Chapter Five

Chance City will never catch up to Las Vegas. Vegas had five brand-new, multi-story casinos. Chance City, on the other hand, was more intimate—each casino catering to a certain crowd such as the Italians, the old farts, or the high rollers. Chance’s casinos looked more like back-alley dice-joints, if you asked me, but since no one did, I still called them casinos. Of course, from where I was currently boxed in, I couldn’t see even a single slot machine.

When I was eight, my brother once dared me to climb down a well by our house, assuring me there was treasure below. I slipped halfway down and broke my leg. The entire neighborhood had to be mobilized, and eventually I was lifted out to cheers of a score of people. My brother was properly chastised, but his punishment didn’t keep me from being mortified that I couldn’t even climb down a well without injury.

Where I had chosen to hide was much more embarrassing than that.

If anyone were looking for me, he’d have to seek out the back of the train first; then he might have spotted me: the satin blue steamer trunk being offloaded by baggage handlers. Not one of my prouder moments.

And I had to piss like a racehorse on a flat rock.

According to Vincent, once the targeting solution hit my bloodstream, it took forty-eight hours to completely pass through the system, twenty-four if I peed a lot. So I had drunk the Colorado River’s worth of water, which didn’t seem like such a great idea at the moment.

I was left completely to my imagination in the darkness of the trunk. A noise could be anything from Vincent coming to get me to one of the Hero Twins aiming for the kill.

It’s in moments such as this you get to reflect on the mistakes of your life. I thought when death came for me, I’d be glad. I hoped to see Tangie waiting on the other side of the bright light with welcoming arms. I feared seeing Satan waiting with open arms to punish me for my sins. I thought of the people I had done wrong—women I had lied to, clients I had cheated.

Ultimately, I convinced myself that I had done every wrong thing for a right reason. Had I forgotten what it was to be the good guy? Maybe working for the police was a subconscious attempt at balancing the scales. What if my insincere actions are what brought me to this end; splattered all over the inside of this trunk?

Did I deserve this?

I got warmer. Beads of sweat rolled unbidden from my temples. Sure, Nevada was a desert, but that didn’t stop my paranoia level from escalating. I was being irradiated, and those would be my last thoughts. I swore to myself, to God, and to anyone who would listen that I’d be the good guy again. I wouldn’t lose track of Einstein’s words. I would put mankind first.

Right after I bashed in the head of the son of a bitch who murdered Tangie.

Three raps came in quick succession—the code. Lee and Vincent had me.

Vibrations told me I’d been lifted and deposited into the trunk of a rental car. Anyone with a brain watching Lee and Vincent would put two and two together and realize I was in the steamer. The trunk had some protection but not enough.

Whoever was driving took off like the start of the Indianapolis 500. There were screams but not of adoring race fans. It also sounded like he rebounded off of something hard. Good thing this was a rental. Of course, it must be Wan Lee behind the wheel.

After five minutes, give or take, when I was sure we were clear, I pounded on the trunk and yelled. Lee found a Hank’s Diner with a public restroom. When they let me out, I bolted for the men’s. Two minutes of relief later, I was sitting in the backseat of the Mercury, scowling at the back of my partner’s head as he snickered. Then Lee realized it had been a while since he’d hit the head himself and stepped out.

At times, Wan Lee was so childlike, but then Mafia Lee came out. Maybe he had a split personality. Maybe he needed both elements to balance the two sides of his life. Could his goofiness be a coping mechanism?

Vincent, on the other hand, seemed pleased for the first time that his plan had worked, and for my part, I was too.

“How do you feel, Mr. Glass?”

“Like I just pissed a barrel of Ancient. This exciter fluid, what’s it composed of?”

“No idea,” Vincent admitted.

“How does it work with the microwaves?”

“Not a clue.”

“Are you only this obstinate for my sake, or are you always this oblivious?”

He smiled. “Oh, this is just to keep you guessing. Mr. Reece said to not make things too easy on you.”

“Well, you certainly followed that instruction to the letter.”

His laugh was low and deep. He had taken the ribbing well. The success of our escape had made him pliable, but if he was going to talk, I wasn’t going to him stop now.

“How long were you with Reece?”

We got out and stretched. Vincent’s bones clicked like the sound of a gun being cocked, while my cracking sounded sick, like the breaking of a branch.

I got a look at our car for the first time; I had rushed back from the bathroom so quickly that I hadn’t had a chance to examine it before jumping inside. It was a ’52 Mercury, blue. It was a little road worn, being a rental, and Lee’s additional dings added to the overall mystique, but it was still a hell of a lot better car than mine.

