By Leah Bailly
There were so many ways this could end.
Clamped into cuffs on the side of a forsaken highway, the officer’s knee in his back, his cheek ground into the searing asphalt, wrists wrenched behind him — Brady listed the options, reeling them off one by one:
The electric chair. Lethal injection. Thirty squandered years in a cell in Ely, some bruiser’s cocoa-puff or a guard’s little pet. After all, a lady cop was found dead in his trunk, and the officers shouting his name and details into their radios didn’t seem to think it was coincidental, accidental, unfair.
“Suspect has been detained! I repeat! We have the suspect here!”
A helicopter could swoop down from the sky, a spray of bullets miraculously murdering each of the officers, reducing the three squad cars to flat tires and pierced shells, their radios silenced, the handcuffs knocked from Brady’s wrists.
“White, middle-aged male. I repeat, requesting back-up!”
Maybe Lil could suddenly come alive! Maybe she wasn’t dead at all, just drugged into a stupor from which she could magically awaken and explain the entire thing to these six khakied officers, who’d then release Brady and allow him to walk free. Little tears leaked from Brady’s eyes.
“Maybe she’s alive –” Brady managed. But the knee dug deeper into his spine.
“Shut the fuck up, asshole.” The officer’s gun prodded the back of Brady’s neck.
More tears. More terrible options. He could be hanged. Tortured for information that he did not have. He could point the finger at Samuels, at Tommy, at anyone with any connection to this nice-looking policewoman, impossibly dead and stuffed into his trunk. He could choke himself right here on the side of the road to avoid the punishment. Brady held his breath, hoping to pass out, but failed, gasping after thirty seconds. The gun jabbed against his skull. Brady wished it would go off.
“Awaiting orders! Sir. I repeat. We have the suspect here.”
He could confess even though he hasn’t done anything, never killed a man, or woman, in his entire career. It would get him off the pavement at least, get this brute’s knee off his back to let a little more air into his lungs. Or he could act like a crazy person, drooling and wailing and pleading insanity. If he started early enough, maybe they would believe him.
“Sir, could you repeat the order? What the –”
Or the Christian Bikers! Jesus could look down from his little kingdom in heaven and tip off the Blue Diamond Gang and they’d all charge up on their Harleys and politely kick the shit out of these officers and they’d lift him up and onto the back of Axel’s ride and they’d charge up the highway back to Vegas. It would buy him a couple of hours, enough time to prove his innocence. Enough time to shove those $14,000 down Samuels’ throat for getting him into this mess. Maybe shove a pistol in his neck.
“You lucky little fucker! You lucky little –”
Of all the possible permutations and combinations, of the thousands of escape plans or suicide attempts or motion picture moves that could have released him from this horrible, fatal, impossible situation, the last one he expected was this:
The knee lifted off Brady’s back.
Painlessly.
Then the gun disappeared. With it, the cuffs. And with the cuffs, the officer.
With the disappearance of the officer came the sound of engines starting, of gravel crunching, and of tires squealing away. And with the disappearance of the three squad cars, the body. Brady looked up from his position, face-down on the road, and all he saw was his empty trunk. Lil’s deflated, deceased little body had disappeared. Vanished. All in a matter of seconds.
And with the disappearing squad cars, the officers, the dead body in his trunk, Brady nearly lost his hold on his consciousness. He nearly passed out, but stopped himself, forced his eyes open. Forced air into his lungs. Struggling at first, Brady made his way to his feet. In the distance he saw the disappearing squad cars, all returning south, back to Searchlight, from where they came.
He steadied himself against his tires, then shuffled to the passenger side, gulping air.
The door was flung open. He sat for a second, then remembered to look for things. His wallet: gone. His cell phone: gone. The fourteen thousand: missing. Of course.
His face aching, those few bits of gravel still lodged into the flesh of his cheek, Brady brushed his stubble with the back of his hand. They had left him like that, only the keys in his ignition. He rubbed the flesh of his wrists and still gasping, dropped his head between his knees.
A car passed. Then slowed. Then stopped.
Brady shook his head. Willing the car to keep moving, but it did not.
The car was black. A Mercedes. Brady slammed his door closed, then reached across to the driver’s-side door and yanked it too, kicking his legs over the stick shift and clumsily climbing into the driver’s seat, trying to start the car and drive somewhere, anywhere, immediately, now.
