Sleepless in Las Vegas (3 page)

Yeah, real soulful. His brother was tight with the Russian mob.

Tugging off his suit jacket, he looked past the stream of traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard at Dino’s Lounge, a watering hole his dad had frequented. Back before lines got drawn and doors were closed, Drake and Braxton would join him there to watch a game, shoot some pool. He and his brother had been tight then.
Thick as thieves,
their dad would say.

Today, the third anniversary of their old man’s death, Drake had thought a lot about things his father used to say. Sometimes he had to dig deep in his memories, because his dad hadn’t been comfortable expressing himself. Oh, he liked to kid around, jaw about some news item or what sports figure had hit a milestone, but when it came to divulging how he felt about something, or even saying a simple “I love you,” he had struggled with the words.

On his deathbed, he had asked for three promises from Drake. The first was for Drake to stop gambling. He had, that very day. The second was for Drake to learn how to swim—he had carried the name “Aqua Man” since high school after jumping into a pool to save a bikini-clad damsel in distress. She’d gotten out fine on her own. Took two lifeguards to haul Drake out of the water.

Just like his dad to throw humor into life’s darker situations. Aqua Man took a few swimming lessons.

The third promise was to take care of his grandmother, his mother and especially his brother. His mom and Grams were easy, his brother was a pain in the ass. Drake had asked Brax to dump his gangster chums and build his own business, but he’d refused. Seemed to think being under the thumb of that no-good scum Yuri Glazkov was the path to success.

Yuri, what a slick bastard. Brax had done things for him that should have put him behind bars, but Yuri’s high-profile lawyers made sure the charges against Braxton didn’t stick. It sickened Drake that his brother thought he was better than the law.

If he had his way, he’d do what their mother had done—close the door on Brax—but he had made that promise to their father.

So here he was tonight, hunting down his brother to check up on him, try to talk sense to him again about living his own, law-abiding life.

Drake had another reason, a personal one, to quiz his brother. Yuri, recently back in Vegas after an extended stay in Russia, was up to something. Drake could smell it. He wanted facts about the thug’s life, the kind his brother could supply, because he had a score to settle.

But so far, all Drake had gotten was the runaround from his brother’s employees at the strip club.

Have no idea where Brax is at, man.

Mr. Morgan is unavailable. If you would like to leave your name and number, I’ll be sure he gets the message.

Yuri? Never heard of ‘im.

Tossing his jacket over his shoulder, Drake glanced across the street at the green neon sign. Last Neighborhood Bar in Las Vegas. Lots of businesses had closed during the recession, but Dino’s Lounge had stayed open, just as it had for five decades.

He decided to walk over, leave his pickup parked in its secluded spot. Later, he would head back to Topaz, and if he didn’t find his brother’s car in the lot, he’d do the question routine again. Try different employees, see if one of them might get hit with a pang of conscience and tell the truth. He’d help that pang along with a bill or two.

Because in a town like Vegas, everything had a price. Especially an honest answer.

* * *

V
AL
SAT
IN
the rental car, a Honda Civic, in the Topaz lot, watching the guy standing outside the strip club. He fit the description Marta had given her earlier: a little over six foot. Buzz cut. Wearing a suit. Before he removed the jacket, the gray two-button number had looked like something Don Draper might have worn on that TV series
Mad Men.
From the way this guy walked—carrying himself like he owned his space and some of everybody else’s, too—he had more than his share of mettle.

Marta said his name was Drake, but didn’t want to divulge his last name. Even after Val recited the confidentiality spiel she’d heard Jayne give to new clients, Marta refused. Said she had her pride. No last names. Besides, couldn’t Val do the honey trap without knowing that?

Val had agreed, partially because she wasn’t sure what else to do…and then there was the money.

Drake headed toward the street.

Time to report in. Val reached for her cell phone and punched in a number.

“What news?” Marta answered. No hello. “I am anxious.”

Join the club,
Val felt like saying. Wearing this skimpy outfit and blond wig, which she had used at her last job as a card-dealing Christina Aguilera look-alike, and sitting on her first surveillance in a rough Vegas neighborhood outside a strip joint, was nerve-racking.

