Ron Shade
She’d cut her hair shorter and had obviously eased up a bit on the bleach bottle, but Candice Prokovis looked pretty much like her old Illinois driver’s license photo. She held open the door, and Alex and I stepped into the air-conditioned coolness of the house, followed by Hal and Ross. Hal was quietly filming the whole thing, and he hadn’t even asked to go to the bathroom yet.
“May I call you Candice?” I asked.
She edged over to the sofa but didn’t sit down. Her lips compressed and she nodded.
“The game’s about over,” I said. “We need to talk to your husband.”
“Who are you?” She directed the question toward Alex.
“I’m Alex St. James. I’m a reporter for Midwest Focus NewsMagazine.”
Candice looked from her to Hal, who had the camcorder on his shoulder recording, and then to me. She tapped the newspaper. “I assume you’re the one who left this here?”
“Like I said, Candice, the game’s over. You can see what the stakes are. I know you’re in over your head. These people don’t play around.”
This seemed to perplex her for a moment, then she regained a modicum of composure and straightened up. “Just what is it you want with us, Mr. Shade?”
I let her question hang there, trying to make it look like I knew more than I did. After a sufficient pause, I said, “It’s time for Bob Bayless to go back to Chicago and face the music. Cooperate with me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Cooperate?” Her voice sounded brittle.
It was my turn to nod. “Like I said, those kind of people don’t play games. That paper shows it. They’re cutting out the weak links, eliminating any trail back to them, and, let’s face it, you and your husband are next on the hit parade.”
Twin patches of color stained her cheeks, but she silently considered my words.
“Where is your husband?” Alex asked.
She’d broken my rhythm by asking, and it threw me totally off my game. Candice’s attention immediately shifted to her. I guessed she’d erroneously assumed I wasn’t getting anywhere.
“He’s not here right now.”
“Where is he?” Alex repeated.
The other woman’s eyes shot down to the carpet, then up again. “Maybe I’d better call him.” She took a cell phone out of her jeans’ pocket and dialed a number. After a few rings, it was apparent Bayless had answered. “Hi, it’s me.” Pause. “Yeah, they’re here now. I’m talking with them.” She listened some more. “He’s got two reporters with him and some other guy.”
I really need to get on that phone, I thought. Maybe if I could talk to Bayless, I’d be able to get him to see the light.
“Bob,” Candice said, “they brought a Chicago paper showing that Dr. Colon and his receptionist are dead. Murdered. He says we’ll be next if we don’t cooperate.”
Whatever he said next took a long time. Her end of the conversation was filled with “Un-huhs” and “Un-uns,” but it was too vague to follow. And then, “All right, I’ll put him on.” She held out the cell phone toward me. “It’s my husband. He wants to talk to you.”
I couldn’t believe how well this was going. I felt like a fighter who suddenly gets his second wind in the seventh round, just as his opponent loses his. I wanted to keep my greeting salutation as neutral and unthreatening as possible, so I just said, “Hello?”
“Shade? It’s Bob Bayless.”
He didn’t sound like a dead man. “I know. We need to talk. I’m here to help you.”
“Help me?”
“Yeah.” I paused, listening for any background noises. Nothing was distinct, which made me think he was in a room or a car. “You got some bad-ass people on your trail. They’re obviously eliminating loose ends to their little escapade, and you and your wife are probably in their sights. Do they know where you live?”
“What?”
I took a chance. “Farnsworth and his Russian buddy. Do they know where you set up house?”
I heard his breathing. He was obviously thinking. Probably wondering how far he could trust me.
“Bayless, they’re here in Las Vegas,” I said. “There isn’t much time. Where are you at?”
“I’m . . . by the Strip.”
That nailed things down, all right. “Yeah, so are a million other people. Where exactly?”
More silence, then, “Okay, Shade, listen. I’ll meet you. I want to talk this over first.”
“Meet where?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, I can’t come home, if you found me this easily.”
“I’m good.” I continued to press him, “But I can’t stop the clock. You agree to come back with me now, testify about your involvement, blow the whistle on their little parts-by-number scheme and they’ll probably go easy on you. You don’t, they’ll find you, and I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen then, do I?”
“No,” he said, “you don’t.” Another pregnant pause. “Okay, listen. I’ll talk to you, like I said, but nobody else. No reporters, or anything. Not at this point.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Where?”
“Go to the back entrance of the Arabesque at Sahara and Paradise,” he said. “You know where that is?”
“Yeah. Is that where you’re at now?”
“Park in their garage, and then call me at this number.” He read off the digits slowly. I scrambled to get my pen out and write them on my hand. Candice shoved a piece of notepaper at me. “I’ll be watching. If I see you’re not alone . . .”
“Relax,” I said. “I will be.”
“Let me talk to Candy again,” he said. I handed her the phone. She listened intently, and then said, “Okay.” She hung up.
I looked at Alex. I didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone here, but she would have Ross.
“You all right with staying here?” I asked. “He wants a solo meet.”
“I figured as much.” She smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”
The same pluckiness that had irritated me earlier now gave me a sliver of reassurance. She looked like she could take care of herself. But meeting a walking, talking dead man alone and on his home ground had me feeling a bit uneasy. After talking with Bayless I was even more convinced he’d taken an easy exit from his humdrum wife and now it was all catching up to him. I turned to Ross and canted my head in Alex’s direction as I asked, “You mind staying here and watching the store till I get back?”
“No problem,” he said.
“You packing?” I asked the question, even though I knew the answer.
“Yeah. You?”
I shook my head.
“Here.” He raised his right foot and placed it on the arm of the sofa. Pulling up his pantleg, he withdrew a chrome snub-nosed revolver from an ankle holster. I was beginning to like this guy more and more. “Take my back-up piece, just in case.”
It was a five-shot thirty-eight Smith and Wesson. I automatically flipped open the cylinder and checked the load. “You aren’t going to need it?”
He shook his head and lifted the bottom of his billowy shirt, displaying a big semiauto in a pancake hostler. “If I can’t hit ’em with this, I ain’t gonna. Nineteen shots.”
“Ah,” I said. “I prefer the Beretta myself.”
He shook his head. “Nah, there ain’t nothing like a Glock.”
I grinned and held up the revolver. “Except a Smith.”
Alex, Ross, and I all double-checked that we had each other’s cell phone numbers, and I walked toward the door. There was a lot about this arrangement that was making me uneasy. I guess it showed. As I pulled open the door, Alex spoke.
“Shade . . .”
I turned.
“Be careful,” she said.