But the car blocked his path. A man in a black suit popped open his door and approached Brady, a giant magnum pointed at Brady’s face. He motioned for him to unlock the door, which he did, his vision blurring, his breath catching in his throat. And when the gun was pointed at his temple, as he lifted himself from the driver’s seat and back out onto the highway, Brady expected to die, right there, a few miles outside Searchlight, all for fourteen thousand measly dollars and a murder case gone sour.
The man in the black suit didn’t even need to swipe the magnum across Brady’s jaw. Without any effort from the suited man, Brady crumpled, a worthless heap at the man’s feet.
It felt like mid-afternoon, and Brady was lying on top of the covers on a bed in a hotel room he did not recognize. The air was cooled and smelled sort of stylish, the mixture of far-away casino, cologne and leather couch. He could make out a red-felt pool table at the far end of an adjoining room; an ensuite bathroom glimmered to his left, the lights above the vanity, dimmed.
Brady was back in Las Vegas, he was sure, because no place in Laughlin or Searchlight or Needles would have a wet bar built into the suite, or one-inch Italian tile, or vased lilies, or even real leather on the couches. Sun was coming in thick between red curtains. The phone worked.
His tongue was dry and swollen, like his mouth had been open a while, but he wouldn’t drink the water beside the bed, moving to the wet bar instead, and after several mouthfuls from the tap and a splash on his face, he heard the cue ball on the pool table make that unmistakable crack. He froze. The figure of a girl passed in front of the door.
She was in a white dress with a gold bikini strap underneath and wore her tanned legs very well under it all. They were long; Brady noticed right away, about the same moment he realized she could not have been older than twenty-one. Music tinkled in the suite’s main room, and she was humming along. There didn’t seem to be anyone else at the table with her. Brady ran his fingers through his hair, making sure he hadn’t been hit in the head; his skull was intact. He steadied his feet under him and took a few steps toward the doorway. She looked relieved.
“What the fuck.”
“Hello,” Brady said. He braced himself against the door’s frame and leaned into the room, checking the back couches, the second water bar. The flat-screen flashed from the far wall. The glass table was bare.
“I was totally scared you were, like, dead.”
Brady looked harder at the girl, and noticed that she wasn’t as young close up as she had appeared from across the room. Heavy mascara and dark eyebrows seemed to crease up her eyes. Not a natural blonde. “Nobody killed me this time. Thirsty, though.”
“They’ll be right back, they’re getting drinks.”
“Who?”
“You could use a drink, I bet.”
“Who’s coming?”
The girl coughed. “I called your cell phone twice. Do you recognize my voice?”
The music got louder. Brady scanned the countertop for anything that could have belonged to him. The girl breezed closer. She smelled like the lilies.
“Your friends have my wallet,” Brady said.
The girl reached out a hand to Brady’s forearm and he stepped back, leaving his arm under her touch. “Listen. Axel and Ilene are missing.” Brady looked at the girl again; her skin was red, tender in spots, like she had spent too much time outside in the Vegas afternoons. She brushed her hair out of her eyelashes. “I called you about it before.”
“And you are –”
“We need your help, to get Axel back. And Ilene.”
“You’re the sister.” Brady moved behind the bar and called his own phone, then let it go to voicemail. He hung up without checking his messages. Then dialed again from the second bedroom. There was no imprint on the second duvet, the bed untouched.
“They’re in shit,” the girl hollered from the other room. “The nurse said she checked out early, and Axel never called.” She pursed her lips at Brady from the doorway of the bedroom. “Now it’s just me. All … alone.”
Brady rolled his eyes and brushed the curtains aside. There was one message, from this girl, Ilene’s sister and granddaughter of the deceased. “I really gotta talk to you, Mister Brady. My name is Juliet.” She sounded like such a little kid on the phone, her voice nervous and infantile compared with the woman’s in the next room. He hung up.
Out the hotel window, the pool below swarmed with bodies. People clumped together, he could make out cabanas and long drinks and a throng of half-submerged bikinis, the pool slick with grease. He had heard about these parties: swim-up blackjack, silicone, and an excuse to spread the latest STDs. Music thumped from giant poolside speakers. He checked the hotel stationery and realized they were in the same hotel as his first meeting with Samuels, just a different suite.
