A Long Walk Up the Waterslide

16

Las Vegas, Neal thought, is a town designed to make people feel like winners, using money paid by losers.

He crossed the viaduct over the electric lava flow, wound his way around the tiled hot springs, eased past a trio of chariot drivers, and found his way to the registration desk. The lobby of The Last Days of Pompeii Resort and Casino Hotel was crowded with tourists, conventioneers, and gamblers.

“May I help you?” the clerk asked in a voice hinting that this was a doubtful proposition. The young man wore a simple white toga with a cloth belt, indicating that he was a “household slave.”

“Mr. Heskins,” Neal said. “I have a reservation for two adjoining rooms.”

The household slave punched some buttons on his computer.

“I don’t see you,” he said.

“Thomas Heskins,” Neal said. “I made these reservations months ago.”

The slave punched some more buttons.

“You’re not in here,” he said with the barely concealed delight of a teenager wielding power, “and I’m afraid we’re completely booked. The convention, you know.”

“I do know. I’m with the convention.”

Neal, Polly, and Candy had waited in a tiny motel north of Vegas while Karen went in to check things out. She came back with the information that the Association of Adult Film Makers was holding its annual bash at The Last Days of Pompeii.

Neal figured that was as good a cover as any for a man traveling with three women. The cover wouldn’t last long, not in this town, but he wanted to buy every minute he could.

“You must have something for me,” Neal continued. “Tommy Heskins? Moonlight Productions?”

The slave shook his head and frowned.

“The Swap Meet?” Neal asked. “Swap Around the Clock? Swap Around the Clock, Down Under? I did the Swapper series.”

“You made Swap Around the Clock!” the slave said with admiration.

“Did you see it?” Neal asked.

“Yeah,” the clerk said.

You did? I thought I made it up.

“I’ll get you stills,” Neal promised. He looked at the clerk’s name tag: ATTICUS.

“My name’s really Bobby.”

A tall woman clad in a way-off-the-shoulder toga stuck a tray of drinks under Neal’s nose.

“Complimentary ambrosia of the gods?” she asked.

Neal took a Bloody Mary, thanked her, and turned back to the desk clerk. “Bobby, can you help me out here?”

“We do have emergency set-asides for VIPs…” Bobby said doubtfully.

“One room’s for my wife and myself. Two of my top stars will share the other room,” Neal said with a wink.

“Were they in Swap?” Bobby asked.

“Remember the scene on the rubber raft?”

Bobby went back to the computer.

“And how would you like to pay for this, sir?”

Neal opened Withers’s briefcase on the counter.

“With cash,” Bobby said as he typed into the computer. “I’ll need names for the other room, sir.”

I should have known you would, Neal thought. I wish I had a couple.

“Amber Flame and… Desire,” he said, because it was the best he could come up with.

“Just Desire?” Bobby gulped.

“Sometimes just desire is enough,” Neal answered with what he hoped was a knowing wink.

Bobby finished the paperwork and handed Neal four plastic key cards.

Now all I have to do is sneak Amber and Desire up to the room, Neal thought.

Bobby greeted the next guest, “May I help you, sir?”

“Ron Scarpelli, Top Drawer magazine,” the guest said as Neal’s ears spun 180 degrees and stood up. “I get the convention rate, right?”

Or I could just leap into the lava, Neal thought.

Walter Withers was out of luck.

He bombed at twenty-one-or “XXI,” as it was known in the Vesuvius Room-got burned by old VII at the dice table in the Molten Lava Pit, and was out-and-out killed by a steely-eyed gladiator holding three kings over VIII ’s in The Coliseum Poker Arena.

He did not make back Ron Scarpelli’s fifty thousand. Instead, he’d tapped his cash, maxed out both Visa and MasterCard, and been laughed at by the woman on the AmEx 800 line. She told him that not only could he not get another cash advance; he couldn’t even get a room unless she had a cashier’s check by noon.

He was on his last day in Pompeii.

He found a phone booth with a stool and perused the late games. Then he dialed Sammy Black’s number. Sammy would take his bet on account and maybe he could get well on San Diego with the points.

A recorded voice came on to tell him that the number had been disconnected.

That’s strange, he thought. I hope Sammy hasn’t been arrested.

