Robert Browne: Kill Her Again

Not out of any sense of vanity-that was one human failing Pope couldn’t claim-but simply because he found that studying his performances allowed him to improve his craft. Such as it was.

While Pope didn’t take much pride in his personal life these days, he’d always been proud of his work. Something to cling to.

And Pope desperately needed something to cling to.

So there he sat, in the dim light of his hotel room, smoking a bowl of White Widow as he watched the DVD of last night’s show. The same DVD they sold to tourists in the casino lobby for fifteen bucks a pop.

Then his cell phone chirped.

Pope grabbed the remote, hit the pause button, then snatched the phone up off his nightstand and squinted at the screen.

Just what he was afraid of.

Sharkey.

Pope debated letting voice mail pick it up, but knew that would only stall the inevitable, forcing him to call Sharkey back. And he certainly didn’t want to have to do that.

He stared at his image on the TV screen, saw himself frozen in motion, wearing that ridiculous glittery black tux, thinking he should seriously consider revamping his wardrobe. Flashy costumes were more or less cultural de rigueur in a Vegas-style lounge show, even a low-rent show like his. But why not let his assistants, Carmen and Feather, handle the glitter? A good half of the tourists only came to stare at their tits anyway.

Pope sighed, then finally clicked the phone on and put it to his ear. “Hey, Sharkey, what’s up?”

“You’re actually awake at this hour?”

“You must’ve figured I would be.”

“Nah, I was just gonna leave a message. But I like this better. I always feel like I have to be polite on voice mail.”

“I don’t think anyone would ever accuse you of that.”

Sharkey barked. It was supposed to be a laugh, but didn’t quite qualify. “You’re a funny guy, Danny. Maybe you should consider a change of format. Put a little comedy in your act.”

“It’s already got some,” Pope said.

“Yeah? Color me stupid, but I don’t think a bunch of idiots bouncing around onstage is all that funny.”

“Did you call to offer me a critique, or is there a point to this conversation?”

Sharkey got quiet a moment, then said, “Troy wants to see you. And he’s pretty upset.”

“About what?”

“About you, that’s what.”

Pope quickly ran a list of possible fuckups through his slightly stoned brain, but only came up with one likely suspect.

“The session?”

“Bingo. He’s thinking maybe you got something wrong. Got some wires crossed, made a mistake.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Pope told him, staring again at the TV screen, looking at his face, noticing that his expression was frozen in a grimace-an accurate reflection of how he felt about the subject of Anderson Troy.

“I won’t even pretend to know how it works,” Sharkey said. “But then I’m not paid to be curious. The man gets pissed, I gotta do what I can to calm him down. Even if it means dealing with a bullshit artist like you.”

“What’s the matter, Sharkey? You don’t believe in hypnosis?”

“I don’t believe in anything.”

That made sense. But Sharkey wasn’t Pope’s concern at the moment. “So Troy’s not happy with last night’s little rendezvous. What does he want me to do about it?”

“Get your ass up there, that’s what. Pronto.”

Wonderful. Just the good news he needed at two in the morning. “Why? It won’t change anything. The past is the past.”

“Right now you’d better start thinking about the future,” Sharkey said.

Then he hung up.

The elevator in the residential section of the Desert Oasis Hotel-Casino had to be the slowest in the world. But then everything was a little slower out here, and Pope liked it just fine that way.

Forty miles outside of the city proper, a last-chance gas and gambling stop near the California state line, the Oasis didn’t even attempt to capture the high-gloss hustle and bustle of the “new” Las Vegas.

Walking into the casino was like stepping through a time warp. The 1970s all over again, only a little grungier and faded this time around. The booze-and cigarette-stained carpet and dusty-looking wallpaper hadn’t been changed in decades and the slot machines could actually be cranked by hand.

Anyone who was used to the glamor of the Strip, or even the refurbished beauty of the Nugget downtown, would take one look at the Oasis and immediately start reaching for the Sani-Wipes.

It was what the tour brochures called charm.

All this changed, however, once you got to the fourteenth floor. Anderson Troy’s private domain was as immaculate as a biological clean room and just about as welcoming.

After a long, slow ascent, still slightly hazed by the killer pot, Pope stepped off the elevator and looked down at the spotless white carpet. Not a stray cigarette ash or splash of bourbon in sight.

“Good morning, Daniel.”

Pope looked up to find Troy’s personal assistant, Arturo, standing before a set of double doors. To one side of the doors was a neat row of shoes.

“Morning, Arturo.”

Knowing the routine, Pope slipped off his loafers and lined them up next to the others. Anderson Troy was neither eccentric nor germaphobic, but he did like to keep his carpet clean, especially after his staff and visitors had been traipsing around the casino below.

Pope had once asked him why he hadn’t renovated the entire hotel rather than just the fourteenth floor, and Troy had told him that he was afraid it would scare away the locals and budget tourists who made up ninety percent of his trade.

“Besides,” Troy had said, “it would cost too much. And you know how fond I am of money.”

Pope did indeed. In fact, his own current lifestyle was, in part, the result of that fondness. But he also knew that the Oasis, just as it stood, was the perfect under-the-radar cover for Troy’s other, less legitimate, activities.

Anderson Troy was not your typical casino owner. For that matter, he wasn’t your typical anything.

He was, however, a dangerous man.

Once Pope’s shoes were in place, Arturo handed him a pair of disposable foot covers, which he dutifully slipped on over his socks.

He felt like a toddler wearing bunny pajamas.

“Go on in,” Arturo said. “He’s expecting you.”

No shit, Sherlock.

Pope almost made the remark out loud, but restrained himself. What was the point? Arturo was a simple working man who did his job and seemed to bear no grudges against anyone. Even when he was killing them.

Instead, Pope nodded and pushed through the double doors into the now familiar lair of one of the youngest self-made multi-millionaires in the world. A man who had made those millions in DVDs and video games, among other things. Not creating them, mind you, but hacking their copy protection, pirating and selling them overseas.

Only a select few knew that Troy was worth so much. And since making his first several million, he had branched out into a variety of Internet schemes that could potentially land him in prison for life, if he weren’t so good at remaining anonymous.

A self-styled gangster, he was really nothing more than a thirtysomething computer geek with a lot of hired muscle. And, of course, the will to use it when necessary.

He was sitting on the sofa, which was a soft gray puff of nothing that blended in beautifully with the muted grays and whites that dominated the room. Looking like a stain on the fabric, he was hunched over a laptop computer, wearing a faded GOT ROOT? T-shirt and frayed, cut-off maroon sweats, his stringy wannabe rock star hair hanging in his face.

He didn’t bother to look up when he said: