The Dead Don't Speak (3 page)

"I've never been," she said.

"If you get a chance, you should. Fantastic weather, a lot of history."

Charlotte turned from Chris to better fix a contemptuous glare on Cassandra. He saw this but thought she was looking at Simon.

If the two stood next to each other, Simon and Chris, one would think they came from opposite ends of the gene pool. Simon was tall, had classic good looks and enough charisma to win a presidential election. Chris, on the other hand, was short and rounder.

"So Charlotte, where are you from?" Chris asked.

"Denver."

Meanwhile Simon led Cassandra to the red velvet couch that sat against the wall facing the door. The two seated themselves tightly together, Simon's arm was around Cassandra, and he was jabbering about something while the girl smiled and nodded.

"I've been to Denver."

"Yeah?" Charlotte said, uninterested.

"Yes. Back in oh-five. We did a few shows there." It wasn't true.

Charlotte perked up a little, "Did you like it?"

"I liked it fine. Thin air though."

"All the tourists say that. You get used to it." The way she said it, tourists were synonymous with scum.

Charlotte was still glaring at Cassandra. Chris decided if he was going to salvage this night he'd have to go for broke.

"Know what would piss him off?" Chris said.

"What? Piss who off?"

"Simon over there, with that little fat girl. It'd really piss him off if we started making out right now. I mean really going at it. Fall on the floor, the works."

"You serious?" Charlotte stopped glaring long enough to smirk at Chris.

"No."

*****

Daphne Carter sat behind her large mahogany desk at the Versailles Resort and Casino, poring over a computer screen. It was kind of late and her eyes were starting to glaze over. Footsteps clacked in the hall beyond the door. Daphne looked up. The footsteps passed but her eyes stayed on the door. She stood slowly and flexed her legs. She reached up and dug the palms of her hands into her eyes, forcing the weariness from them.

The numbers were trending down. Soon her ass would be in a sling and she needed a plan for recovery. CFO's of failing companies didn't get to keep their jobs. Sure, she could go back to Entertainment, probably at another hotel. She'd been good at that. But no one likes to fail, and Daphne Carter willed away the shudder that crept up her spine at the thought.

Word on the street was Camelot, a casino further down the Strip, was drawing a huge crowd with their main attraction. Daphne kicked herself every time she heard the name Simon Simmons.

A couple of years ago, while she was still in the Entertainment department, she'd had a chance to sign Simmons but let it pass, thinking a psychic show couldn't draw a crowd. Not a crowd with money, anyway.

Since the Simmons' show had become a success, Daphne had placed a few calls, maybe four or five, trying to lure Simmons away, even though she was CFO and there was a new face booking the talent, Dylan Tovak. Every time they had talked, Simmons always sounded receptive but then nothing ever materialized. It hadn't come to a contract buy-out offer yet, but Daphne saw it looming on the horizon. She couldn’t figure out another play and it wasn't her place as CFO to bring in new acts. However, gambling was a pure numbers game and if you couldn't put the meat in the seats, you couldn't make any money. Then even the clever ones, like Daphne Carter, would be shown the door.

What to do? Who to call? Daphne knew James Spinner, Jimmy to his friends, the Entertainment Coordinator at Camelot. They'd come up together at Stardust. It was true they hadn't spoken in a while, the last time being the Stardust implosion, but they’d parted on friendly terms. Perhaps they could work something out.

Maybe
I should give him a call?

Daphne poured herself a slug of scotch from the decanter on the table behind her desk. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows that comprised one wall and peered out at the bright lights of Vegas, searching for a silver lining in the brewing storm. Table games were down. Slots, the real indicator of a casino's patronage, were stagnant. Even Keno was failing. The sports book was holding up all right, still low but not by as large a margin as the rest. She rocked back on her heels and drained the amber liquid from her tumbler. It burned all the way to her stomach, warming her from the inside out.

Daphne Carter could imagine what it had been like in the old days. Some days Daphne wished she could bring her troubles out to the desert, put a bullet in their head, and bury them in a shallow grave.

That was old Las Vegas, mob Vegas. The collapse of the criminal empire had created the personnel vacuum that led Daphne Carter into her first casino job. Now, some twenty years later, she found herself in the same pickle as her criminal predecessors. Only instead of the law breathing down her neck it was the board of directors.

