John Locke - Vegas Moon

Gwen says, “Lucky’s such a jerk.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tina’s usually gone by five. But her daughter had an operation today, so naturally she wanted to be at the hospital with her. Lucky said fine, but she’d have to work late to make up for it.”

“Wow.”

“Great guy, right?”

While Gwen had been napping and showering, I searched every room on this side of the house, trying to find the device. And came up with nothing. While she was getting dressed, I called Lou Kelly, who told me that Lucky’s twenty million dollar investment in Ropic Industries was practically worthless. According to the terms of his stockholder purchase petition, he can’t sell his shares for several months. By then, the company will be bankrupt. This, according to one of Lou’s SEC buddies who said they’re about to publicly announce a full-scale investigation of Ropic’s accounting practices.

I don’t care about Lucky’s financial problems, I just want the device. After talking to Lou, I walked through the rooms one last time, to see if I’d overlooked something obvious.

I hadn’t.

If a professional had hidden the device, I’d need a week to conduct a proper search. But Gwen’s a civilian, and I’d bet serious coin she hasn’t hidden it in the rooms I’ve searched. Which leaves Lucky’s office, their bedroom, bath, and closet.

“I should check out your bedroom,” I say. “For security reasons.”

“You’ll have to wait till Lucky gets home.”

“Why?”

“His command center adjoins it.”

“Command center?”

“It’s where he makes the magic. No one’s allowed in there.”

“Not even you?” I say.

“Not even.”

16.

“Donovan?” Gwen says.

“Yes?”

“Don’t pay any attention to how I act when Lucky gets here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll probably be all over him.”

“Okay.”

“But it’s an act.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s a good life.”

“Is it?”

“When I’m not bored out of my skull.”

While waiting, I take a minute to wonder why pretty girls are always bored at home.

Soon she says, “Here he comes. In the cowboy hat.”

“They’re all wearing cowboy hats.”

“He’s the one looks stupid in it.”

“You don’t mean…”

“I do. That Jesus freak in the sandals? Wearing the cowboy hat?”

“That’s Lucky?”

“In the pock-marked flesh.”

He looks worse in person than he did in his photo.

Thirty minutes later the three of us are in my car, heading toward PhySpa. Lucky’s riding shotgun, Gwen’s sitting behind him.

Gwen says, “When we get to the next intersection, turn right.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Lucky says.

“I want Mr. Creed to see what he’s protecting.”

“He’s protecting us.”

“C’mon, Lucky, it’ll only take a second.”

He sighs. “Fine.”

I take the next right a half block, turn left into a paved entrance that ends twenty feet into the vacant lot.

“Put your brights on,” Gwen says.

I do. The extra wattage illuminates a large sign, thirty yards in front of us. It says, Future Home of Vegas Moon! Underneath that, in smaller script, are the words Greatest Sports Book under the Sun!

“This is the most valuable vacant lot in all of Las Vegas,” she says.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“And it’s going to be named after me.”

“Shut up, Gwen,” Lucky says.

“I’m just proud, is all.”

It’s not my business to ask what she means about the name, so I say, “Well, it’s a great piece of land.”

“That’s where I’ll be buried someday,” she says.

“Oh Jeez,” Lucky says. “Not this again.”

“I’m going to be buried there someday,” she says. “And you have to respect my dying wish. If I die before you open the sports book, I want you to bury me right smack under the sign.”

“I will,” Lucky says, “Sooner, instead of later. If you don’t shut the fuck up.”

I think it’s an odd thing for her to say. I seriously doubt the city fathers of Vegas would allow someone to be buried on commercial land a half-block off the strip.

“Can we go to Phyllis’s office now?” Lucky says.

I follow his directions to PhySpa, then do a drive-by to check the lay of the land. I make a circle, pull into the parking lot, circle the building.

“Looks clear,” I say.

Phyllis’s car has been moved, so I park in her space and sit there a minute, looking around. It’s too dark. Phyllis would want a light back here where her car is.

“Stay put,” I say, then get out of the car and look around. By the time my eyes get to her roof line I notice her security light isn’t working. I get back in the car, drive it to the business next door, and park behind their dumpster.

“I’m wearing heels, remember?” Gwen says.

“Why didn’t you stay where you parked the first time?” Lucky says.

“The security light was aimed at us.”

“So what? It was probably broken.”

“It could be on a timer. If the timer’s off by a few hours, the light could come on and attract attention.”

“Wow,” Gwen says. “You think of everything!”

“It was obvious,” Lucky says. He’s annoyed. I would be too, if I’d had a colonoscopy this morning and spent the last six hours on a plane.

Gwen picks up on it, too, and calls him sweetheart, as in, “Why are we here, sweetheart?”

“Creed and I have business here.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Come in with us, and sit tight.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Find something she hid.”

“What?”

“I can’t tell you. But it’s important.”

