Temptation Town (3 page)

"How
do I get hold of these people?"

He
shrugged. "Call the number. They'll fix you up."

"No,
no. I don't want a date. I want to get to whoever runs the operation."

"Oh-h-hh,"
he said. He took another drink, then let out a light burp. "I don't know
who runs that particular one, but if it's not Sonny Beck, he'll damn sure know
who it is."

"Who's
Sonny Beck?"

"He
operates a lot of these escort services here in town. Point man for the mob.
Came here from, I think, New Orleans eight or ten years ago."

"Can
I get to him?"

"Depends
on what you mean by 'get to him'."

"I
just need to talk to him is all." I picked up my beer for another slow,
smooth sip.

"Man,
you know, I'm not his social secretary."

"I
know, I know," I said. "But where do you think I might find him? Come
on, Ronnie. It's important."

I reached
into my pocket for my money clip. I peeled off one of Lansdorf's benjamins,
handing it to him.

He stuck
it in his shirt pocket. "You might try the Golden Nugget sports book on
Sundays. I can't guarantee you'll find him there, but I've driven him there a
time or two at the beginning of my shift. He likes to bet pro football."

"How
will I know him? What's he look like?"

Ronnie
polished off the last of his beer, then crumpled the can.

"He's
crowding fifty. About five-ten with dark brown hair. Big-shouldered, husky kind
of a guy. Smokes cigars, probably Cuban."

I took
one more swallow of beer before I put the can down. It was only about half-finished.

"Thanks,
man. I've got to get going." I shook his hand.

We stood
up and walked to the door. I was careful not to step on any of his DVDs.

"Jack,"
he said with his hand on my shoulder. "Be careful. Beck's a very tough
guy. And he's got even tougher guys backing him up. You can't get out of line
with him."

"Don't
worry, Ronnie. I'll watch myself. And thanks."

≈≈≈

That night, I called the number of the escort service. I said I wanted
the girl whose picture was in the ad I saw in the magazine. By the way, what
was her name, I asked. Stormy, they said. She wasn't currently available, but
they'd be happy to send someone just like her. Someone who would take care of
me just as well. I said, no, I really wanted that cute blonde in the ad,
Stormy. They told me she was out of town for a week or so, flown to the Middle
East by some rich Arab who had to have her.

Right.
Like these rich Arabs get their girls from tawdry ads in the back pages of
alternative magazines.

On second
thought, maybe they do.

I decided
to give the whole thing a rest until Sunday.

THE
Golden Nugget
is by far the nicest of the downtown hotel/casinos. It has a luxurious feel to
it, kind of like the big Strip hotels, only on a smaller scale.

I arrived
a little after noon on Sunday and walked into the cozy, elegant lobby. A
half-dozen chandeliers, enveloped in gold vine on frosted glass, hung high over
the glossy, brass-railed room.

I
glimpsed the front desk. A family of Japanese tourists stood at the head of the
long checkout line, luggage in tow. As I passed them on the way into the
casino, my heels clicked across the marble floor. Deep inside the gambling
area, I found the sports book.

It was
smaller than most of the books out on the Strip, which tended to be cavernous
and overwhelming. This one had an intimate feel, yet
 
provided enough room for a whole lot of those
new flat-screen TVs, the kind that hang on the walls. A row of booths lined one
wall, while little cubicles took up the center of the room, each with a
television monitor for horse bettors. More TVs, including a couple of big
screens, covered the far wall.

It was
January, which meant the NFL Playoffs were under way. East Coast games started
at about ten in the morning, our time, so the place already teemed with action.
All the seats were taken, while people stood around the fringes, eyes glued to
the various televised games. Excited bettors lined up at the cage to place
every conceivable type of bet one can make on a football game. Gorgeous
cocktail waitresses hustled for big tips, delivering free drinks to thirsty
gamblers. The noisy room got noisier with each play that unfolded on the TV
screens to cheers of those with money on the line.

The
bedlam was too great for me to do any kind of walking reconnaissance of the
room looking for Beck, especially since Ronnie's description was on the vague
side. I went to one of the betting windows, where I caught the attention of
"Andrew", his name badge read. He seemed to be enjoying the hectic
scene.

"I'm
looking for Sonny Beck," I said to him over the din. "Do you know
him?"

Andrew
pointed across the room to the line of booths. "Second booth from the
left, the one with the three guys in it." he said. "Sonny's the guy
on the right."

I looked
at the TVs. Two different games. One had just gone into halftime, the other
playing out the last two minutes of the first half. I waited till that one
reached halftime, then approached Beck's party. He sat with two younger guys, big-boned
blonds, all three smoking cigars and drinking.

I approached
him from his left and tapped him once, lightly on the shoulder. Ronnie was
right. His shoulders were big. And hard.

He turned
toward me, showing a broad, rough-skinned face, with oversized features,
including a nose that looked like it had been broken a long time ago. His
neatly-combed brown hair was medium length, the color of shoe polish.

"Sonny?"
I said.

"Who
wants to know?" His voice was gravel.

"My
name's Jack Barnett. Can I speak with you a moment? In private?"

He eyed
me closely, then turned back to his friends, telling them he'd be right back.
He flicked the ash on his cigar, carefully setting it in a big glass tray as he
rose from the table. He motioned to the nearby exit from the sports book into
the casino.

