A Song to Die For (45 page)

Sling nodded as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “And I thank you both for all that. It's just that I need a little cash. I didn't have time to pack when I left Austin. All I've got is the clothes on my back.”

Franco sighed. “Jesus!” He reached into his pocket for his money clip. “Here,” he said, handing his henchman a hundred. “Get out of here. Wait by the phone in your hotel room. And tell Goldie to come in.”

“Yes, sir.” Sling strutted out of the office as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Hard to find good help,” Papa said.

“No shit, Pop.” He sat back down.

Josh Gold entered the office, lumbering as he grinned. “Morning, sirs!” he sang.

“Morning, Goldie,” Papa said.

“Sit down.” Franco waited for Goldie to settle. “Everything ready?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Elaborate,” Franco ordered.

“Huh?”

“Give me the details!”

“Sure, boss. I landed two TV news crews from Vegas and one from LA. A half dozen newspaper hacks—you know, entertainment writers. And I called in the paparazzi. They're all waiting for the bus to get here. But they ain't here just for the bus or the old country guy. They want Dixie.”

“You let me worry about Dixie.”

“Yeah, sure, Franco.”

“Did you get the tree?” Papa asked.

Goldie looked at his watch. “They should be putting it on the forklift right now at the tree store.”

“What about the girls?”

Goldie grinned. “Five of the finest top-dollar hookers.” He leaned forward with a leer. “These girls are nasty. They'll do anything. And they look like showgirls! Two of 'em are twins. Blondes.”

“These girls, they know the score, right? They've got to disappear after tomorrow night, right? They know that.”

“Their flights are already booked. They're going five different ways.”

“All right, good,” Franco said. “Now, listen. This is important. If you screw this next part up,
you're
screwed.”

Goldie leaned forward in his chair, his palms on his knees. “I'm listening.”

“Once we get the Luster Burnett Band in the hotel, I don't want any calls getting through to them from the outside. Keep them busy inside the casino with booze, cards, hookers, food, whatever. I want them happy. And no calls from the outside to their hotel rooms. None. If somebody calls the hotel from the outside looking for them, have the operators tell them they're not here. No contact from the outside,
capice
?”

“I got it,” Goldie said.

“I want the theater packed tonight. Give away tickets if you have to. I want this to be the best show that band ever played. Tonight, everything goes smooth. Everyone is happy. Nobody is suspicious. Then, tomorrow night, we grab Junior.”

“I hear you loud and clear. I'm on it!”

“All right, get out of here,” Franco ordered. “The bus should be here in half an hour. I want this press conference to come off without a hitch.”

“You got it, boss.” Goldie hoisted himself up on the stuffed leather armrests and trudged out.

“Don't swear on camera!”

“No swearin'! I promise!” Goldie clicked the door closed behind him.

Franco looked at his father. “The tree store?”

“Goldie has a limited vocabulary.”

He noted a faint look of concern on Papa's face.

“What is it, Pop?”

“You're sure about all this? Why don't you just off Junior and be done with it?”

“Because there's too much money to be made from this. When this weekend is done, Junior will be dead and our worries over whatever he saw on that boat will be over. But we'll also have a piece of Dixie, and a piece of the old guy, Luster.”

“How do you plan to do all that?”

“Luster likes to gamble. My dealers will see that he wins big for a day, then loses everything. We still own his markers. He'll have to sign over his royalties to pay off. Plus, I'm going to record his shows both nights. Dixie's, too. The bootleg money overseas is huge.”

“And a legit piece of Dixie? How are you gonna get that?”

“Hey, I already got a piece of Dixie, Pop.” He grinned.

“Yeah?” Papa's eyes lit up. “How was that?”

Franco shrugged. “Disappointing.”

“Too bad. Anyway, you know what I meant. A piece of the action.”

“She's a cokehead. By tomorrow she'll be so wasted she'll sign anything I put in front of her.”

Papa grimaced. “It's complicated.”

“I can handle it, Pop. Hey, didn't you always tell me that the mark of a real pro was in his ability to turn a negative situation into a positive? That's what I'm doing! Christ, don't worry!”

“All right, all right…” He reached for his cigarettes on the desk.

