John Locke - Vegas Moon

What’s the best thing that can happen at that point? That someone in San Francisco took my picture on their cell phone and help me establish an alibi? That I won’t be in trouble for whatever happened at Lucky’s because I was busy setting off a bomb and killing people in San Francisco?

No thanks.

As I slowly pass Lucky’s entrance, I stop as long as I can and crane my neck, same as all the others did. Except that I’m looking for Lucky and Gwen among the two dozen people talking and taking pictures around the gate, in the yard, and around the house. I don’t see either of them, but I do see two large blankets covering two large bodies next to the gates. My best guess is someone killed the gate goons, and Lucky called the cops.

I don’t think Lucky and Gwen are hurt, because if someone planned to kill them, they’d have to kill the gate goons first. You say obviously they did, but I say why leave them lying on the ground? If, after killing the gate goons, you still had to kill Lucky and Gwen, wouldn’t you drag the bodies out of plain sight before approaching the house?

I would.

So I’m not overly concerned about Mr. and Mrs. Peters.

I keep moving.

After passing Lucky and Gwen’s house, I keep driving until I find a little L-shaped neighborhood shopping center that has a sports bar. Business isn’t booming, but the joint’s not empty, either. I find a parking place, go inside, and belly up to the bar. The bartender’s busy, but he nods, and I take it to mean I’m next on his list.

“You come from the town side?” he says.

I nod. “Any idea what happened?”

“From what they’re sayin’…” he gestures to one of the TV’s. “It’s four people dead. All of ’em shot execution style.” He goes on to explain what that means: “Once in the chest, once in the head.”

I don’t care what he’s saying. I’m suddenly in a daze.

“Four people?”

“That’s what they’re sayin’.” He digs some ear wax out of his ear with his little finger, inspects it, then flicks it at the empty space between me and the grizzled drunk who’s sitting two stools down from me.

“Hey, Benny!” he shouts at the small group crowded around another TV.

A young guy with a beard and a faded blue work shirt turns around.

Bartender says, “What’s the latest?”

Young guy says, “Which one? Airport or Lucky Peters?”

Bartender looks at me. “You hear about the airport?”

“Yeah.”

Bartender nods and yells, “Peters! They identify the bodies yet?”

“They think it’s him and his wife, and two body guards.”

“Have they made a positive ID yet?” I ask.

“Dunno. Want a drink?”

“It’s a bar, right?”

“It’s the only bar, three miles, every direction.”

“Then I’ll have whatever your best bourbon is.”

“Water, ice, twist?”

“Are you shitting me?” I growl.

He stares at me.

“Straight up,” I say.

With a heavy heart I toss the bourbon down my throat and join the group huddled around the TV broadcasting news instead of ballgames.

“They’re showin’ pictures of Lucky and Gwen Peters,” one of them says as I pull up a stool.

“Anyone here know them?” I say.

They look around at each other.

“Just heard of Lucky, is all,” the young guy with the work shirt says. “You?”

“Nope.”

The cameras are live, at Lucky’s house. On the screen, they superimpose several photos. There’s a shot of Lucky accepting some sort of giant check. Next, a shot of the vacant lot with a giant sign that says Vegas Moon. Next, a photo of Lucky and Gwen, taken at their Vegas church wedding a few months ago. She’s wearing the same cutoff jeans she had on earlier today. Or yesterday, or whenever it was. She’s got one foot on the floor, other in the air showing off the white lace garter on her thigh. One of the guys says, “Now that there is one fine piece of ass.”

My mood is so foul, had he insulted her, I would’ve killed him.

43.

Carmine “The Chin” Porrello is hard of hearing, I decide, based on the sound coming from the speakers in his theater room. He’s so busy watching the Lucky Peters drama unfold, he doesn’t even notice me standing behind him.

Until he does.

“What the fuck?”

Carmine’s in his early seventies, barrel-chested, with thin arms and wispy gray hair. He appears to have more hair coming out of his ears, nose and underwear than he has on his head.

I take the seat to his left. It’s a couple feet closer to the screen, and the angle isn’t as good as his. But it’s a perfect spot for me to keep an eye on him and the door behind him at the same time.

