Las Vegas
On the 32nd floor, overlooking the strip from Mandalay Bay, she could see all the way down.
Wasn’t this the place the shooter killed 59 people and wounded hundreds?
Not this floor, not this room, but close enough to understand the horror that had taken place, and the utter confusion that followed — and it is still the operating philosophy of the investigation. Confusion, collusion and misinformation. In other words, standard operating procedure for the simpletons who run police departments.
She was waiting for her man to show up with the goods. A little brick of cocaine that she would use to sell to her clients and colleagues. The room was flash Las Vegas. Almost a Trumpian conception of what is “class.” A misunderstanding of subtlety and context. Trying hard to downplay the glitz of its location, there were low-key accents of earth tone and a touch of pastel here and there. Perhaps a nod to the implied garishness of the place itself. Then there were the artifacts of gold, which had no real explanation other than it was perhaps designed to give the room an air of luxury. Ashtrays, statues, lamps, tables, all trimmed with gold.
While she stood in the middle of room taking it all in, wearing a green butt-hugging dress and a pair of 3-inch stilettos, she was ready to get what she wanted.
The doorknob turned and a man walked into the room. He was all smiles.
“Hey Baby, how is it going?” he said.
She looked at him confused.
“Who are you?” she asked him. “And how did you get in here?”
“Door was unlocked.”
“Do I know you?”
“No. But I know you.”
“Yeah? How’s that, buddy?
“I saw your picture.”
“My picture? Where?”
“At the agency.”
“Oh shit. You were there?”
“Online. Yeah. I picked you out. Now let’s talk business.”
She was more confused.
“Wait a minute.”
“Yeah?”
“How did you know which room?”
“The agency told me where you were. Waiting for me.”
“What?” She was a little angry. “That’s not true.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because this is where I stay when I’m in town. Nobody comes here, except those who I invite. And I didn’t invite you.”
“That’s true. But I got them to tell me what hotel you were at. Not where you were staying. Just had them say you were at Mandalay and I took it from there.”
“Took it from there.”
“I found out what room by asking. Or at least doing a little pretending.”
“They gave you my name.”
“From the website. Ginger Honey.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“And you registered here as Ginger Honey.”
“I did,” she said, realizing what a mistake that was.
“The thing is, these call-backs usually send the girl to the room. Not the customer to the girl’s room. But I got lucky, and here I am.”
“You shouldn’t be here. I’ve got another client coming. He should be here any minute. You can leave and get back in touch with the agency and have this at another time.”
His face said he didn’t like that. “Not so fast. I didn’t come here to get kicked out.”
“Sorry. You gotta go.”
A knock on the door. She looked at the man with semi-panic.
“Don’t scream,” he said. “Answer the door.”
She could feel her plans starting to go sideways. “Get the fuck out.”
“I’m not going anywhere.
Another knock.
“Okay, motherfucker. Then get in the closet.”
He walked over to it and opened the door.
“This is gonna be good. I’m going to leave it open a crack.”
“Get in there, motherfucker.”
He did, and she answered the door.
A plain-looking guy of average height and wearing a pair of gold wire rimmed glasses stepped inside. He was carrying a briefcase.
“Over here.” She pointed at the couch next to the window. He put the briefcase on the coffee table.
“What do you have?”
“A pound of cocaine which I will be giving you on credit.”
He snapped open the briefcase and sitting in the middle of it was a Saran-wrapped pound of white powder. And a few wads of cash.
“Does the cash go with it?”
“That’s from another deal.”
“Oh.” She paused. “How much?”
He looked at her and smiled. The guy really had the air of a banker. Dark suit, clean shaven and hair tastefully slicked back.
“A few thousand. Definitely less than a hundred thou.”
“I could use some of that.”
“So could we all.”
He pulled the pound out and handed it to her.
She tossed it slightly in the air and rolled it around in her hands to feel its weight.
“How do I know I have a pound here?”
He shrugged. “Got a scale? You’re welcome to weigh it in front of me.”
“I don’t, but it feels right.” She felt a bit silly, showing up at a drug deal without a scale.
“You are going to have to cut it yourself. I’ll be back to collect next month.”
She nodded as she put it on the table.
He smiled, picked up the briefcase and got up to go. As he walked past the small closet door, it suddenly burst open and the man hiding there hit him over the head with an iron. The second man went down quickly and the first man hit him twice more with the iron.
She jumped in front of him and tried to wrestle it away. “What the fuck you doing?”
He stopped.
“I’m taking his money and his dope.” He walked over to the coffee table.
“No you aren’t. That shit is mine.”
“Not anymore. I could use a little side business.”
“The fuck you could. Give that shit back to me.”
He looked at her and laughed. “You got a gun?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it? Show it to me or I’m leaving with this shit.”
She was bluffing. She knew the guy laying on the floor had a weapon, but she wasn’t about to go searching for it in front of this maniac.
He pulled the briefcase out of the unconscious dude’s hand, and then went over to get the coke.
She needed to think fast.
“Hey, does the agency have your name?”
“Name?”
“Yeah, real name.”
He paused. “Yeah. I guess so. I had to give them my credit card number. So it had to be real.”
“And they have my number and real name too.”
“Yeah?”
She pointed at the unconscious guy on the floor.
“Do you think when he wakes up, he isn’t going to go back there and get my real name and address and at the same time find out about you?”
“They wouldn’t do that.”
“Yeah? How did you find me? Did it take days and days? No. Maybe an hour or two. Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“Man, you are stupid. Don’t you think you just created a whole lot of problems for yourself when these boys find out who you are?”
“Who is this guy?”
She looked at him, incredulous.
“We are in Las Vegas. You just knocked out a guy who had a pound of cocaine and a whole lot of cash. Do you think he is a member of the Rotary?”
He paused.
“Thinking? Think harder, asshole. You just signed your death warrant unless you go into hiding.”
“I got nowhere to go.”
“Not my problem. I’m getting out of here while the getting is good.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No, you are not.”
She went over to the table and grabbed the pound of powder. She tried to pick up the briefcase.
“Not so fast. We’re staying together until I figure this thing out.”
“I’m leaving,” she said.
She tried to walk past him, and he connected across her face with the back of his hand. She dropped the coke and as she raised her arms up to defend herself, he grabbed her throat, pinning her against the wall.
“I said we are going to be together until I figure this thing out. Understood? The pound is mine.”
Not wanting to be choked, she nodded.
She pointed to the man on the floor.
“Get his gun.”
Which he did and stood up holding it proudly.
“Now,” she said, “before we leave, do you have any straws?”
Daniel Hallford has published Tattooed Love Dogs, a short story collection, Pelican Bay, a crime/thriller novel, and Upper Noe, a memoir.