He shuffled back toward the wet bar and poured himself a pint of tap water, his face sore, his neck and shoulders aching from the pistol, the monkey who wrenched his arms into cuffs. He gulped down half the glass, his patience waning. “Listen, Juliet,” he muttered. The girl’s mouth opened a little, lips glossed. Brady slammed his empty glass down on the marble. “How the fuck did I get here?”
“Wait!” The girl’s face went white. Across the room, the little green light above the doorknob clicked on. The handle moved.
Brady reached for the counter, his vision suddenly swimming.
The door swung open. “Ah! Mr. Daniel Brady.” Quinton Samuels strolled across the carpet in chinos and loafers, no socks. He was still taller than Brady, his silver hair carefully brushed back, his shirt unbuttoned around the throat. Creepy Kevin followed carrying two briefcases, allowing the door to click shut behind him. “I see you’ve awakened. That wasn’t an easy situation to get you out of, Mr. Brady. I expect you are quite grateful.”
“I … I would have been okay.” Brady’s voice felt raw.
“Please, after these events, I’m quite sure you could take a cocktail.”
Brady nearly gagged. Kevin poured a long gin and tonic for Samuels, but Brady declined. “What the hell happened out there? What happened to my friend Lillian?”
“We’ve … we’re working on that, Mr. Brady”
“But is she alive? She’s …”
“We can’t answer that yet.”
“God,” Juliet whispered, suddenly tucked behind Brady.
“I see you’ve met Colleen’s granddaughter. Now tell me, what did you come up with in Laughlin?”
“Not much.” Brady sunk to the couch. Juliet nestled in next to him. The combined smell of the girl and Samuels’ gin made Brady’s mouth water.
“You didn’t speak to anyone? You have nothing?” Samuels moved to the window to take in the scene from the pool party below. He shook his head.
Brady wiped his mouth. “A counterfeit crew whose work is leaking south. Waste of time, I think. It was like somebody wanted me out of Vegas for a minute.” Brady stood and looked at Kevin, square. “Where did they take her?”
“Who’s they, Mr. Brady?” Samuels called from the window.
“You tell me.”
Samuels sighed and took a long drink. “It’s a lot of money they’ve stolen from me, Mr. Brady. This so-called crew. I’m afraid our sweet, deceased Colleen was in on their little scam, the jackpots, using fake bills. I’m still in need of a good private detective.”
“What the hell.”
“It was my capital involved, Mr. Brady. You understand. Losing Colleen was like losing a considerable investment. With her death, the funds have disappeared.”
“Look. This’s got nothing to do with me.” Brady pushed himself toward the door.
“Wait. You need these.” Samuels motioned to Kevin, who passed Brady a metal dish holding his phone, wallet, and keys. The wallet had all of his cards, no cash. “I’ll double the initial payment when you find Ilene and Axel.” Samuels handed Brady another small envelope.
“What about Lil?”
“We’ll follow up on that.”
“What about the girl?”
Juliet stood. “I’m right here. Don’t speak to me like I’m not right –”
“You’re taking her with you.” Brady glanced at Juliet, her pouting mouth, her blank eyes. “You’ll need a driver.”
“What, you don’t trust me?” The girl winked at Brady, then drifted toward the door, and just as she did, the green light clicked on again, and the handle turned. Brady was shoving his wallet and phone into his pocket when two men entered the room, dressed in identical dark suits, bulging at the hip. The music paused. Brady nearly choked. The first man he recognized from the highway rescue, the man who must have collected him off the smoldering asphalt and escorted him back to Vegas. But the second man was the kicker. Tommy. The faux bartender. They locked eyes as Brady brushed past him, following the girl out into the shadowy hall.
The cherry convertible swept across the freeway, so fast that Brady had to brace himself against the dash. Between his feet, Juliet’s gold lamé purse started to jingle, and she reached for it, ignoring the road.
“Jesus!” Brady shouted, and she returned her gaze to the highway. It was sunset against the backside of the Strip, with all that perfect sun and the wind rushing around them, the FM on loud.
“I love this town!” Juliet shouted into the turquoise sky. She clenched her pink fingernails against the wheel and tossed her head back. “Love! Love!”
“Watch it,” Brady muttered. But she was right about one thing. It was Sin City’s magic hour, the billboard light spilling onto the traffic, everything painted gold by the sunset, the palm trees along the exit ramp, shivering.
