War Lord (4 page)

‘What’s Alabama’s boyfriend’s name?’ I said.

‘Randy – Randy Sweetwater.’

‘So the hand belongs to Randy?’ Arlen said.

‘I doubt it,’ I said.

‘Alabama knows it’s not his. She already told me that.’

Arlen took back his pen. ‘Okay, but how do
you
know that, Vin?’

‘Skin tone. It’s dark – Mexican, perhaps – and Randy’s a white guy.’

‘And you know this because Mexicans don’t call their kids Randy or have surnames like Sweetwater?’

‘They’re good reasons, but in this instance, no. Actually, I think I’ve met the guy.’

‘You met him?’

‘Depends on how many Randy Sweetwaters are kicking around out there, but I flew with one of them in Afghanistan. Hitched a ride in his C-17. While we were refueling at a forward operating base, he accidentally dropped some package being ferried around for a colonel and, wouldn’t you know it, half a dozen bottles of Glenfiddich just fell out. Then Randy discovered a whole bunch of mechanical troubles that grounded the plane for several days. My kinda guy.’

‘So this package just happened to be full of single malt?’ Arlen said dubiously. ‘Sounds like something
you’d
do.’

I grinned. ‘Okay, officer, ya got me. Too bad the statute of limitations is up on this one. And anyway, smuggling booze into a Muslim country . . .’ I shook my head and tsked. ‘The colonel could have gotten into a lot of trouble.’

‘So is he the guy or not?’

‘The colonel?’

‘Jesus, Vin.’

‘Okay, okay . . . My memory’s hazy on the details of the episode – understandably – but I do remember
this
Randy Sweetwater saying that he was about to go to Nellis AFB, which, as we all know, snuggles up to Vegas.’

‘Sometimes I’m surprised you remember anything.’

That made two of us.

‘So, assuming the Randy Sweetwater you met
is
Alabama’s boyfriend,’ said Arlen, ‘and that this is not his hand, what’s Alabama worried about?’

‘Because Thing here is wearing Randy’s academy ring,’ I said, looking at Marnie. ‘Right?’

‘That’s right,’ she confirmed.

‘Well, like I said, this is a police matter,’ Arlen repeated.

‘And what are we, chopped liver?’

He had a point, though. Randy was ex–Air Force, and the ‘ex’ bit took him beyond our frame of reference. Technically, we couldn’t get involved. At least, not officially.

‘What’s Alabama expecting us to do?’ I asked Marnie. ‘What are
you
expecting us to do?’ I sensed discomfort from Arlen that I was including him in ‘us’.

‘To help her, obviously. The ransom – she doesn’t know what to do or who to turn to. And she doesn’t have fifteen thousand, let alone fifteen million.’

In this instance help could mean anything, except maybe assisting Alabama with a loan application for the ransom money. ‘And what about you?’ I asked Marnie. ‘What are
you
gonna do?’

‘Me?’ Marnie pointed at herself like I’d just accused her of something. ‘I’ve done my bit throwing you the ball. I’m going home. I’ve got a diving business to run.’ She looked at me and then at Arlen.

The initial Anna Effect experienced when I’d opened the door and seen her standing there had worn off. Marnie had Anna’s eyes, hair and bone structure, and even the tone of her voice was similar, but in every other way she was the kid sister. Anna wouldn’t have looked elsewhere to offload this. I reached across and again lifted Arlen’s pen from his shirt pocket and signed the 988 with it. ‘Sorry,’ I told him.

‘What for?’

‘You’re gonna have to absquatulate on your own.’

I
hitched a ride on the first plane heading for Vegas, a C-17 ferrying a load of practice missiles to Nellis. And five hours later, I was in the Nellis commissary buying an ice chest and freezer packs to go with it, condensation having terminally weakened the waxed paper seals on the KFC bucket. The amputated hand was in real danger of slipping out the side, and that would be tricky to explain. With Thing newly secured in a plastic ice chest, I caught a cab out past McCarran airport to Thrifty to pick up a rental. And half an hour after that I was driving down the Strip in the last of the early evening sunshine, the Ford Focus’s AC wound to the stops yet barely able to penetrate the midsummer desert heat.

I drove nice and slow to soak up the sights. It’d been a few years since I’d visited Vegas, and while the town needed nighttime to show its true colors, there was a feeling of urgency in the air that reminded me of someone drowning. Maybe the global downturn had hit the place harder than anyone liked to admit. The guys on the sidewalk handing out calling cards for the hookers were going at it in broad daylight, scooting from prospect to prospect like rats on a foundering ship hunting for an exit. Several glossy new buildings stood vacant, others looked a little tired – none more so than Bally’s, ‘the home of Donn Arden’s Jubilee Showgirls’, as the posters up and down the Strip called the show. Bally’s was a refurbished seventies tower which, I’d learned when I’d booked a room online, was once the MGM Grand before it caught fire. In fact, looking at it on screen, if Bally’s were a dancer, I’d be hoping her clothes would be staying on.

From what I could tell from the advertising, the Jubilee girls were old Vegas – all poise and sequins and makeup and feathers. Their antecedents would have danced for Sammy Davis Jr and Ol’ Blue Eyes. Today, however, out on the Strip, the advertising for Jubilee was engaged in a running battle with posters for joints where the girls danced in people’s laps. Without seeing what the Showgirls had to offer, I didn’t like their chances of routing the competition.

My cell rang. It was Arlen. I put him on speaker. ‘Hey, s’up?’

‘Your friend, Randy. Seems he checked out with a BCD.’

BCD – a bad conduct discharge. ‘What were the circumstances?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Cloudy. “Conduct unbecoming” is what the file says. There was a court martial. I talked to the JAG and his defense counsel. There was a suspicion he was acting as a courier service in Afghanistan – hashish.’

That didn’t sound like the Randy I knew, but then I probably didn’t know him all that well. ‘Was Anna involved?’ If Sweetwater was in trouble he’d have called her, wouldn’t he?

‘First thing I checked. Anna’s name doesn’t come up in any of the records, and JAG has no recollection that she was ever called.’

Somehow, that was important. I didn’t want Anna messed up in this in any way. ‘Were the charges proved?’ I asked.

‘The BCD was the result of a plea bargain.’

‘How’d he swing that?’

‘The evidence went missing.’

Sure it did.

‘He pleaded guilty to possession but without intent to distribute.’

I couldn’t help but smile. Randy was lucky. He could’ve done hard time.

‘Maybe it’s not relevant, but I thought you should know,’ said Arlen.

‘Thanks,’ I told him.

‘So what are you doing?’

‘Driving down the Strip, looking for my hotel.’

‘Put ten bucks in a slot for me. Oh, and I’m acting on the advice I gave you.’

‘Which was?’

‘Take a vacation. Marnie invited me over.’

‘You’re going to St Barts?’

‘Yeah . . . Look, if you’ve got any problems with that, let me know, because if you do I’ll—’

‘No problem my end,’ I said. ‘Knock yourself out, bud.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Cool. Hey, before I forget, your test result came back in.’

‘What test?’

‘Your Myers-Briggs test.’

‘Did I pass?’

‘No passes or fails, remember? You’re supposed to go through the results with a specialist, but, in short, your type indicators are ESFJ. Do you want to know what that means?’

‘That I’m good with the ladies?’

‘Dream on. Extroverted, sensing, feeling, judging – ESFJ. I’ll make sure the initials go on the bottom of your emails.’

‘Tell me you don’t actually believe in this shit?’ I asked him.

‘Depends who’s asking. If it’s Wynngate, it’s genius.’

‘Who am I supposed to get on with best?’

‘Other ESFJs.’

‘And who should I avoid?’

‘ENTPs.’

‘Aren’t you one of those?’

‘Yep.’

‘I rest my case.’ The driveway entrance to Bally’s was coming up. ‘Hey, gotta go. When you come up for air in St Barts, gimme a call.’

‘Roger that.’

I hit the end button, went up the ramp and found a space in the parking lot. Eventually, I made my way to reception and stood in line behind buffalo-sized people moseying toward the counter. The air hummed with the sound of musical bells and magical twinkles rising from the slots down in the pit.

After checking in, I took the ice chest and carry-on, wheeled over to the counter selling seats to the evening’s Showgirls performance, and bought my seat from an uninterested black guy who conducted the transaction without eye contact. I still had plenty of time to freshen up before the show so I took myself up to my room out on the end of a dark two-hundred-yard-long tunnel on the twentieth floor. Opening the drapes I discovered that I had an aerial view of ‘Paris’, its pool occupying the area around the base of the Eiffel Tower. The place was packed, the countless lounge chairs still occupied, the desert heat ignoring the fact that the sun was below the horizon. Waitresses in bikinis worked the couches, shuttling drinks and snacks. Ah, Vegas . . .

I took a shower and dressed conservative – jeans, desert boots and a navy shirt. If I hurried, I still had time before the show to indulge in Vegas’s other main attraction: the buffet, the place where the buffaloes roam. I was on vacation after all, and seriously underweight compared to the rest of the herd. When I couldn’t possibly fit in another complete four-course meal, I lumbered over to the Jubilee theater at Bally’s.

When I arrived, the tiered theater, which probably sat around seven hundred, was close to full. Frankly, I was surprised. Maybe old-style Vegas was the new black. I found my seat, close to the front and in the center, as the lights went down and the music welled up. The curtain opened on a guy in a tuxedo singing a song about ‘hundreds of girls’, who then began to appear wearing almost nothing, and all of it sparkling. I wondered which one was Alabama. Pretty much all I knew about her was that she danced topless, narrowing it down to about half the field. The show rolled on into a Samson and Delilah number, about a guy whose girlfriend cuts his hair off, which I just knew was a euphemism for his balls, followed by a number where the girls sank the
Titanic
under several tons of rhinestones. The finale saw the cast all gliding down a giant glittering staircase balancing ornaments the size of Chewbacca on their heads. I liked the costumes and I liked the breasts even better, especially when they were coming down those steps. There was a feverish round of applause, which died out pretty quick.

The theater evacuated fast, the patrons eager to leave and get back to the slots. I was almost last out, and loitered around the side entrance. Ten minutes later, a tall woman in gray sweatpants and an old sweat top, wearing outrageously heavy makeup and her hair pulled back in a net, appeared outside the entrance and scanned the area like she was expecting to see someone. Me, I figured. I walked over and introduced myself.

‘Alabama Thornton?’ I said. ‘Vin Cooper.’

‘Vin, hi. So great to meet you. You got here fast.’ She was all smiles and gave me a long slender hand to shake. I must have been frowning at her because she suddenly became self-conscious. ‘Oh, excuse the makeup. It looks weird off stage, I know.’

I gave a shrug like it was no big deal, but she was right. Her false eyelashes were long enough to sweep the floor, and a thick black line was drawn under each eye as well as above those lashes. The rouge on her cheeks was heavy, as was the fire engine–red lipstick she wore. On stage and under bright lights the effect was glamorous. Up close, she looked like Chucky.

‘I don’t want to talk here,’ she said. ‘You wanna come backstage?’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘We’re not supposed to bring people back. If anyone asks, you’re with management. Act like you own the place.’

‘I can give you incompetent arrogance. That do?’

‘Perfect.’

I
followed Alabama to an unmarked brown steel door with a combination lock. She tapped in the code, leaned into it with her shoulder, and we entered a brightly lit corridor that sloped down toward a flight of stairs and another door with
NO ENTRY
painted on it. Alabama ignored the instruction and pushed through. Another corridor opened out at right angles on either side behind it. This one was busy with men and women going back and forth, some chatting and joking, others deep in conversation or carrying costumes or tools, and others wearing makeup that singled them out as dancers. No one asked who I was or what I was doing there. Seal’s version of ‘My Vision’ came from a room with a sign over the door that read
DRESSING ROOM I
. We headed for it. The music underscored the sound of women laughing and chatting within.

‘Everyone decent?’ Alabama called out before entering.

‘Hang on,’ came the reply.

‘This is the topless talls’ dressing room,’ said Alabama, pausing at the doorway. I must have given her a look, because she translated, ‘The girls are tall, and they’re topless.’

‘Right,’ I said. Another tough day at the office for Special Agent Cooper.

‘Okay . . .’ a woman called from inside.

Alabama motioned for me to follow her in. The room was filled with sequined costumes and feather boas and fishnet stockings and makeup and hatter’s heads topped with headpieces and plenty of other items of clothing that I couldn’t identify, most of it covered in colored cut glass and sequins. A number of mirrors rimmed with warm yellow lights were set up round the walls. Most of the mirrors were adorned with photos of boyfriends or husbands, I supposed – a couple had snaps of young children – as well as news clippings and show reviews. There were books and magazines and iPods and hair dryers and portable fans and various items of makeup at each station, and the air smelled vaguely of warm soap. Around half the mirrors had their lights turned off, which suggested that the women who sat at them had already gone home. There were still plenty of showgirls in the room though, sitting at their stations taking off makeup or organizing their lives into overnight bags. Everyone was chatting over each other. One or two women smiled at me, but mostly I was ignored. The women who were standing were indeed very tall but, disappointingly, not a single one was topless.

Alabama went to a mirror at the end of one wall. Her station was no different from any of the others. A photo of a Siamese cat was tucked into the frame around her mirror and below it were two pictures of a guy I recognized. Randy. In one he was dressed in a flight suit, standing on the flight line, a C-17 behind him. In the other he and Alabama were cheek-to-cheek, Randy’s arm extended in front of them – one of those photos couples take when there’s no one else around to get the shot. In the background was the Statue of Liberty.

‘Nice-looking cat,’ I said.

‘That’s Fluffy. She’s our baby.’

Fluffy?

‘Was your obstetrician surprised?’ Even though you know it’s the wrong time and place, some questions just have to be asked.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I know Randy. Met him once,’ I said, getting things back on track.
I reached for the photo. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Please, go right ahead.’

I took the photo of Randy and the C-17 off the mirror for closer inspection. I’d seen thousands of photos like this over the years – guys with their planes. This one was taken in Afghanistan – Bagram, perhaps. It might even have been the plane I hitched a ride in.

‘So, you met Randy . . . ?’

‘In Afghanistan, before he came to Nellis. He’s one of the good guys.’

Hope lit up her face. ‘I’m sure he’s okay. I’d know if he was in trouble. I’d feel it.’

I suspected that, even though she knew the hand wasn’t her boyfriend’s, the facts that it was wearing his ring and accompanied by a ransom note were more reliable indicators on the trouble scale. And they were saying that, no matter what her feelings told her, the shit was up to Randy’s nostrils.

‘Hey, I know who you are now,’ said Alabama, studying my face. ‘You were in the Congo, right? There was a court case and you got off.
I don’t watch the news – too depressing – but I sometimes read
People
. A couple of the girls buy it. That was you, wasn’t it?’

‘No,’ I said. I’d been trying hard to forget the place.

‘Yes it was,’ she insisted. ‘I was only reading about it the other day. Small world, isn’t it? I mean, Marnie told me that you and Anna were . . .’ Alabama didn’t finish the sentence. She cleared her throat and began again. ‘Even though I never met her, I was sad when I heard about, you know, what happened . . . Randy talked about Anna – they were good friends. We exchanged Christmas cards.’

Really? First I knew about that. ‘Do you know how Randy and Anna met?’ I asked.

Maybe it was the way I put the question, or maybe it was the way a woman’s mind worked, because the answer began with a reassurance. ‘Hey, don’t worry. They weren’t, like,
lovers
or anything. Randy did a tour at Ramstein. His car was stolen, used in a hit and run. There was a lot of crap with the local authorities. Anna did all the liaison work with the police, and they became friends. Randy told me about it when I found a Christmas card she’d sent him, a photo of her wearing reindeer antlers. She was pretty and I – well, I guess I pulled the jealous female routine.’ I remembered the Anna-wearing-reindeer-antlers card. I received the same one. ‘Randy set me straight, gave me the background and told me if he was ever in trouble with the law, Anna Masters would be the first person he’d turn to.’

