Vegas Moon - John Locke

Gwen is very young, and stunning.

Not Callie Carpenter stunning, or even super model stunning. But Gwen would be right at home with any of the troubled TV and movie starlets I’ve seen on the news. The ones who are in and out of court, and rehab, and who always show their naughty bits when entering or exiting limos. She has that same bored, pouty look that tells men she knows what she wants, and has the currency to get it.

What she doesn’t look like is a wife.

Gwen holds out her hand, introduces herself. I take it, and tell her who I am. When we end the handshake, she stands aside so I can enter. When I do, she closes the door behind me, locks it and says, “He’s got tits, you know.”

“Excuse me?”

I turn to face her. She’s wearing gray sweat pants and a pink t-shirt upon which is printed: TREAT ME! RIGHT. Except that the first two letters and the last five are printed in black, while the rest are in red.

If she and Lucky break up, if her t-shirt is any indication, I can picture Gwen babysitting for Charlie Sheen.

“Boobs. Hooters. Breasts. You know, tits,” she says, cupping her ample breasts.

“I know what they are,” I say. “I’m just not sure what you’re saying. About Lucky.”

She circles around me, and starts walking.

I’m supposed to follow.

Not that I mind following. She’s got an athletic body that looks just as good from this angle as it does from the front. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to adjust to the hypnotic sway of her backside, as she moves down the hallway. On a scale of one to ten, I give her a two for attitude, and a nine-point-five for looks.

Sometimes I tell Lou Kelly or my daughter, Kimberly, about the people I run across, and they say, “Is every woman you meet drop-dead gorgeous?” I’m sure it seems that way, because I do encounter an out-sized number of beautiful women in my line of work. It makes sense that I would, since most of my male clients are exceptionally wealthy, and can afford to support such women. And the women assassins I know, with the exception of Carla Mutato, were recruited primarily for their looks, and trained afterward. At the same time, my business often takes me to the opposite end of the spectrum, where I deal with dead-eyed killers, wide-eyed thieves, junkies, hardened criminals, broken-nosed bodyguards, nasty-assed pimps, broken down whores, scar-faced mob enforcers, and a wide assortment of others who, together, comprise the very dregs of humanity. So it’s either roses or thorns for me. Because not many average-looking people play in my park.

“You’ve got great hair,” I say.

“Thanks.”

She does have great hair. It’s thick and lustrous, and a rich mahogany brown in color, with subtle highlights at the ends. Frosted would be too much. What she’s done is unique, and to me, classy.

Gwen motions me to sit at the kitchen table. I do. She brings two beers from the fridge, hands me one. “Coors okay?”

I shrug, and twist off the top. She does the same, then holds her bottle next to mine, so we can toast. When that’s done, she smiles and says, “Lucky has implants. 34-C’s.”

“No way!”

She laughs. “Swear to God!”

“Why?”

“He bet the wrong team in the Super Bowl. I mean, his team won, but they didn’t beat the spread. The guy who won offered him a cash option, but Lucky chose the boob job.”

“The guy’s worth millions. Why would he do that?”

“’Cause he’s cheaper than shit.”

I know what this is all about. She’s bullshitting me, trying to see how gullible I am. Then she says, “Wanna see a picture?”

“Of?”

“Lucky’s boobs.”

Maybe she isn’t bullshitting me. I shrug. “Why not?”

She leaves the room a minute, comes back holding a photo, shows it to me. Callie’s right about his looks. From the neck up, he’s scary. But the tits are spectacular.

“Who did the surgery?”

“Phyllis Willis.”

I must have glanced at Gwen’s chest without thinking, because she says, “Yeah, she did mine, too.”

“Well, if they’re as nice as these…”

“They’re better.”

“Alrighty then.”

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?”

12.

“Excuse me?”

She grins. “My rooster. Where was your mind just now, gutter man?”

“You’ve got a rooster? Here?”

“I do. Wanna see it?”

“What’s his name?”

Without a hint of smile, she says, “Dick.”

“Your rooster’s name is Dick.”

She giggles. “You love it, right?”

I shrug. What do I care what she named the damn bird?

“Ask me,” she says.

“Ask you what?”

“If you can see it.”

I was about to accuse her of being childish. Then again, she appears to be twenty. Of course, my new girlfriend, Miranda the hooker, is also twenty. But she’s a gifted student, living in Brooklyn, working toward her Master’s in Counseling Psychology at NYU. I wonder if twenty years old in Brooklyn is like dog’s years compared to Vegas.

Gwen stands. “If you ask me nicely to see it, I’ll give you a kiss.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Of course!”

I smile. “In that case, please show me your cock!”

She walks around the table, bends down, kisses my cheek.

“Come,” she says, taking my hand.

I stand and allow her to lead me through a stone arch and down a long, marble hall.

“Nice house,” I say.

“Twelve thousand square feet,” she says.

“How many live here?”

“Me and Dick, and Lucky.”

“Anyone else ever come inside?”

“You didn’t just say that.”

“Funny. But seriously.”

“You’re awfully nosey.”

“I’m the bodyguard.”

“Tina the housekeeper, and sometimes Maddie.”

We stop. She opens a door and says, “This is the theater room. Nice, huh?”

“It certainly is. Who’s Maddie?”

“Maddie’s my girlfriend.”

“When you say ‘girlfriend’…”

“She and I have sex, while Lucky watches.”