“We’ll go to our place, me and Ilene’s. You’ll get clues!” Juliet checked her pink mouth in the visor mirror as Brady sunk lower into the leather seat.
“This is bullshit.”
“What?” she yelled.
“I got Lil into this. And Axel, I mean, it was me who went to him for the names. And your grandma is dead and your sister is missing.” He looked at Juliet, but her mouth was moving to the words of the pop song, ignoring him. “We gotta call the police station,” he said louder.
“What?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Brady nearly shouted it in her face. Juliet turned the FM down and glared at the exit signs, annoyed. Brady wouldn’t relent. “You’re happy now? You act like this is good news, your sister missing.”
“Shut up.” Juliet set her jaw.
“What are you getting out of all this, huh? What is he paying you?”
Juliet looked over at him, then lifted her sunglasses to the crown of her head. “I told you to shut up,” she hissed. The car drifted nearly off the freeway and somebody honked from the opposite lane.
“So your sister’s out of the picture and you get work.”
Juliet snapped. “Fuck you.”
She was probably a pro, Brady thought, and any work was better than that. The Skin City scene was grotesque, raunchy. Brady pictured pretty Juliet, or Ilene, sprawled across a blackjack table in a teddy and thong and Gucci perfume and nothing else. Under her seething body, there would be chips, hundreds of them, each worth more than her weekly check. He pictured a guy like Samuels seated at the table, raising the champagne flute to her mouth and making her sip. The dealer laying cards across her torso, the teddy raised — one face down, one face up — Samuels’ brushing the cards across her breasts. Hit me, he’d whisper. Hit me again.
Brady shuddered.
The car veered right onto the exit ramp, through the Spaghetti Bowl, and deep into East Charleston. Boulder Highway. Sketchville. Land of kitchenettes and weekly rentals and massage parlors with cheap boob-job quacks in the back. The sun was down completely by the time Juliet pulled up to a three-story motel, iron balcony and half-flashing sign. A heavy-gutted thug in a wife-beater and sweatpants eyed the convertible from the office doorway as they stepped out onto the street, the pavement still warm.
“Lookie lookie,” he called down to Juliet, who ignored him.
“We left Henderson last year. Foreclosed on our condo.” Juliet tried to grin. “But this was closer to work anyways.” Outside of apartment number 211, she pulled a key from her gold purse, and then shoved the door with her hip before she pushed through. “Home sweet home!” she trilled.
The fluorescent overhead buzzed on. The room was disgusting. Inside-out underwear and dresses littered the threadbare carpet; half-drunk Coronas and bottles of cheap perfume lined the window sill. The smell of pot overwhelmed him, stale pot, mixed with stale beer and stale bodies. There was a microwave and a hotplate at the far end of the room, past the two double beds, beside a sink overflowing with crusted take-out containers and crumpled-up fast food bags. There was a purse there too, a pink one, half-open. Brady picked his way across the room toward it, kicking the dresses aside. Then he stopped. Heard something. A bump from the bathroom. Juliet breathed in.
“Shit.”
The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar, and through the crack Brady could make out a male figure, medium build, his face hiding behind the open medicine cabinet. Brady narrowed his eyes and reached for an emptied beer bottle. He looked at Juliet for a nod, a knowing look, but she was back to her blank, pale self. Brady’s grip tightened around the bottle. His neck, throbbing.
“What the fuck!” Brady smashed the butt of the bottle against the doorframe and the man jumped. Screamed. Threw his hands up, spewing pills over the bathroom floor. He was a lanky Asian male, early thirties, with impeccable clothing, Brady noticed right away. He lowered his hands.
“Ohhh, shit!” the man groaned at Brady. “What are you doing here?”
Brady dropped the bottle slightly and the man shoved past Brady out of the bathroom toward Juliet.
“We’re looking for clues.” Juliet looked at him, lip quivering.
“Oh for Christ’s sake, girl. Does Samuels know you’re here?” The man spoke with a surprising Oklahoma City drawl and wide gestures. He reached for Juliet’s purse but she jerked it away.
“He sent me here! What are you doing here?” Juliet yelped.
“Who is this?” Brady stepped toward them, the bottle limp in his hand.
“Oh, this is rich.” The man closed his eyes and reached past Juliet for a pack of Marlboros half-open on the sill. He lit one with a deft flick of a Zippo, blowing smoke in Juliet’s face. “You didn’t see that I just called you?”
