Drawing Dead (15 page)

The Eloise house was like the rest: low-slung, spread out, neutral. As though the house was trying to show up the palm trees, for their ostentatious height and absurdly fecund crowns, their individuality.

The palms, actually, were also an artifact of the Vegas ethos. There hadn’t been any palm trees in the desert, originally, when Meyer Lansky
scoped it out way back then. Every one of them was planted in Las Vegas from seeds. You wanted a new one, it’d cost you upwards of ten grand. Every house in Henderson had at least a couple.

You can draw your own moral.

I searched for the doorbell. It took a while. I scoured the door frame. Smooth as a cross-corner draw to the side pocket. The door itself. The only interruption was a bas-relief palm tree pasted on the door. A coconut tree. With exactly one coconut. Aha. I pressed the coconut. I heard a chilly chime deep inside the house. Like the air-conditioning was on too high.

There was no response.

The chime died away.

The silent heat returned.

I pressed the thing again. I waited.

This time the door opened.

She was blonde. She had a man’s shirt on, the tails tied up in front, revealing a very fine abdomen. And a navel ring.

I didn’t object.

I introduced myself. Told her why I was there. Ascertained that a well-trained, tanned and somewhat diffident young man had not preceded me to the address.

She wiped a charming tress from her forehead with the back of her hand. She invited me in.

I was okay with that too.

My fantasies were interrupted, however, by the sight of children’s toys scattered about.

They all looked brand new. Like everything else about the place. About the neighborhood. Hell, about Las Vegas.

Must be the desert air, I thought. Preservative.

The central part of the house was an enormous open space. On the left was the kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel fixtures. In the middle, a sunken living room, three sides lined with what I was sure was the latest Roche-Bobois sectional. Some kind of South American rug. Prints, expensively framed, echoing the Latin theme on the walls. The place reeked of paid-for taste. But even so, it wasn’t unpleasant. It seemed comfortable. Even inviting.

Kind of you to ask me in, I said to the blonde.

Dani, she said. With an I. D-A-N-I.

Well, thanks, Dani.

I’m from Oklahoma. We’re like the Arabs. Never turn away a guest. Would you like a drink?

Politely ignoring how odd the simile sounded in an Oklahoma accent, I professed a preference for scotch, neglecting to add ‘and lots of it,’ which I regretted when she returned with a thimbleful.

Oh well, I thought. No need to advertise your weaknesses right away.

You have children? I inquired.

Three, she said cheerfully. Six, five and two. Girl, girl, boy.

Wow, I said, wondering again at her smooth, tight midsection. That’s a handful.

It sure is. But Matt’s a lot of help. He works nights, at the casino? So he’s always around in the afternoons? Well, usually he is. This week he’s off in Reno with the kids? Plus I have Imelda?

She was playing with her navel ring. A new acquisition, I was guessing.

I was happy for her. That she had Imelda.

That’s great, I said. What does Matt do at the casino?

He’s sort of the high-roller host? He makes sure the big customers are happy?

Ah, kind of a whale handler.

She looked shocked for a second. Then she laughed.

We were co-conspirators now.

Her navel ring bounced most pleasantly.

Well, I said. I don’t want to keep you …

Oh, please, she said in that darling Okie drawl—puh-lee-as—it’s great to see a new face around here. How is it I can help you?

I explained my mission. Not a cop. Nothing serious. Just tracking somebody down for a relative.

I don’t expect you knew the former residents, I concluded. But I have to do my job …

As a matter of fact, she said, clearly pleased to help, I did meet them.

Oh, great, I said. Them?

Yes, there was a man and a woman?

Do you remember their names?

Well, she drawled, let me think about that …

She looked me in the eye as she thought about it. Very strange. Must be a Midwestern thing, I mused.

I looked away.

I guess I don’t rightly recall, she said.

I don’t suppose they left a forwarding address?

No. Funny you should say that. I asked them, but they said they’d told the post office? I thought it was a little strange. What if a FedEx package or something came?

That is a little odd, I said. Well, can you describe them for me?

She hesitated. Got up. Began gathering up the kids’ playthings, putting them in a bright orange toy chest. She did it quickly, in nervous motion. As though they embarrassed her.

