Vegas Vengeance (7 page)

Hawker watched with admiration as Barbara Blaine fought the tears and won. She shifted her weight and continued. “He wanted to get married because he wanted kids. I did too, but not as the proprietor of a whorehouse. We decided that I would work for two years, sell the place, and then we would be financially set for the rest of our lives. Money meant nothing to him, but it was still important to me. And you have no idea how sorry I am now that we didn't just go ahead and become husband and wife.”

“Did Jason know there were people trying to force you into selling the Doll House?”

She shook her head. “No. I kept my business dealings completely out of our relationship. He still came to the Doll House because of all the fossils left by the old river. The girls liked him and highly approved of our relationship. But we never discussed the business. He knew how uncomfortable it made me feel.”

“Did the mob give you any indication they would take measures so drastic?”

She thought for a moment. “I guess they did. But I guess I just didn't believe their threats. It all started when two men came to the Doll House and asked to see me. They were dressed like they wanted to look important and respectable, but it made them look all the sleazier. They said they represented people who wanted to buy the Doll House. Because I wanted to marry Jason, I listened to the proposal. But their numbers were all wrong. They didn't want to buy the place, they wanted to steal it. I told them I wasn't interested. But they just sat there sort of smirking at me. They said I didn't understand. They said they weren't asking me if I wanted to sell. They were telling me I
had
to sell. I told them to get the hell out or I would call the police. They left, but those smirks never left their faces. After thinking about it, I decided to call the police anyway. I gave the police their names. The police checked into it.”

Hawker guessed what had happened. “The police couldn't do anything because the men had given you fake names and, besides, there were no witnesses to the threats.”

“You've got it.”

“When was that exactly?”

“Ah … about two months ago. Mid-June.”

“The same time they tried to buy the Five-Cs complex.”

“Yeah. And they pulled the same deal. Made Captain Smith and his associates a low offer. A very low offer. Two days after they refused, the threats started.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Telephone threats. When they called here, they didn't even ask for me. They'd say stuff like, ‘If your boss doesn't sell, a lot of you girls are going to see the inside of a hospital.' The worst thing was the way they disguised their voices. They used weird accents. It scared the hell out of my girls. And it scared me, too.”

“But they never actually did anything?”

“We've had some broken windows. And three weeks ago, someone tried to torch the place. But I've got a damn good security system, and the sensors picked up the smoke in plenty of time. And you know about how Charlie Kullenburg was beaten up. Three men in stocking masks. They robbed him, but Captain Smith thinks it was so the police would treat it like a regular holdup. That was three weeks ago—just before Jason disappeared. After that, my girls have been afraid to leave the house. I don't blame them. And we've been keeping an especially close eye on our clients.”

Hawker was surprised. “You can do that?”

Barbara Blaine nodded and stood. “So far, James, all you've seen is my soft side. Maybe it's because you're easy to talk to. But I've got another side, too.”

“So I've heard.”

“Walk me back to the Doll House and I'll show you. We can have dinner there, and I can tell you more about Jason.” She gave him a look of quick appraisal. “Then, if you like, I can fix you up with one of the girls.”

“Dinner will be enough.”

Barbara Blaine smiled. “Don't decide too quickly. You haven't seen my girls yet.”

eight

The Doll House was a three-story white clapboard reproduction of an eighteenth-century mansion.

It had the look of a small estate that had been modernized and turned into a business. Green shutters on the windows, a porch with pillars, lighted fountain in the front yard surrounded by formal plantings. The small parking lot and the walk to the front door were shielded by a high copse.

And Barbara Blaine's girls truly were spectacular.

It was a Wednesday night, a slow night, according to Barbara. In Vegas, the junket masters usually arranged for gamblers to arrive on a Thursday or Friday. They flew them out on a Monday or Tuesday.

In Vegas, Wednesday was the equivalent of Sunday in most other towns.

