Neon Nights: Daymond Runyon meets James Ellroy in the Nevada Desert Read online

  I was lucky that Jimmy Johnson was the desk sergeant when I called. Jimmy was from the South and didn't have much regard for anyone who worked for the government. He called them Federals, and treated them like they were from a foreign country. (Jimmy Whispers) "You really got things stirred up, that Federal is mad as a bull who sat on a bee. He's been yelling about having you picked up for assault, but the Chief told him he wasn't going to get involved. He suggested you two settle it in the ring down in the basement." Jimmy chuckled and said, "You got to promise me front row seats if he's dumb enough to challenge you."

  "Is he still there?"

  "Oh, yeah, and he's telling everyone about you attacking him for no reason."

  "I guess I'd better stay away."

  "That would be wise." I started to hang up, but Jimmy stopped me. "Hold on, you got a mess of messages for you." He laid down the phone, and I wasn't sure but I thought I could hear Kemper in the background yelling. Jimmy picked up the phone and read my messages to me. Most were day to day stuff, like my shirts being ready. The only thing of interest was Gene Malloy had called. He left a number and said it was important. I thanked Jimmy and promised him front row seats if a fight ever materialized between Kemper and me.

  I’d even give Kemper a couple of free shots if he got into the ring with me but I knew that was never going to happen. What I didn’t know was he was going to hurt me much more than he could ever do with his fists.

  Chapter Five

  The House of Bottles

  The number Bottles gave me rang and rang, but no one answered the phone. I really didn't want to go to his house but if I wanted to see him, I had no choice. Bottles lived east of town on what was once a chicken ranch. The chickens had long ago been eaten and the farmer had moved on to greener pastures. Bottles rented the place for next to nothing because most people couldn't stand the smell of all those chicken droppings roasting in the Nevada sun. Bottles either couldn't smell or he was too screwed up to care. Either way it didn't matter to him, but it did to me. Fortunately the wind was blowing and if I was lucky, I could stay up wind.

  Unfortunately, the wind was carrying the smell toward me as I turned into Bottles' driveway. Reluctantly, I got out of the car. I knocked on the door and I thought I heard something move inside. I shielded my eyes and looked in the window. Something moved in the shadows and I knocked on the window to get its attention. Whoever it was, pointed what looked like a shotgun at me. I jumped back and yelled Bottles' name. I didn't get an answer and when I peeked in the window again, whoever it was--was gone.

  I had no idea who was in the house. It could be Bottles acting crazy or it could be someone up to no good. Either way I had to find out. I stepped back and kicked the front door. It splintered and reeled off its hinges. I put my hand on the butt of my revolver and stepped inside. The place was a mess! The sink was erupting with dishes and trash littered the floor. The house had its own unique odor that confirmed my theory that Bottles had something wrong with his sense of smell. I walked into the hallway and tightened the grip on my gun. I had no idea what might happen, but I'd learned long ago not to be too cocky. My drill sergeant in the Marines summed it all up when he said, "Very few have died of being too careful, but lots have from being too reckless."

  At the end of the hall I had a choice. I could walk into the living room or turn to the right and go upstairs. The choice was made for me when I heard something upstairs. I moved quietly up the stairs, and when I got to the top, I was confronted by several closed doors. I tried the door in front of me. It was locked. I moved to the next door and it was also locked. All the doors I tried were locked. Then I heard the sound of a door being unlocked behind me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I flattened myself against the wall. A shotgun had a lot of advantages in a closed‑in space, and a major one was it didn't have to be aimed. It just had to be pointed in the general direction and fired. I brought my gun up to eye level and watched the doors. Someone, possibly with a shotgun, was behind one of those doors. I stood silently, for what seemed like hours, waiting and watching, and finally, one of the doors moved slightly. I charged and hit the door with my shoulder. I could feel the door hit someone behind it. I rolled into the room, and it took a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Then I made out a shape lying on the floor. I aimed my gun at the shape and grabbed the shade on the window behind me. I pulled it but it wouldn't roll up. I pulled harder and jerked the shade off the window. The room was suddenly flooded with light and I could see the shape on the floor definitely wasn't Bottles. Not unless his hair had grown several inches and turned blonde in the last few days. It looked like a young girl. When I started to roll her over, she kicked me and ran toward the door. I grabbed her ankle and held on. She fought back with feet and fists flying in all directions. None of the blows were doing any damage but they had the potential. I let go of her ankle and she bolted toward the door. This time I grabbed her belt and spun her to the floor. Again I was hit with a cascade of flying fists. I grabbed her by the wrist and yelled, "Stop it or I'll break your arm." Which only seemed to spur her on, so I tried to grab her other wrist. It took a few tries, but I finally got a hold of both wrists. She was still fighting but now I could tell her who I was without getting pummeled. "If you don't stop, I'm going to arrest you for assault on a peace officer."

  She stopped struggling and looked at me. "You're a cop?"

  "Yeah and if you don't knock it off, you're going to jail!"

  She relaxed and stopped hitting me, "Why didn't you say so? I wouldn't have given you any trouble if I'd known."

  "You didn't exactly give me a chance to introduce myself. Why did you point a shotgun at me?"

  "I thought you were one of the Mexican Zoot-suiters Gene owes money to. The last time they were here they said they'd take me in trade." Her eyes flashed and her voice took on a hard edge. "I might not be able to take out all of them but I'll make sure a few of them get hurt."

  The way she said it made me a believer. If I were some scum ball, I'd think twice before I jumped her. All you might get for your trouble was the ability to sing soprano. "Speaking of Bottles where is he?"

  She thought about my question for a second and shook her head. "He's not here."

  I suspected Bottles was probably doped up and she was afraid I'd arrest him. "I'm not going to arrest him, all I want to do is find out why he called me."