I took another look at Randy’s photo. Yeah, small world.

‘Thanks for stepping in, Vin – you didn’t have to.’

‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

‘I guess not.’ She managed a wan smile. ‘You mind if I take my face off while we talk?’

I motioned at her to go right ahead and sat at the next mirror over while Alabama peeled those brooms off her eyelids. She put them in a box with a clear top, then snatched some wipes from out of a plastic container and went to work on her face.

‘Where’s the . . . you know . . . ?’ she asked.

‘You mean, Thing?’

It took a few seconds. ‘Oh,
Thing
– as in the Addams Family? Yeah, I guess that’s funny.’ She wasn’t laughing.

‘I brought it back with me. You need to turn it over to Vegas PD.’

She stopped wiping her cheeks. Her forehead was lined with concern. ‘But the note says . . .’

‘I know what it says, but that’s what you have to do. I’ll be there with you to make the report – I’ve got a contact. We want their forensics people to have a good look at it.’

‘That makes me nervous.’

‘We’ve got no choice, and there’s a chance the FBI will become involved.’

‘The FBI? Why?’

‘They get brought in if a crime has been committed that crosses state lines. It’s nothing to worry about. It’s just the way the turf is divided up.’ One of those tough questions I had to ask was up next and I wondered how she was going to take it. ‘Was Randy involved in anything illegal that you know of?’

Alabama shook her head and turned to face me. ‘No. No way. Randy’s a straight shooter.’

As reactions went, it was a good one. I believed that she believed her lover was squeaky clean, but that didn’t mean he was. Show me a relationship with no secrets and I’ll show you a unicorn. ‘And the ring. You’re sure it’s his?’ I asked.

‘Well, his name’s engraved inside the band, along with “Class of ’96”.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s exactly as I remember it . . .’

‘You checked it?’

Her nose wrinkled. ‘I picked at it with a chopstick. I . . . I had to.’

I was vaguely surprised that she’d had the nerve. Maybe Alabama was tougher than she looked.

The expression on her face morphed into one of hope, the possibility that it might have been a forgery evidently not having occurred to her before. ‘You think the ring could be a fake?’ she asked.

‘Don’t know, and that’s why we need a competent forensics report – if only to eliminate angles.’ Thing had been bouncing around for over four days now, mostly in his chicken bucket. The police weren’t going to be overjoyed about that – the time factor. Trails would have gone cold.

‘If it’s not genuine then that might explain something,’ she said, wiping her nose and leaning towards the mirror for a closer inspection.

‘What’s that?’

‘Randy works for an aircraft sales company. At this moment, he’s supposed to be delivering a plane to Australia.’

‘Really? You know that for sure?’ The Randy I knew was a good pilot, but not good enough to be in two places at once.

‘I guess . . . That’s what he told me he was doing.’

The makeup on her face was now transferred to a pile of dirty brown and black wipes on the bench in front of her. Alabama removed the hairnet and shook out her hair, running her long fingers through it. Thick and auburn, it fell down around her shoulders with a gentle wave. At least Randy was lucky in love – Alabama was a knockout punch, her eyes a soft blue-gray, cheekbones high, heart-shaped lips and smooth clear skin that glowed with all the rubbing.

‘Has he called since he left?’ I asked her.

‘From LA – that’s where he said he was. He told me he was about to depart for Hawaii. That was over a week ago. Hasn’t called since, which is unusual. He’s normally pretty good about that – staying in touch. I’ve left him a dozen messages . . .’ Those lines returned to her forehead and her eyes moistened.

‘What’s the name of the company he works for?’

Alabama reached into a bag hooked over the side of her chair and produced a purse from which she pulled a deck of business cards. ‘Nevada Aircraft Brokers,’ she said, shuffling through them. She took a card, eventually, and held it toward me between long index and middle fingers. ‘The guy to speak to is Ty Morrow. He’s the boss.’