“Who the fuck is this?” Brady shouted. His hand was aching from the blow to the bottle. His face burned. “Answer me!” Brady hissed. But both of them just looked stunned.
So he lost it. Enough with this lying girl, the millionaire with his easy money. His missing friends. Brady lunged for Juliet and gripped her around the throat, held the bottle to her neck. The girl whimpered. The room seemed to shrink around him. Brady looked straight at the man, edging the glass toward her skin, and wheezed, “You got five seconds to tell me who you are.”
The man shrugged and pursed his mouth. His shoulders bristled. He took a drag from his Marlboro, and breathed it out his nose. “You want to know? Fine. I’m the Creamer.”
“Who?”
The girl moaned.
“Yeah. Mr. Creamer. I’m the lawyer.”
“The what?” Brady tightened his grip around the girl’s neck, whose mouth was suddenly agape, eyes wide.
“The lawyer,” Creamer smirked. “The one who’s pulling this whole goddamned thing together.” The man flicked his ash onto the carpet between his feet, dusting a feather boa, then kicked it lightly with the toe of his shoe. Outside, an engine backfired, and somebody hollered. The girl whined and the Creamer sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Let her go. You happy now? I told you I’m the lawyer. I’m in charge.”
“In charge of what.”
“Don’t!” Juliet screamed and Brady pressed the glass to her skin. It felt good. He dug a little deeper.
“The set-up!” the Creamer shouted. “The set-up. Fuck! Let her fucking go!”
Disgusted, Brady shoved Juliet away from him, and she stumbled toward the Creamer’s arms. He kissed her lightly on the forehead as she crumpled onto the bed. Brady dropped the broken bottle onto a little pile of pantyhose and slumped down beside it.
“A set-up.” Brady mumbled.
“You shouldn’t have told him.” Juliet looked at Brady for the first time with a flicker of distain, almost pity in her green eyes. Not the best actress, but better looking now that she had melted into her real self. Brady reached for his phone, but didn’t have anyone to call. Juliet started to sniffle. “‘Cause now we got real fucking problems.”
The Creamer flicked his ash at Brady’s feet. The dull evening heat pushed in through the open door, mingling with the rotten smell of garbage, melted tar, far-away grease from some dingy East Charleston diner.
“Jesus,” Brady mumbled, and motioned to the Creamer for a cigarette.
“Nobody was supposed to die,” Juliet muffled into the Creamer’s shoulder, and the Creamer shrugged and pulled her closer.
“Lillian,” Brady said. Juliet nodded and wailed a little, and Brady pointed a finger at the Creamer. “You and Samuels and Tommy,” Brady raised his eyebrows, then saw his shaky hand between them. His voice dropped. “You were after Lil from the beginning.”
Juliet let out a little sob.
Creamer stroked Juliet’s hair. “Baby, you just calm down. Brady here works for us too. We’re like a big family.” Juliet looked up at the Creamer with her pretty green eyes, that mascara swiped all down her cheeks. “And if Brady here wants to know who killed his girlfriend, he’s gonna stick around.”
Brady shuddered again, almost cold. The Creamer leaned toward Brady and clicked open the lighter, and even though he didn’t want it, Brady took in a gulp of smoke. Out on the highway, a siren tore through the hot air and the lights from downtown twinkled through the curtains.
Brady picked up a child’s doll from the sheets, then tossed it back on a pillow. “What kind of nutjob millionaire would set this all up?” he muttered. But neither one of them would answer, so Brady just stared out the smudged window over the little East Charleston diners and taco joints and slum hotels, all the way to the lights of the Strip, sparkling despite it all.
Author Bio
A playwright, fiction writer and journalist, Canadian Leah Bailly has just returned from several years abroad, including extensive sojourns in Africa and India. Her work has appeared in publications including Prism, subTerrain, Room, Forget and Parlour Magazine, and her nonfiction was recently nominated for an Alberta Literary Award for travel writing. Her play titled Some Reckless Abandon (based on early travels to Latin America) is currently on a seven-city tour across the United States and Canada. Leah is pursuing an MFA in fiction at UNLV, where she is deputy editor of the literary journal Witness. In 2010, Leah will begin a four-month writing project with Journalists for Human Rights in Sierra Leone.
