This had to be the quietest casino room I’d ever been in. I looked around at the clientele; all intent on playing Craps, Baccarat, Poker, or the Roulette wheel in a most dignified manner; like merry old England’s Ascot without any horses. Sort of takes the fun out of it, in my opinion. I’d rather be at Circus-Circus with the ding, ding, ding of the nickel
slot machines, throwing back a watered down Mai-tai. But sometimes I’ve got no class, no matter what Johnny Thunder says.
I finally found what I was looking for on the far side of the room. Discretely set into an art deco wall was a hidden door, with another armed man standing nearby. A man walked up to the guard, showed him a piece of paper, received a nod, and was ushered inside. I tried to amble nearer, just as Johnny bounced over to me. He was covered with enough sweat to have been trapped in a sauna room for two or three hours.
“Paisley! Where the hell did you get to? I was getting nervous about you. You can’t take off like that, not up here. Anyway, come with me. We’ve got to set up.”
“Well, what have we here?’ We both turned to the sound of the voice, and I recognized Lou Spaulding from Richard’s computer images but taller and more colorful in person. He stepped in between Johnny and me and took my hand. “What a lovely addition to your act, Johnny. You must introduce me.”
“Oh, sure, Mr. Spaulding,” Johnny stuttered. “This is the girl filling in for Rita tonight who’s got the flu or something. This is Paisley. Paisley, this is Mr. Spaulding.”
“But you must call me Lou,” he said, bending over and kissing my hand, a hand I planned on washing as soon as possible.
I forced a smile, which I hoped looked more charming and warm than I was feeling. I gave my hand a little tug. He got the hint and released my paw.
“Nice to meet you, Lou,” I trilled, “but I have to go set up for the show.”
I countered away from him and crossed in front of Johnny. I kept my smile going until I thought my face would break. I watched Spaulding’s leering eyes follow me across the room.
Johnny and I headed to the back of a miniscule stage, maybe able to hold six or seven people, and into one of the two wings, delineated by curtains hung from the ceiling to the floor. Starlight was already setting up. When she saw me, she turned on me with a vicious look on her face.
“Where the hell have you been? Listen, stupid, you can’t go wandering around anywhere you want. You stay with the group.”
“It’s all right, Star. Take it easy,” Johnny jumped in before I could say anything. “She didn’t mean it. She doesn’t know the protocol of this place, right?” He turned and directed the last word to me.
“What protocol, Johnny?” I said, throwing my costume on a nearby folding chair. “I was just looking for the bathroom and got a little lost. What’s the big deal?”
“We’re only allowed up here because Connie Elsberg likes to hear me sing.” Johnny said. “I don’t want to say too much, but she and I used to—”
“You don’t owe her any explanations about you and Mrs. Elsberg.” Star turned to me and snarled. “They’re friends, okay? And it’s none of your damned business. Just do the damn show the way you’re supposed to.”
Connie Elsberg, a sixty-four-year old widow, owned the lion’s share of the Fantasy Lady, having inherited it from her recently demised gangster husband. She now owned a lot of Las Vegas, too, and was supposed to have been quite a vixen in her day. Apparently that day wasn’t completely over, either. Richard had found an item or two about the widow and Johnny on the net. It explained a lot about this seedy act appearing in such an upscale casino. I suspected Johnny was better at more primal things than singing.
“Okay; okay. Sorry,” I said, putting out my hands to deflect her anger. “But where is the bathroom? I really have to go.” I knew where the bathrooms were. Richard and I had gone over the locations of all of them. The one I needed was closest to the stage.
“The ones we’re supposed to use are behind the backdrop,” Starlight said, easing up a little on her attitude. She pointed to a thick, sixteen-foot high drop curtain behind the stage.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, pushing the heavy curtain aside and stepping behind it before either one of them could say anything.