Um, she said as she closed the chest, I don’t want to be rude, but I was just thinking … I don’t really know who you are.

Rick Redman, I repeated. I’m sort of a private investigator. I’ve been hired by the lady’s sister to find her.

You did say that, she said. And I don’t have any reason to not believe you, sir. But I suppose it’s only right that I ask you for some … proof, or something? Identification, I guess?

Sure. No problem. Here’s my card. And you can talk to a detective in the New York Police Department, I said, pulling out my cell phone. He’ll vouch for me.

Oh, no, she said, looking at the nicely embossed card. That’s all right. This will do.

Well, thank you. I must say, I love that Midwestern hospitality.

She flashed her prairie smile.

Well, as I was saying, what did they look like?

She was very good-looking, I remember. Kind of slim? Quite tall. Blondish brown hair. I think she had green eyes. Very striking eyes? He was tall, too. But, I don’t know, sort of wide, too? Very big. Dark. She did all the talking.

Did they introduce themselves?

Yes, but I’m sorry, like I said, I don’t remember the names. Wait a minute. Her name is coming back to me. Lois, or something like that?

Eloise?

Could have been.

Did his name sound Russian? Eastern European?

I’m sorry, I don’t know. I don’t remember. Yes. I think so.

Is there anything else you remember?

She was dressed very well. Sort of formal? Some kind of Japanese kimono kind of thing? But with a very high collar? She looked like a
movie star, actually. At first I thought she was somebody famous. But when I asked if she was an actress or a model, she just laughed.

I see. Anything else you can recall?

I don’t know. I can’t remember, really.

Anything unusual about them?

Well, she talked kind of strange. Like she was bored. To me, actually, you know, I’m used to … she seemed a little rude. And she was wearing sunglasses? That seemed a little strange. Inside the house? And like I said, he didn’t say much.

Did they say anything about where they were moving to?

No. I mean, wait. They didn’t say they were moving there, but she mentioned something about New York?

New York?

Yes.

Anywhere in particular in New York? New York City?

No, she didn’t say any more than that. It was just some kind of offhand comment? To the man, I think. I don’t think she said it to me. Something sarcastic about New York.

Are you sure he didn’t have some kind of accent?

I don’t know. Like I said, he hardly talked. Oh, wait a minute. He did say one thing. Something about a bartender at Binion’s? Let me think. Yes. He was talking to her. They were in the basement. I just happened to overhear. I mean, don’t get me wrong, please, sir. I don’t eavesdrop on folks?

She said it like the thought was poison.

Of course, I said.

But they were talking kind of loud? Like they were having an argument or something? Something about how the fellow owed him money. And he did have some kind of accent.

The man? Or the bartender?

Yes. The man. The bartender wasn’t there.

Yes, I understand. Russian?

I’m sure I couldn’t say, she giggled.

This bartender, at Binion’s. Did he have a name?

Oh dear, let me think. No. But the gentleman mentioned that he was very small? A very small man? I’m afraid he wasn’t being very polite about him.

What exactly did he say?

Oh my dear, I’m sure I can’t remember exactly what he said? But he was angry. He called him names.

What kind of names?

All sorts of names.

Do you remember any of them?

Spic, I think, was one of them? Oh dear. I don’t use those kinds of words.

It’s all right, I said. You’re just quoting him. Did he say anything else about this bartender?

No. I mean, maybe, but I don’t remember anything else. Heavens, I don’t even know if I remember as much as I’ve already told you! Juan? I think maybe the name was Juan? Something like that.

The bartender’s name?

Yes. Something like that.

Okay. What about your husband? Did he meet these folks? Might he know anything else?

Oh, Matt? No, I don’t think he was here when I met them. But you could ask. He’s in Reno for the week, though? With the kids? I could call him for you.

No. That’s all right. Perhaps I’ll drop by again when he’s back.

Sure, she said.

She didn’t seem enthusiastic about the idea.

You mentioned FedEx packages?

Right.

Any reason you said that in particular?

Well, yes, sir. They did get a package! I’d forgotten all about it? Funny. I guess you’re right. Somehow I remembered it. Without remembering it?