He called the Blarney Stone and was relieved to hear Arthur’s live, familiar voice.

“Walter! How are you doing?”

It was refreshing to hear a little warm bonhomie again.

“All right, Arthur, all right. Listen, I tried to call Sammy just now, but his number has been disconnected.”

There was an uncharacteristic silence from Arthur.

“Uh, Walt, I thought you knew that,” Arthur said.

“How would I know that?”

Because you did the disconnecting, Arthur thought. But he said, “Walter, Sammy is dead, remember?”

“Dead! Good God, man, what happened?”

Arthur got it then, and he was offended. Withers was calling to make sure his alibi was intact.

“A guy walked into the bar and shot him,” Arthur said. “And Chick.”

Walter Withers was shocked. New York had achieved a promiscuity of violence that was simply unacceptable.

“Who would want to do a thing like that?” Withers asked.

“I don’t know,” Arthur said pointedly. “I was in the can.”

“How traumatic for you, Arthur.”

Arthur hung up thinking that Walter Withers was one cold-blooded cookie.

Walter hung up and tried Gloria again. Perhaps she had heard from Polly. If he could just get a lead on Polly, he could probably persuade Scarpelli to give him another advance on the expense money.

“Hi!” Gloria’s voice said brightly.

“Hello,” Withers said.

“I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now,” Gloria’s voice continued, “but I would love to get a message from y-o-u. So leave one at the sound of the beep.”

“Gloria, it’s Walter again. I’m wondering if you heard from your friend. Please ring me. Please.”

He hung up and wandered into the lobby to score another free drink.

He approached one of the fabulous showgirls in the revealing togas and tried not to stare at her breasts as he requested a drink.

She looked down at him suspiciously and asked, “Are you really with the convention?”

“Certainly.”

“There’s supposed to be a three ambrosia per guest maximum,” she said. Then she saw his face crumple in disappointment and added, “I can give you a virgin ambrosia; it’s just tomato juice. A lot of the Triple-X people are in the program; maybe you should try it.”

Withers looked dolefully at the vegetable concoction.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked. “Sacrifice it to the volcano?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” He sighed. “And no thank you.”

“I’m a friend of Bill’s,” she confided.

He looked unabashedly down her toga and said, “Bill must be a happy soul.”

She looked around quickly and handed him a real drink.

“You’re a kind person, Calpurnia,” Withers said.

“There’s a meeting in the Sandals Sandals room tonight,” she whispered. “You should check it out.”

“Are you and Bill going?”

“You’re a funny guy,” she said as she padded off to inflict hospitality on other guests.

“You’re a stitch,” Ron Scarpelli agreed. “Where’s my money?”

“Ron!” Withers exclaimed.

“Call me Mr. Scarpelli,” Ron growled. He was dressed for business: a three-piece white suit, black silk shirt open at the neck, gold chain, and white loafers, with no socks.

Ms. Haber, in a white tube top and white pantaloons, stood over his shoulder like an erotic backdrop.

“What are you doing here?” Withers asked.

“What am I doing here?” Ron shouted. “What are you doing here! You’re supposed to be out getting me Polly Paget!”

A few heads in the lobby turned at the name. Ms. Haber steered the two men to a banquette behind an enormous palm tree.

This gave Withers a few seconds to think. There was only one thing to do: Lie.

“That is precisely what I am doing,” he said quietly. He leaned closer to Scarpelli. “She’s here.”

“In Vegas?”

And keep lying.

“Right here in this hotel.”

“Is that why you called?”

Is that why I called?… Is that why I called?… Did I call?

“Yes,” Withers said.

Scarpelli leaned closer. The smell of Brut was overpowering.

“Why’d you hang up on me?” he asked.

“I was about to lose her,” Withers said. “Had to go. I’ve been on the trail ever since, so I couldn’t call back. That’s why I look so…”

“Shitty?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re making this up,” Scarpelli accused.

“Certainly not,” Withers answered.

“Ron,” Ms. Haber said, “if she’s in this hotel, is it possible she’s signing with the film people?”

Scarpelli looked genuinely alarmed.

“Hard-core?” he asked. “That’d be a terrible mistake. We’d pay her more for one spread than she’d make in a dozen movies!”