“Pop, are you gonna smoke yourself to death?”

“I'm down to a pack a day. Don't bust my balls!”

 

48

CHAPTER

Creed glanced in the rearview mirror and smirked at the band members lined up along the bus windows, ogling the fabled city of Las Vegas through the glass.

“Look!” Metro sang. “There's a pirate ship!”

“Complete with grog and wenches, no doubt,” Trusty Joe added.

“Grog.” Tump echoed in a privateer's voice. “Wenches.
Argh
.”

“Wow,” Kathy said, riding in the chair nearest the driver's seat as they passed a casino that looked like an Egyptian pyramid, then another that looked like a medieval castle. “Wow … Wow…”

“Save a few wows for The Castilian,” Creed recommended.

He had played Vegas once before, touring with Dixie Creed. They had filled a smaller casino downtown, and had put on a pretty good show. After the gig, Dixie had dragged him down to The Strip, to see The Castilian, as it was the largest casino in town, with the biggest theater and the hottest stars. From that visit to Sin City, Creed remembered the location of The Castilian, and was able to drive right to it.

He motored up The Strip and turned into the main entrance of The Castilian. A horse and mounted horseman greeted them with a wave, the rider and horse both bedecked in something that passed for authentic Spanish accoutrement. The facade of The Castilian itself was a bad copy of The Alhambra—the famous Moorish fort in Granada, Spain. Flanking the driveway on both sides was a replica of a Spanish olive grove, but Creed knew for a fact that the trees were made of aluminum and plastic, as real olive trees couldn't survive Nevada winters.

“Wow,” Kathy said, having saved one. “Pull up to the front, and I'll go in to get the rooms.”

“What the hell?” Creed muttered, as he coasted up to the lobby entrance. “Hey, Luster! There's a TV crew out there!”

“Oh, cool!” Kathy blurted. “Free publicity!”

“Oh, no!” Lindsay complained, reaching for her mirror and makeup bag.

Creed soon realized that there was more than one TV crew outside, and they were rushing the bus. This was an unexpected welcome. He killed the motor and followed Kathy out through the bus door, anxious to stretch his limbs after the long drive, even if he had to endure a bunch of reporters.

“Where's Luster?” asked some hair-sprayed talking head with a microphone.

Creed jutted his thumb toward the bus. He turned to see Metro, Tump, and Trusty filing from the Silver Eagle, all of them a bit overwhelmed by the press attention. Finally Luster appeared on the steps where he stood, flashbulbs popping all around him, reporters begging for interviews.

A burly, middle-aged man in a designer leisure suit came shoving his way toward the bus. About the time Luster stepped down to the concrete, the man threw an arm around Luster's shoulder.

“Luster, you old gunslinger!”

“Goldie? Josh Gold? You old so-and-so!” The two of them traded false punches, instinctively hamming it up for the cameras. “Last time I saw you, you were bleeding in the emergency room in Fort Worth.”

“No thanks to you. I still got a scar on my cheek, and I ain't talkin' about the one I press against my girl when I'm dancing!”

Bemused, Creed shook his head. “Let's go get the rooms,” he suggested to Kathy. “I'd like to lay down on a bunk that ain't movin'.”

She agreed and they entered the casino, the smoky wave of air-conditioning hitting Creed in the face as he passed through the automatic door. As Kathy stood in a short line at the reception desk, he looked around at the casino, listened to the endless chiming of bells and rolling slot machine wheels, watched the sad people with cigarettes hanging from their lips, each with a drink in one hand and a handle in the other.

The lobby entrance itself was actually pretty impressive. It was modeled after the gardens of The Alhambra, complete with hanging plants and trickling water sluices running every which way. Creed wondered what it would be like to go to Spain and see the real Alhambra someday. He wondered if this cheesy Vegas casino lobby even did the real thing justice. He suspected not.

“They actually had all our rooms ready. One for each member of the band. And the bell boys are going to bring all our things up.”

“We all get our own rooms?”

“Yeah, and they're all suites.”

“Suites? Sweet!”

