John Locke - Vegas Moon

“Phyllis, I need you to focus. I’m not talking about the unit you used to try to kill me just now. I’m talking about a master device that can override these wrist units.”

“Y-yes. There is one.”

“And what does it look like?”

“It’s v-very small.”

“And what does it look like?”

“Like the t-tip of a…” She pauses, trying to come up with a name. Gives up and says, “a computer memory thing.”

I pull out my phone, press the button that speed dials Lou’s number.

“I’ve got lots of stuff on the gambler,” Lou says. “But more to come. And we’re still digging through the doctor’s files from when you linked her computer to ours last night. You want what I’ve got so far?”

“Not yet. I do have a question, though.”

“Shoot.”

“What’s a computer memory thing?”

Lou pauses. “Is this a riddle?”

“Not on purpose.”

I need Lou’s help, but I don’t want him to know there’s a chip in my brain that can kill me. Lou and I are close, but since he tried to murder me recently, I’d prefer to keep a few secrets from him. I say, “I’m with a woman who’s trying to think of what you call the small tip of a computer memory thing.”

“What’s the shape?” Lou says.

I repeat the question to Phyllis and she stammers out it’s a rectangle, and people stick it into the side of their computers.

“Into the USB port?” Lou asks.

I ask Phyllis. She nods.

“Yes,” I tell Lou. “It fits into the USB port.”

“She’s talking about a flash drive,” Lou says. “Also known as a memory stick, finger stick, pen drive, disk-on-key, jump drive—”

“Got it,” I say. “Thanks.”

It takes a minute, but I eventually get Phyllis to explain that the master device resembles the metal tip of a flash drive, except that it’s ceramic, and half the size.

“And is it silver?” I ask.

“Wh-White.”

“Where is it?”

“I-I don’t have it.”

“Is it in this office?”

“N-No. I sw-swear.”

She’s trembling, and seems very small and frail. Much smaller than the clothes in her closet would indicate. Maybe it’s because she’s curled up in a fetal position. She’s crying, and her mascara is running and her mouth is bleeding, and her hair’s a coffee-colored mess.

“Your hair’s not orange,” I say.

“Wh-what?”

“You dyed your sweet spot orange?” I say.

She gives me a confused look. “My wh-what?”

“I was trying not to be vulgar. Your bush. You dyed it orange? Intentionally?”

She follows my gaze and modestly covers her lap with her hands.

“Have you given it to someone?”

“Excuse me?”

“The device.”

Phyllis nods.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Peters.”

I pause. “Lucky’s wife?”

She nods.

“No shit?”

She shakes her head.

Before I kill her I say, “I don’t mean to embarrass you, but I promised my friend I’d ask you something.”

7.

“The initials LP were shaved out of her bush,” I say to Callie.

“Did you verify that personally?”

“No. I trusted her.”

“Is she in heaven now?”

“With Saint Peter you mean? Instead of Lucky Peters?”

“Hard to think of Lucky Peters as a saint.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“He’s seeking investors.”

“For what?”

“He wants to build a sports book facility. Vegas Moon, he calls it.”

“Vegas Moon?”

“Biggest Sports Book under the Sun. That’s his slogan.”

“Makes sense. About him owning a sports book.”

“Casinos aren’t happy about it.”

“I suppose not. You know anything about his wife?”

“Nope. Just that she’s a young trophy. He keeps her out of the public eye, for the most part.”

“What does he look like?”

“Lucky? Yucky.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Charles Manson in a Stetson.”

“That’s a happy thought,” I say. Then add, “Are you still home?”

“What do you need?”

“A shower, and the suit I left there.”

“Got a date?”

“I’m hopeful.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Gwen.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lucky’s wife.”

“Does she know you’re coming?”

“Not yet.”

8.

One of the great things about having unlimited financial and government resources is the ability to get what you need in a short period of time. Thirty minutes after telling Lou I need an off-the-books police car and a van with no windows in back, driven by a couple of trustworthy guys, they arrive at the parking area behind Callie’s condo. In the meantime, I drag Shelby out of the front office so no one will look through the glass door and see a dead receptionist. Then I dig the car keys out of her purse, locate her car, and drive it half-way to Callie’s. I jog the rest of the way, shower at Callie’s, and change into the suit I’d brought.

My plan is to drive the cop car to Lucky’s house, park it near the front door, pose as a cop investigating a major breach of national security. I’ll tell Gwen that Phyllis has implicated her in the theft of stolen corporate property, namely the device. With any luck, I’ll scare her into giving it back. If she doesn’t, I’ll have to intensify the questioning. I tell the guys to follow me in the panel van and use it to block Lucky’s driveway after I enter.

So that’s the plan.

Unfortunately, when I get there, Lucky’s house is a fortress.

Worse, it’s crawling with cops.

I drive past his house, suddenly very aware I’m driving an unauthorized police car. I need to ditch it, and quickly. I call the guys in the van and tell them there’s been a change in plans and we’re heading to the airport. I’ll put the cop car in long term parking, and have the guys drive me back to Callie’s.