I repeated the name to myself, to plant it in my memory, and took the card. ‘You still got the packaging the hand arrived in?’ I asked her.

‘Yes, I kept it in case it was important.’

‘Mind if I take a look?’

She bent down, glanced under the bench, then reached out with her foot and scooped back a FedEx-branded box. She handed it to me and I checked it over, moving it around with a makeup pencil. There was nothing to see with the naked eye, other than the consignment note taped to it. The sender was an illegible scribble with an address in Rio de Janeiro. I wrote down what I could make out. The FBI was firming as a certainty. ‘Vegas PD will want this packaging, too,’ I said.

‘Okay.’

‘You got something I can put it in?’

She opened a drawer under the bench and pulled out a large Bally’s branded paper bag and held it open while I placed the box inside it. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘Here – at Bally’s.’

‘Can you give me a minute?’ she asked. ‘I’m just going to change.’

‘You want me to leave?’ I prepared to stand.

‘No, I’ll just go round the corner.’ She motioned at an island of shelving stuffed with feathers and sequined fabrics that ran down the center of the room and divided it in half.

I sat back down and took the opportunity to give Randy’s card the once-over. It was plain gloss white with the words
NEVADA AIRCRAFT BROKERS
in dark blue and, below them, a set of gold wings with the initials NAB in the center. Under that was Randy’s name and his title: Pilot. Also included were phone, cell and fax numbers as well as email, website and street addresses. The card was blank on the flipside. I scribbled Morrow’s name on it with the makeup pencil and pocketed it. To pass the time, I opened the Bally’s bag and had another look at the packaging, thinking about what had arrived in it. I wondered who it belonged to and whether the right hand knew what the left hand was doing – hanging out with a topless dancer in Vegas. I also wondered how it came to be wearing Randy’s academy ring (assuming it wasn’t a copy), when, according to Alabama, Randy was supposedly airborne on the other side of the world. And how did Rio de Janeiro figure in all of this?

‘Excuse me,’ said an unfamiliar voice, interrupting my thoughts.
I looked up at a milk-coffee-colored woman wearing a black G-string so skimpy it could’ve been a shoelace. She stood beside me, tall and slim and sweet smelling, her bare breasts full and firm and crowned with generous dark-chocolate nipples. Leaning over me, one of those breasts brushing my shoulder, she reached languidly for a hair dryer on the bench. My mouth went dry and I nearly choked on my tongue. Little Coop woke up and sprang out of bed, causing me to shift in my seat.

‘Thanks,’ she said, sauntering away.

Alabama reappeared from around the island, now dressed in jeans and a blue cotton top, and not nearly as happy as I was.

‘Some of us are goin’ out for a bite t’eat, ’Bama,’ said the black woman. Her weight shifted to one hip and Alabama’s hair dryer dangled by its cord from her fingers. ‘Maybe you an’ your frien’ wanna join us.’

‘We’ll call you.’ Alabama frowned at me and said, ‘Shall we go?’

‘With her?’ I gestured at the topless tall. ‘To eat?’

‘No.’ Alabama picked up her shoulder bag and the Bally’s bag with the FedEx packaging inside and headed for the door. I had no choice but to follow. I glanced back in the direction I’d seen the black woman heading. She was now sitting at a mirror and I caught her reflection smiling at me. There was all kinds of trouble in that smile.

A short walk later, Alabama and I left the theater area and entered the lobby. ‘You want to ask me about Sugar, don’t you?’ Alabama said as we joined the throng of midnight gamblers moving between Bally’s and Paris.

‘Sugar?’

‘The black woman: Sugar. Not a stage name either. It’s on her driver’s license. I’m only asking because you’re a man and therefore susceptible. Hell, even
I’m
susceptible to Sugar.’

The thought of Alabama and Sugar rolling around in a clinch was something I was prepared to consider favorably, as was my mischievous little buddy who lived in his own cloistered world down below.

‘Everyone wants to fuck Sugar. She’s usually happy to oblige. I’m pretty sure she wants to fuck you.’