Death Glitch

A Bootleg Book

Published by

Bootleg Press

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Death Glitch. Copyright © 2012 by Ken Douglas

February 2012

Bootleg Press is a registered trademark.

Cover by Compass Graphics

Cover photo by Elena Vizerskaya

“
Lila Booth is going to kill your granddaughter.”

“
What?” Izzy was stunned. Though she detested Tucker Wayne more than she could put into words, she believed him. As far as she was concerned, he was sleazy, slimy, crooked as the night is dark and not fit to crawl out from under the rock from which he’d come, but he was no liar. When Amy started seeing him, he’d come straight to her, not wanting to do anything behind her back. He was slime, but he was gentleman slime.

“
Tonight, at that erotic ball thing.”

“
Say again.” She felt a cold something shimmy up her spine.

“
You have time.” Tucker paused, sighed down the line. “It doesn’t start till 9:00. That’s,” he paused again, “Christ, fifteen minutes ago.”

“
Now!” That cold working up her spine turned to ice. “It’s happening now!”

“
I’m in Zurich. Just got to my hotel, called in and got a voice mail from Lila. She checked the security recording and saw Amy get on my computer. The brat copied some files she shouldn’t have. She’s already gone to Amy’s apartment, broken in and retrieved the CD. She told me not to worry, then she ended her message saying. ‘By the time the clock strikes the midnight hour, the belle of the ball will fall.’ She’s going to kill Amy.”

“
That could mean anything.” That icy grip on her spine let up. Not much, just a bit.

“
No, Dr. Eisenhower, it couldn’t. Lila is a stone cold killer. She only knows one way to take care of a problem and when she says someone’s going to fall, she means permanently.”

“
Why are you telling me?” She was fully awake now. Tucker’s call had taken her from a deep sleep. It was still early, but she’d drifted off in her recliner in front of the television. She’d been watching Nick Nesbit on CNN. She had been for hours, because like millions of others, she was worried about a three-year-old girl who’d fallen in a well. They’d gotten her out, after what seemed like forever, but she was unconscious and it didn’t look like she was going to live. Izzy had been drinking wine during the ordeal and though she’d tried to stay awake after the girl had been freed, she dropped off. She supposed it was because of the chemo, it took so much out of her. But the sleep fuzz was fading fast. She had to do something, what?

“
Back then, when I was with the priest before my surgery, I saw you. You heard, but you saved my life anyway. I owe you. Consider the debt paid.” He hung up.

She looked at the display on her cell phone, 9:17. Tucker had said the ball, whatever that was, started at 9:00. What else had he said? Erotic. It was an erotic ball. What in the world was Amy doing, going to something like that? She truly didn’t know the girl anymore. But that was no surprise, she’d come to that conclusion when Amy had started going out with Tucker, a man old enough to be her father.

She got out of the chair, pulled off her sweatshirt, shucked out of her sweatpants. Naked, she avoided the look of her shaved head and cancer thin body in the bathroom mirror as she turned on the tap and splashed water on her face. In the bedroom, she went to the closet, stepped into a pair of Levi’s that were older than nineteen-year-old Amy, put on a tee shirt, put the Wolf Pack sweatshirt she slept in back on, then she grabbed the wig, put it on.

Fully awake and dressed, after a fashion, she padded downstairs, got her laptop, set it on the kitchen table, sat, opened it, went to Google and typed in “erotic ball reno,” hit search and at the top of the Google list she read, “Blood Lust, The Annual Wild Erotic Ball.” She clicked on it, was taken to radio station Wild 102.9’s website, where she read about the costume ball taking place at the Silver Legacy downtown. Costume required, it said.

She’d pass on the costume. There wasn’t a casino ticket taker anywhere in Nevada who would turn away a cancer ravaged granny. They’d look the other way when she showed up. Everybody looked the other way these days.

At the door, she slipped into her Nikes, grabbed her keys and went out into the cold night. Her car, a 1989 Dodge Raider her husband had paid cash for the day he died, hadn’t been started in over a month, but she knew it would kick over because she loved that car almost as much as she’d loved Lee. The Raider was really a Chrysler rebranded Mitsubishi Montero, which Lee had bought, hoping to toughen up so he could drive it in the Baja 500 off road race, but his heart quit right after they’d brought it home.

And she a heart surgeon. Irony.

She keyed the door, keyed the ignition, backed out of the driveway, shoved it into first and drove downtown, running every stop sign and light along the way. She prayed a cop would stop her, because she needed help, but none did.

“
Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered as she downshifted into a right turn at Sierra. She should’ve called 911. “Shit!” she pounded the steering wheel. She’d left her phone at home.

She pulled into the valet parking at the Silver Legacy. Damn, she forgot her money, too. The valet approached.