But she couldn’t let on she was tense. Had to act cool, knowledgeable, as though this were her hundredth surveillance gig. After all, Marta thought she’d hired a professional, not an amateur.

“He left Topaz,” Val said, “and he’s walking toward Las Vegas Boulevard.”

“Where he park?”

“At Baker’s Service, one street over.” A guy in a retro suit driving a ‘79 Ford pickup didn’t fit Marta’s sleek designer style. Val guessed they were one of those opposites-attract relationships.

“Baker’s,” Marta repeated.

“It’s an appliance store.”

After she observed him walking into Topaz, Val had circled the block and found the pickup parked in front of the store. The business was closed, its lot dark, and he’d taken the extra precaution to position it behind some palm trees.

After parking a short way down the block, she had walked back to the truck, a faded brown-and-gold two-tone with rusted chrome strips, and pointed her miniature flashlight into the bed, where she spied a toolbox, tarp, several chew toys and a small doggie bed. Next, she perched herself on the metal step below the driver’s door—not easy in high heels—and pointed the light at the front seat. A closed notebook and coffee-stained foam cup were on the ripped vinyl seat. A video camera lay on the floorboard.

“How long he at club?” Marta asked.

“Forty minutes. Now he’s crossing the street…there’s only one bar over there, so that must be where he’s going.”

“You go to this bar.”

Val looked at her outfit. The skimpy top and skirt could pass for a sexy summertime outfit, but fishnet stockings? They had seemed like a great addition when she thought she’d be conducting a honey trap outside a strip club, but they’d look sleazy, over the top, in a regular bar.

Even Vegas had its limits, didn’t it?

Screw it. Sitting at the crossroads would get her nowhere. “I’ll go.”

She reminded herself that this was Sin City, the unconventional capital of the world. On a scale of one to ten on the weird scale, fishnet stockings were probably a five.

She slipped the cell into the pocket of her skirt and turned the ignition.

CHAPTER TWO

D
RAKE
SNAGGED
A
stool at the bar. Behind the lighted displays of bottles, the smudged wall mirror reflected hazy red pool table lights and the words Dino’s: Getting Vegas Drunk Since 1962 in large white letters on a back wall.

His old man had groused when they had first painted that sign. “Makes the place sound like a bunch of blottos.” By then in his seventies, he hung out most afternoons at Dino’s with a group of fellow retirees who called themselves the Falstaff Boys, in honor of the “late, great” beer. But after the painting of the sign, they changed their name to “the Blottos.”

“Well, look what the Mojave winds blew in.” Sally, a thirtyish female bartender, stood behind the bar wiping dry a glass. She had small blue eyes set in a narrow face that could use some sun. She and Drake had a history that made him a bit uncomfortable.

The muscles in her arms flexed as she reached to set the glass in the overhead rack. Her black T-shirt crept up, exposing a faded tattoo on her side, a skull adorned with a crown of roses. She’d once told Drake it was from her Deadhead youth, but now that she was clean and sober she no longer listened to jam-band hogwash.

“Hasn’t been too windy lately,” Drake said.

“Yeah, just hot. Monsoon season is late this year. City could use a downpour or three. Fortunately, the air conditioner in this place is built like a tank.” She tossed the towel over her shoulder. “Bud?”

He nodded, wondering when she’d cut her hair. These short, spiky styles on women confused him. He liked long hair on women. Long and straight, the simpler the better.

“Hey, Aqua Man.”

He turned, recognized a buddy from high school. Still slim, but his face showed wear. He wore a gray shirt with “Easterman’s Plumbing” on a pocket.

“Hey, Jackson,” Drake said, “how’s it going?”

“Got divorced.” He shrugged. “You?”

“Never been married.”

“Smart. How’s your brother?”

“Fine.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Smart.” Jackson nodded. “Well, take it easy.”

As he left the bar, Sally slid a bottle toward Drake. “Poor guy. Just got divorced.”

“Figured it was still fresh. Thanks, Sally.” He took a swig. The frothy chill soothed his mood a bit.

“Work keeping you busy?” She focused intently on washing another glass.

“Some.”