“He hired me about eight months ago when they tried to MASER him full on but failed.”

This was new.

“Reece was attending an opening for a new science wing of the State College of Colorado. Little Technologies had donated a huge chunk to SCC to see it happen, so he was invited to speak. It was pure coincidence that saved him.”

“How’s that?”

Vincent chuckled. “Reece wasn’t feeling well as he sat waiting for his turn to speak, but felt completely better when he got up. He happen to glance out and witnessed the Hero Twins off in the distance, trying to get around a lead statue Reece had unknowingly lined himself up with.”

“Holy shit!” It was just crazy enough of a story to be true.

Vincent leaned against the trunk, took out a cigarette and lit it. I hadn’t seen him smoke before now. Was he slipping off when I wasn’t paying attention, or was talking about Reece stressing him to the point he needed a crutch?

“I was brought in to design safety protocols; he made them all work. He was very agreeable to my suggestions, and I believe they kept him alive longer. I wanted him to stay at the house, but he pushed for the office version of the vault. It’s hard to imagine every eventuality. I didn’t take fire into consideration. I should have designed a quick escape route.”

“I doubt a hundred-and-one-story fireman’s pole would have passed inspection.”

He dropped the half-finished stick to the dirt, ground it in, and looked at me with a grin. “No, I doubt it would have.”

Lee returned with a rolled-up paper. He splayed it out on the hood of the car so we all could see. The morning blab sheet wasn’t good. My picture, about twelve years out of date, was on the front page with the headline American Traitor!

Not since the arrest of Alger Hiss has America been so shocked to find the enemy in our midst. The Central Intelligence Agency has issued an arrest warrant for once-noted scientist Noel Robert Glass for suspicion of selling military secrets to a foreign power.

Glass, who was cleared of negligence charges in the failed New Mexico Institute of Technology experiment that cost the lives of six colleagues, has been working as a private detective in Industry City for the past twelve years. Industry City Chief of Police Charles Sweet has agreed to fully support the CIA in the apprehension of Glass. At the joint press conference, Sweet remarked:

“You just can’t trust those brainy types [ … ] always think they’re smarter than you.”

General Duane Archdeacon is coordinating Army Intelligence efforts with the CIA to close down travel to and from Industry City, where Glass was last seen. Roadblocks and checkpoints will be in place until Glass is apprehended, according to Archdeacon. Glass’s apartment laboratory was discovered and searched, and investigators found much that disturbed them.

One army official, who wished to remain anonymous, said, “He could’ve been making anything in there, from a milkshake to an atomic bomb for all we know.”

According to unnamed sources, Glass was in possession of several military-level documents and blueprints that were property of NMIT. The army has called upon NMIT in the past to develop military-grade technologies, including those recently used in Korea. It is their fear that Glass has been selling secrets to the Communists in North Korea and may have compromised our brave men and women serving overseas, thus prolonging the police action.

It is of note that Glass was last seen in the company of two men. One, Wan Li of Industry City, is believed to be Glass’s North Korean military contact. The other, Vincent Richmond, is the former bodyguard of C.J. Reece of Little Technologies, a frequent contractor to the U.S. government. Richmond is wanted for questioning in the fire that killed Reece yesterday. The ICPD are now classifying the fire as arson and Reece’s death a murder.

The picture they had for Vincent looked even older than mine, and the character sketch for Lee looked as if Kim Il Sung himself had sat for the artist.

“I’m not Korean! Lee! L-E-E! Not L-I! What it take to make these yahoos get it straight? I not bust my ass to protect my family from internment camp only to get thrown in jail for being wrong slant-eye devil!”

Lee had told me how hard it was on him during WWII and immediately afterward. Luckily, one of his immediate family had been a member of the 442nd, the all-volunteer Japanese-American fighting division. When the war was over, the 442s were treated like the true American heroes they were. Japanese across the country had found a smooth integration back into society, more so than the blacks had after the Civil War, or even the Germans. However, if this mess wasn’t cleared up, Lee might bring shame down upon his family. Even worse, he risked the wrath of Obasaan. That was someone I’d be afraid of making mad, too.

I placed a hand on Lee’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll find Mendelssohn and clear all our names.”

He kept staring at the article, as if willing it to rewrite itself. He finally nodded.

Vincent took the paper, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it in the nearby trash. “We have to take different precautions now. Luckily, they used old images of us, but seen together, we’ll stand out. We’ll need to take that into account.”

Vincent had picked a fleabag hotel away from the main drag, knowing full well the place wouldn’t examine our identification too closely. We checked in under our aliases one at a time, being careful not to look anyone in the eye. Vincent had gone first then sat at a slot machine and kept the lobby under surveillance as I checked in. Lee was fortunate to arrive at the same time as about seven other Japanese gamblers. He blended into the crowd. We got to our rooms without incident.