Barbara took him in through the front door. The foyer was manned by a balding bouncer with football-size biceps. Barbara patted him on the shoulder, and the bouncer lowered his eyes and smiled like a grateful pup.

The interior was a masterpiece of decoration, lighting and efficiency. Chandeliers draped from high ceilings. Plush carpet and velvet divans. Tasteful nudes done in oils or sculpted marble. Two sitting rooms. The first was less formal. A full bar. An antique jukebox loaded only with classics from the Big Band era and a few light opera pieces. Tables for eating and drinking. A tile floor for dancing.

The other sitting room was kept in a softer light. This would be where the men would make their selections. Velvet chairs positioned near windows, like a photographer's still-life. Ornate floor lamps with golden bulbs. A
Gone With the Wind
stairway that led upstairs to the private rooms. An intercepting desk with a leather receipt book and a credit card roller.

American Express. Don't leave home without it.

But on this night, a slow night, Barbara Blaine's girls were enjoying themselves in the least formal of the two rooms. They carried drinks in tall glasses, and the jukebox vibrated with “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”

There were thirteen of them. Striking blondes, leggy brunettes, busty girls of glistening ebony.

They wore pants suits or short shorts and halters, and they laughed uproariously.

Hawker had seen plenty of whores in his time—and too often, they were facedown in some back alley, beaten to death. Or eternally asleep in their own bathtubs, wrists slit.

The whores he had seen were creatures of the night; the streetwalkers with tawdry tight dresses, cheap flaxen wigs, gaudy makeup and bright lipstick.

But the girls of the Doll House looked like no prostitutes he had ever seen before. They looked like they had been shipped to Vegas from some Midwestern beauty show. They were ripe and lovely, and their hair and skin glistened with health.

Barbara Blaine called for attention and introduced Hawker. She introduced him as an “old friend,” which, Hawker noted, seemed to tell the girls he was not a potential customer. They filed past one by one to shake his hand. Their smiles were warm, the hand contact tempting. More than one of the girls gave him a burning look and a meaningful extra squeeze of the palm.

Barbara Blaine raised her eyebrows, asking Hawker for his reaction.

“I'm speechless,” he said with a laugh.

“They
are
beautiful, aren't they?”

“It boggles the mind. I had no idea.”

“But they're more than just beautiful, James. They're smart. These girls have the looks to be film stars or big-league dancers, but they don't have the talent. It's not their fault. They just didn't happen to be blessed with the abilities they need. But unlike too many tragic women, these girls have the brains to admit to themselves that they would never get past the casting couch in Vegas or Hollywood. So they've come here. And believe me, I only select the best. I check their records clear back to grade school. We don't want any neurotics or drug addicts here. I want clean, healthy girls who have the emotional stability to deal with the trauma of being a high-class whore. And it is traumatic, James. I can testify to that.

“We sign a two-year contract. They can leave anytime they wish before the two years are up. But, at the end of the two years, they
must
leave for their own well-being. Each girl makes a minimum of a hundred thousand a year, plus tips, so it comes out to more like a hundred and twenty thousand. Their room and board, hospitalization, social security and life insurance are covered by the house, so they don't have many outside expenses. I don't exactly force them to put the money into blue chip stock portfolios and CDs or bonds, but I make it clear that if they don't, they won't be working here long. So at the end of their two years, they leave with my very best wishes and about a quarter-million in cash. By that time, I've also made sure they have a few business courses under their belts.”

Hawker gave a low whistle. “Now I can see why they're laughing.”

The woman smiled, pleased that Hawker was impressed. “Follow me. I want to show off the rest of the place.”

“There's more?”

“You've seen the icing. Now I want to show you the cake.”

Hawker followed her through a side hall that went through a small but modern kitchen that was all tile and stainless steel. The chef was a tiny man in white with a huge gray handlebar mustache. Barbara gave him their dinner order and then led Hawker to the back of the house.

Here the decorations were so different that they might have entered a separate building.