“See Viva Las Arepas moved?”

The Venezuelan fast-food place had operated out of the kiosk in Dino’s parking lot for several years. When he’d walked past, the place had been dark, its windows boarded, although a few stools remained outside. “Thought it had closed.”

“No, moved to a bigger place in that strip mall down the street. Mr. Arellano’s been driving a shiny new Hyundai, so they must be doing good.”

“They survived.”

“Yeah. Recession didn’t kick their butt. Didn’t kick Dino’s, either.”

He raised his beer. “To Dino’s.”

She picked up her tip glass and clinked it against his bottle. As he took a sip, she pointed to the framed photo over the cash register. “Some TV producer was in here the other day, saw the photo. Told her it was Dino and Benny.”

“Benedict.” Drake bristled at his father’s nickname being tossed around by people who didn’t know him.

“Kristin calls him Benny.”

“Good friends, Benny. Everybody else, Benedict.”

“Anyway, this TV producer was here ‘cause they’re thinking of filming a reality TV show at Dino’s.” She read his look. “I know, just what this place needs—more reality. Speaking of which, didja hear the story about one of our regulars…”

Her voice floated over his head as he stared at the faded color photo. Taken in ‘85, when Dino still had most of his hair. He stood next to a pool table with Drake’s dad, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, the two of them grinning at the camera. Guys from different generations, but they had a lot in common. Family men who believed in working hard and watching out for the little guy. Both veterans—Dino in World War II, his father in ‘Nam—although neither had talked about those days.

Drake had followed the family tradition and joined the military, a career he’d thought would be for life, until 2006, when he’d returned home to help with his dad, who had been diagnosed with ALS. He worked in hotel security for a few years before opening his own one-man P.I. agency.

“…to this day, the wife still doesn’t believe the girl accidentally fell asleep on her husband’s car hood.” Sally pulled in a long breath. “Now
that
would’ve made a good reality TV show.”

He nodded as though he had been listening.

She offered a small, tight smile. “Good to see you again. Summer must bring in a lot of cases, huh?”

“The usual.” He paused. “Sorry I didn’t call.”

With a nod, she turned her attention to washing.

After a few moments of awkward silence, filled with the pinging of video games and murmured conversations, she straightened and said, “That was a dumb stunt I pulled.”

“No, Sally—”

“Yeah, it was. I mean, how juvenile can a lady get to write her phone number inside a matchbook and hand it to a guy, claiming he dropped it. I mean, a
bartender
pulling that old trick.”

When she had passed him that matchbook, he had been busy texting a client, had paid little attention. Hadn’t known the phone number was inside until days later, when he’d pulled the matchbook from his pocket. After running a reverse on the number and learning it was Sally’s, he’d been surprised. Both at her feelings about him, and that he hadn’t read the signals.

He blamed his surprise on being preoccupied with other issues. Had a lot of those weighing on his mind these days.

“No need to apologize. I was actually flattered.”

One pencil-thin eyebrow arched. “Yeah?”

“Really. It’s just…I’m not…”

“S’okay. No explanation necessary.” She tugged the towel off her shoulder and began rubbing the same glass she’d just finished drying. Realizing it, she stopped and smiled a little sheepishly. “Gee, hard to guess I’m nervous.”

“Glass still had a spot on it.”

She smiled, a real one this time. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

She placed the glass in the overhead rack. “How’s that brother of yours?”

“Wish I knew.” He took another swig.

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He gets a lot of business at Topaz. Nights when I close, that lot over there is packed. Limos lined up with tourists from all over the Strip. Guess that’s why you’re here tonight. Looking for him.”

He nodded.

That’s how they’d met eight months ago, when he’d wandered into Dino’s one night for a beer. He’d learned she had recently been laid off from her floor supervisor job at the Riviera Casino, none too thrilled with her new job slinging drinks.

Because he had asked so many questions about the strip club across the street, it had only seemed fair to explain why. Otherwise, he didn’t like to talk about Braxton.

“For a while, I didn’t see that yellow Porsche of his,” Sally continued, glancing at a young couple entering the bar, “but lately it’s been parked in that same spot near Topaz’s front entrance.”