She gave him one of the room keys, and they walked back outside to round up the band members. Luster had moved into the shade of the porte cochere away from the bus door. Creed saw Lindsay make her grand exit from the bus, wearing fresh makeup and a change of clothes. She seemed disappointed that no one noticed her. She got off the bus and trudged over to join Trusty, Metro, and Tump, who were standing just beyond the media frenzy, smoking cigarettes, and watching Luster entertain reporters with his country charisma.

Kathy passed out the keys. “We all get our own rooms!” she announced, triumphantly.

“I have to sleep alone?” Trusty complained.

“It's Vegas,” Tump said. “I'm sure you can hire somebody to sleep with you.”

Trusty took the key handed to him. “You sure this is my room?”

“It doesn't matter. They're all the same.”

“But it's seven thirty-three,” Trusty said.

“So?”

“The numbers add up to thirteen.”

“I'll trade with you, Slick,” Tump said. “Thirteen's my lucky number.”

“I don't know about this gig,” Trusty said.

Oh, no,
Creed thought. The old Trusty Joe was back, obsessing over some invented worry.

“What do you mean?” Kathy snipped. “This is a great gig. Look at the TV cameras, the luxury rooms.”

“Yeah, but how did we get this gig? Does anybody know how we got this gig?”

“Luster got us this gig,” Creed said.

“But how?”

“By losing at poker.”

“I know who
really
got us this gig,” Lindsay said. “And here she comes.”

Lindsay's perfectly manicured index finger gracefully pointed a long scarlet-painted nail at the automatic sliding doors as they parted like stage curtains to reveal Dixie Houston stumbling and giggling over the threshold on the arm of some well-dressed guy built like a bodyguard.

“Oh, my God,” Kathy groaned. “I can see her pupils from here.”

“Uh-huh,” Lindsay agreed. “They're like black holes in outer space.”

“
Mamacita,
she looks good to me,” Metro said. “Oh, no offense, Creed.”

Creed ignored the kid. “I've seen her high, but this is a new low in highs.” He shifted his eyes to the guy escorting her toward the TV cameras. Who was that guy? He looked familiar. He nudged Kathy with an elbow. “Do you recognize that guy she's with?”

She shook her head. “One of her bodyguards, I guess.”

“A bodyguard in a thousand-dollar suit? I know that guy from somewhere.” He raced through the memories in his brain, but there were so many shows, so many crowds, so many faces …

“This is no time to get jealous,” Kathy scolded.

“It's not that. I just know that guy from somewhere.”

Dixie stopped and let out a loud, “Hi, y'all!” in her East Texas twang. The cameras shifted from Luster and Goldie to her and the silk sleeve she was clutching.

“Luster, come over here with me and Franco,” Dixie slurred. “I want to show you off.”

“Franco?” Creed muttered.

Lindsay stood on her tiptoes to get closer to Creed's ear. “That's Franco Martini, the mob hit man. His daddy owns half of Vegas.”

“Oh, great,” Trusty said. “I'm going to my room.”

“How do you know these things?” Creed asked Lindsay.

“I saw him on the news at Bud's Place. His cousin—that mob girl—was killed on Lake L.B.J.”

Creed nodded, the memory of the news story coming back to him. “He doesn't look too tore up about it right now.”

“Come on, kid,” Tump said to Metro. “Let's go to the bar.”

“Sound check at six!” Kathy warned.

“Perfect,” Tump replied. “We got three hours to get drunk, and three hours to sober up.”

“I'm coming, too,” Lindsay said. “I didn't get all dressed up for nothing. I see a Long Island Iced Tea in my future.”

As the band filed into the casino, Creed shifted his attention back toward the impromptu press conference. Dixie had introduced Franco Martini as the new primary stockholder in Cornerstone Records, but one of the local news reporters knew Franco's mob rep too well to pass up this opportunity.

“Mr. Martini, with condolences for the death of your cousin, Rosabella, have there been any new developments in the investigation of her murder in Texas?”

Franco frowned and looked at the pavement for a moment. “My cousin was killed by a jealous lover who committed suicide. End of story. That's not why I'm here today.”

“But Franco, I understand from F.B.I. sources that a sunken boat was found in that lake in Texas, with a bullet hole in the windshield, and the boat has no known connection to the late Lieutenant Jake Harbaugh, the suspected murderer.”