Authors: James Swain
18
W
earing a floppy
I LOVE LAS VEGAS
hat and a pair of Terminator shades, Felix Underman crawled across the broiling desert in a rented Dodge Intrepid. Doing the speed limit was annoying, especially on a quiet Sunday afternoon, but he didn't want to risk getting pulled over.
Soon he crossed the county line. A garish billboard welcomed him to Armagosa Valley, soon-to-be-home of a U.S. Army MX missile site. Underman smiled at the ingenuity of the local boosters. This was Nye County, birthplace of bordello-style prostitution in Nevada, its founder the legendary Bugsy Siegel. The only business here was whoredom, and building an army base would insure huge profits for years to come.
A green exit sign shimmered in the distance. Seeing empty road in his mirror, Underman flicked on his indicator.
Soon he was on a two-lane service road. Signage was sparse. A man had to know where he was going out here. Turning down a rural road, he glanced in his mirror. If there was anything he had learned over the years, it was that you could never be too careful.
Five minutes later, the Pleasuredome appeared in front of him. The original building had been razed in 1984 during the Nye County brothel wars, and in its place stood a two-story Victorian with sloped roofs and minarets, the windows stained glass. As whorehouses went, it had an ounce of class. He pulled up, popped open his door, and stepped onto the baking macadam. Desert heat was different from city heat, and sweat poured down his face as he hiked the short distance to the entrance.
A sleepy-eyed bouncer held the door for him. The interior was dark and cool, and Underman sat on a red leather couch and looked for a hostess. The parlor had been designed with a Roaring '20s theme and had red carpet, red velvet drapes, and a white baby grand on a raised stage with a sparkling Tiffany chandelier hanging above it. The pianist, a chalky-complexioned woman in her fifties, sang Cole Porter. He didn't look important, so they weren't hurrying. He twiddled his thumbs, waiting.
The truth be known, Underman was against prostitution, especially the way it was practiced in Nevada. Legally, the whole issue was a disaster. There was not a general law specifically allowing prostitution, nor was there one prohibiting it. Since 1949, brothels had existed in nearly all of the state's seventeen counties. Only Clark County, which comprised all of Las Vegas, specifically prohibited it. Everywhere else the law was vague.
But that wasn't the only issue. There was the problem in how the women were treated. Their regimen was extreme: one week off, three weeks on. Being on meant on call twenty-four hours a day, just an intercom away from crawling out of bed and standing in a lineup before a potential customer. Conditions were harsh, alcohol and drug abuse rampant. The women came from all walks of life—rich, poor, middle class, and all ethnic backgrounds—but one thing was always the same. They lasted a year or two, then left damaged beyond repair, their self-esteem destroyed.
A cocktail waitress slipped through the curtains. She wore a tasteful ruffled dress, her face heavily painted.
“Cup of coffee, black,” he ordered.
“We got a special on the piña coladas,” she said meekly.
“No, thanks. I'd like to see someone in charge.”
“Sure. I'll get Charlene.”
The coffee came before Charlene. It was very hot and tasted very good. He guessed it was a Columbian blend. His waitress reappeared with a menu, which she stuck in his hands.
“Charlene's kinda busy,” she explained. “So she asked me to take care of you. My name's Sassy.”
“I'm looking for someone,” Underman explained.
Sassy sat down on the couch beside him. Beneath the makeup, he saw a young woman from the Midwest, maybe Ohio, who'd come out here chasing a dream and gotten behind on her bills and sucked into this crummy situation. Underman smiled at her pleasantly. To his surprise, she smiled just as pleasantly back.
“Aren't we all,” she said sweetly. Taking the menu from his hands, she read aloud his choices. “Everything's à la carte. First, there are Warm-ups: sensual massage or a lingerie show, or you can have a party starter. That's where a girl gets you hard with her mouth. Next is Ready, Baby. That's your basic sucking and fucking: missionary, on your back, half and half, reverse it, or on your knees. You with me so far?”
Underman nodded. Her matter-of-fact delivery reminded him of the pizza boy reading the choice of toppings over the phone.