Do you still have it? I asked.

Somewhere … she said. Just wait here?

I’m not going anywhere, I said with a smile.

She smiled back. Nice teeth. Very white. Manicured. She dashed off.

I gazed around the room.

Nothing had changed since the last time I’d looked.

She hopped back into the doorway.

Here it is! she said.

She handed me a well-battered FedEx envelope. Eight-by-eleven type. Corners frayed. Addressed to Vladimir Tomaschevsky. Same Henderson address.

Do you mind if I take this? I asked.

She looked doubtful.

So that I can give it to them, I said. When I track them down.

She brightened.

Oh. Okay. That’s a good idea.

Well, thank you again, I said.

It’s nothin’, she said, exaggerating the accent for me a touch.

Coy, I said to myself. That was the word.

I liked coy.

She leaned over. Gave me a kiss on the cheek. I smelled something sweet. Mango. It smelled very good.

In the cab, once I’d recovered from the mango kiss, I thought through the conversation. I wondered about the bartender. Not much to go on: short Hispanic male, that was it. Juan, maybe. Maybe not. Binion’s. Not at all clear he had anything to do with anything. But he’d known them. Some vague possibility he knew where they’d gone. New York? Unlikely, if Dani’s report was accurate. Why would you move somewhere you despised?

The driver pulled over at a gas station. Told the guy to fill it up. The guy was old and sad and had a rag in his hand. There was nothing I could do about it. I looked at the FedEx envelope. The sender: Fruits of the Desert, Inc., an address in Brighton Beach, New York, New York.

Small world.

I briefly thought about opening the thing. A federal offense, though, I was pretty sure. Not just a Federal Express offense. A you’re-going-to-jail-buddy kind of federal offense. Of course, I wasn’t a practicing lawyer anymore. I could take more risks. This was the kind of risk one takes for one’s clients, wasn’t it? That Palomino guy, in L.A., whatever his name was. Detective to the stars. He did all sorts of illegal shit, they said.

Of course, he was in jail.

I put the package up to my ear. Shook it. Like a child on Christmas morning.

Maybe I’d get a clue.

Something sprinkled on my shirt.

Powder.

I looked at the package. One corner was eaten through.

I pinched some of the powder off my shirt. Looked closely. Very
fine. Light brown. Odorless, as far as I could tell. Hah. Mysteriously missing woman. Brown powder. Seedy Russians. Hello? Drugs. Kind of went together. Like sewage and shit.

We drove back to the casino, at a dangerously entertaining rate of speed.

T
HERE WAS A DARK PURPLE VELVET EMPORIUM
in the midst of all the slot machines. A circular bar in the middle. Opulent couches around the perimeter. Heavy curtains around the place served to muffle the endless clinking, clanging and pinging of the slot machines. The waitress had long legs to go with the standard-issue cleavage. She poured serious scotch. Her name was Rebecca.

I was in love.

We had decided to make this the default hang. Anybody got lost, discouraged, too fucked-up to play, he’d go to the Velvet Hang. One or the other of us would show up, eventually. Pick up the tab. Provide commiseration. Whatever was needed.

I settled for a dark corner of the bar. Can a circular place have a corner? Well, this one did, I decided. And I was in it.

I called Butch’s cell. He’d just wrapped up his satellite. Qualified for the Main Event. Beat me to it. Damn. I’d never hear the end of it.

A couple of investment banker types slid into the soft purple chairs at the table next to me. Expensive haircuts, tailored cargo pants. The whole kit.

So, one of them said, as part of my many fun tasks of last evening, I needed to look up the exchange rate for Panamanian balboas to U.S. dollars in November 2003, which was and remains one-to-one, in case you’re interested. On a whim, I looked up the going rate for Honduran lempiras, which are quoted at 18.340 to one. Until then we had been using a rate of 15.426 to one, which I think was a stab at the exchange rate on the date of closing, though it ought to be 15.462 to one, if that’s the case. Anyway, I just want to confirm whether we are, as a matter of principle, using the rate at the time of closing, rather than the time of write-off or the time of loss.

You’re a nerd, the other guy interrupted.