Daphne's desk phone rang. She stepped back to the desk and took a deep breath before picking up the receiver.

"Daphne Carter," she answered.

"It's Tim. Sarah and I are wondering if we'll see you for dinner tonight or if we should go ahead and eat without you again?"

Daphne sighed into the phone. She didn't like being reminded of how she was failing both as a professional and as a wife and mother.

"You know, in a courtroom your dedication to work could be called prejudicial," Tim, the former legal eagle, paused. "We're eating without you, then?"

"I'm stuck at work. What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing. Get back to work. We'll see you sometime tonight... I hope."

"I'll try, dear. I will."

By the time Daphne made it home, it was after 3:00 AM. She trudged through her dark dwelling to the bedroom and found the door locked. Not a big surprise, as Tim often used this as a sign that he was angry with her. She turned and went to the refrigerator to grab a beer. She took the beverage to the living room and sat down on the couch, making sure to set the beer on a coaster. She had better, or Tim would chew her out later that morning.

He’d been the cause of many ulcers for opposing lawyers before the accident. Tim had been pure hell in a courtroom. An intimidating litigator and rigorous researcher -- he came from a long line of lawyers. Hell, his uncle was the State Attorney General. Then the accident happened. He’d collided with a twenty-something whose next text was more important than Tim having the use of his legs. While being confined to a wheelchair hadn't robbed Tim of his mind, it had crushed his spirit. After leaving the hospital, he passed on his former job, opting to be a stay-at-home dad.

Daphne flipped the television on and found an old Western starring Jimmy Stewart. She sank back into the cushions, closing her eyes against the glow, and was asleep a few minutes later. A bead of condensation slid down the unopened bottle. It soaked into the cork of the coaster.

Phones rang all over Simon Simmons' suite at Camelot. He stirred a little, coughed, cleared his throat of phlegm, and slid out from under Cassandra's arm. Simon rolled over, silently cursing whoever was calling before noon, and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Simon Simmons, how you doing?" Daphne Carter responded.

"Who is this?"

"Daphne Carter, Versailles Resort."

Simon smiled to himself despite his foul mood at having been torn from sleep. Daphne Carter was good looking enough, for her age. Simon remembered her well.

"Daphne who?"

Daphne rolled her eyes from her office at Versailles.

"Carter, Daphne Carter. Remember? The fool who didn't give you a shot and is still beating herself up over it."

"Oh," Simon said, brightening at her admission of foolishness, "
that
Daphne Carter. How you doing?"

"Doing all right, could be doing better. Wanted to talk to you about something I've been rolling around in my brain."

"What's that?"

"How long you have left on your contract with Camelot?"

"Year and a half, I think," Simon said.

"Year and a half," Daphne dragged it out, wanting Simon to think she was giving this some thought, a spur of the moment kind of thing. "That comes to... what? Three and quarter, give or take?" Daphne Carter had all the numbers in front of her, Simon's contract wasn't a well-kept secret, mostly because of Simon.

"That plus perks, yeah," Simon said, pleased with where the conversation was headed.

"Ah, the perks. Suite way up in the sky and a different girl every night. Another question, how much does that roadie of yours make?"

"Roadie? You mean Chris? He's my manager, not my roadie." Simon rolled onto his back. The bed was still warm from where he'd been sleeping. "Hell, I don't even know what he gets. You'd have to ask him."

"Tell you what, I need to get to a board meeting. I'm going to throw a few numbers at you to think about. You let me know what you come up with."

"All right..."

"Three years, fifteen million, two million for Chris, a suite at Versailles." Daphne Carter hung up without allowing Simon time to respond.

Simon returned the phone handset to the cradle and lay back. Cassandra was awake now and lying on her side, completely uncovered, looking at him.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"Lady down the road wants to steal me away from Camelot. She offered me a pile of money. We'll see how it goes."

Cassandra raised her eyebrows and said, "A pile, huh?"

Simon gave her a swat on the behind, "I am well paid, honey. Don't worry about that."

Chris stood at his breakfast nook sipping coffee, watching the small flat screen TV he kept in the kitchen. He was alone this morning. He'd come home alone last night. It was something he’d gotten used to, the constant disappointment women showed for him, working with a guy like Simmons. Simon wasn't the type to put in a good word for anyone but himself.

The phone at Chris's elbow rang. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Morning, Chris, Daphne Carter here, Versailles Resort. How you doing?"

