John Locke - Vegas Moon

“Hadn’t thought about it.”

“Then why do you care about his business?”

“I keep thinking there’s one person in the world who could beat Lucky Peters at his own game.”

“Who’s that?”

“Sam Case.”

Callie pauses. “You’d go into business with Sam?”

“I can’t imagine it, but who knows. It’s just a Rain Man idea at this point.”

“You’re fascinated by the lifestyle.”

“A little.”

“Donovan, trust me. This town will eat you up. They don’t play fair.”

“So I’ve heard. But betting is all about understanding the odds of probability. If Lucky’s winning all the time, he knows how to calibrate the point spread. He’s probably got a bunch of people betting one side of the wager, helping him improve the odds. When he feels the number’s right, he has another bunch bet big money on the other side.”

“Of course. That’s public knowledge. He admits to manipulating the odds.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Not according to the Grand Jury. He’s been indicted twice.”

“And?”

“They tossed it out both times.”

“Don’t you think Sam could calculate the odds better than Lucky?”

“He’s got the mind for it, but no, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Sam doesn’t know shit about sports.”

I frown. “That can’t be true.”

Callie gives me a dirty look. “I dated him for a month, remember?”

“Right. Sorry.”

She shakes her head in disgust. “I had sex with him!”

“Once. As I recall, you came out of it quite wealthy.”

“Still.”

I say, “The whole gambling thing is fascinating, but I took the job so I could meet Gwen.”

“You plan to charm her into giving you the device?”

“If I have access to the house, I’ll find the device.”

“When do you start?”

“Right after lunch.”

“Lucky wants you to what, watch Gwen?”

“Yeah. I’m to introduce myself to Gwen, keep an eye on her till he gets back, late tonight. He wants me and Gwen to pick him up at the airport. I’m not supposed to let her out of my sight.”

“How convenient.”

“I know. Talk about things falling into place.”

“You want me to slip into his house when you go to the airport? Help you find the device?”

“I might. Let me get a feel for his security first.”

“Oh, please.”

“I know you can get past whatever he’s got in place, but I want to make it easy for you.”

She shrugs.

I’m quiet for several minutes. Callie waits, knowing I’m working an angle. Finally, I look up at her and smile.

“You’ve got a plan,” she says.

“A contingency plan.”

“And?”

“And if we need it, you’re going to love it!”

“Goody. Let’s eat.”

10.

Before we tuck into our salads, I call a car rental agency and tell them to pick me up at twelve-fifteen, which gives me forty-five minutes. When I go down the elevator, the driver’s waiting for me in the lobby. I sign the paperwork, ask if he needs a ride back to the lot. He does, so I take him, then drive out to Lucky’s house for the second time in three hours.

This time when I approach, there are no cop cars. There are two muscle heads working the gate, however, and I have to show them my ID and give a password before entering. The password is the name of Lucky’s doctor in Jamaica, Dr. Gayle. Satisfied with the answer, the gate goons open the gates. I drive through, and down the long driveway, and park by the turnaround. From there I walk to the front door, climb the four stone steps, and stare at the twelve foot high, four-inch thick, mahogany doors, until one of them slowly opens.

Gwen is very young, and stunning.

Not Callie Carpenter stunning, or even super model stunning. But Gwen would be right at home with any of the troubled TV and movie starlets I’ve seen on the news. The ones who are in and out of court, and rehab, and who always show their naughty bits when entering or exiting limos. She has that same bored, pouty look that tells men she knows what she wants, and has the currency to get it.

What she doesn’t look like is a wife.

Gwen holds out her hand, introduces herself. I take it, and tell her who I am. When we end the handshake, she stands aside so I can enter. When I do, she closes the door behind me, locks it and says, “He’s got tits, you know.”

“Excuse me?”

I turn to face her. She’s wearing gray sweat pants and a pink t-shirt upon which is printed: TREAT ME! RIGHT. Except that the first two letters and the last five are printed in black, while the rest are in red.

If she and Lucky break up, if her t-shirt is any indication, I can picture Gwen babysitting for Charlie Sheen.

“Boobs. Hooters. Breasts. You know, tits,” she says, cupping her ample breasts.

“I know what they are,” I say. “I’m just not sure what you’re saying. About Lucky.”

She circles around me, and starts walking.

I’m supposed to follow.

Not that I mind following. She’s got an athletic body that looks just as good from this angle as it does from the front. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to adjust to the hypnotic sway of her backside, as she moves down the hallway. On a scale of one to ten, I give her a two for attitude, and a nine-point-five for looks.

Sometimes I tell Lou Kelly or my daughter, Kimberly, about the people I run across, and they say, “Is every woman you meet drop-dead gorgeous?” I’m sure it seems that way, because I do encounter an out-sized number of beautiful women in my line of work. It makes sense that I would, since most of my male clients are exceptionally wealthy, and can afford to support such women. And the women assassins I know, with the exception of Carla Mutato, were recruited primarily for their looks, and trained afterward. At the same time, my business often takes me to the opposite end of the spectrum, where I deal with dead-eyed killers, wide-eyed thieves, junkies, hardened criminals, broken-nosed bodyguards, nasty-assed pimps, broken down whores, scar-faced mob enforcers, and a wide assortment of others who, together, comprise the very dregs of humanity. So it’s either roses or thorns for me. Because not many average-looking people play in my park.