“All the major magazines are here, too,” Ms. Haber warned.

“Shit,” Scarpelli said. “Walt, we gotta make our move. Where is she?”

Where is she?… Where is she?… Let me think now… Where is she?

Polly Paget knelt in the front seat of the Laredo and applied the last touches of makeup to Candy Landis.

She inspected her handiwork and said, “Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

Candy looked into the rearview mirror.

“If she did, she’d have a heart attack,” Candy said. “I look like a whore.”

“Better,” Polly said.

Polly, on the other hand, looked like a young gym teacher with her newly shorn hair and unadorned face, over a University of Nevada/Reno sweatshirt, sweatpants, and tennis shoes.

Neal knocked on the window and Karen opened the door.

“Okay,” Neal said. “You and I are married.”

“Neal, we’re going to check into a hotel pretending we’re married? How cute.”

“Who am I supposed to be?” Candy asked.

Neal looked at the cohost of “The Jack and Candy Family Hour” for several moments before he found the nerve to answer, “Desire.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A pornographic film actress,” Neal said. “You, too, Polly.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“A pornographic film actress!” Candy repeated, her eyes wide. “Neal, I don’t know if I can…”

“It’s just for the paperwork,” he assured her.

“But aren’t I a little old?”

“Ah, you’re only as old as you feel,” Polly said. “What’s my name?”

“Amber Flame.”

“Amber Flame?”

“Shut up.”

Neal started to haul baggage out of the back of the Laredo.

“Polly,” he said, “lose the sunglasses. People take a second look at someone wearing sunglasses indoors, and we don’t want second looks. We’re just going to walk in, get in an elevator, and walk to our rooms. Don’t try to be sneaky; don’t try to be inconspicuous. Questions?”

Polly asked, “Why can’t I be Desire and she can be Amber Flame?”

“Is her hair red?”

“It can be,” Polly said.

“It’s not going to be,” said Candy. “They’re naked in these shows, aren’t they?”

“No, they keep their shoes on,” Polly said.

“You’ve seen them!” Candy shrieked.

“Sure, haven’t you?”

“No!”

“Someone want to take a bag?” Neal asked. “Mrs. Heskins? Amber? Desire?”

“Where have you seen these movies?” Candy asked as she walked toward the elevator.

“If you really want to know, Jack used to have me rent the videos. He wouldn’t go himself because he was afraid he’d be recognized,” Polly answered.

“Weren’t you embarrassed?”

“Watching or renting?” Polly asked.

“Renting.”

“No.”

“Watching?” Candy asked.

“Uhhhh… no.”

Candy reverted to her talk-show voice, “Did you find them stimulating?”

Polly thought about it for a while.

“I liked the clothes,” she said.

This is wonderful, Neal thought. I’ve got a desk clerk who’s a big fan of movies that don’t exist, a skin-magazine mogul whose cash I’m using to hide the woman he’s paying to find, and the woman herself, who watches porn films for fashion tips.

“Desire and Amber Flame,” Karen said, enjoying herself immensely. “How can a simple mountain woman like me ever understand what goes on in the mind of the man who shares my bed?”

“I had to think of something on the spot,” Neal said.

“So they came from your unconscious. Interesting.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you have an actual plan or are you pretty much making this up as you go along?”

“I have a plan,” Neal answered.

Which I’m pretty much making up as I go along, he added to himself.

“She’s in a room under an assumed name,” Withers said.

“What room? What name?” Ron Scarpelli asked quickly. He sounded like an overcaffeinated chipmunk.

Withers watched three muscle-bound gladiators pass by. He waited for them to get way out of earshot. He would have waited for them to leave town if he could have gotten away with it, but Scarpelli was actually chewing on his gold chain.

“I have a call set up with my snitch,” he said. “She’ll have the room and the name.”

“Who’s the snitch?” asked Ron.

Withers looked at the charm dangling from the chain in Scarpelli’s mouth. It looked like a little spoon.

Withers answered, “I can’t reveal a source.”

“You can if you’re paying this source with my money.”

“What if you were captured?” Withers asked. “Then what?”

“Captured! What are you, drunk or something?”

“This is a virgin ambrosia,” he told him. “I’m undercover, you know.”