Now that
I got a look at him standing, he was about my height, as Ronnie said, five-ten,
but with a much stronger build. He wore a nice chocolate brown leather jacket
over a thick, white denim shirt. He moved with surprising grace through the
dense crowd, but when we got just outside the sports book, he turned abruptly
toward me, his dark, deepset eyes drilling into mine.

"Who
are you and what do you want?"

"I'm
a private investigator from Los Angeles," I said, as I held up my wallet
ID in front of him, but not for too long. "I'm here in town looking for a
girl who works for you. Goes by the name of Stormy."

He
flinched. Just a little. Only in his eyes, almost imperceptibly, and maybe he
didn't even realize it himself. But I caught it.

"Who
the hell are you, anyway?"

"Like
I said, Sonny, I'm a private investigator. And I might add, I'm not here to
cause trouble for you or for any of your operations. I'm just looking for the
girl. That's all."

"She
don't work for me anymore. Now kiss off."

"That's
not what they told me when I dialed up the service."

"Well,
I'm tellin' you she's gone. And this better be the last I ever hear about it.
Or about you."

His
eyebrows slowly turned downward into a tight frown. His face reddened as he
started to elbow his way around me back into the sports book. I stepped into
his path.

"Sonny, none of this concerns you. So don't
be such a hardass. I just need to find the girl. Now where is she?"

Suddenly,
he turned calm. Too calm. He lowered his harsh voice to a near-whisper, but
fury exploded from his cold, dark eyes.

"Listen,
my man, if you know what's good for you, you'll forget that … little … bitch."
His thick index finger poked my chest three times in sync with those words.

He looked
like he wanted to spit in my face. Guy pokes my chest like that, I want to put
my fucking fist in
his
face, but I held back.

As he
made his way back to his table, he pulled out his cellphone, against sports
book regulations, and speed-dialed a number before disappearing into the crowd.

I
left the Golden
Nugget immediately, then headed for the freeway to the Strip. The southbound
freeway traffic out of downtown was heavy, as usual, so it took me over twenty
minutes to get to the Flamingo Road exit.

Heading
east toward the Strip on Flamingo, I turned into the north valet parking area
of Bellagio. I slipped the guy a buck, telling him to take good care of my car.

He nodded
his assurance with a smile. It might've been a cynical chuckle, maybe because I
only gave him a buck. Or maybe it was because the car was ten years old and not
worth anyone's extraordinary attention, but I preferred to believe the smile.

I'd been
to Bellagio before, but only to their poker room. I'd never made it as far as
the lobby, which sat clear on the other side of the building from the north
valet entrance.

The lobby
was massive, big enough to hold a Saturday night dance. A great expanse of
carpet covered the center of the mosaic-patterned marble floor. Behind the long
front desk were pillared archways, giving way to an open botanical
conservatory, loaded with dramatic vegetation. There was plenty of activity.

I
approached the front desk, asking for a room. The clerk himmed and hawed, then
mumbled something about being overbooked on this big weekend. She went on about
how sorry she was that there was absolutely nothing available, but a fifty
across the counter into her palm suddenly shook a room loose.

Three
twenty-nine a night. What a racket.

I paid
cash and took the card key. It was on the sixth floor, freeway view.

As soon
as I got to the room, I called the number from the magazine ad again. A
vivacious voice answered, different from my earlier call, so I told her I'd
just arrived in town and wanted company right away. I told her where I was
staying.

"Ooh,
Bellagio," she chirped. "Very nice. I can have someone there in about
a half an hour."

I gave
her the room number and we discussed the details. Then I ordered a single-malt
Scotch from room service and waited.

≈≈≈

The girl arrived before the drink. She looked good, but the dress was
cut a little too low, clinging tightly where it shouldn't've, and the heels
were a shade too high. If the dress were only one size larger, she could've
passed for a stock broker's flashy girlfriend. But as it stood, the whole look
was cheap enough to show she didn't live next door.

"Hi,"
I said in my best out-of-town voice. I held the door, ushering her in.

She
returned the greeting, then told me her name was Cassandra. I always liked that
name. Too bad she had to pick it as her alias.

As soon
as she was inside, she asked for the money, in order to "get business out
of the way" as quickly as possible so we could "concentrate on having
a good time." I paid her, a fast three-fifty.

"Would you like a drink?" I asked.
"I already ordered one
for
myself. I can add another to the order."

She was
almost beautiful, with lively eyes the color of the ocean at twilight, the blue
tempered by a layer of gray. Her makeup was not overdone. The hair was bottle
blonde, but styled nicely: short on the back and sides, but long enough to
frame her squarish face. No streaky highlights. Full lips warned of her
voluptuous figure below.

"Sure,"
she said, and took a seat at the foot of the bed, leaning on an elbow.
"How about a cosmopolitan?"

She
watches
Sex And The City
, I reasoned.

"You
know," I said, "that's the favorite drink of the girls on
Sex And The City
."

She sat
up straight, coming to life. "Oh, I know. I love that show. It's great! Do
you watch it?"

"Oh,
almost every week," I replied. I ordered the drink, then turned to her.
"Which one of the girls is your favorite."

"I
like them all," she said, "but I guess Charlotte would be my
favorite."

I had
gotten lucky. Charlotte was by far the shallowest of the four girls on the
show, one who came off as a sweet dreamer, always sure Mr Right lurked just
around the next corner, ready to shower her with love and jewelry and eternal
happiness.