Restless City — Chapter 6

By Constance Ford

Brady lifted his head and looked around, then flopped back down on the maroon and blue Persian rug. Even if old Helen was half-blind, she still knew how to decorate a room. He sat up and rubbed his face. The pattern of the rug was imprinted on his right cheek, as if he’d spent the night lying on a branding iron. He glanced at his watch.

“Damn,” he said. Almost noon. He’d fallen asleep eight hours earlier, the laptop still glowing in the darkness, images of Lil and Andy Sachman, Joe Don Walker and Carl Pistel swirling nightmarishly through his brain. Benny Binion, he thought, for the hundredth time. Kirk Kerkorian. Nick Nazarian. Francis Xavier O’Connor. He touched the mouse on the laptop and the list of addresses he’d been staring at the night before sprang onto the screen. He took out a piece of paper and started scribbling them down. This list he wasn’t going to lose hold of.

He gathered up the disks and stuffed them in his bag, then shut the bedroom door behind him. The apartment was empty. “Thanks, Helen!” he shouted, just in case she was around somewhere. “One more day and I’ll get your old beauty back to you. It runs great. You should enter it in a car show.” He waited a second, his hand on the doorknob. When there was no answer, he fished the keys out of his pocket, and opened the door into the blaze of Vegas heat.

* * *

“Frankie O’Connor,” he muttered. “Where the hell are you?” The list, crumpled on the seat beside him, was stained with coffee now. He’d been driving around in Summerlin and Aliante, waiting at the gates of the ritzier subdivisions until someone pulled in just ahead of him, then following quickly behind, waving to the half-asleep security guard. He’d found a dusty, rubberbanded roll of twenties under the front seat of the Cadillac, and he’d had to peel off a few at the last place, when the security guard seemed determined to wield some sweating, red-faced authority. The gate had opened quickly enough after that. But that address, like all the others, had yielded nothing except another Hispanic woman who smelled like cleaning supplies. “No es Frankie. No vive aquí,” she’d repeated several times and then shut the door firmly. As he walked away, he saw her peering out the window. When he waved, the curtain fell back into place.

He pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven on Sahara, letting the engine idle, to keep the air on, and stared at the giant American flag waving above the car dealership next door. He’d eaten nothing today, unless you counted the coffee and whiskey, and a bag of Doritos, and his stomach felt like shit. He leaned his head back against the headrest and watched a woman at the dealership wearing a tight dress and high heels arguing with a greasy-looking, heavyset man, presumably her husband. They were standing near a gleaming black Hummer, the woman gesticulating wildly, the man shaking his head. A salesman headed across the parking lot and slapped the husband on the shoulder, holding out a hand to shake, but the woman waved him away and continued yelling at her husband. Huh, thought Brady. That guy ain’t getting any tonight.
The cell phone on the seat next to him began vibrating and Brady picked it up. He didn’t recognize the number. He pressed the green button and waited. “Mr. Brady?” a female voice said, finally. “It’s Ilene.”

It was her. It had to be. He recognized her way of speaking, a distinctive tone of half-trepidation, half-flirtatiousness. And besides, he hadn’t given his number to anyone else. He paused a second more before responding, then thought, what the hell. He wasn’t having much luck and things couldn’t get much worse. “Are you calling from a pay phone?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me where you are.”

“I just wanted to ask you something.”

“So spit it out.” His stomach was rumbling. “I don’t have much time.”

“Some people I know are making a lot of money.”

He laughed. “In Vegas, really? Okay. So what else is new?”

“Don’t laugh! You don’t know what I’ve been — what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry. Tell me.”

“I want to, I just … it’s so …” She was starting to cry. “Do you have a pen?” The connection was breaking up.

He grabbed the crumpled list and a pencil. “Yes.”

“9468 High —”

“Ilene? Ilene?” Brady looked at the screen, but it was dark and the phone was silent. “Goddammit,” he said, then clutching his gut, jumped out of the car and ran for the door of the 7-Eleven.

* * *

It was 9468 High Sail Court, a huge house in the Lakes. He hoped it was, anyway. Two hours and six addresses later, Brady found himself squinting at the large arched doorway, the perfectly kept lawn that stretched out to the curb, unheard of in Vegas, except in the historic section on Alta Drive and for people who had Mafia-type incomes. No doubt there was a gazebo out back, a pool, a Jacuzzi. The nouveau riche, Brady thought. Right. Even Gatsby had an honorable intention, or a genuine one, at least. In Las Vegas, the greed seemed to feed itself, a monster chomping its mighty jaws on the residents of this hapless, hopeless city, grinding them up and spitting them back out to die in the scorching desert heat. Like Colleen Winters, poor dame. And Lil, he thought, a lump forming in his throat. He glanced up at the sun, starting its slight downward curve toward the west. People weren’t meant to live in this part of the world — the only creatures that thrived here were scorpions and lizards, and the black widows that hung from the webs on every shrub in Summerlin. Even the wild burros out in Red Rock Canyon seemed beaten down, heads hanging low, barely energetic enough to scuff a hoof in the red dust.
He swallowed, looking at the house, then closed his eyes and clasped his hands under his chin, praying to the gods of Las Vegas luck. Let Frankie O’Connor open the door.