“
Catch you when I get out.” She left the keys in the ignition, pushed her way into the casino. The casino dome was a downtown landmark, but she’d never been inside. She didn’t like casinos. She’d earned her money the hard way and she wanted to keep it.

Inside, she went to the closest bar. The bartender was making drinks for a waitress, who was dressed like she’d just come off the stage of Cats. Santa was sitting at a table with Robin, this Robin was female. A vampire with white pancake makeup on his face was sitting next to a woman who looked like Morticia. Santa and Robin were drinking beer, the vamp and Morticia had no drinks, probably waiting on the waitress.

“
Where’s the Erotic Ball?”

“
Downstairs,” Santa said.

“
Downstairs where?”

“
That way,” the vampire pointed. “The escalator.”

She turned away, followed his pointed finger with her eyes, started off at a fast walk, wending her way through slot machines and gamblers, werewolves, more vampires and young women made up in costumes that concealed hardly anything at all. One girl squealed as a slot paid off. She was in a naughty maid’s costume, with a mini skirt too short for a decent girl to wear in public and when she jumped up with glee, Izzy saw she wasn’t wearing panties.

Just what kind of ball was this? And what on God’s green earth did Amy think she was up to, going to it?

At the escalator, she forced herself to slow down as she was blocked by a giant of a man dressed obviously as Adam. She hoped his fig leaf was glued on well, but glue or no, the sight of all these young, scantily clad beauties was going to give that leaf a run for its money.

She peered around him, saw a couple young girls in almost see through panties and wispy bras. They kissed, then handed their tickets to a vampire even bigger than Adam, who stamped their hands, then allowed them entry into the ballroom.

The restrooms were outside the ballroom and the costumed crowd in the well lit foyer going in and out of them was large. She could just imagine what it must be like inside the ballroom. Dark probably, but not too dark, she hoped. She looked around the foyer, scanning for Lila.

But either she wasn’t there or she was one of the women—and their were some, mostly older—who were wearing traditional Halloween costumes, the kind that easily hid your identity. Would Lila be wearing one of those?

Lila Booth. She knew Tucker had somebody who did his dirty work. Somebody who made his enemies disappear, but she’d never dreamed it was a woman, that it was the girl his father had adopted.

It had been years since she’d seen the black-eyed, blonde witch. The woman was in your face pushy, wore no make up, save for blood red lipstick, which, combined with her bottomless black eyes, told one and all this was a person you didn’t want on your bad side.

Rumors seemed to follow Tucker Wayne and his rogue of a father, Mansfield, like the plague, but they’d never been arrested and the Nevada gaming commission found no fault with them, even though those who opposed them had the nasty habit of meeting death in an untimely manner. But Izzy knew the truth, because she’d overheard Tucker’s confession back then, just before she’d saved his life.

She shouldn’t have listened.

She was a good Catholic.

But she couldn’t help herself.

She’d seen the priest as she’d entered the room. Heard Tucker say the words, “Bless me Father for I have sinned.” And she’d backed out, but stayed by the door. His last confession had been twenty years ago, but now, apparently, he felt the need. Apparently, he hadn’t trusted Izzy’s skill with a scalpel.

She’d known about the Wayne’s wealth. She’d known about their casinos. She’d known about the rumors, but she was a surgeon, it wasn’t her job to prequalify her patients. Besides, the rumors were nothing more than that, rumors. But, after hearing what she shouldn’t have, she’d known they were true and she’d wondered if what she was doing was ethical, wasting a perfectly healthy heart on a man like Tucker Wayne.

Confession finished, she’d moved away from the door, deciding it was time to check on her other patients. It seemed like there was a never ending stream of them back then. And back then she’d wanted nothing more than some time to herself. What she wouldn’t give to go back. Life sucked when you got what you wished for.

But back then she was the lady with the magic hands. God’s gift to Saint Catherine’s. She’d been overworked, overstressed and underpaid. She’d been tired of her life, wanted out, wanted to live again, wanted to love again. Well, she’d gotten out, but she’d found no love and her life sure as heck wasn’t anything to write home about.

Cancer, five years it had raged through her body, but it wouldn’t kill her and she couldn’t kill herself. So she fought it, but now both she and her doctors knew she was coming to the end of the line. Still, she couldn’t give up. God had a reason for giving her the pain and for keeping her alive. What it was, only He knew.

It was because of her belief in Him that she hadn’t let Tucker Wayne die on the table, though looking back, she wished she had. But how could she have known Amy would fall for him, be swept off her feet by him?

At the bottom of the escalator, finally, she moved around the huge, almost naked Adam and headed for the even larger vampire guarding the ballroom door.

“
No costume,” the big vampire said.

“
No ticket either,” she said.

“
And no entry for you,” the vampire said.

“
Look at me. I’m seventy-seven years old. I have cancer and most likely won’t see Christmas. Do you really think I’m going in there to dance the night away?”