"Fine, Daphne, what can I do for you?"

"Convince Simmons to come to Versailles," Daphne said quickly. She paused a beat then said, "No, I'm getting ahead of myself. How's the show going?"

"Going really well, sell-out crowds every performance. People are into it."
If you have something to ask me, Daphne, then out with it,
Chris thought.

"You happy at Camelot?"

"How could I not be?" Chris said.

"Har har. You know what I mean. What've you got, little over a year left on the contract?"

"Something like that."
One year, seven months, and four days,
Chris didn't say.

"You know the people over there better than I do; you think if we got Simon on board they would be interested in a contract buy-out?"

Chris looked out his kitchen window at the house ten feet from his. He said, "It'd have to be a hefty buy-out."

"I just talked to Simmons. Not a morning person, is he?"

He stifled a laugh.
No, no he isn't
.

Daphne continued, "I threw an offer at him. Three years at Versailles, fifteen million for him, two million for you, and he gets a suite. To be honest, I told him only two million for you to not offend his sense of what's right. I'm willing to give you five. I know you're the brains behind the show. Doesn't take someone long to figure out what your job really is. You do the research, am I right?"

"Research?" Chris purposely did a poor job trying to sound offended, letting Daphne know she was right, "Simon Simmons is psychic, no research necessary." Maybe this Daphne was sharper than he'd given her credit for.

"My mistake," Daphne said with an audible smile.

"I should say so, Madam!" Chris laughed into the phone... and continued laughing, letting Daphne wait, until it wasn't funny to him anymore. "So what we're talking about here is you pay me five mil' and I convince Simon to switch venues."

"In a nutshell."

"I'll see what I can do, Daphne. I could use a change of scenery, to be honest."

"I knew you were the brains," Daphne said.

God damn right, Chris thought as he hung up the phone.

*****

Walter Hepson's cell phone rang. It rang for fifteen seconds and then beeped because of the missed call. It'd done this four times so far. Zach had counted. He'd heard it going off each time but left it alone. His dad's cell phone was off limits even when Walter was passed out.

Zach was seated at the tiny table in the dirty fifth-wheel camper. “Ol' Rusty” his dad liked to call it. He'd say, "That Ol' Rusty ain't much to look at but it gets you from A to B." Zach thought Ol' Rusty was an ugly, dumpy, piece of shit that smelled like BO and old booze. He thought they'd be better off hitchhiking or catching a ride with the midway workers. On the other hand it was a roof over their heads and that was something he didn't care to give up.

Walter stirred a little. His cell phone lit up again and issued forth its factory default ringtone. This time Walter reached for the phone. Zach noticed his dad's knuckles were bruised.

"What?" Walter answered. Zach listened to half the conversation.

"Who'm I talkin' to?"

"That right?"

"No shit?"

"When?"

"Hell! A day away at most."

Walter became excited, frantic even. He wiped sweat from his forehead, pulling some of his greasy salt and pepper hair into his eyes.

"One more show today, then we're outta here."

"Great!"

"See you then, Mr. Snider."

It was rare for Walter to call anyone "mister."

Walter closed his phone and looked at Zach with a dazed expression.

"Who was it?" Zach asked.

The question brought Walter back to reality.

"Hot damn!" Walter shouted, leaping from his mattress. "You magnificent bastard! We're going to Texas, boy. Yes, sir. Texas State Fair for two weeks. It's one of the biggest, you know. The Texas State Fair is our way in. It's our way to the top. Me and you, boy, we're going up, up, up." Walter pointed a finger at the water-stained ceiling.

The Texas State Fair, Zach thought, a grandiose spectacle and platform from which Walter Hepson hoped to leap into the world of the rich and famous. Zach could see it written on the man's face, he was already dreaming, planning, scheming.

Eighteen hours later Walter and Zach were exiting Interstate 30 onto Exposition Road in Dallas, TX. They rode in the old but immaculate Ford F-150 that was Walter's pride and joy, with Ol' Rusty in tow. The Texas State Fair would be starting tomorrow and the grounds were a beehive of activity.

First thing Zach noticed was a giant man, wearing blue and yellow Dickies. He'd heard of the huge statue, “Big Tex”, while working the southern fair circuit but this was his first opportunity to see him in person.

