Nobody Dies in a Casino (32 page)

She took a lesson from Loopy Louie and said nothing. Just lowered her head and pushed through the swirl around her, having not a clue where to go. She looked up once and thought she saw a familiar face behind one of the booms. When one of the eyes on that face winked, she recognized Toby “Merlin” Johnson, the dark curls disguised by a eunuch wig, the face still bruised, but both eyes open. She would have liked to thank him for saving her at Merlin's Ridge but didn't dare expose him. She'd saved his life too now, she supposed.

She walked on with her half of the pushy, increasingly insulting entourage, most demanding to know where she and Mitch had been hiding and if they'd secretly wed, until an arm pulled her through a concealed door into a Loopy Louie's security area, all its monitor screens black now. Mr. Undisclosed, with the close-cropped hair and crooked teeth, held out her purse. The freelance ex-ARP who evidently did not die in the fire that destroyed the house and its secrets.

He was so quiet after the paparazzi, she could barely hear him. “Since you've been cooperative, I'm going to make you a deal.”

Just your small black unassuming strap bag with too many pockets.

“Your driver's license, Social Security card, business cards, keys to your home and car and office, your cash, credit and ATM cards. Your identity really.” He jerked it away when she reached for it and pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket. “I will return all to you for your promise and your signature on that promise.”

It was an official-looking letter, nicely typed, but with the ubiquitous errors made so convenient by computers. It had an embossed seal—
THE GOVERNMENT OF THEY UNITED STATES
—and an eagle as letterhead, and various important and official-sounding departments listed across the bottom.

“Nice paper,” Charlie said.

I, Charlie Greene, do hear here by swear upon my oak that I won't not reveal, promote, write about, or represent anyone who does.

The letter went on to describe what she would not reveal in lengthy terms that avoided mention of Groom Lake or Area 51. It did mention Nellis Air Force Base, which was sort of a pseudonym for southern Nevada. The thing was three paragraphs long, the last two all one sentence, phrases linked with semicolons and colons, but nary another verb until the last phrase,
So help me God.

“Not even a mystery?” she asked in all innocence.

“Not even a mystery.”

Charlie took the proffered ballpoint and signed the damn thing up against the wall. He reached for it. She reached for her purse. Neither blinked.

When they finally exchanged merchandise, he said, “You count to five hundred real slow and then follow me out that door at the end of the hall. Now you be a good little girl, Charlie Greene, and remember you signed a promise with Uncle Sam and he's watching you.”

Charlie counted to fifty real fast and opened the door at the end of the hall. It led onto an alley. The man who thought she was dumb enough to keep her promise lay sprawled in the middle of it, a wicked-looking scimitar stuck in his back.

CHAPTER
40

C
HARLIE SPRAWLED IN
the comfort of first-class leather. Richard decided they'd earned some luxury after their vacation.

She took the blood-smeared envelope from her purse. The letter inside had an eagle and
GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES
on its letterhead and was signed “Charles Greenwood.” Toby had appeared from behind a Dumpster and handed it to her without a word.

But he'd held up his left hand, the back of it facing her. His ring finger sported three identical turquoise rings. Mr. Undisclosed was not wearing his.

Detective Battista had been right. Ex-ARPs tend to meet untimely ends. Thanks to Toby, his uncle Louie got revenge on one of his enemies anyway.

The extra stud had been removed from the bottom of her purse, leaving a gash in the leather.

Charlie reached into a zippered pocket stuffed with flattened hundred-dollar bills and checks. She tried to total her loot without taking them out.

“Jesus,” Richard said beside her.

“And this was my worst trip ever to Vegas. Doesn't make sense.” What really amazed Charlie was finding so much of the cash still there after the purse had been handled by all the nefarious “they.” Maybe all of it. She'd lost count of her winnings among the dead bodies.

A portion of it would be donated to a fund set up by Barry and Terry's TV station for Officer Timothy Graden's children and his widow, Emily.

Richard's knee bobbed rhythmically. One hand held his scotch and water, the other drummed on the armrest between them in time to his knee. The night without sleep had taken its toll on his face in a series of lumps.