Carmine isn’t happy I’m in his home. On the other hand, he’s still alive. He recovers quickly, as tough guys usually do.

“Pour you a drink?” he says.

“No. I’m good.”

“I’m still alive,” he says. Then adds, “How come?”

“I want some answers.”

“Any old answers? Or do I gotta tell the truth?”

He laughs until he sees I’m not laughing. Then he stops.

“I’m willing to overlook the disrespect,” he says. “If you do two things.”

Normally I wouldn’t let him try to establish control like that, but I’m busy deciding how I want to kill him. Do I want to mince his flesh and set him on fire? Hammer nails into his head? Cut off his nuts, sew them in his mouth, and tickle his ass with a feather? So many choices.

He clears his throat. “I said…”

“I don’t care what you said, Carmine. It’s what you say next that matters.”

He starts to say something, but I raise an eyebrow. He changes his mind and says, “Whadya wanna know?

44.

“Tell me everything you know about Gwen. And don’t say Gwen who.”

Carmine nods. “Helluva girl, that one.”

I wait.

He says, “Fuckin’ pity. Swear to God, I find out who clipped her, I’ll kill ’em with my bare hands.”

I say nothing in response, show nothing in my expression. What I’m thinking is Carmine’s got a huge head. I wonder how much gasoline it would hold.

“Unless it was you that killed ’em,” he says. “In which case I figure they had it comin’.”

I don’t speak.

Carmine says, “Heard you was bodyguardin’ Lucky. Figured you wouldn’t of taken that job less you was workin’ some kind of angle. Maybe you found a way to take over his business?”

Carmine waits for me to respond, but gets nothing.

He says, “God knows I tried.”

Then he says something that completely floors me: “How’d you find out Gwen was workin’ for me?”

45.

“You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Shit.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Carmine says, “Can I turn that fuckin’ TV down?”

He reaches for the remote, presses the mute button. Says, “My wife’s asleep. If she wakes up and comes in to check on me, you won’t make her a part of this, will you?”

“She won’t be joining us tonight.”

Carmine’s face goes white. Well, whiter.

“Relax,” I say. “I just pennied her into the room.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I pressed a couple of coins into the door jamb. She won’t be able to open her door until someone removes the coins. If she starts banging the door, you’ll know she’s awake.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You said Gwen was working for you.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “Okay, it’s clear you’ve become, ah, ah…”

“Close to her.”

“Right.”

“So?”

“So you gotta understand, anythin’ I tell you happened before you and her ever met. And I don’t know shit about what happened these last few days.”

He pauses.

I say, “Don’t make me ask you again.”

“Right. Well, Gwen was on my payroll. I hired her to, ah, seduce Lucky. Well, she done it so well he up and asked her to marry him after a few fuckin’ weeks! So I give her permission, ’cause I want her to get me names, numbers, point spreads…you know, the works.”

I wait for him to continue.

“Well, she gets me nothin’. I mean, the motherfucker is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I think she’s lyin’ at first, so I threaten her a bit.” He looks at me and quickly adds, “No physical stuff. Just angry talk. You know.”

He looks at me, sees I’m not participating. Continues. “So anyway, I’m increasin’ the pressure on her, you know, turnin’ the screws, and then you come into the picture. Now I want no part of it, so I tell her I’m done, have a good life.”

He shakes his head. “And now this.”

I think about how Gwen asked me how much to kill Lucky. How much to kill Carmine. Now I know why. Carmine doesn’t like the way I’m looking at him.

He says, “I know this makes me look bad.”

“Ya think?”

“Let me tell ya somethin’,” he says. “I’ve known this girl since the first time she got knocked up.

I sigh. “Go on.”

“When she turned eighteen she started dancin’ for me.”

“By dancing, you mean?”

“In the strip clubs.”

I sigh again. Deeper, this time.

“That’s where she met Lucky,” Carmine says. “You really didn’t know this?”

“Just out of curiosity,” I say, “what was her stage name?”

“You don’t know?”

“I asked you, didn’t I?”

“Didn’t matter which club she danced,” Carmine says. “Her stage name was always the same: Vegas Moon.”

46.

“I’m going to ask you just once,” I say.

“Did I kill her? No. Did I have her killed? No. Would I kill her?”

I arch my brows.