“Next is Keep It Going. Your choices are a Jacuzzi party; Show Time, which is two or more girls having sex with each other; or the Orgy Fantasy, which is just about whatever your little heart could desire. Then we've got One Step Further. That's for guys who like to indulge. There's Dominance, Pajama Party, Bondage, and Fantasy. Then we offer a refreshing massage and shower. Each lady is an independent contractor, and prices vary with different activities. We accept cash, Visa, MasterCard and traveler's checks, with proper ID, of course.”
She stopped and smiled. Before Underman could tell her what he wanted, her hand flew up to her mouth.
“Whoops, I almost forgot. There's something new that isn't on the menu. Titty Fucking. That's where you put your erection between a girl's breasts and you come or she sucks you off. Your choice.”
Underman took a deep breath. Just imagining this creative little endeavor was getting him aroused. He would turn seventy in October, which put any idea of experimentation out of the question. It wouldn't be the actual act that would kill him. The heart attack would come a few days later, just remembering it.
“So,” Sassy said abruptly, “you ready to see the lineup?”
“I actually had something else in mind,” he confessed.
“What's that, big boy?”
He dropped his voice. “I'm looking for Al.”
The name didn't register. Sassy said, “You want a guy? Mister, I think you made a wrong turn. This is a whorehouse.”
“I know what it is,” Underman said, her patronizing tone losing its charm. “Al works here, at least the last time I checked.”
“Never heard of him,” she said.
“You must be new,” Underman said.
That got her mad. “I've been working here two years next week, buster, and I've never heard of him.”
“Al Scarpi,” Underman said.
“Not ringing any bells.”
“Little Hands,” he said.
“You want to see Little Hands? Why didn't you say so?”
“I just did. His name's Al.”
“No one calls him that,” she said defensively.
“His friends do.”
“Little Hands has friends? That's a new one to me.”
Sassy approached the stage. The pianist stopped her playing and they had a little chat; the pianist raised her eyes and gave Underman a hard look. Underman stared right back while sipping his coffee. It had grown ice cold but still tasted great. Maybe he could talk the management into putting a bluebird special on the menu: coffee, talk dirty to a hostess, more coffee. It was about all he was good for these days.
“Follow me,” Sassy said, offering Underman her hand. She escorted him to the entrance and then outside into the sweltering desert inferno. Instantly, her face turned old, the harsh sunlight keeper of few secrets. She pointed down the road in the opposite direction from which he'd come.
“Get in your car and go west five miles. There're a couple of trailers down there, girls who service the migrants. Little Hands lives there.”
“Thanks,” he said, reaching for his wallet.
She slipped the fifty between her breasts and pecked his cheek.
“Stop back in if you need anything.”
“I'll do that,” Underman said.
The Intrepid was too hot to drive. Underman started the engine and got out, letting the AC run while he hid in the building's shadow, thinking about Sassy. She was a hostess, not a hooker, so her offer intrigued him. She probably talked to a thousand sex-starved men a week, which made her a real pro on the male condition. With a selection like that, why service him?
Driving down a miserable gravel road ten minutes later, Underman was still wondering about it. Just about all he was good for these days was playing chess and listening to records. Wouldn't Sassy have figured that out? He'd lost his vanity long ago and assumed everyone saw the same old crow he saw in the mirror each morning. How bad
was
the light in there?
The migrant brothel was an ugly sore on the landscape. Four inhospitable double-wide trailers surrounded by a row of razor-sharp cyclone fencing. Underman pulled up to a guard booth and rolled down his window. Inside sat a dark-skinned Mexican with a shotgun, a small electric fan beating back his stringy hair.
“What you want?” the Mexican said.
“I'm looking for someone,” Underman said.
The Mexican raised an expectant eyebrow.
“Little Hands.”
The Mexican had a face of stone. Underman decided he wasn't nearly as stupid as he looked. For all he knew, the Mexican owned the place.
“Who?” the Mexican asked.
Underman held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Little Hands.”
The Mexican frowned, not seeing the humor. “Who you?”
“A friend.”
“Never seen you before,” the Mexican said.
The Intrepid's interior was heating up, his precious cool air escaping. With sweat pouring down his brow, Underman said, “Look, do I look like trouble to you?”