* * *

It was another maid, though, who came when he rang the bell, a housekeeper, something like that, this one in a short black French maid outfit.  Damn, Brady thought. Even the household help is sexy in Vegas.

“Can I help you?” she asked in what sounded like an Eastern European accent. She picked at her cuticle briefly, then glanced at him. “If you’re looking for Mr. Nazarian, he isn’t home.”

Bingo! Brady’s palms started to sweat. He stuck his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual. “Actually, I was looking for a friend of mine, Frankie O’Connor. He around?” He grinned. “Nice place you got here. Are you Mrs. Nazarian?”

She smiled, showing a set of small white teeth, a slight gap between the front two. “If you were a friend of Mr. O’Connor’s, you would know the answer to that silly question, wouldn’t you.”

“Frankie’s an old friend. Haven’t seen him in a while,” Brady said, trying not to let his eyes swerve down to her ample cleavage.

“Yah, yah.” She pressed a button on the intercom. “Bruno. Come to the main entry, please.”

“No, wait,” Brady said. He shoved a hand against the door. Behind her he caught a glimpse of another woman walking down the entryway hall, this one in a black lace bra, a thong, and six-inch stripper heels. She looked familiar. Juliet?

“Bruno!” the French maid said again, impatiently this time, pressing the button repeatedly. “You have to have a pass,” she said to Brady. “So cut this bullshit. I know what you are here for, but the party doesn’t start until eight. Did you send in your picture I.D.?”

Brady pulled out his wallet, thumbing through the myriad cards he had inside. “Okay, okay. Sorry.” He was guessing wildly now, trying to figure a new angle. “He told me to say I was a friend, but it’s Quinton Samuels who sent me. To talk to Mr. O’Connor.” He held up Samuels’ card. “He asked me to check on some details for the party tonight.”

“Uh huh. Do you have any weapons?” She patted her hands over his chest and belt area, her hands stopping just short of his groin.

“No,” he said. Which, for once, was the truth. He’d accidentally left the .32 in the glove box  of Helen’s Caddy.

She pressed a manicured fingernail against his chest.  “I don’t believe a word you are saying, but you look kind of —” She leaned toward him. “Hungry. So why don’t you come in.”

He felt his breath go out all at once. “Thank you,” he said, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. He knew he sounded overly grateful, as if she’d just offered him a blow job. “Awfully hot out today,” he said, to redeem himself.

She rolled her eyes. “He’s down the hall,” she said, then led the way in.

* * *

The house was probably eight thousand square feet, he estimated, the floors slick marble tile, and Persian rugs a lot bigger than Helen’s. He rubbed his cheek, wondering if it still looked like he’d slept on the floor all night. They glided down the long hall for what seemed like forever, the French maid’s heels clicking. A tiny white dog scampered out of an adjoining hallway and the woman bent over to pick it up. She was wearing a frilly petticoat underneath her dress and not much else.

“What’s your name?” Brady said.

“Anya,” she said.

“Oh yeah?  Like Tanya? Without the T?” He laughed, trying to peer into the rooms on each side of the hall as they passed. A bathroom with a shiny whirlpool tub and thick towels, a room that looked like a sports bar, complete with a stripper pole and neon Budweiser signs, and beyond that, a black and red dungeon. A dungeon? He glanced in, trying to gather as many details as he could. Yes, metal restraints on the far wall, handcuffs dangling, a black padded table, a glass cabinet filled with cattails and flogs. A swing. Not exactly your ordinary Vegas mansion. He glanced up at the ceiling of the long hall. A video camera, its black eye pointed directly at him.

“Coming?” Anya said. She gestured into another room with mirrored walls and a fake fireplace, and Frankie O’Connor, in all his slim elegance, stood up from the couch to greet him.

* * *

Brady pushed his foot around in the thick white carpet. “This must be hard to keep clean,” he said. “Red wine or blood? Dang. You’d have to replace the whole thing.”

O’Connor smiled, thin skin stretched over his still-firm jawline, and gestured at a chair. “Have a seat. Luckily we employ a good cleaning service.” He winked at Anya.

