Divas Las Vegas (34 page)

"Freeze!" I shouted. "F.B.I." I pulled Detective Shelling's
badge from my padded bosom and raised it in the air. Bart,
upon hearing my declaration, did indeed freeze, especially
when he saw Justin, still in his split, with a gun pointing at
him. Though he was still scratching himself down below,
for some odd reason.

Moments later, and entirely too late if you ask me,
Caesar's security team arrived, promptly grabbed Bart, and
held him in place. He was less than happy. And once we
were no longer in mortal danger, I was able to reach down
and help my friend out of his precarious position, which
made him happy. And then we joined Chris and the rest of
the gang, who were looking on in bewilderment.

"Um, excuse me," I said to the nearest security guard, "I think if you called Detective Lombard down at the police
station, he would be more than delighted to come pick this
scumbag up." The guard got on his walkie-talkie and did
just that.

"You fucking bitches," Bart howled as he struggled
with the security guards. He was still desperately trying to
scratch himself.

"What's up with that?" I asked Justin as we moved in
closer-like dazzlingly dressed moths to a flame.

When we were within inches of our former foe, Justin
said, "Ah, must be from when I shaved him the other night.
Been there, done that, and itchy." We felt safe now that
three large guards were holding him until the real authorities arrived.

"I'll kill you bitches when I get out of this," Bart shouted
at us, even louder.

"Um, sirs, are you holding him really, really tight?"
Justin asked the guards.

They nodded that they were. That was our clue.

"One," Justin said.

"Two," I followed.

"Three," we shouted together with glee, yanking off our
headdresses. "Surprise!"

Well, that did it. It took Bart a few moments to figure it
out, but when he finally did, yikes, he went off like a rocket.
Screaming and hollering and wriggling around, in a state
of complete and utter rage, he pulled his arms and legs out
of the grip of those three men and, with an Incredible Hulk
roar, broke free and dived for his gun, which was still on the
floor where he had dropped it.

"YOU FUCKING FAGGOTS!" he shouted, pointing
his gun at us with a trembling hand. The guards moved to
grab him again, but Bart cocked the gun and threatened to
shoot unless they moved back. I held my breath as they took
several steps away.

"Now look, Bart," I began, my voice breaking in fear,
you wouldn't want to shoot an F.B.I. agent, would you?"

He thought about it and aimed his gun at Justin. Not a
good reaction. As always, my friend surprised the hell out
of me by not even flinching. He just stood there, as always,
cool, calm, and collected. (Well, and medicated. Let's not
forget that.)

"Now, now, Bart. I thought we had something special,"
he said, taunting him. I nudged Justin in the ribs so he'd
stop. It seemed a completely inappropriate comment, even
for him.

"You... you... tricked me. Fucking faggot," Bart stammered, probably trying to wipe out of his messed-up head
the thought that he'd slept with a man. He was still pointing
the gun right at Justin. I gulped at the inevitable.

"Oh, come now. Didn't you notice this?" Justin asked,
fingering his Adam's apple. A couple of the people who had
gathered to watch the spectacle started to snicker. Enraged,
Bart shouted that everyone should back up and shut up or
he'd shoot the two of us, and anyone else who pissed him
off. Well, Las Vegas isn't known for attracting the smartest
people. After all, smart people rarely gamble their money
away. So, while they did shut up, no one seemed to back up.
I, on the other hand, was ready to run for it. I mean, really,
it was better than standing there like a dead duck. Or, more
appropriately, dead peacock. Of course, even I wasn't about
to leave my partner standing there like that. Probably.

"You better put the gun down," Justin said, taking a step
closer to Bart.

"What the fu-" I started to say, but Justin waved from
behind his back that I shouldn't interfere.

"No, you better stay put," Bart responded, inching in
even closer until they were a foot apart and the gun was
right in Justin's face.

"Okay, then," Justin said, "I warned you." Then he did something that threw us all off. Way off. In the blink of an
eye, he shot his arm straight out and grabbed hold of Bart's
nuts. Naturally, Bart had two reactions to this. One, he
pulled the trigger, and two, he sank to his knees in pain.

"Bang," Justin said, adding, "Oops, did I forget to
mention that I emptied your gun the other night, right after
I shot my load all over your chest?"