A well-lit off-white wall stood behind with just enough width from the curtain to the wall to create a narrow walkway, allowing people to get from one side of the stage to the other. Two doors, marked ‘Men’ and ‘Women’ were cut into the plain stucco wall. I opened the appropriate one and hurried to the third and last stall of the non-descript, basic bathroom. Reaching up behind the toilet tank, I found the small plastic-covered bundle taped to the back, freeing it with a couple of jerks. Clear plastic held a snub-nose detective special. Removed from its wrapping, it felt cool and oddly alive in my hand. Taking out the wooden look-alike from my garter, I threw it in the trashcan and thrust the real gun inside the holster. Aside from the weight, both looked pretty much the same from far away.
It had been another Flint coupe, getting one of the Fantasy Lady’s cleaning crew to carry the gun through the metal detector. It cost a lot of money, $3,000 to be exact. Whoever did it—and I never got an answer from Flint—took a big chance his or her stainless steel cart would pass through the metal detector, with this weapon hidden between cleaning supplies. So far, this escapade has cost us upwards of $10,000, and we weren’t anywhere near done yet. It was for Stephen, I reminded myself. Anything to find Stephen’s killer or killers.
I straightened out the purple Banlon go-go dress before I exited the bathroom, all the while hoping it wouldn’t come to me having to use this gun. If I did, it meant we were in dipstick trouble. Lost in thought, I opened the door and ran smack into Lou Spaulding, standing right outside. He came toward me. In a natural, reflex action, I stepped back into the bathroom.
Suddenly, I felt outraged, embarrassed, and more than a little trapped. What the hell? Did he follow me? Even though I could take him on with a few karate moves, did I really want to go that route? No way.
He walked at me wearing a lusty grin, which would have scandalized my mother. I felt my heartbeat quicken but stood still and pulled myself up to my full height. Don’t give the impression you’re scared, girl. Predators look for just that thing.
I forced a smile. “You know, it’s really bad manners to follow a lady into the restroom, especially if you don’t know her.”
“Well, it’s my bathroom. I own this whole place.”
Spaulding reached out and took my forearm in a firm grip, pulling me toward him.
No, you don’t, pal,
I thought
. You own five percent. The rest is owned by investors, like Connie Ellsberg. So stuff that in your turkey baster.
“You know, Mr. Spaulding….” I began aloud.
“Call me, Lou, baby.”
“Lou baby, I have a show to do in about three minutes,” I batted voluminous false eyelashes, fanning the surrounding air. “But afterward…” I left the end of the sentence hanging, in a suggestive manner.
“Well, it’ll have to do, baby.” He caressed the side of my cheek, while I fought the urge to bite off the tip of his finger.
Standing aside but not so much as I could get by him without brushing against him, I fled to the relative safety of three women who hated my guts and a singer with sunflowers seeds for brains.
It was around twelve fifteen p.m., and Johnny began singing “My Way” in what could only be described as a schmaltzy, melodramatic way. I once heard a recording of Enrico Caruso singing
“vesti la giubba
” from Pagliacci. This type of over-the-top singing can really work, especially if it’s a beautiful song sung by someone with an incredible voice. However, I’m here to tell you a so-so song sung by a so-so singer in the same way is just plain painful to listen to. Karaoke singers, be warned.
But his version of this it was, so instead of bouncing around, the dancers were ordered to stand reverently still in darkness at the rear of the stage and watch in rapt attention.
This was my only chance to see if Lila and Gurn were in place and ready. With no light in my eyes, I could see out into the audience, such as it was. A few people sat on stools around a highly polished glass and chrome bar, chatting, drinking, and mainly ignoring us. Others were strewn around at nearby tables large enough to hold a couple of drinks and a pseudo candle providing battery-operated flickering light. Nobody was paying attention to the singer knocking himself out in what he apparently thought was the performance of a lifetime.
A woman in white stepped into my line of vision. It took a moment for my mind to register who it was. Lila. Wearing a getup the likes of which I’ve never seen on her before, she stood before me glittering like a crystal chandelier on growth hormones. Mom is a woman severely into animal rights, yet here she was, dripping in white fox fur, under which was a white suit, molded to the shape of her figure. To make sure you got the message, discreet amounts of fabric were cut out here and there revealing skin beneath. I’d seen a suit like this once on Victoria Principle in a rerun of
Dallas.