“She never loved me, Charlie. She was using me.” Richard, not above using his position to entice young women to his bed, was hurting now. Charlie'd never known the agency to represent any of the hopefuls. He discarded them when he was through. “Not like you and Mitch.”

“Bradone enjoyed you. That's a compliment.”

“It's not right. Woman shouldn't lead a guy on like that.”

“Hey, she wasn't after your money or trying to get the agency to represent her. She simply had a fling, like you've been doing for years.” Richard's flings with the young discards was the reason Ann, his third wife and the only one Charlie had met, left him. But Charlie knew her boss to be unable to conceive that turnaround could be fair play when it came to women. “Mitch and I just had a fling too. Believe me, it was our last.”

“Christ, the man's got everything a babe could want. What's the matter with women these days? Can't commit to anything. Thought what you might do when you get old?”

“Oh, I'll have hot flashes, watch my money compound and drip, live on a tropical island where nobody drops dead when I play blackjack, string a hammock between two palms near the beach, smear myself sticky with wild sweet potatoes, read only books I want to, maybe write one about what it was like to be a glamorous Hollywood agent at the millennium.”

Richard Morse watched her with an almost fond expression. “You're full of shit, you know that, Charlie. But you're a good kid.” He patted her hand. “And thanks for saving my life.”

“Richard, won't the government go after Evan Black Productions if he tries to use illegal film from Area Fifty-one? Even shut down the project? Get an injunction, whatever?”

“They'll have to get in line. He's got pending lawsuits up the gills now. Won't be shooting it in the States. By the time the bureaucracy gets to it, thing could be in the theaters, and if the government tries to stop it then, they'll make it an even greater hit. They'll play right into his hands. He can shout conspiracy, First Amendment, censorship. That guy gets away with murder, don't he?”

Charlie wondered if he did. “Does Evan have any connections to organized crime?”

“Everybody does. It's big business now. International. We all brush up against it. Trick is to ignore it. Pretend you don't know. Safer that way.”

In a way she didn't really want to inspect, Charlie knew what he meant. She'd wondered about Richard more than once too, but it's not that easy to question a paycheck.

“Richard, is Louis Deloese really Toby's uncle? Evan and Mel teased him so about all his uncles and Toby claimed he didn't know it was the Hilton that would be hit that night.”

“
Family
has different meanings for different people. Toby Johnson was obviously for hire—Evan would know he had a relationship to Loopy's, and wouldn't want Louie to know which casino to bet on.”

“For hire—you mean Evan could have hired Toby to kill Patrick Thompson and Officer Graden with his limo?”

“Charlie, what did I tell ya? Lay off Black. Somebody connected to Groom Lake, the Janet Terminal, and all that hired Sleem and Boyles to take out the pilot who was bringing secret stuff out of the base. They use one of uncle Elmo's limos to run him and the bicycle cop down so it'll be blamed on Toby.”

“Who has connections with both Evan and Loopy Louie.”

“So Toby takes them out when him and Mel catch them ransacking Evan's house. And look, Charlie, when Evan's project is on the screen, he's going to get even with the real murderers—the guys that hired Sleem and Boyles. You got to deal with what's out there—not what you wish was there. Okay? Is it clear now?”

No, it wasn't clear and it wasn't okay. But after two nights and three days without sleep, Charlie was fading fast. “Wake me up when we get there.”

*   *   *

Charlie and her ulcer slept and ate and lounged at home for the rest of the week, trying to recover from their vacation. They had lots of help from the little condo community.

Betty Beesom showed up with her famous creamy chicken noodle supreme, which owed much of its flavor to Campbell's condensed soup and the baked-to-crunchy buttered crumb topping. Probably four thousand calories a bite, but soothing.

“Cut up hard-boiled eggs in it, knowing how you like eggs.” Food from Betty came with Betty-to-dine, which once annoyed Charlie. But she'd come to depend on it in times of stress.