Ms. Haber rescued him by gliding onto the banquette and whispering urgently, “The buzz in the lobby is that Tommy Heskins is here with some kind of big deal. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Who the fuck is Tommy Heskins?” Ron asked.

“The Swapper series, Ron?” Ms. Haber prompted. She hadn’t heard of the Swapper series until three minutes ago, but everyone was talking about it, and it was her job to keep current.

“Shit,” Ron answered. He’d never heard of Heskins or his Swapper movies, but he didn’t want to appear unhip in front of her. “He has juice.”

This confused Withers, who thought it was Bill who had the juice.

“Megajuice,” Ms. Haber agreed.

“And tomato juice,” Withers added, wanting to contribute.

“Walt, get on the phone to your snitch,” Ron ordered, remembering even in this moment of crisis to speak with authority. “We need the name and room now! And Haber, find out where Heskins is staying so we can keep an eye on him!”

Ms. Haber rushed off to charm a desk clerk.

Withers sat on the banquette to finish his drink.

“What are you waiting for?” Ron asked.

I’m not really sure, Withers thought, but I’m probably waiting for Gloria to stagger back into her apartment for a Saturday matinee in the company of some man she picked up in a bar.

The room had lava lamps, of course-big ones-and thick shiny red curtains and a red cover on a big round bed. The carpet was stone gray flecked with red and the wallpaper was black with red and gray splotches on it.

The bathroom was black, with a black sink, black sunken bathtub-Jacuzzi and black shower stall. The plumbing fixtures were fake gold.

“I think the theme suggests that impending death by molten lava is an aphrodisiac,” Karen said. “Does it do anything for you?

“No,” Neal answered.

“Me, neither.”

There was a knock on the adjoining wall.

“Come in!” Karen yelled.

“Our room is beautiful!” Polly warbled. “It’s just like yours!

Candy made a face behind her back.

“Okay,” Neal said, “here are the rules. Basically, you are prisoners here, ladies. You don’t answer the phone; you don’t answer the door. You don’t make any phone calls.”

He looked pointedly at Polly, who looked innocently back at him.

Neal continued: “All meals will be through room service. Karen or I will call them in and have them delivered to this room. When the maids clean your room, you will be in our room. When the maids clean our room, we will be with you. Any unexpected knocks on the door, you will repair to the bathroom. Any questions?”

“When do we get to gamble?” Polly asked.

“I don’t think I’m making myself clear,” Neal said. “You can’t leave these rooms.”

“For how long?” Polly asked.

“Forever,” Neal said. “You will be here until the day you die.”

Or until we’re caught, whichever comes first. In a town where they know who draws to eighteen down, in which hotel security is tighter than on an Israeli airliner, and where both the mob and the feds have permanent staffs watching the airport, someone is going to make us. But hopefully not before we can cut a deal.

“During the duration of this ordeal,” Neal pronounced, “we will continue in the education of Polly Paget. I say we because I am hoping that both of you other ladies will add your considerable talents to this monumental effort.”

“You’re taking a shot at me, right?” Polly asked.

“Better me than someone in a ski mask,” Neal answered.

“I have a question,” Candy said. She had washed off the makeup, done her face, and looked like her tightly wrapped self again. “What, if anything, are you planning to do about my husband? I mean, it seems like this hit man thing has put us on the defensive. I don’t know about you all, but I would like to go on the attack. When do we do that?”

Neal checked his watch.

“I think right about now,” he said. “Polly, I want you to make one more phone call.”

“What would you like to drink, sweetie?” Gloria asked. She leaned forward to let her guest see the coming attractions.

“A scotch, please,” Joe Graham said. He looked at the top of her breasts while wondering if her glasses were clean. The woman looked a little sloppy. Of course, most women who picked you up in the Blarney Stone at 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon were not going to look like Loretta Young coming downstairs.

Then again, he probably didn’t look so hot himself, having spent half the night on an airplane.

The place is a mess, Joe thought as Gloria fixed the drinks in the kitchen. The carpet needs shampooing, the coffee table needs dusting, and the faded picture of Bobby Kennedy needs a good Windexing. Plus, it’s overheated and smells of stale cigarette smoke.

Graham looked at his watch. He’d cut this a little too close. Then again, it had been a long time since he’d picked up a woman in a saloon.

