t your attitude last night. What happened?”
She couldn’t remember last night. It was lost in a haze. Blurry pictures littered her mind. She did remember sunlight, some casino scenes, drinking during the concert — he must have gotten the drinks for her . . . yes, he had a flask — and feeling really lightheaded. Then a feeling of being awake half the night but not remembering anything.
What was it about him? He had his hat on and his shades off, and in the dim light of this place she thought she saw his eyes for the first time. They were small and dark, like a couple of black M&M’s.
“You’re my woman now, so I’d appreciate a little more of that lovin’ feelin’,” he said.
What
was
his trip? “Is this some sort of game you’re into? ’Cause I’m not playing.”
“No game. Don’t you get the deal yet?”
She waited.
“We’re married.”
She scoured her mind for any memory that would prove what he just said. What was worse was not finding anything to disprove it. “You’re out of it,” she offered weakly.
“Got the papers and everything.”
“You can’t do that. You can’t just get married.”
“Vegas, honey.”
“A person has to know what she’s doing.”
“I know a guy.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He shrugged. “You’re still tired from the wedding night.”
Wedding night? Was he saying he had, they had . . .
No. Please, God, no.
Lundquist smiled. “Anyway, people who’ve shared what we have are married in the eyes of God, right? Our love is strong. Who needs those old society conventions?”

The valet was dressed in a toga and gold braids, his muscular body honed to Herculean proportions. Sam got out and left the keys in the ignition.

Sam shook his head and only then thought about what he didn’t have with him — a change of clothes. He didn’t expect to be here more than twenty-four hours anyway. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, except maybe in a chair for an hour or two.

Hercules handed him a ticket and said, “Anytime you want your chariot, we’ll bring it up. Enjoy your stay.”
Sam walked toward the front doors. Lights assaulted him from every direction. They lit up the walk like high noon. Blinking gold bulbs popped all around the ornate but automatic front doors, which were fashioned out of glass and imitation brass. The entry could have been from one of those Italian sword-and-sandal movies of the sixties starring Steve Reeves. You didn’t quite buy that it was real, but you went along with the fakery to experience the movie.
That’s Vegas all over, Sam thought. You go with the fake and the phony to live the fantasy. That’s why people came here and congregated in temples of sensual excess like this six-hundred-room monstrosity.
Inside the doors and to the left Sam saw, and heard, the main casino. It was instantly familiar, as was the copper smell mixed with cigarette smoke, the odor of grasping and greed. Immediately in front of him was a bank of slot machines and several zombielike players engaged in ritual frustration. No one smiled.
God, get me out of here, Sam thought. Get me out as soon as you can with Heather next to me and Nicky Oberlin gone from our lives forever.
The people at the front desk were also made out in Greek costume, though not as revealing as the Hercules valet. No, revealing was left to the cocktail servers, who made their way back and forth from the bar near the reception area to the slots and casino. Their costumes were meant to stoke male fires, their plastic smiles to create the illusion that everyone was in a giant pleasure dome where anything — literally — could happen if you were lucky. Or had money to burn.
Without a hint of interest, Sam gave his name to a young woman at the desk. “Yes, Mr. Trask, we have your reservation. Would you like smoking or nonsmoking?”
I’d like a flamethrower, Sam thought, and free reign of the place. “Non, please.”
“All right. We have you staying for one night with us. All taken care of. May I take a credit card for incidentals?”
“There won’t be any,” he said.
“It’s just in case you — ”
“I said there won’t be any. Just give me my key and — ”
“It’s just our policy to — ”
“The answer is no. My key, please.”
The practiced pleasantness on the woman’s face morphed into steely irritation. “If you’ll just excuse me for a moment.”
She turned before he could say anything more. No doubt she was going to inform her supervisor that another troublemaker was with them and would he please solve the problem? When she returned, a young man wearing a navy blue blazer — no toga for this one — and a serious look was with her.
“Can I help you, sir?” the young man said.
Sam couldn’t help feeling he was talking to a couple of college students uninterested in helping him at all.
“I’m here on business, and all I want is to go to my room and sit there until it’s over. I’m not going to watch movies or eat nuts or drink alcohol. As fast as I can I’m going to get out of here. I’m not interested in giving you any more of my money. May I have my key now?”
With an impassive resolve the young man said, “Please understand, we will only be taking an imprint to — ”
“I understand everything that goes on here.”
“Then you must know how difficult it would be to have — ”
“I haven’t got a credit card, Charlie. Okay? Don’t believe in ’em anymore. And I don’t want any of your stupid candy bars or little bottles of booze. I want to go to my room, which has been paid for, because I would hate to raise a holy stink here in the lobby and cause all sorts of upset for the people streaming in here to give you their money at the crap table. So if that’s what you — ”
The man in the blazer put up his hand. “That’s quite all right, sir,” he said with no more enthusiasm than an oyster. “We hope you enjoy your stay.”