I didn’t bother to unpack. I just threw my suitcase on the dresser and plopped down on my bed. I was feeling out of sorts. Since this affair began, I felt more like a spy than a gumshoe. I was not accustomed to all this subterfuge. Sure, I had gone undercover once or twice, but normally my investigations revolved around a logical set of facts and clues.

I treated every case as if it were a science problem: cause and effect. If the lips were purple instead of blue on a stiff, then what caused that? Okay, poison. Take a blood sample. Analyze what poison and how long it took to kill and how it should be administered. Next, how could the victim have come in contact with the poison? And so on. Sweet and I weren’t that much different. He looked for the same clues I did. I just used a different set of formulas, and I kept digging until I had the solution that fit all the facts.

Here I was being driven by other people instead of taking the lead myself. I wasn’t in control. Reece set me on a trail and I went, but he gave me a watchdog in Vincent. Lee was there to watch my back, but because of General Archdeacon and the CIA, now I’d be watching his too. I had no clues, just Mendelssohn’s name. I had no facts, just conjecture.

I kept a little, leather-bound journal in my jacket pocket for taking notes during a case. I retrieved it and wrote the following:

In the case of the murder of six people and subsequent framing of Noel Glass for that murder.

Who rigged the microwave experiment?

The obvious answer was Jorge Mendelssohn, but did I know that as a fact? No, I had no confession, just Reece’s word. But for the sake of kick-starting the brain box, I wrote his name.

Why?

Reece again said this was due to greed, power, and control. As I thought about it, I really had nothing that didn’t come from Reece. Certainly his death would seem to confirm all that he had said, but Reece wasn’t an investigator. Mendelssohn could have been railroaded as easily as I had.

Yet there was the dream. Whether brought on by subconscious desires or fears, seeing Mendelssohn there felt right. My gut, as Sweet would put it, was telling me Reece had been right. Yet the reasoning was off. I knew Jorge. I knew how power hungry he was, but I also knew he was patient. He wasn’t that far off from running his own projects. Hell, if the experiment had worked, he would have been in a great position and been able to ask for almost any job he wanted. I wrote instead:

Someone forced him.

It fit better. Wrong as the deed was, I was guessing Jorge was coerced into it. Maybe I was still feeling sentimental, but it fit with my hypothesis.

Who?

Archdeacon? It also didn’t seem likely. While our government lambasted assassinations and formally outlawed them from as far back as the Lieber Code to the currently accepted Geneva Convention, they were no more above under-the-counter dealings than any third-world country. Yet, a weapon that could be used openly in combat such as a gun wouldn’t cross that morality line. There had been write-ups in the war journals about snipers and how they had made a difference on the Russian front. The MASER didn’t fall into the same category. It was tool for evil, built for deception and not the weapon our government could ever admit to using.

I left the answer as Mr. X since I still wasn’t sure if our government was that devious. Corrupt, yes. Murderous, well, despite Senator McCarthy’s regular ranting, I couldn’t believe a conspiracy around every corner.

Instead I wrote, Why hide this weapon? Then added, Why did Mendelssohn go into hiding six months ago? Why did they want to kill Reece a year ago? What did they both discover last year that caused Mr. X to act? Why do they want to kill me?

As I thought of more questions with no answers, there were three sharp raps on my door. Through the peephole, I saw nothing. Vincent must be standing in front of it. I drew my gun anyway. I placed the chain on and cautiously opened the door a crack.

A shrimp cocktail was shoved in my face. “Look! They give this away free!”

Lee’s overwhelming excitement had me wanting to close the door and throw the deadbolt.

They had brought lunch. Vincent went directly to the window, took a peek, and settled down on the second of my two beds. Lee set a tray covered with cold cuts on the table. I slapped a couple of slivers of ham and Swiss cheese on a slice of rye and folded it over. It reminded me of staff luncheons at NMIT. I think the cheese was reused from one of them.

Lee talked from behind a mouthful a food. “Whaboutdissungburd?”

Vincent and I gave each other a questioning look. He said, “Sorry. I only speak drunk.”

Lee swallowed hard and asked again, “What about this songbird? What we know about her?”

“She goes by Merlot Sterling,” Vincent relayed as he opened a bottle of beer for himself and one for me. “She does a blues review over at the Money Tree Casino. Broke free from the Chicago scene a few years ago. It seemed like she was going to go somewhere with it, but then she settled in to the club thing right after meeting Mendelssohn. They got along like a house on fire. Success didn’t seem to matter to her anymore. That’s what my contacts came up with, anyway.”