She smiled and ducked out of the room, then poked her head back in. “Let me know if you need anything,” she said, raising her eyebrows for a moment under her thick blond bangs.

“Oh, we will,” O’Connor said, sitting back down, then turned to Brady. “Like the furniture? It’s from the old Stardust.”

Brady glanced at the couch. The upholstery looked like it had been cleaned about ten thousand times. There were elbow prints on the armrests of the leather chairs. “It’s great. Really something.”

O’Connor nodded. “This house is a marvel. The old and the new, all spun together. Past and the present. The poor and the rich.”

“Who’s poor?” Brady asked. “Looks like you’ve got everything here.” He glanced at the wet bar by the fireplace. “Women, cameras. A great view.” He gestured at the window. Outside, a truck had just pulled up and a group of Hispanic men jumped out and stood talking and gesturing at a fat palm tree growing near the side gate.

“So Samuels sent you over, eh?” O’Connor picked up a tumbler of clear liquid. “Grey Goose. Want some?”

“No thanks, stomach’s acting up,” Brady said. He tried to smile. Something about O’Connor’s cool, dry, paper-thin skin gave him the creeps. “Yeah, he —” Brady paused, then pulled a lie out of his ass. “He wants a special room. For tonight. He said some of the members of the School Board are coming, as his guests, and they don’t want any cameras. Nazarian would agree, wouldn’t he? It’s all about the money, right? And these guys can pay.”

For a millisecond O’Connor’s eyes went blank, and Brady knew he had him. Inside, he crowed. He had guessed right. “So how much is this place making these days? Couple million a month?”

O’Connor had regained his composure, began talking as though Brady were in on the whole thing. “Hell of a lot more than that. Seven and a half million. We pay the girls ten thousand each — per month — and the rest is just upkeep on the house.

We have three hundred thousand members now. Technology these days. It’s a wonder.”

Brady nodded, and O’Connor leaned forward, swirling his vodka around in his glass. “People love this stuff. This room is the only one in the house that’s not camera’d up. Members can log on to the site, watch five gorgeous girls doing it all day long, and all night. In the shower. In bed. During playtime.” He laughed. “Throw a dildo into a group of five porn stars and everybody has fun. Vegas Voyeur Club. What a great idea. Any dope with a computer can have his own personal peep show. And the parties. Come watch your favorite porn star doing a photo shoot!  Nazarian is a genius. And it’s not even illegal.” He smiled his frigid smile.

“Shit,” said Brady. “Can I come? To the party, I mean?”

“Tonight is Nazarian’s night. Naked Jake is bringing his sex toys. And Carl Pistel’s coming. He’s going to do some of the photography himself. For Nazarian, of course. He wants his own personal video, two Asian chicks getting tied up and spanked.” He laughed drily. “It’s the midnight special. Two for the price of one.”

“So what about the room? Should I tell Samuels it’s a go?”

“You’ve got the money?”

Brady cleared his throat, wondering who else was in on this scheme, or had been. Creamer? Fat Andy Sachman? Joseph Don Walker? Samuels, obviously, even though it had been just a hunch. This was way more than fake bills or fixed decks at a poker table. This was real money. Real, fat-ass stacks of bills, piling up like dirty dishes. “Definitely. It’s in the trunk, outside. I’ll go get it.”

O’Connor stood up. “I’ll go with you,” he said, smoothly. He set his vodka on the mantel and patted Brady on the shoulder. “We’ll walk through the gallery.” He padded across the room and opened a door on the other side. “Take a look, why don’t you. No charge.”

Brady peered inside. A row of portraits lined the wall of another high-ceilinged room. The lovely Anya. Juliet. Huh. That was no surprise. A bunch of other women he didn’t recognize. He scanned the pictures as they walked to the far end of the room. And Ilene. Ilene.In the two-by-three portrait, the slender woman was propped on her elbows on a fur rug, high-heeled feet crossed up over her naked ass, light red hair piled on top of her head, a few sexy strands dangling down. His eyes went back to her tits and ass. Jesus. Who would have thought she had all that going on under her faded jeans and T-shirt? Her almond-shaped eyes smiled suggestively at him.

Colleen Winters’ beautiful granddaughter. What had Colleen done, ratted on her own grandchild? Threatened her? Begged her not to do it anymore? Something had happened, and now Colleen was dead.

Guilt. It was always guilt. No wonder Ilene was looking so frail these days.

Related Posts:

• Restless City Published!
• Restless City — Chapter 4
• Restless City – Chapter 3
• Restless City – Chapter 2
• Restless City – Chapter 1

Tagged as: Constance Ford, Las Vegas Writes, Restless City, serialnovel