I park the car. As we remove our seat belts, Lucky gets a call. I make eye contact with Gwen in the mirror. She blows me a silent kiss.

Lucky, on the phone, says: “Any way we can make it tomorrow? Well, does Surrey have to be there? Oh. Right. Well…” He looks at his watch. “Fifteen minutes? The Candlewood? Okay. Yeah, I’ll get us a table. All right, we’ll see you there.”

“The Candlewood?” Gwen says, whining. “Really, Lucky? We’ll be there all night!”

“Guy’s got ten million to invest. He wants to eat at fuckin’ Denny’s, that’s where we go.”

“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?” she says. “I’m tired.”

“You believe this shit?” he says to me. “Twelve hours ago I’m in Jamaica with the Roto Rooter man adding a pipe extension up my ass, and this one’s tired.” He glances behind him. “You’re always tired! When I was your age, I wanted to do it ten times a day. But you? You’re too fuckin’ tired. Tired from what? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“I’m sorry, Lucky,” Gwen says. “I know you’ve had a bad day. Not to mention your fucking girlfriend got snuffed, and put my life in danger.”

Lucky looks at me. “You believe this shit?”

“I’m not from here,” I say. “What’s the Candlewood, a restaurant?”

“Yeah,” Lucky says. “A little off the beaten path. Good food, shitty service. But you won’t notice either.”

“Why’s that?”

“Eddie’s bringing Surrey with him.”

“Who’s that?” Gwen says.

“His wife.”

“What, is she supposed to be beautiful or something?”

He laughs. “You’ll see.”

“How do I get there?” I ask.

“Go straight, get in the left lane. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

Ten minutes later, as we pull into the parking lot, Lucky says, “Gwen? Listen to me. Whatever happens, go with it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see. But don’t fuck this up for me. I’m cash poor right now.” To me, he says, “That doesn’t apply to you. I’ve got your money, no sweat. I’ll pay you in advance, when we get back to the house.”

The parking lot is only half full. I find a good spot, pull in, turn off the engine. Before we get out, Lucky puts his hand on my arm and says, “Prepare yourself.”

“For what?”

“The strangest dinner meeting you’ll ever attend.”

17.

If you were to ask, “Creed, what’s the strangest dinner party you’ve ever attended?” I could tell you at least a half-dozen stories you’d be hard-pressed to believe. In my years overseas with the CIA I had numerous occasions to dine under extreme circumstances, during which I was often exposed to some of the zaniest, most bizarre situations imaginable.

In short, I don’t know what you might consider the strangest. But to me, it’s the time I saw tribesmen eating human feces at a dinner table in the jungle, sniffing it like a fine wine, touching it to note the texture, and savoring each mouthful as if it were the most delicate pate de foie gras. It was all I could do not to gag, which probably would have caused an international incident, as fucked up as everyone gets in that part of the world over the most ridiculous things. After sampling from each pile and enthusiastically nodding, as though they could discern some subtle nuance of flavor between each morsel of turd, two warriors brought me a steaming pile of excrement no one else had been allowed to sample.

“No thanks,” I said to the translator. “Sadly, I ruined my appetite eating bird shit all afternoon.”

When he translated my message, the warriors grew agitated.

“You have just insulted the entire tribe,” the translator said. “And their wives.”

“How did I manage to insult the wives?”

“Their wives worked all afternoon to create the meal. And the Chief’s wife personally made your dinner.”

I was about to ask what the hell he was talking about, then had that Oh, God! moment where I realized exactly what he was talking about. I tried not to picture the Chief’s fat wife nude, squatting over the plank of wood they’d just brought me. But once an image like that is stuck in your head, it’s there for the duration. I’m sure the look on my face had something to do with the sudden appearance of the Chief’s knife at the dinner table.

The translator said, “The Chief’s wife prepared your meal. It is the highest honor the tribe can bestow on an outsider.”

I said, “See? This is why I hate my fucking job. It isn’t enough we come in here and kill all their enemies, expand their safe zone, bring them medical supplies and save their God-forsaken village. Now they’re insulted, ready to kill me over a shit dinner.”

With deep concern etched in his face, the translator said, “What should I say to the Chief?”

I sighed. “Tell him I apologize.”

He did, then looked at me.

“Tell them I was unfamiliar with their customs.”

He did, and they settled down a bit. One of them actually flashed me a shit-eating grin, an expression I haven’t used from that day to this, and probably won’t, ever again.

The tribesmen then passed me the turds anew, with great gusto, and stared at me with expectant eyes.

I picked up my walkie-talkie, pressed the button and waited for my unit commander to say, “Gray Fox Leader.”

The tribesmen at the dinner table became agitated again, and spoke to each other in frightened tones.

“Frank,” I said.

“Sir?”

“I’m bringing you a doggy bag.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’re moving the dinner to your location. And you’re going to eat it. With a big smile on your face. Or we’re all going to die tonight. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You and your second-in-command.”