I took the offered Ancient. “So tell me, why is she still alive, Vincent? I’m surprised Archdeacon didn’t make her tops on his list. She was intimate with Mendelssohn, so he had to have told her things, things Archdeacon wouldn’t want revealed.”

“Maybe Mendlebaum not only guy she cozy with? Maybe she got big-time benefactor that even Archdeacon afraid of.”

Lee’s suggestion made sense, especially since he had his own moll.

Vincent liked the way it sounded too. “What? Like the Chicago mob?” Vincent stroked his chin. “That’s a thought. There could be a hornet’s nest where she’s concerned. Yeah, it fits together nicely.”

“That means we take it easy with her. Spook her and she’ll go running to Mendelssohn. Hurt her, and she’ll run to the mob. Last thing we need is another enemy. I recommend we grab some Zs after lunch. It’s going to be a long night if we plan to tail her.”

Vincent disagreed. “We can’t tail her if we’re watching our backs. We need to take care of the guys after you, Mr. Glass. I did a little looking around, and I have an idea. I think we can catch them and maybe get one of those guns for you to examine. You know, so you can present it as proof.”

“But what about Merlot? She’s our link to Mendelssohn.”

“I think we’ll have time for both. Let me explain …”

* * *

After the guys left, I noshed a few more pieces of pig flesh before hitting the hay. By the time I awoke, it was dark. Lee had left a note at the desk for me to find him by the craps tables. When I got there, the stack of chips in front of him represented twice my income for the past two years, before taxes.

Let’s go! I indicated with a gesture.

One more!

He took the dice he was handed. He warmed them in his palm, letting them tumble one over another. I reviewed his bet on the next roll. He was betting four to place. He had already rolled his point, so the odds would have been in his favor if he bet single on the pass line, but he chose to go for the big payout. If he won, he’d make enough to fund my prototype himself. If he lost, the casino would breathe easier tonight.

After the dice flew and the dealer took everyone’s chips, Lee shrugged as if the loss hadn’t been any worse than tossing two bits in a bum’s tin at Christmas. I would have cursed a blue streak, yet for Lee, it was just cop and blow.

I envied Wan Lee at that moment, yet I couldn’t decide if it was for the ability to control his emotions or the size of his imagined bank account. Crime must pay, and well.

“So, Lee …”

“Don’t want to talk about it. We have show to catch.”

The Money Tree Casino was nicer than our hotel, but that didn’t take a whole lot. You’d think it was the most popular place in town, if you counted its size as a factor. We walked between row after row of slot machines, all occupied by aged tourists, foreigners, and clydes.

We staggered our entrance to the Gaslight Lounge as we had at the lobby. Lee had made acquaintances of the Japanese tourists earlier and invited them to Merlot’s show. Some were in attendance; they waved to him as he entered.

I thought it was too convenient. The timing was too perfect on Lee’s end and they had all gotten chummy really quickly. I know casinos are colorblind when it comes to money; they can see only green. But Chance City wasn’t particularly known as a great place for Asian tourists. Lee had taken his time back at the Hank’s when we arrived. Was it enough time for a phone call? Did he send for backup?

I chose to lean against the bar along the right side of the room. I made no visible recognition as Vincent entered and took up a position toward the back. Vincent’s size would be our only tell. He couldn’t blend in anywhere.

The bartender brought me an Old Johnny and cola. When I discovered in Reece’s office that my patterns were so predictable, I decided to switch embalming fluids every chance I could. My first foray into uncharted territory was simple, safe.

I turned and took in the lounge. Crushed red velvet hung loosely from the walls. The wall sconces were made to look like Victorian-style gas lamps, the fake flickering flames cast moving shadows in every nook and cranny. Faces, even comely ones, appeared dark and evil in that light. Anybody could be out to kill me; my observational instincts were useless here.

To the left of stage, an easel displayed a sign:

Merlot Sterling in “A History of the Blues.”

At five after, the lights dimmed and someone started tapping on the eighty-eights. Having grown up on the outskirts of Chi-town, I was an alligator when it came to the blues. I had no musical talent, but most Friday nights you’d find me in a club, enjoying the music. I recognized the tune within the first few notes, a Bessie Smith classic called “T’ain’t Nobody’s Bizness If I Do.”

The music abruptly stopped as a spotlight illuminated the center of the stage. Bathed in blue, the ebon skin of Miss Sterling appeared gunmetal gray. She stood motionless, a steel statue wrapped in the finest silks. The audience held its collective breath as we waited for the artwork to come to life. Even the bottle tippers were quiet.