“Hey, Gloria, forget the drink, huh?”

“What’s the matter, Joe? Are you in a hurry, or are you afraid it’ll wilt your asparagus?”

My asparagus? I have to get out of here.

“I was wondering if you’d heard from Walter Withers lately.”

Her hand stopped above the glass for a half second, then she relaxed, poured the drink, and smiled.

“You know Walter?” she asked.

“From the insurance business,” Joe answered. “You know, sometimes when you get a claim you think isn’t kosher, you call a guy like Walter. I know he hangs around that bar.”

She came in from the kitchen, sat down, and crossed her legs to show the maximum amount of thigh. Graham thought it looked pretty silly for a woman her age.

“I don’t think Walter’s been getting so many calls these days,” she said. “He hangs around the bar too much.”

“Yeah, well.”

“When you get to the point where you can’t handle your booze…” Gloria added, letting the point trail off.

Graham picked it up.

“So, have you heard from him?”

She opened a mock leather cigarette case, took out a filtered Winston, and waited for him to light it. When he didn’t, she shrugged and reached for a lighter in her purse. Joe saw that she sensed something was wrong, but she was trying to keep it light.

“I had a drink with him about a week ago, I guess,” Gloria said. “Are we going to talk about me and Walter or me and you…

“When you saw Walt about a week ago,” Joe said, “did you talk about your friend Polly?”

“Who are you?”

“Did you?”

“Maybe.”

The phone rang. She lighted her cigarette and made no move to answer it.

Joe walked over to the window, opened it a foot, and stood in the fresh air. It was something he had always taught Neal-when you take over, take over. Make the space your own-little things lead to bigger things. It was the same with interrogations. Usually, your goal was to make people swallow a big ugly, so you’re better off feeding it to them in small bites.

“It’s okay with me if you don’t want to answer your own phone,” Graham said. “Anyway, your machine is on, so we can both listen.”

She leaned over to turn it off. Graham grabbed her hand and forced it to the receiver.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi, it’s me,” Polly said.

“Kid, how are you?”

“I’m fine, but I’m scared. Someone tried to kill me.”

“Oh my God!”

She looks surprised, Graham thought.

“Gloria, look, I want you to know where I am in case something happens. I’m at the Bluebird Motel in Sparks, Nevada. Room one-oh-three.”

“Got it, kid. Listen, maybe you should call the cops.”

“No!”

“All right, kid. Stay in touch, huh?”

Gloria hung up and looked at Graham.

“I brought you up here thinking we could have a few laughs,” she said. “It isn’t too late…”

She looked pathetic.

“You’re a very attractive woman and I’m attracted,” Graham lied, “Unfortunately, we have a problem we need to work out…”

“What problem?” Gloria asked.

Now she looked scared. He sat down next to her on the couch.

“What do you owe Joey Beans?” he asked.

Yeah, that’s it, Graham thought. It’s right there in your eyes.

Gloria said, “I didn’t know he was going to kill her.”

“No, you thought he was going to have roses delivered,” Graham said. “Did Walt know about the hit?”

She laughed. “Walt! Walt thought he was getting her to pose for dirty pictures.”

“He was a decoy.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of the family,” Graham answered. “Now, are you going to do the right thing, Gloria?”

She took a short hit on the cigarette before she answered, “If I knew what the right thing was.”

Graham handed her the phone. “Make the call.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yeah, I’m a real comedian,” Graham said. “Make the call. And remember, Joey Beans can’t protect you up here.”

She took the phone and dialed.

“Hello, Harold?” she said. “Take this down.”

After she finished giving Harold Polly’s new whereabouts, Graham said, “I’m curious. How much did you owe Joey Beans? What’s a friend’s life go for these days?”

The phone rang.

“Saved by the bell,” Gloria said as she reached for the phone.

Graham shook his head.

After the beep, they listened to Walter Withers’s plaintive voice ask Gloria to call him.

“You aren’t home when he calls,” Graham told her. “Leave him out of this now.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it.”

“Okay, okay.”

She leaned back on the couch and studied him.

“If you call Joey back, I’ll know about it,” Graham lied.

“You can trust me,” she said.

Not while your heart’s beating, Graham thought. He got up and walked out without looking back.