Vegas Moon

42.

I’m in the rental car, heading to Lucky’s house.

I called Gwen after landing, but got no answer. I thought about leaving a message, but I’m the world’s worst when it comes to voice mail. If Gwen isn’t waiting up to let me in I’ll sleep in the car. In fact, I’ll sleep in the car anyway, and make Lucky happy.

This guy Lucky never warmed up to me after I threatened to kill him. Nor was he thrilled I made Hampton Hill feel him up. Nor will he be pleased to learn I spent two hours fucking his wife instead of guarding him. Hell, when Gwen and I run off together he’ll probably be upset about that, too.

It’s like my grandpa often said: “There’s just no pleasing some people.”

I’m a mile away from Lucky’s when I realize something is terribly wrong up ahead. The road is flat, the horizon full of colors. The kind of colors cop cars and ambulances make.

The line of cop cars starts a hundred yards before Lucky’s gates, and continues fifty yards beyond. There are a dozen cars in Lucky’s front yard, and at least two ambulances. Though it’s after midnight, there’s traffic, and it’s crawling as people crane their necks to gawk. Two cops are directing, telling everyone to move along. I want to say something, but can’t. If I ask what’s happened, the cops’ll tell me to move along. If I tell them I’m Lucky’s bodyguard, all hell will break loose. They’ll want to know where I was, what I was doing, who was I with, why wasn’t I here, and of course, I’ll become their primary suspect. They’ll start looking into my past and see I have none. This will raise eyebrows and next thing you know, I’m in lockup.

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.