The Mexican lifted his head, peering inside the rental.
“Maybe,” he said. He picked up a walkie-talkie from the floor and called inside. “What your name?”
“Don't push it,” Underman said.
The Mexican's brow furrowed suspiciously.
“You not gonna tell me your name?”
“I don't think so,” Underman said through clenched teeth. “Let me ask you a question. How well do you know Little Hands?”
The Mexican's face turned blank.
Underman smiled. “Good. I just wanted to be sure we understood each other.”
The Mexican chewed his lip, considering. Then said, “He's behind trailer with red door.”
Underman pulled into the squalid compound and got out of his car. The ground was soft beneath his feet and he saw a squashed scorpion where his tires had been. He walked around the trailer with the red door, the sun beating down mercilessly on his head and shoulders. It was like descending into hell, one step at a time.
Little Hands was in the back with his shirt off. It was a frightening sight, his muscles popping grotesquely as he stuck a crowbar into the dashboard of a Volkswagen Beetle and tore it from the car. The Beetle was brand new, a temporary license taped to the rear window. Its owner, a freckle-faced whore wearing a pink nightshirt, stood helplessly nearby, kicking the ground with her bare feet.
Underman found a shady spot and watched Little Hands dismantle the vehicle. The rules against the women stashing money were strict. Every room was wired, allowing management to listen in as negotiations were made and prices settled on. Once the money was collected, it was the woman's responsibility to deliver it to the office, where it was held, to be split in half later.
“You gonna tell me where you're hiding it?” Little Hands said when he had reduced the Beetle to a worthless shell. He ripped the last seat apart and tossed the stuffing at the freckle-faced whore's feet. “Or what?”
“Ain't nothing to tell,” she said sullenly.
“You think I'm fucking stupid?”
“Never gave it much thought.”
Little Hands went to work on the body. German engineering was no match for American bodybuilding, and soon the car looked like a hot rod, its frame stripped down to almost nothing.
“These Michelins are worth something,” Little Hands said, whacking the front tires with the crowbar. “You want me to puncture them, or are you going to tell me where it is?”
The freckle-faced whore crossed her arms. Little Hands jabbed the right front tire, causing it to explode. Underman jumped as the hubcap went flying. A small, tightly wrapped plastic bag fell out of a hollow cavity in the tire. The whore burst into tears, then ran into one of the trailers.
Underman approached Little Hands, his floppy hat in his hand. Little Hands squinted at him.
“Mr. Underman,” he said with surprise. “Fancy seeing you out here. Looking for a little action?”
“You and I need to talk,” Underman said under his breath.
Little Hands pulled a sleeveless T-shirt on over his sweaty, bulging torso. “I got my own trailer; nobody will bother us.”
“In my car,” Underman said.
“I'm not supposed to leave the premises. I'm locked up in here, just like the whores.”
“Can you get a pass?”
Picking up a towel, Little Hands wiped the sweat from his little hands. Underman tried not to stare, knowing how it would set his client into a rampage.
“What's this all about, Mr. Underman?”
Underman got right up next to him. “Guess who ripped off the Acropolis the other night.”
“I dunno. Who?”
“Sonny Fontana.”
“Come on, Mr. Underman. You and I both know that ain't so. I snuffed that greaseball up in Lake Tahoe.”
“You killed someone else,” Underman said.
“Can't be.”
Underman nodded. “Fontana's alive. Now, how about you and I take a little drive?”
Underman had defended Little Hands four times in jury trials, all of which ended in acquittals. In each trial, the charge had been murder in the first degree, and in each case Underman had swayed the jury to believe his client's side of the story without ever putting his client on the witness stand. To do otherwise would have been suicide.
Underman drove to a spot in the desert directly between the two brothels and pulled off the road. Leaving the engine running, he reached beneath his seat and removed a manila envelope. Little Hands was watching a rattler crawl beneath the car and did not seem to notice when the envelope was dropped into his lap.
“They threw a big party for me at Caesars,” he said, glancing Underman's way. “There were girls and booze and a band.”
“I heard about it,” Underman said.
“And there was a cake. No one ever threw a party for me for snuffing somebody before. It was special, you know?”