We didn’t have to wait long as her eyes slowly opened and she took in the room. Her eyes pierced the darkness, as if she were looking at each one of us. That was talent. I knew full well the spotlight would blind her from seeing anything but the first row.

Merlot reached out and pulled the microphone closer to her full, red lips, as though she wanted to honor it with a kiss. Many men in the audience, Lee included, wanted to be that mic.

The piano man started blowing on the box again as she sang:

There ain’t nothing I can do, or nothing I can say

That folks don’t criticize me.

But I’m goin’ to, do just as I want to anyways,

And don’t care if they despise me.

If I should take a notion

To jump into the ocean

T’ain’t nobody’s bizness if I do, do, do.

Her pipes were clean. She sang with Bessie’s passion but wanted to step out from Miss Smith’s shadow. Her rendition was clearly her own. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense; she was a bit too Rubenesque for me, yet she implied a level of grace that one didn’t see in your average canary. Merlot was classic and everyone wants to own a classic.

I could see why Mendelssohn locked on to her. She was everything he wasn’t, a yang to his yin. She was his taboo, and as she sang, she showed signs of knowing that she would forever be every man’s taboo.

Dare to know me, Merlot implied, and risk your soul.

After the first number, the stage lit up and the rest of the band blew up a storm. She got friendly, talking to the front row about where they were from and taking requests. When she spoke, it came with a slow, Memphis drawl that didn’t reflect her big-city upbringing—another indication that she knew exactly what she was doing up there. The fact she played small venues like this meant something held her back.

Merlot stayed focused on Lee longer than the rest. Through the next songs, she flirted with him almost to the exclusion of the other patrons. This raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I checked Vincent’s reaction and saw him cock an eyebrow. For his part, either Lee was a good actor or he was falling for her attentions, hook, line, and sinker.

How had Lee become the Alvin? Maybe she’s still alive because she’s in on the whole scheme. Archdeacon enlisted her help from the beginning to keep Mendelssohn in line. Could she still be here on Archdeacon’s orders? The Hero Twins knew where we were going, so that meant Archdeacon did too, right? Had we walked into another trap? How did everyone stay one step ahead of our plans when we went to such pains to conceal them?

The thing I’ve learned about traps is everyone expects you to know it’s a trap, but necessity forces you to enter it anyway. Our course was laid and all we could do was follow it.

Merlot walked back to her bandleader, and they had a little chat. He dug through a pile, pulled out some sheets, and distributed them to the others as she walked back up.

“I’d like to finish with a special number for you tonight. It was written by the great Sidney Bechet and originally sung by Margaret Johnson.”

Her eyes got catty as she leaned over the top of the microphone; she talked the intro in a singsong style:

Honey baby, there’s one more thing I’d like to know

Before it’s my time to go.

You know and I know too

You’ve been running around … all over town

And now that your mama is Chicago bound …

Merlot left the stage and walked up behind Lee. She twirled his hair for a moment then subtly cued the band. They broke out like measles as she sang:

Who’ll chop your suey when I’m gone?

Who’ll corn your fritters Sunday morn?

She moved to the front and leaned across Lee’s table.

When you’re feeling chilly … And heat’s your desire,

Who’ll go down to your cellar and put coal on your fire?

The crowd whooped at Merlot’s innuendo. The blues were as naughty as one could get without taking off clothes, and Miss Sterling sung them with raw sexuality. She made men think bad thoughts and women feel restless. All the audience members not made of stone would be heading back to their hotel rooms after this show.

She pulled Lee’s chair back and sat on his lap. I wondered if she had room.

Tell me while I’m putting chili

On your con carne,

Who’ll chop your suey when I’m gone?

Merlot returned to the stage, leaving a sweating Lee to his voyeurism. She finished up the number and thanked the crowd for coming. She blew Lee a kiss before heading behind the curtain. By all accounts, that was an invitation to her dressing room and Lee was ready to take her up on it.

In the hallway behind the lounge, he exclaimed, “What a woman! Two big smokestacks and a fully loaded caboose. I think I am in love. I go call wife and tell her I leaving her.”

I grabbed Lee by the collar and pulled him away from the phone booth in his mind.

We found Merlot’s dressing room door and knocked.

“Who is it?” she inquired from behind the closed door.

I gave her my best impersonation of Wan Lee. “I got an order of chop suey to go for Miss Sterling?”

I heard a giggle as she opened the door. Her eyes low, her voice sultry. “Now, kind sir. What type of lady do you take me—”

Merlot stopped dead when she saw my face. There was no hesitation. She knew me immediately. That must be why she landed the left hook to my jaw.