"Somethin', huh?" Walter said when he noticed Zach's gaze.

Walter brought the F-150 to a stop.

"Yeah," Zack said, a little surprised at the way people wasted their time.

"Fifth time I seen him. Big son'a'bitch, ain't he?"

They got out of the truck.

"He sure is."

"Come on, boy, we need to find Snider."

Walter guided Zach past the statue with a hand on the boy's back that was gentler than usual. They found a worker who directed them to the fairground offices where they could find Snider.

They found the lanky Snider reclining in a large leather-covered chair, hiding under a cowboy hat with his boots resting atop his desk. Snider's secretary, he made a point of calling her a secretary, let Walter and Zach into the wood paneled office.

"This the psychic boy?" Snider asked.

"Yes, sir," Walter said, "this is Zach. I'm Walter Hepson, his dad."

"Here's the deal, Walter Hepson, twelve-day probationary period. You pull a crowd, we'll talk about you folks staying on for the whole fair. As the fees go, it's a thousand a day for the space. You can charge whatever you like but I recommend you keep it reasonable. Don't get greedy."

Zach watched the man's boots sway as he spoke. They were shined to within an inch of their life and Zach wondered if they'd ever been out of doors.

"How big's the space?" Walter asked.

Mr. Snider smiled from under his cowboy hat, "I'll show you."

The "space" was in a red wooden building that was a hundred feet long in both directions. It had large sliding wood doors at the front and back.

"You can fit about ten wide and ten deep with plenty of room for junior here," Snider waved a hand toward Zach, "to have lots of space to work with. Do that, charge ten bucks a head admission. You fill the place once you've paid for the space; fill it twice and you've made a grand. Do three full shows you're up two grand. What do you think?"

"Solid deal," Walter said, nodding.

The building had a musty smell Zach didn't like.

"You boys travel by camper, that right?" Snider asked.

"That's right, sir."

"Please, Walter, my dad is sir," Snider paused, his shoulders shook a little. "Actually my dad was a real prick. But you can call me Tom."

"It looks like a barn in here," Zach said, taking both men by surprise.

"Hush up, boy," Walter snapped.

Tom Snider gave Walter an understanding nod and smile, then turned to Zach, "Was a barn, once upon a time. Back when livestock was a real crowd pleaser. Now days everybody wants loud music, bright lights, food that'll stop their heart, celebrities, and," Snider's smile broadened showing his perfectly straight teeth, "the strange."

Zach looked at Walter and said, "It's nice. I can do the shows with both doors open so it's not too hot."

"However you want," Walter told Zach in a tone that warned the boy to remember who he was talking to.

"As I was saying," Snider continued, "you boys can park the camper twenty or so feet behind the place. There's a nice slab for it, good and level. Hell, you even got power and water hook ups. Cost of the slab, water, and power is included in the thousand a day fee."

"Sounds good to us, Tom. Don't it, boy?"

Zach nodded.

*****

Vince Ourmon, Vice President of Advertising and Branding, knocked on Daphne Carter's door. One of the first people head-hunted by Versailles, Vince was plucked from Cox Cable's Media department after he'd pitched one of the casino's advertising executives about buying some ad time.

Daphne called, "Come in."

Shelly must be on break.

Vince entered and closed the door behind him. He took a seat without being asked; he was a frequent flier in the CFO's office.

"How's tricks?" Vince asked.

Daphne grunted. "Been better. How's sales?"

"We're doing all right. Numbers are down a bit."

"I'm seeing the same," Daphne said.

"Any ideas?"

"Only one and it's a long shot."

"What're you thinking?"

Daphne leaned back in her chair and said, "I want to get Simon Simmons."

Ourmon shook his head. Daphne Carter was a smart lady but she had trouble letting go of things. She'd missed the opportunity to bag Simmons a few years ago and still hadn't gotten over it.

"He draws a crowd, that's what we need."

"A train wreck draws a crowd too, Daphne; that doesn't make it a smart move."

"What would you do?" Daphne asked.

"I'm all for performers. Hell, the shows are half the reason people come to Vegas these days. Why not try a musician? They have a proven track record. Psychics... I don't know. Maybe if there was something unique about him. Simmons is a run-of-the-mill fraud. Sure he's charismatic and handsome, but that only gets a performer so far. He's a full-tilt diva and everyone knows it. Shit, you know it!"