These were her living quarters, she explained, a house within a house. It was a one-bedroom suite with a den, a massive sunken living room and a wall of glass that looked out onto a tropical garden and swimming pool.

Hawker hummed and nodded his approval dutifully. “Not exactly a hand-built cabin on a mountain, is it?”

“Between the two, I preferred the cabin.”

“That brings us back to Jason, Barbara. In the weeks before he disappeared, did he say or do anything unusual, anything out of character that suggested he might have found out about your problems?”

She thought for a long moment. “No. No, I don't think so. Actually we didn't get a chance to talk much during that last week. He was very busy working on one of his projects.”

“What kind of project?”

“Something to do with fossils and rocks, that's all I know.” She thought for a moment before adding, “He did say one thing that was rather odd. It was the last time I saw him, as a matter of fact. It was late in the morning, and he stopped at the house for something to drink. He seemed to be in a very good mood. He said that he thought his doctoral dissertation was going to be even better than he had hoped. He said it might make it possible for us to get married a lot sooner than we had planned. When I tried to press him for details, he just laughed and said he would tell me later.”

“Did he say anything about having an appointment with anyone?”

“No. The police asked me the same thing.”

“How did Jason get around? What kind of car did he drive?”

“A real old khaki jeep. He needed it for his work.”

“Has the jeep been found?”

The woman shook her head. “No. I guess that's why I still had hope.”

“When I visited Jason's cabin, I met a girl who said she was a member of some kind of commune not far from Jason's property. Did you or the police talk to them about Jason's disappearance?”

“The police did, and I did, too. They call themselves the Spring Mountain Family. They live the pure life. No drugs, no meat, homegrown vegetables—and no clothes. Jason liked them very much, and they liked him.”

“And how do you feel about them?”

She shrugged. “Truthfully, they made me uncomfortable. I'm suspicious of extremist groups. Even the benevolent ones.”

“Is there any chance they could have been responsible?”

“No, I don't think so. They loved Jason—or said they did. And they seemed awfully eager to help.”

The woman placed her hands on her slim hips, a world-weary look on her face. Hawker sensed that she was tired of questions.

“Hungry?”

“Sure. But you asked how we could monitor the girls, Hawk. Let me show you; then we'll eat.”

Hawker nodded and followed the woman to a room protected by a steel fire door. It took three keys to unlock it.

The room was a small fortress. The fluorescent lighting was built into the ceiling, and there were three banks of computer boards on metal desks. On the inboard side of the room was a walk-in safe built into the wall. Above the computer was a bank of lights and toggle switches, and three small television sets.

Barbara Blaine flipped some switches, and the TV screens came on. They showed the interiors of three different rooms. Each of the rooms had one large water bed. All the rooms were empty.

She touched another bank of switches, and three more rooms came into view.

One of these rooms was in use.

On the television screen, a silver-haired man in amazingly good shape sat beneath a young woman with startling mammary development. She hunched over his hips, ingurgitating him with all the precision of a German clock.

The man was smiling.

Barbara Blaine cleared her throat uncomfortably and blanked the screens.

“You could get sponsors. Start your own cable network.”

“That joke's original only because I allow no one else in here. I check the beds visually only when I have reason to. I respect the girls' privacy and they know that, so they don't mind if I use discretion. Besides, the cameras only monitor the work rooms, not their private rooms. In each of the work rooms is a button hidden behind the head of each bed. If they press the button once, an internal alarm system is set off, and we immediately go to their aid. If they press it three times, the computer simultaneously dials the police and the emergency squad, and a prerecorded voice gives our address and requests immediate assistance.”

“A real red alert, huh?”

“Thank God we haven't had occasion to use it yet. But if we need it, it's there. The girls know it, and it makes them feel a lot safer. I remember one time, about three months ago—” The woman stopped suddenly in mid-sentence, a look of concern clouding her face. She was staring at the bank of lights and toggle switches.