The small crowd around us started to applaud, and then
the guards moved back in to take control. Moments later,
the police, led by Detective Lombard and the F.B.I.'s Detective Shelling, rushed in to gather up Bart. We stood there
and, like the pros we were, took our bows. Job well done.
Sort of. Not counting the three dead people and all.

Bart was led away, the crowd was dispersed, and Justin,
Chris, and I were left with our law enforcement friends.

"Care to explain all of this, Officer Jennings?" my old
F.B.I. friend, Randall, asked.

We looked around to see whom he was addressing. Yes,
we were stunned when Chris spoke up. "Um, this gentleman
here, er, apprehended the suspect in...in-"

"In his crotch," Justin interrupted. (Isn't he just full of
surprises?)

"Well, I'm not sure how you did it," Detective Lombard
said. "Though I'm afraid I'm gonna have to find out, eventually. But if you, um, fellows have any information on
the guy we just escorted out of here, I'm sure the City of
Las Vegas would be very happy to hear it. He's been under
surveillance for several weeks now, and we had what we
thought was enough evidence to obtain a search warrant.
Then all of this went down."

"If you'll let us get out of these costumes, I'm sure my
friend and I would be delighted to come down to the station
and help you all out," Justin suggested. I nodded, and they
agreed, leaving us alone now with Chris. And that's how
Glenda and Earl found us when they came rushing up.

"What's going on now?" Glenda asked, huffing and
puffing. "You guys look like ten pounds of potatoes in a
five-pound sack."

"Good question. Why don't we ask our friend, Officer
Jennings, over here," I said, still stunned at Chris's revelation. And a bit peeved at Glenda's reaction to our fabulous
ensembles.

"That may take a while. Why don't we go back up to
your room so you can get changed, and then I'll try to
explain," Chris said.

I, for one, was glad to oblige. My potatoes were starting
to feel rather lumpy, after all. And my Tater Tots were throbbing inside my ever-so-high heels.

Back in our chlorine-drenched room, we promptly undressed
and waited for Chris's explanation. Oh, but first we fixed
ourselves a drink. Our nerves, after that brouhaha, were
completely fried. (And since we were drinking Courvoisier,
for a change, I'd say that we were French-fried. Sorry,
enough of the potato humor.) Anyway, once we had drinks
firmly in hand and were situated comfortably on our beds,
Chris let us in on his involvement.

"Okay, I suppose you guys were wondering why I keep
showing up in all these casinos, right?" he began.

"It did cross our minds," I answered.

"Well, I've been working undercover for years all along
the Strip. The F.B.I. likes to have its eyes and ears around,
and the casinos don't mind so long as we're discreet. This
time we were investigating a ring of thieves that was operating in and around the hotels. We're involved because it
seems to be run mostly by illegal aliens, as well as aliens
with green cards. Your friend Ahmed was under the most
scrutiny."

"Ah," I broke in. "That explains why you guys were
following him and then us."

"Well, trying to following you, anyway. Ahmed turned
up missing and you guys kept appearing and disappearing.
Now that I've seen your disguises, I'm not surprised." He
giggled. My fondness for Chris was quickly returning.

"Oh, speaking of Ahmed, he's probably down at the
police station right now. But he's willing to cooperate and
he has helped us as much as he could," Justin interjected.

"Not to worry. I'm sure that'll all be worked out down
at headquarters. Besides, it appears that he's the low man on
the totem pole, anyway. It wasn't too difficult to tie in your
friend Bart to all of this. Ahmed was pretty easy to follow,
at first. And all roads were leading back to Bart. Still, with
no evidence of his connection to the ring or to any of the
robberies, there wasn't much we could do in terms of moving
in on him. And we knew, judging from his background, that
he wasn't bright enough to be the head guy. That has proven
to be tough, finding out who his boss is."

"Oh, not really. That's an easy one," I said. "Zahir is
the boss."

"Zahir, the guy he works with?" Chris asked.

"Yep. They probably do all their scheming at the disco.
So, unless you guys had that place wired, I'd say you'd never
have been able to tie them together. They seem to have little
fondness for each other and spend no time together outside
of the Aladdin."

Chris said, "Well, we tried to wire the place, but it was
too loud in there. Pretty smart move on their part."