I end the call and start another one.

“What happened?” Callie says.

I tell her. Then say, “Why would the cops be at Lucky’s house?”

“You think they found Phyllis already?”

“By now? Sure. But why would they race to Lucky’s house? Does everyone in town know about the affair?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“We’ll figure it out. Can I crash at your condo awhile?”

“I’ll set an extra place at the table for lunch.”

“You’re cooking?”

“Yup.”

“Wow, you are bored.”

When I get there I learn Callie’s idea of cooking means chopping lettuce, hard-boiled eggs and assorted veggies for a salad.

“Can you see if I have what you need to make a salad dressing?” she says.

“Got extra virgin olive oil?”

“Yup.”

“Some sort of vinegar?”

“Balsamic?”

“Then we’re good.”

Turns out her pantry is a treasure trove for a vinaigrette meister like me. I find shallots, garlic, honey, and an orange. Her spice cabinet yields mustard, sugar, salt, ground white pepper, celery seed. I mince a couple of shallots and a bit of garlic, grate a little orange peel, and blend these with the other ingredients, and set the mixture on the counter so the flavors can blend.

“The oil and vinegar will separate before we eat the salad,” she says.

“No they won’t.”

“Ever heard the expression oil and vinegar don’t mix?”

“I think you mean oil and water.”

“That’s the lesser known expression, as any cook will tell you.”

“You’re a cook now?”

“Well, I didn’t run a bed and breakfast in Florida and hunt squirrels in the attic like that guy in the novel.”

“Funny.”

“But it doesn’t change things. The oil and vinegar will separate.”

“I added some honey.”

“So?”

“It sustains the emulsion.”

She cocks her head at me. “Do you ever listen to yourself talk?”

“No. That’s your job.”

She pulls the cover off the blender, pokes her index finger into the vinaigrette, licks it.

“Fuck the salad,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“I could make a meal out of this. Why’s it so good?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Callie opens her silverware drawer, takes out a spoon, dips it in the mixture, puts the spoon in her mouth, swallows. Then licks the spoon.

Sees me staring at her mouth.

“What?” she says.

“Have you ever heard of a Pocket Rocket?”

She gives me a curious look, then says, “You asshole!”

“Huh?”

“You were fantasizing about me. Again.”

“What makes you think—”

“Sexually.”

“Well…”

“It’s just a mouth, Donovan. Everyone’s got one.”

“Not like yours.”

She shakes her head. “Not gonna happen.”

“Why not?”

She smiles. “What difference does it make?”

I shrug.

She dips her spoon into the dressing again, puts it up to her mouth. But this time, before tasting it, she blocks her mouth from my view with her other hand. Then she winks.

“You know I love you,” I say.

“How could you not?”

My cell phone starts vibrating.

“I’ve made vinaigrette a dozen times,” she says.

“So?”

“It never turns out like this.”

“The ratio of oil to vinegar is everything.”

My phone vibrates again. I look at the caller ID.

“Tell me,” Callie says.

“Three parts oil to one part vinegar.”

I answer the phone.

It’s Carmine “The Chin” Porrello, telling me about a call he got from Lucky Peters, who’d been looking for a hit man. I thank him, ask if Lucky’s banging anyone besides his wife. Carmine doesn’t know her name off hand, but yeah, some plastic surgeon. He’s got photos.

“Sex photos?”

Callie arches an eyebrow at me.

Carmine says, “Nah. Just the two of ’em together. Dinner shit. Nothin’ I can use. Not yet.”

Then I call Lou and tell him to have his geek squad access Lucky’s medical records at the hospital in Kingston.

“You want to hold while I get that for you?” Lou says.

“It’s that easy?”

“I should probably say no, and charge you extra. But yeah, it’s that easy.”

I cover the mouthpiece and say to Callie, “You never answered me about the Pocket Rocket.”

“Nor will I,” she says. “Ever.”

I frown. “Why not?”

“If I tell you about our sex life, you’ll never look at me and Eva the same way again.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

She gives me an exasperated look, rolls her eyes. Then says, “You make such a big deal out of sex.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Lou gets back on the phone, tells me about Dr. Gayle and the colonoscopy. Then says, “Lucky’s meeting investors this week. Putting together an offering for a sports betting parlor.”

“Vegas Moon, right?”

“Right. You want what I’ve got?”

“I’ll have to call you back. I’ve got another call coming in.”

I terminate Lou’s call, click the incoming one.

It’s Lucky Peters, offering me a job.

9.

“Let me get this straight,” Callie says. “Lucky Peters is hiring you to protect him from Connor Payne?”

“Correct.”

“And you’re Connor Payne.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s what I call a cushy job.”

“The best part, I get access to his house, his business, and his weirdoes.”

“You thinking about stealing his ideas?”

“No.”

“Taking over his business?”

“No.”

“Running a scam?”