Michael Connelly - Murder in Vegas

The boulder hid the mouth of a cave. When I joined her, some ten yards inside, she was peering intently at a section of jagged wall. New doubts arose. I’d stranded myself with a less than stable showgirl and no means of defense. At least the air this far in was marginally cooler, and I appreciated the shade.

“Georgia?” My voice echoed slightly.

“I also brought along the key.” If she removed a key-shaped piece of rock from a pocket, I’d know she was insane and I’d have to act accordingly. My thoughts strayed to the chloroform in the glove compartment.

She removed a key-shaped piece of rock from a pocket and I slugged her out cold from behind. Again. Poor Georgia. For sure, Jonn must take responsibility for tipping her over the edge. Interesting key, though. I picked it up and wiped the dust off. On closer inspection, it was made of red metal, with a black button at the round end. The rock look was only a textured finish. What the heck. I pointed it at the wall and pressed. Then I wondered about my own sanity.

With a low reverberating rumble, a section of wall slowly rose to the ceiling, stirring a small cloud of debris as it did so. I closed my eyes, not solely to keep the debris out. If I opened them to see glitter balls and a casino, staffed by dwarves, I’d book myself into the nearest helpful medical institution. Hi Ho.

“What the…” asked an out-of-focus Georgia.

“A boulder fell from the ceiling. You’ll be okay.” She shook her short blonde curls. She accepted my hand and I helped to haul her back to her feet. Thankfully, her concussion concealed the total absence of boulders on the floor.

“Wow, thanks, Lilah. You’re the only true friend I ever made in Vegas. Is that the treasure?”

Glad for the distraction, I turned back to the breach in the rock wall. A whole bunch of silver and gold coins filled a dozen metal shelves, all in transparent plastic bags. Only in Vegas, my friend, only in Vegas. Once more, visionary human endeavor had created and sustained outrageous architecture in a harsh environment.

Together, each softly whistling her own tune, we carried the desert loot back to the car. After closing the rock door and sweeping our footprints, to leave no trace of our visit, we drove on through the mountains. For several minutes, the jazz and theair conditioning took the place of conversation. If detectives ever interviewed us separately, there’s no way that any cover story would stand the strain.

I slammed on the breaks and shouted, “It’s not enough!”

“Lilah, those coins will go a long way.”

“Not that. Jonn. This isn’t the revenge I wanted, damn it. He’s probably got secret hoards all the way between here and the Valley of Fire.” I curled a lock of my long blonde hair around my fingers and continued to fume.

Georgia drew her mouth into a thin line. “You have a plan?”

“Which means, he won’t be expecting us. And these coins should buy a way through his armor. What do you say?”

“A friend of mine is a coin dealer, no questions asked. Gary’s Numanistics on Sixth Street.”

“Don’t you mean Numismatics?”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with it.”

“Tell you what,” she suggested, “I could call in a favor with Senator Smythe, find out where he’s dining tonight.” It sounded like a plan to me. On our way back to Vegas, I added a few more illegal miles per hour to our speed. Truth be told, the thought of crossing the desert on a summer’s day didn’t exactly thrill me. What with the risk of the car overheating, the tires blowing out from the heat and getting stuck without water, even seeing Jonn again was more appealing. Well, marginally so. The image of Georgia using her recent wealth to buy yet more china and porcelain nightmares entered my head, and I shook it out immediately.

Back at Chateau Georgia, we found that Jonn had already escaped. No doubt his innate sliminess allowed him to slip through his bonds. She made the call, often dropping her voice low, probably to whisper sweet nothings.

ShowTime turned out to be in the Top of the World Restaurant, perched at the summit of the Stratosphere Tower. Stopping very briefly to retouch our makeup and fix a low-cal snack, we set off anew. With the curtain due to rise about ten minutes before we arrived, after dealing with the coins, it meant that we wouldn’t be cooling our high heels backstage for too long.

We turned off the Main Street and drove directly into a garage, where we parked. Three other cars were being workedon. Background electrodisco spilled into the foreground. A man in his early forties, no taller than Jonn but trim and fit, left a small office, wiping his hands on a clean towel. We stepped out to greet him.

“Hiya Lilah, hiya Georgia. I gotta say, you two don’t need any bodywork.”

“Gary, darling, this isn’t a social call,” Georgia trilled.

“Yeah, sorta figured you weren’t hankering to become car mechanics.”

“We’re here about your hobby.” At my comment his demeanor changed to full-on serious.

“You’ve got the spare change with you?” We nodded. “Hey boys, coffee break,” he shouted across the garage. Half a dozen employees trooped out in a well-rehearsed fashion and closed the garage door. I wondered if failed deals had led to their thralldom. “I love garage sales. What have you got for me?”

I opened the trunk. He picked up one of the bags, looked closely and gave an appreciative grunt. He delved deep and repeated the process. A third bag sealed the deal. “A check for each of you?”

“Gary, we love you,” I said.

“Say, did they take an interest in your topless War and Peace idea?” He didn’t smile, but the twinkle in his eyes betrayed him.

“Nope. They wouldn’t agree to my topless Crime and Punishment either,” I shot back.

“But they did say yes to my idea, a fully nude tribute to America’s cheerleaders,” Georgia enthused. We loved her too.

The Stratosphere drew closer. It marks the unofficial divide between Old Vegas and the new ritzy casinos of the strip. The town gets its bearings from the Stratosphere, so it made an ideal place for me to establish my bearings with Jonn, after way too long. The needle of my vengeance pointed due north.

“Georgia, you gotta tell me, what the hell is it with you and those figurines?” We’d stopped at a red light.

“Sweet, aren’t they?”

“Sickly you mean.”

“Well, perhaps my collection of commemorative plates will be more to your liking?” I eased us away from the junction.

“No, not commemorative plates. Anything but commemorativeplates. You’re going to waste your half of the bounty, aren’t you?”

“Lilah Starr, it ain’t none of your business what I spend Jonn’s money on.” She frowned, crossed her hands over her chest and found the cityscape engrossing to watch. “It’s not like your tiresome fixation on old show posters is worth a fig.”

“Actually, it’s worth quite a…”

“Shut up, Lilah.”

Shortly after 5 p.m., our ears popped as we rode the elevator from ground level. Sure, reservations are required to dine, but no one has reservations about showgirls on the Strip. When it comes to paying by plastic, 36FFs lead the way.

I slid mine into the space next to Jonn at their panoramic window seat. Georgia followed suit with hers next to Senator Smythe, a ruddy-faced, portly man in his sixties with a shock of suspiciously black hair. Suddenly, the panoramic view lost its appeal. A map of new territories to conquer occupied their greedy eyes.

“Evening boys,” I cooed, straightening Jonn’s boring tie.

“Evening ladies, care for some wine?” asked the senator, his bonhomie fully engaged. “If white’s not to your liking, just say.”