Cuccia spotted the blonde with the perfect ass and the nasty attitude through his binoculars. She was lying on her stomach on a lounge near the Jacuzzis. The tall black man sat up beside her. Cuccia could see the black man pouring lotion into one of his hands.
Cuccia had just taken a long, hot shower. He was wearing a complimentary terry-cloth hotel robe. He leaned against the windows and focused on the crack of the blonde’s ass through the binoculars. The thin white strap of her thong disappeared in the crevice. It excited Cuccia. He reached inside his robe to masturbate.
When he finished, Cuccia washed himself off again in the shower. He had some time before Francone would return with a hooker. Cuccia was anxious to see what Francone would bring him. He was hoping for a blonde.
There were two women Charlie guessed were prostitutes sitting in a car in the lot behind a strip joint on Hacienda Boulevard. The one behind the wheel was a tall redhead. The one in the passenger seat was short and wearing a dark wig. He approached the car with his hands held up above his shoulders.
“I’m not a cop,” he said.
“Who asked?” the woman in the passenger seat said.
Charlie stopped a few feet from the car and let his hands down. “Can I ask you ladies a question?”
“Fifty for half an hourdquo; the short woman said.
“Thirty for straight head but you have fifteen minutes,” the redhead added.
“Unless you want us both,” the short one said. “One-twenty for half an hour.”
“I’m looking for a gun,” Charlie said. “Like I said, I’m not a cop.”
The driver leaned across her friend and winked at Charlie. “Looks like you been beat up by a few,” she said.
“They weren’t cops.”
“How do you know we aren’t?” the short one asked.
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know that. How can you prove you’re not?”
The short one opened the door and turned to face Charlie. She spread her legs and raised the short skirt she was wearing. Charlie saw her bare crotch and turned his head.
“You’re not cops,” he said.
“Whatcha need?” the redhead asked.
“Anything,” Charlie said. “A revolver if you know where I can get one. I’ll take anything, though.”
The redhead waved him around the car. He walked around the front and she opened her purse for him.
“It’s a twenty-two but it works,” she told him. “But it’s not a revolver. I can probably get you one, but it’ll take a few hours.”
“How much for that one?” Charlie asked.
The redhead shrugged. “Two hundred?”
Charlie nodded. “Deal,” he said. He peeled off four fifties.
“Hey,” the short woman said. “Don’t I get anything for the flash?”
Charlie peeled off a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the redhead. “For her efforts,” he said. “Brava, bravi.”
“Huh?” the redhead said.
Charlie hopped a cab back to the Strip, where he examined the Taurus P22 he had just purchased. The small handgun had a pop-up barrel for loading. He slipped the weapon inside the waist of his pants and had the taxi drop him a few blocks from Harrah’s. He stopped at a souvenir store to see if he might find something less dangerous than a handgun.
He ruled out the silly-looking souvenir knives and found a foot-long baseball bat with “Las Vegas Slugger” engraved on the barrel instead. He used a fresh twenty-dollar bill for the bat and a Las Vegas T-shirt that read: “Lost Wages, Nevada.”
He took his time walking back to Harrah’s. He had more than an hour before the late checkout time he knew his wife had already arranged for them. As he crossed the lobby toward the hall for the elevators, he noticed an Asian kid watching him from behind a column adjacent to the casino floor.
Charlie felt his heart beating faster as he watched the kid in the reflection from a pane of restaurant glass. He draped the T-shirt he had bought over the small baseball bat and headed for the elevators. He saw the kid pick up a house telephone in the glass reflection when he stopped to present his room key to the security guard in front of the elevator bank.
He rode the elevator wondering why they would approach him in such a public place. They had missed a perfect opportunity in a much more remote area near Samantha’s house earlier. He touched the.22 through his shirt but was hesitant to take it out. What if someone saw it? What if he had to use it?
He was glad he had bought the baseball bat. He gripped the thin end with his right hand as the elevator approached his floor.
He decided he would look for a housecleaning person once he was off the elevator. He would make believe he hd lost his key and ask to call security to let him in. He didn’t think they would wait inside his room, but there was no point in taking unnecessary risks.
When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, he saw a tall, skinny kid standing across the hall. The kid’s back was turned to Charlie, except why would anybody wait for an elevator with his back to one that had just arrived?
Charlie saw the kid was Asian about the same time he saw the knife. It missed his chin by inches when the kid swung. Charlie stepped to his right and tossed the T-shirt straight up. The Asian flinched, and Charlie was able to nail him on the forehead with the bat. The sound was distinct and loud. His eyes stared blankly as he backpedaled out of control.
Charlie saw blood on the Asian’s forehead as he followed through with a second swing, this one aimed at the side of the head. It was another hard blow but not nearly as flush as the first one. The Asian toppled over and crashed into a closed elevator door. Charlie looked around himself, wiped the blood from the bat on the T-shirt, and got out of there.
Beau Curitan sipped Diet 7UP from a can as he hunkered over the laptop on the small table in his motel room on Las Vegas Boulevard. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his left hand as he adjusted his mouse on the small pad to the right of the laptop.
“Daddy’s almost home again, honey,” he said to himself. “And I got something sweet for you.”
He smirked at the screen name he was about to start a private chat with through the CompuServe Internet program.
He typed with one finger, slowly, as he stared at the keyboard.
“You can run butt you can’t hyde,” Beau typed.
He grabbed the can of Diet 7UP while he waited for the reply. His eyebrows furrowed as he spit the last of the soda from his mouth in an effort to cough and yell “fuck” at the same time.
“Asshole!” he yelled. “I’ll give you asshole!”
Beau typed furiously then, without any regard for which keys he was striking in the heat of the moment.
“I ring yure fuckin neck you cont bihgh twat!” he typed. He said the words he meant to type aloud to himself. Then he read ONTHERUN’s response as it appeared on his screen.
“Fuck off, Beau,” the words read.
Beau slapped the laptop off the bed. He wondered if it would ever work again or if he had just cost himself another few hundred dollars.
Carol trembled with fear at her response to her husband’s Internet threat. She hoped her husband had punched the screen or kicked out the plug in anger. She hoped maybe her husband was in the bathtub and managed to pull the laptop into the water with him.
That was a better image, Carol thought as she nervously packed her laptop.
She had taken a room in a motel on her way out of Las Vegas when she realized Beau had probably traced her to the phone lines in Samantha’s apartment. The thought of harm coming to her best friend because of her ex-husband forced Carol to engage him one more time, at least for Samantha’s sake.
She was heading west. She needed Beau to follow her.