Mrs. Beesom's hair grew whiter, her paper-thin skin more mottled, her busy steps a tad slower. But her curiosity and her prominent tummy hadn't shrunk. They sat at the table in the breakfast nook, which was part of the kitchen but enclosed by high-backed booth seats that ended in a sunny window. It was Charlie's favorite part of the house.

Betty began with the news Charlie'd missed encountering dead bodies and not playing blackjack. Jeremy's latest live-in had moved out, and good riddance. Couldn't have been much older than Libby, sat around on Jeremy's patio picking her nose and reading filthy magazines. Maggie Stutzman came home two nights in a row real late during the workweek, and single-women lawyers ought to know better. “Just hope it's not some Mr. Candy Bar.”

That nice Esterhazie boy appeared to be hanging around again. Betty, who had been not too fond of Doug Esterhazie several years ago, hoped his reappearance meant Libby would shuck that Eric, who drove such a noisy car.

And Tuxedo, when not busy peeing on Charlie's shoes, had apparently been busy fighting with Hairy, who lived across the alley from Betty. “Enough to wake the dead.”

That last word, of course, leading back to Charlie's vacation. So she gave her neighbor a shortened version of her trip to Las Vegas and pushed her plate away, her stomach swollen with PMS and creamed chicken noodle supreme with boiled eggs.

“That was just wonderful, Mrs. Beesom.”

“Well, I should think you needed every bite. Sounds like you spent most of your vacation throwing up.” Betty motioned for Charlie to stay seated and rinsed their plates, put the glass lid on the casserole, and put it in Charlie's refrigerator.

Her hand on the doorknob, Betty Beesom paused to blink tired, watery eyes. “Seems to me, next time you take a vacation? You might consider just staying home. We won't tell anybody.”

*   *   *

Jeremy Fiedler, who lived behind Maggie, dropped by when he saw Charlie on her sunken patio with yesterday's
Hollywood Reporter.

He had receding reddish brown hair, a Ferrari, and a Trail-blazer. Charlie figured he was a trust-funder. His job description changed often, but he never worked regular hours. Right now, he fancied himself a landscape architect but spent more time working out at his health club than architecting.

Tuxedo appeared from nowhere to jump on his lap when he sat in a chair facing her. “I understand from Mrs. Snoopy, you ran into some trouble in Vegas.”

Charlie was halfway through describing her murder-filled vacation once again when the cordless bleeped next to her.

“Evan, tell me you're not in jail.”

Evan was in Spain. So was Mitch Hilsten.

“How can you film
Conspiracy
in Spain? And you can't call it that. Too soon after the Mel Gibson one.”

“You can film anything in Spain. It'll mix great with what we've got in the can. And we're going to call it
Paranoia Will Destroy Ya.
”

“That's the Kinks. You can't—”

“Recognized it right away, didn't you? We're talking immediate name recognition. It'll get out the baby-boomer gray heads even.”

“Your critics will call it ‘exploitive.'”

“My fans will call it ‘derivative.' And the kids will love it. We're going to blow up Vegas. Well, the Strip—one casino at a time, and maybe Fremont, and for sure McCarran, We're talking
Independence Day
meets
The Godfather
here, Charlie. Louie has these fantastic craftsmen making sets and miniatures. Vacated two of his horse barns for it. And Toby's going to finally get to strut his stuff.” The second unit got to do all the dangerous explosive stuff.

Somehow this didn't sound like the “quiet, creep up on you and you'll never forget it” film Evan pitched to Mitch on the boat moored on Lake Mead.

Louie Deloese was putting up the production crew and cast on his estate there. He had a certain grudge against Las Vegas and the U.S. Government for some reason. Toby, Mel, and Caryl sent their hellos. Did she want to talk to Mitch now?

“No, but remember those two favors you owe me, Evan? I don't want any harm to come to Mitch over there, okay?”

After a prolonged pause, he said, “You got my word, Charlie.” He knew what she suspected, and here was old trusting Hilsten filming at a Spanish villa with a gang of thieves and murderers. “What's the second one?”

“There's been a fund set up for Officer Timothy Graden's family that could use a healthy donation.”

“God, you're not only beautiful and have a great imagination, you've even got a heart.”

“More like a conscience—”