“Does she happen to be here today?” I ask.

“Aren’t you the eager beaver?” she says.

“I was just taking inventory.”

“Of course you were.” She closes the theater room door, and leads me to the next one. “This goes to the garage, home of Dick the Rooster.”

She opens the door and waits for me to enter.

“After you,” I say.

“Aren’t you the gentleman!”

Not really. I was afraid if the rooster was running around loose, it might fly up and attack me. If one of us has to take a cock to the face, I’d prefer it was her.

13.

There’s no need to worry about Dick. He’s locked in a giant cage that’s six feet high, four feet deep, and takes up half the wall.

“Beautiful, isn’t he!” she says, practically breathlessly.

I don’t know much about roosters, but this one is probably as handsome and clean as they get. He’s white, with a giant, black plume of a tail, and his head and neck sport that red rooster skin thing they all have that looks like a punk rocker’s spiked hair above the beak, and a giant set of nuts below. It’s a generally nasty look. Freaky, up close.

“He’s quite a specimen,” I proclaim, for lack of anything better to say.

“While we’re here,” Gwen says, “we ought to go ahead and walk him.”

“Walk him?”

She looks into my eyes. “Unless you think it’s too dangerous.”

I look into hers. They’re mud brown, but far prettier than that sounds. “We’ll be fine,” I say.

Her smile is so sudden and radiant, it takes me by surprise.

“What?” I say.

“You’re really tough, aren’t you? I mean, you’re the real deal.”

“You think?”

Gwen launches a punch to my face, which I easily catch in my hand. She smiles and says, “I know it.”

She crosses the floor to a small sink, turns on the water, and lets it run long enough to warm. Next, she gets a cotton ball from a container and wets it with warm water. She removes the bird from the cage, holds it upside down and starts stroking it with the cotton ball.

“What are you doing?”

“Dick hasn’t peed today.”

“So?”

“If you rub a warm, moist cotton ball on his genitals, it stimulates him to pee.”

I think about telling her I haven’t peed since early this morning.

Gwen waits a moment, then frowns.

“Maybe the walk will help him pee,” she says. She fits him with a harness and attaches a leash to it. Then she pops the garage door open, and starts to leave.

“Shouldn’t we lock the door?” I say.

“Probably. Punch in 5197, then hit “Enter.”

I do as instructed, and we stroll down the driveway, walking her rooster.

“You know what I call this?” she says.

“The cock walk?”

Gwen smiles. “How’d you know?”

“Nothing else would be quite right.”

“Exactly.”

It takes much longer than I would have thought to walk a rooster to the end of the driveway. As we approach the gates, the gate goons puff themselves up to impress her. But Gwen doesn’t seem to notice, or at least, pretends not to. We pass by them, stand on the road a few minutes, then turn around and head back to the garage.

“Does he crow every morning at dawn?” I ask.

“Do you kill someone every morning at dawn?” she says, testily.

I think briefly about the five I killed this morning, but decide hers is a rhetorical question.

“Did I offend you by asking that?” I say.

“It’s just a stupid question.”

“Don’t roosters crow in the mornings?”

“No more than any other time. It’s a myth.”

“You sure about that?”

“Quite.”

We walk some more. Then I say, “What’s that red stuff on his head and neck?”

“Wattles and comb.”

“And the red-and-white part?”

“His earlobes. You don’t know much about roosters, do you, Mr. Creed?”

She could have said cocks, for shock value. But something tells me we’ve moved past that now.

“Please. Call me Donovan.”

She stops short.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She turns and nods toward the two muscle heads guarding the gate. “Could you take them down without a gun?”

I don’t even look up. “Yes.”

“Both of them? At the same time?”

“I doubt one would stand still while I kill the other.”

We start walking again, only now she’s walking much closer to me.

14.

“How much do you charge?”

“What, to guard Lucky?”

We’re back in the kitchen. It’s four p.m. Gwen has just polished off beer number four.

“To kill someone.”

“Depends on the job.”

“In general.”

“Each job is different.”

We’re sitting across the table from each other. Gwen is twisting her hair with her thumb and index finger. She’s not drunk, but not sober, either. She’s in that middle zone, where endless possibilities reside. Tipsy enough to exude sensuality, but sober enough to know what she’s doing. And saying.

“So,” she says. “If I hired you to kill one of the guards out front, what would it cost me?”

“Nothing.”

She perks up. “What do you mean?”

“I’m on the clock. I’d kill them both for free, if they tried to hurt you or Lucky.”

“Oh,” she says. Then says, “But say they weren’t trying to hurt us. Say I just wanted one of them dead?”

“I’d need a reason,” I say.

“I thought hit men killed ’cause it’s their job.”

“We kill for lots of reasons. I’m one of those who never used to ask questions.”

“And now you do?”

“Depends on the client.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re what, twenty years old?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if you were twice that, I probably wouldn’t need a reason.”

Her eyes widen just enough to show I offended her. But not too much.

“Are you saying I’m not mature enough to make that decision?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“But if I had a good reason?”

“I’d do it.”

She nods. “For how much?”

“Those guys at the gate?”

“They’re pretty tough,” she says. “Lucky wouldn’t have hired them if they weren’t.”

I nod. “Ten.”

“Ten thousand?”

“No. Cents.”

Gwen’s smile blooms before my eyes, and spreads across her face.

She says, “Would you be offended if I gave you a real kiss right now?”