He pauses a minute, then says, “Yeah. I would’ve. If she stole from me.”

“And did she?”

“She was paid to get me information. After she married a millionaire, and didn’t deliver the goods, I felt a reimbursement was due.”

“How much?”

“Fifty, give or take.”

I look at this old warrior and see a grandfather lying on a reclining theater chair, wearing a housecoat and slippers. His housecoat’s been open the whole time I’ve been here, his old man underwear showing, and he never even noticed. This was and is one of the most feared men in the country. Carmine “The Chin” Porrello, a man who once boasted he could lift his chin and cause the death of ten men.

And his underpants are showing.

He was and is one of the most ruthless mob bosses in the history of the mob, and his nuts are hanging out of his tighty-whities, along with a thatch of coarse, gray hair.

Some Indian tribes used to believe if you killed a powerful man, his power would add to yours. I doubt that’s true, but as with all things Native American, it wouldn’t surprise me, either. What does surprise me is Gwen working as a stripper for Carmine Porrello for two years, and taking money from the mob to marry Lucky. I mean, I’ve heard of women getting lucky, and women marrying for money. But this story takes it to a whole new level.

I think about it awhile, and realize none of this matters. And the reason it doesn’t matter is because, like Carmine said, it’s history. Okay, so she stripped in a club for a couple of years. Got knocked up a few times. Was part of the mob. Married a man she didn’t love. Took money to steal his secrets. Got off on fucking hot lesbians and powerful men.

But which of us is perfect?

I liked her. Might have even been able to love her, given the right opportunity.

“What happens now?” Carmine says.

What indeed?

My cell phone vibrates.

It’s Callie.

47.

“I tried to call you,” she says. “Several times.”

“I know. I had to go dark.”

“I figured that out when I turned on the TV.”

“I tried to call. Wanted to take you with me.”

I look at Carmine. He waves at me like, Go ahead, don’t mind me. Please, finish your call.

“I turned off my phone,” Callie says.

“I know. But it was off longer than I expected.”

“I followed her.”

I think a minute, then realize she’s talking about her life partner, Eva LeSage. I remember Callie telling me she’d put a tracking device in Eva’s car.

“What happened?” I say.

“I followed her to someone’s house.”

I get a cold chill.

Callie says, “Lucky Peters’. I passed by a couple of times, tried to call you, see what you wanted me to do…” her voice trails off.

“And then?”

“I snapped.”

“Define snapped.”

“I killed the gate guards, broke in the front door, followed the music to the bedroom. Kicked in the door, saw Eva fucking Lucky.”

“Where was…” I look at Carmine. I don’t want to say Gwen’s name.

“Gwen?”

“Yeah.”

“She was there, too.”

I close my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Donovan. I couldn’t help it.”

“Give me five minutes.”

“You coming over? Or calling me back?”

“Both.”

“Should I arm myself?”

“No. Of course not.”

She pauses.

I say, “You don’t trust me?”

She says, “Do you trust me?”

I think about it a few seconds. And a few seconds more. “Yes.”

“Thanks, Donovan.”

“And you?”

“Do I trust you?” she says.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Figures.”

I hang up.

Carmine says, “If that was good news, you haven’t notified your face.”

“The news was bad for me, good for you,” I say.

“Sorry. Sort of.”

“I don’t have it on me,” I say, “but I’ll see that you get your money back.”

“What money?”

“The fifty grand Gwen owes you.”

He looks at me with surprise. “She’s alive?”

“No. But I don’t want her memory tarnished.”

Carmine looks at me with what might be tears in his eyes. “You’re a good man. I think if you pay me the fifty G’s, I won’t have you killed.”

I look into his tear-stained eyes and say, “I’ll pay you a hundred if you promise to try.”

He does a double-take.

“What kind of crazy fuckin’ guy are you?” he says.

“How about it?”

“Fuck no! Just give me the fifty and get the fuck outta my life. No disrespect.”

48.

“You found Eva fucking Lucky,” I say, while driving toward Callie’s.

“Did you know it was going on?”

“Of course not. I mean, Gwen said a woman named Maddie came over from time to time. But I had no idea it was Eva.”

“How long had it been going on?”

“I don’t know. A few months at most.”