It even had a view of the lights of Vegas which, from the tenth story, actually looked benign. Most prominent in the distance was something that looked like the Space Needle in Seattle. He’d passed that on the way in, along with an ersatz Statue of Liberty, a smaller version of the Eiffel Tower, and assorted other hotel fakeries. Some of the places were familiar — Caesar’s Palace and the Stardust. Others, like the Wynn, were just more of the same. A waste of girders and glass.

Sam closed the drapes and wondered what he was supposed to do next.
Wait.
He had nothing else he could do. He had his cell phone and that

Then he looked in the top drawer of the nightstand and found what he was looking for — a Gideon Bible.
What a throwback this was. To have a Bible available in a place like this. Sam was comforted by it.
Opening to the Psalms, he turned to the only one he had any familiarity with, the twenty-third. He knew that one even before he was a Christian. His grandmother used to recite it to him when he stayed over at her house as a boy. Once, when he was four or so, she asked him if he remembered the psalm. “Yes,” he said, then stood up proudly. “The Lord is my shepherd. That’s all I want.”
Now, thinking back on that line, Sam thought it really was the essence of the psalm — of the Bible, in fact.
The Lord is my shepherd. That’s all I want.
He read the psalm a couple of times, pausing over the table being set in the presence of enemies. He felt surrounded by enemies here at the Empire Hotel.
For an hour Sam prayed as he walked around, sometimes dropping to his knees by the bed. The thought occurred to him that maybe this whole thing was an elaborate ruse. That Nicky Oberlin was nowhere near Vegas. That he would make Sam wait and wait before calling him and telling him with a laugh that there’d been some gross misunderstanding.
The thought made him sweat.
It was ten o’clock. He tried lying down but his eyes wouldn’t stay closed.
Ten fifteen.
Ten thirty.
And then a knock at the door.
Pulse quickening, Sam went to the peephole and saw a woman standing there. She was young and pretty and wore a business suit. She was holding a small briefcase. Someone from the hotel?
She knocked again. Sam opened the door.
“Sam Trask?”
“Yes.”
With a smile the woman pushed by him into the room. “Hey — ” Sam said.
“Close the door,” she said.
“Who are you? What do you — ”
“Nicky sent me.”
Sam closed the door. The woman was in her early twenties, with red hair worn up. The way she was dressed and carried herself, she looked like a lawyer or business exec. Her makeup was perfect, accentuating her full lips and green eyes. She plopped the briefcase on the bed and faced him.
“Welcome to Las Vegas,” she said.
“You have a message from Oberlin?”
“Who?”
“You said Nicky sent you.”
“That’s right. Nicky. That’s all he said.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because Nicky sent me, silly. I told you that.” She reached behind her head and with one motion of her hand sent her hair spilling down over her shoulders. “You are one lucky guy, Mr. Trask, to have a friend like him.”
“Wait a min — ”
“Call me Annabelle.” She shed her coat with practiced swiftness and threw it behind her without looking.
“Not interested, Annabelle.” Not interested in the sick little insult Nicky had tossed to him. “Please leave.”
Annabelle put on a pouty look. “Now, sweets, there’s nothing to worry about.” She began to unbutton her blouse and walk toward him.
“Stop,” he said.
“Do you know what a gift is?” Three buttons were undone now.
“Don’t do that.”
She ignored him. “I’m yours, sweets, for the whole night.”
Sam turned his back on her and went to the door, opened it, and held it open. “Get out.”
“Close the door, Mr. Trask.”
“Get out now. Tell Nicky to call me.”
“I said close the door.”
He looked back at her. Her blouse was open. He turned away again. “If you don’t get out, I’m leaving you here and calling security.”
“Not if you want to see your daughter again,” she said.