It got her into a lot of trouble.
Volumes of curled and upswept hair framed her face as only a do can do when it has been teased and sprayed within an inch of its life. Even in the half-lit barroom atmosphere, I could tell her face was spackled with vast amounts of makeup. When I could rip my eyes from her features, I saw various parts of her sparkling with diamonds—real or otherwise—like a flashy, New Year’s Eve float. In fact, she looked like her own personal parade. Kelli would have loved it.
Gurn stepped out from behind Lila wearing aviator style sunglasses and chewing bubble gum. Dressed in white slacks and a silky, half-opened black shirt, gold chains brandished his naked chest. Chewing his cud, he took his sunglasses off and winked at me.
My mouth dropped open, and I gaped. Mom shot me a look that said, “Close your mouth, Liana. It’s most unladylike.” So I did.
I heard Johnny give out with his big grand finale note, hanging onto it for dear life as long as he could, but ultimately running out of breath. Silence followed and then sparse applause, led by we four women standing behind him. He took a low bow the queen of England would have been proud of. I vaguely thought of how good in bed he had to be for Connie Ellsberg to stick her neck out and bring him up to the thirty-eighth floor. Either that or he had to have a low and dirty secret on her.
Before we went into our next routine, two songs away from my solo dance, Lila and Gurn whispered something to one another. Then they turned and headed between the crowds toward the art deco wall, where the mysterious door awaited them. I didn’t get a chance to see if they got in for sure, as I was busy dancing the stroll and other silliness. I had to trust in my cohorts’ skills they knew what they were doing, and all was going according to plan.
I did my big
Peter Gunn
number, only worried for a moment someone would notice I was pulling out a real revolver from my garter instead of the toy. But no one looked at me, including the audience. I probably could have pulled out a food processer for all they cared.
At the designated time, I left the stage with the other girls to change into the second and last costume. After I stashed the revolver in the outside zippered compartment of my dance bag, I pulled on what looked like cut up pieces of purple-tinted aluminum foil, tactically glued onto a mesh body stocking. I added the purple Mylar and feathered boa, plus the headdress weighing in at about twenty pounds, which bobbed precariously on my head. Before I went on stage to finish the act, I tried to adjust what little pieces of foil there were over the more personal parts of my body. I looked at a wall clock. Fifteen minutes from now was the real show time.
After a grand finale that lay flatter than an over processed toupee on a bald man’s head, the performance was over. As fast as I could, I changed into my street clothes, threw my costumes to a sulking Starlight, and with sleight of hand, gave Johnny an envelope containing five one-thousand dollar bills. I was done with show biz and none too soon.
Once out the stage door, I saw Lusty Lou waiting for me by a nearby Roulette table. He pushed his way through folks dressed in tuxedos, sequins, and sparkling tube tops happily losing their money faster than the speed of light. The number of players had picked up. Twelve-thirty at night in a casino is like four o’clock in the afternoon to the rest of the world. I gave a quick glance around to see if Lila and Gurn were nearby, didn’t see them, but decided not to panic. I could panic later, if necessary.
“You look great, baby. I like your outfit. Skin tight works for you.”
I looked down and remembered I was wearing an emerald green jumpsuit I’d bought when I was five-pounds lighter. After his comment, I vowed to throw it away when I took it off or maybe lose the weight. Naw, throw it out.
Before I could reply, he took my arm in a proprietary way and said, “How about stepping into my office for a nightcap? I’ve got all the comforts of home there.”
Meaning a bed, I’m sure,
I thought. I looked down, forced what I hoped was a sexy smile and nodded. He fairly dragged me across the floor to the other side of the casino, jostling players as he moved. He glanced over at me, mistaking my reticence for something else.
“You’re the little shy one, aren’t you?”
More like nauseated, bub.
“Well, after all,” I said aloud, “I’m awestruck, being with the legendary Mr. Lou Spaulding.”