"Oh, that was probably Zahir's idea. You were right,
Bart's a complete idiot," I said. "But he did confess to killing
those three people. The two at the Atlantis he thought were
Justin and I, and I don't know why he killed the old man at
the antique shop. Most likely, it was somehow related to my
grandma's vase. But let's not go into all that right now."

"Okay, that's fine. Why don't we go down to the police
station so I can put out an APB on Zahir, and then we can talk to Ahmed and see what he can do for us," Chris
suggested. We all agreed. I, for one, was eager to see that
asshole put behind bars.

A few hours later, here's what we found out. Well, first, police
stations have really uncomfortable seating and horrendous
overhead lighting. They desperately need a gay man's touch.
And speaking of gay men touching, Bradley and Justin were
getting quite, hmm, what's the word I'm looking for? Let's
say grabby. But that's probably not what you were interested
in, right? (Hey, you know, it's not all about you.) Okay,
anyway, when Chris finally emerged from his intensely long
interview with Ahmed, he had a lot to say.

"That was interesting," Chris began, serving us all some
rather awful but much needed coffee. "Too bad we didn't
have Ahmed several weeks ago. Three people would still
be alive now if we had, not to mention many thousands of
dollars' worth of merchandise secured."

"Wait until you see what Bart and Zahir have in their
garages," I informed him.

"Oh, don't worry. We're getting search warrants right
now, and we'll be confiscating everything we can get our
hands on. Let's just hope Zahir has been good enough
to hang around; then we might have some closure on all
this."

"Amen," we all amened.

"And how's Ahmed?" Justin asked. I think his feelings for Ahmed ran a little deeper than he was willing to
admit, especially now that he seemed to have found Bradley
again.

"A little shaken up, but he appears to be doing fine. He'll
turn state's evidence against Bart and Zahir in return for
clemency. He's pretty much guilty of just some minor thefts
anyway. The information he's supplying us right now is
significantly more valuable to us than having him in jail. And from what we can gather, he doesn't seem to be directly
involved in any of the unfortunate deaths."

"Not directly? I asked.

"Mmm, not exactly. That vase of yours sort of started
the whole thing," Chris said, sitting down with us. He
looked worn out (and awfully cute). That's when it dawned
on me that I had had sex with an F.B.I. agent. How fabulous
is that?

"Mm-my vase?" I stuttered. I made a silent vow to steer
clear of PBS from then on out.

"Yep, your vase. Seems that just before you guys stumbled
into Ahmed's life, he'd stolen some merchandise from Bart
and tried to skedaddle out of Vegas. Bart caught him and,
even though what he stole was only worth a few thousand
dollars, threatened to turn him over to his boss if Ahmed
didn't give him thirty thousand dollars. Ahmed was terrified. Though he'd never met Bart's boss before, he'd heard
rumors that the guy was a wacko."

"But he hadn't a clue that it was his own brother?"
Glenda asked from the sidelines.

"Ironic, but no, he didn't," Chris answered.

I added, "And Ahmed had little chance of coming up
with the thirty grand until-"

"Until we showed up with the story of our thirty-thousand-dollar vase," Justin finished my train of thought.

"Exactly," Chris said. "An easy and perfect little way to
solve his problem. Unfortunately, he let Bart know about
his plans to get him his money, namely your vase."

"Bart beat him to it?" I asked.

"Nope. Ahmed did indeed go to steal the vase. Unfortunately, Bart picked the same day to steal it, arriving a few
minutes after Ahmed had already left with it. Ahmed saw
Bart's car pulling up just as he was leaving. He assumed,
from what he saw on the news the next day, that Bart broke
into Mr. Hartwell's store, was interrupted by the old man, and then shot him to death. After Bart killed Mr. Hartwell,
he must've fled the scene in a panic and completely forgotten
about your vase, apparently never even noticing that it had
already been stolen."

"And the other two murders?" I asked, hesitantly.

"Unfortunately, Ahmed also told Bart about the suitcase of money you guys brought with you. Ahmed told us
that the next day, after Bart killed Mr. Hartwell, he was a
total lunatic and threatened Ahmed until he told him what
room you guys were in. Seems he wanted that money come
hell or high water. Ahmed had a feeling that Bart may have
been stealing from his boss, who we now assume is Zahir.
This would go a long way to explaining his desire to steal
the vase and then try for your suitcase. But he didn't think
that Bart was stupid enough to kill two more people, or he
would never have given him your room number."