Vegas Moon

11.

“She’s dead, you know,” Gwen says, after polishing off her second beer.

“Who?”

“Phyllis Willis.”

“The plastic surgeon?”

Gwen nods. “She was murdered. And four people in her office. It’s all over the news.”

“When did it happen?”

“Early this morning. The police were here, for like, an hour.”

“Why here?”

“She wrote a message on the bottom side of the toilet lid with her lipstick. When the detective went in there to pee, he lifted the lid and saw the message.”

I shake my head. Phyllis kicked my ass with that one. I must be slipping.

“What did the message say?”

“Connor Payne did this. Lucky and Gwen Peters are next.”

“Why you?”

“That’s what the police wanted to know.”

“And you said?”

“I told them I never heard of Connor Payne.” She looks at me carefully. “But you have, haven’t you.” A statement, not a question.

“I have.”

“Is he a depraved maniac?”

“Some people think so.”

“But you could kill him?”

“I could.”

She gets up to fetch another beer from the fridge. “Want one?”

“I’m good.”

“You don’t look like a hitman,” Gwen says.

“What do I look like?”

“Some actor. Can’t remember his name. One of the handsome ones. You probably get that a lot.”

“I do, actually. But thanks.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

“No?”

“Anyone can have good looks. What counts is money.”

“Right.”

“And power.”

“Yup.”

“And fame.”

“Lucky’s got those things,” I say.

“He does. But he’s not powerful.”

“No?”

“Not like you.”

We look at each other a minute, then she says, “Speaking of hit men, you want a hit, man?” She grins at her joke.

“I don’t.”

She stares at me the way she might look at a talking dog.

“Everyone snorts,” she says.

“Not me.”

“Shit,” she says. “You’re what my mother would call a square.”

“How old’s your mother?” I say.

She laughs. “You don’t want to know.”

She’s right. I don’t.

Then she says, “You want to see my cock?”