I got out of the limo and rang the front bell, hoping someone’s personal assistant or maybe another security guard was around. Nothing. I tried the front door on the off-chance it had been left unlocked. It wasn’t.
I went back to the limo and fished out my cell phone from my pocket, and called A-1’s dispatch. Tony Politino was working the lines.
“Tony? It’s Jonah. I need the contact number for the Rapid Confession job.”
“You got that job?” Tony let out a wolf whistle. “Lucky bastard.”
“Not as lucky as the cleaning crew,” I muttered. “You got the number or not?”
“Hold up…”
I rubbed my eyes and waited until Tony came back on.
“Jimmy Ray. He’s their manager,” he said. He droned the phone number. “And hey, sneak a few pics for me, right? The blonde? She’s fucking smoking.”
I glanced at the girl sprawled on the back seat. An insidious thought crept in. I could take a few pics of her, sell them to a gossip rag and make a killing. I’d lose my job, of course, but with the money from the photos I wouldn’t need it. I could spend all day, every day at the hot shop and never have to worry if my installation would be finished on time for the gallery opening in October.
It was a nice fantasy except for the small fact that I’d never forgive myself for being such a lowlife scumbag. That I’d even entertained the idea was repulsive. I chalked it up to tiredness, along with the heavy pang of dread that lurked behind every waking thought, ready to ooze out if I let it. The fear that told me I was running out of time and the installation would be left forever unfinished.
“Keep to the routine,” I muttered.
“What’s that, bro?” Tony asked.
“Nothing, thanks for the number.”
I hung up on Tony and called Jimmy Ray, the band manager. I remembered him—he stuck out like a flashy used car salesman in my memory. A skinny, middle-aged guy who dressed and acted like he was a decade younger, trying to be slick. He talked to the women in the band as if they were his meal ticket instead of human beings.
Jimmy Ray answered the phone on the fifth ring but talking was impossible. Loud music blasted from behind him, and the chaotic sounds of a hundred voices shouting and screaming almost drowned him out.
“Hello, what? What?”
“Mr. Ray,” I had to shout. “I’m your driver.”
“What? I can’t hear a fucking thing.”
“I’m from A-1 Limousine—”
“Who the fuck is this?”
I rubbed my eyes. “Elvis. Elvis Presley. Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated…”
“Look, whoever this is, I’ve got a damn catastrophe on my hands. Call me back.”
More shouting and then it all turned muffled. The guy had probably put the phone in his pocket without hanging up.
I ended the call on my end and checked the time. Just after two a.m. On the darkened street, no lights heading my way, no one coming home. I glanced inside at the nameless girl.
“What am I going to do with you?”
The urge to take her back to the Pony Club and hand her back to the bodyguard was a strong one, but that poor bastard probably had his hands full.
I shut the passenger door to the limo and got back behind the wheel. This whole scene felt seedy and wrong. I wanted to get her someplace safe and while taking her to my apartment wasn’t exactly kosher, it was better than seeing her splayed out and drunk in the back of a puke-splattered limo.
“I hope you realize this is highly irregular,” I told her as I navigated out of the Summerlin estates. “Totally not in the employee handbook. In fact, I seem to recall watching an educational video about this sort of thing, How Not to Get Sued Into Oblivion. Step one, don’t take your fares home with you, especially if they are of the blacked-out drunk and female persuasion.”
At two in the morning, Vegas showed its dark underbelly. The streets were filled with the most desperate: gamblers hoping to salvage some of their losses, hopeless drunks, drug dealers and prostitutes. This was the Vegas I hated, but as I crossed the Strip, heading east, I passed the Bellagio. My smile returned. There was real beauty in Las Vegas. You just had to know where to look.
The Bellagio’s lobby ceiling was one place. In my rearview was another.
The girl passed out on the long seat threw one tattooed arm over her eyes and gave a little moan.
“We’re almost there,” I told her gently. “You’re going to be okay.”
I pulled the limo to the front of my apartment complex. I lived in a cement box of a building, with pale gray stucco and crooked railings peeling lime green paint.
“I know it’s not the luxury villa you’re used to,” I told her, “but beggars can’t be choosers, am I right?”
The girl, still deep in her booze-soaked nap, wasn’t in a position to choose anything.
I parked the limo along the side of the building as close to my first floor apartment as I could get. Illegally parked? but hidden from the street.
I jogged to my front door, unlocked and opened it, and flipped on the light near the door. Back at the limo, I climbed in and sat beside the girl.
“Hey,” I said, nudging her arm gently. “Hey. Can you wake up for me?”