“You’ve got great hair,” I say.

“Thanks.”

She does have great hair. It’s thick and lustrous, and a rich mahogany brown in color, with subtle highlights at the ends. Frosted would be too much. What she’s done is unique, and to me, classy.

Gwen motions me to sit at the kitchen table. I do. She brings two beers from the fridge, hands me one. “Coors okay?”

I shrug, and twist off the top. She does the same, then holds her bottle next to mine, so we can toast. When that’s done, she smiles and says, “Lucky has implants. 34-C’s.”

“No way!”

She laughs. “Swear to God!”

“Why?”

“He bet the wrong team in the Super Bowl. I mean, his team won, but they didn’t beat the spread. The guy who won offered him a cash option, but Lucky chose the boob job.”

“The guy’s worth millions. Why would he do that?”

“’Cause he’s cheaper than shit.”

I know what this is all about. She’s bullshitting me, trying to see how gullible I am. Then she says, “Wanna see a picture?”

“Of?”

“Lucky’s boobs.”

Maybe she isn’t bullshitting me. I shrug. “Why not?”

She leaves the room a minute, comes back holding a photo, shows it to me. Callie’s right about his looks. From the neck up, he’s scary. But the tits are spectacular.

“Who did the surgery?”

“Phyllis Willis.”

I must have glanced at Gwen’s chest without thinking, because she says, “Yeah, she did mine, too.”

“Well, if they’re as nice as these…”

“They’re better.”

“Alrighty then.”

11.

“She’s dead, you know,” Gwen says, after polishing off her second beer.

“Who?”

“Phyllis Willis.”

“The plastic surgeon?”

Gwen nods. “She was murdered. And four people in her office. It’s all over the news.”

“When did it happen?”

“Early this morning. The police were here, for like, an hour.”

“Why here?”

“She wrote a message on the bottom side of the toilet lid with her lipstick. When the detective went in there to pee, he lifted the lid and saw the message.”

I shake my head. Phyllis kicked my ass with that one. I must be slipping.

“What did the message say?”

“Connor Payne did this. Lucky and Gwen Peters are next.”

“Why you?”

“That’s what the police wanted to know.”

“And you said?”

“I told them I never heard of Connor Payne.” She looks at me carefully. “But you have, haven’t you.” A statement, not a question.

“I have.”

“Is he a depraved maniac?”

“Some people think so.”

“But you could kill him?”

“I could.”

She gets up to fetch another beer from the fridge. “Want one?”

“I’m good.”

“You don’t look like a hitman,” Gwen says.

“What do I look like?”

“Some actor. Can’t remember his name. One of the handsome ones. You probably get that a lot.”

“I do, actually. But thanks.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

“No?”

“Anyone can have good looks. What counts is money.”

“Right.”

“And power.”

“Yup.”

“And fame.”

“Lucky’s got those things,” I say.

“He does. But he’s not powerful.”

“No?”

“Not like you.”

We look at each other a minute, then she says, “Speaking of hit men, you want a hit, man?” She grins at her joke.

“I don’t.”

She stares at me the way she might look at a talking dog.

“Everyone snorts,” she says.

“Not me.”

“Shit,” she says. “You’re what my mother would call a square.”

“How old’s your mother?” I say.

She laughs. “You don’t want to know.”

She’s right. I don’t.

Then she says, “You want to see my cock?”

12.

“Excuse me?”

She grins. “My rooster. Where was your mind just now, gutter man?”

“You’ve got a rooster? Here?”

“I do. Wanna see it?”

“What’s his name?”

Without a hint of smile, she says, “Dick.”

“Your rooster’s name is Dick.”

She giggles. “You love it, right?”

I shrug. What do I care what she named the damn bird?

“Ask me,” she says.

“Ask you what?”

“If you can see it.”

I was about to accuse her of being childish. Then again, she appears to be twenty. Of course, my new girlfriend, Miranda the hooker, is also twenty. But she’s a gifted student, living in Brooklyn, working toward her Master’s in Counseling Psychology at NYU. I wonder if twenty years old in Brooklyn is like dog’s years compared to Vegas.

Gwen stands. “If you ask me nicely to see it, I’ll give you a kiss.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Of course!”

I smile. “In that case, please show me your cock!”

She walks around the table, bends down, kisses my cheek.

“Come,” she says, taking my hand.

I stand and allow her to lead me through a stone arch and down a long, marble hall.

“Nice house,” I say.

“Twelve thousand square feet,” she says.

“How many live here?”

“Me and Dick, and Lucky.”

“Anyone else ever come inside?”

“You didn’t just say that.”