  A smile broke over her face, "He's in the back. Come on I'll show you.” She leaped toward the door and I had to hurry to keep up. At the end of the hall, she opened a door and, sitting on the floor, was Bottles. She stepped aside and whispered as I went past, "He geezed about an hour ago so he's pretty screwed‑up." I took a step inside the room, and she shut the door behind me.

  Bottles was really feeling the effects of the heroin. He was on the nod, and while he wasn't feeling any, he'd be a pain to deal with. The first thing I had to do was get his attention. I grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a shake. He opened his eyes. But hypes can look right at you and never see you. I shook him again, and this time I got a look of recognition. He mumbled something but he was the only one who knew what it meant. "Come on Bottles--wake up!" Bottles half grinned and nodded off again. Stronger measures were needed if I was to pierce his narcotic stupor. I slapped him across the face. This time I got through. Bottles started to fight back and I grabbed his arms and held him down. "It's me‑‑Bottles!"

  He focused his eyes and stopped fighting. "What are you doing here, man?"

  "You called me, remember?" He was starting to nod off again. I grabbed his arms and shook him hard. "What did you want to tell me?"

  I was about to give up when his hyped-up brain suddenly came alive. "It's about Johnny Del Rio. He's dead you know."

  "Yeah, I know, what did you want to tell me about him?"

  This time Bottles strained to stay with me. "Do you know where Johnny was the night before he got cooled? He was at Jake's trailer park. I got a buddy who plays piano there and
he told me he saw Johnny that night." Bottles drifted off to ride the white horse and this time I let him go.

  I went downstairs and the girl was sitting in the living room reading a movie magazine. She looked up and smiled. "Did you and Gene have a talk?"

  "As much as we could, considering his condition." My remark caused her to giggle. I wondered if she'd been geezing-up dope with Bottles. I wanted to walk over and pull up the sleeves of her shirt to find out but I didn't. For now, it would be her business. That didn't mean the next time I saw Bottles, I wouldn't have a talk with him about what was and wasn't acceptable behavior as far as she was concerned. I reached inside my coat and held up a twenty‑dollar bill. "I got to go and I owe this to Bottles." Normally, I'd only give him a five, but maybe she could use a few bucks. "Five is for bottles, ten is to get the door fixed and the rest is for you."

  She looked surprised. "I didn't do anything to earn it."

  "Yes you did--you helped me find Bottles." We both knew that was a load of crap. But she didn't object when I put the bill the arm of the chair. I took out my note pad and wrote down my phone number. I handed the paper to her. "If those Zoot-suiters come back, give me a call."

  "Thanks," she said and put the piece of paper next to the twenty. "Would you like to stay for supper?"

  I was tempted but the smell of this place answered that question. She looked disappointed when I said, "Maybe another time." I walked to the door and realized I didn't know who she was. "If you call, I'd better know your name--mine's Kelly."

  "Hi Kelly, I'm Suzie--Suzie Kurtz and I'm glad to meet you."

  * * *

  The neon night was fast approaching and I wanted to warn Dick about Ted Kemper so he wouldn't walk into a buzz-saw in the morning. At this hour, it would be useless to look for him at his house. He'd be in the honky-tonks down on Fremont Street.

  The first place, I stopped at was a replica of an old west saloon, which was, until Bugsy turned everything upside down, how the city father's envisioned Las Vegas--they thought if the town looked like a Hollywood back lot, tourists would flock here. They even went so far as to proposing a law which said all new buildings had to look like they were made in the 1890's. That idea went all to hell when Bugsy built his pink oasis in the desert. He knew people would be more attracted to glamour that some quaint ideas about making the town look like a John Ford Western. So he ignored the city father's wishes, when he built the Flamingo. His idea worked and now everybody generally ignored the Old West concept. Some businesses, like this one, were built before Bugsy arrived and they looked a little out of place anymore.

  Dick wasn't there, so I drove down Fremont to Lucky's Bar and Grill. Lucky's hadn't gone old west or Bugsy slick. It was a working-man's bar and it didn't make apologies for not following either trend. Dick liked the place because it reminded him of his old neighborhood bar back in Ohio. I came from California so it didn't have the same effect on me. Lucky said Dick hadn't been in and offered me a beer. I was more hungry than thirsty so I ordered one of his chicken-fried steaks. He set a beer in front of me and slid over some peanuts to eat while I was waiting for my steak. Chicken-fried steak was something Lucky did really well. I enjoyed every bite, and when it was finished, I was sorry there was no more.

  Eating also had the effect of slowing me down. I was bone-assed tired and didn’t have the energy to worry about what Ted Kemper was or wasn’t going to do any more. I probably should have tried harder to find Dick and tell him about Kemper and Vinnie’s attempt to bribe me but I didn’t, and that was the second mistake I’d made today.

  Chapter Six

  Jake’s Place

  At first it was only a whisper in the darkness and easy to ignore. But the sound grew louder and more annoying. Finally, I had to wake up. I had no idea where the sound came from. I grabbed the alarm clock and switched it off. But the ringing didn't stop. I stumbled across the room to the telephone. "What," was the best salutation I could muster.

  "Just what in the hell happened between you and Ted Kemper?"

  I told Dick my story and ended with, "Look, if it'll do any good, I'll apologize."

  "Screw him, he's a jerk and I'll tell Carson City exactly that. If they don't like it, I'll tell them--if you go, so do I."

  A nice gesture for Dick to make, but I doubted Carson City would be swayed by his threat of resignation. I didn't want to talk about Ted Kemper anymore. I changed the subject to Johnny Del Rio. I told Dick about his visit to Jake's trailer park the night before he got rubbed out.

  "That's interesting maybe we ought to drop by and see Jake."

  I looked at the clock. It was after nine. No wonder Dick called me. I was late to work, and I didn't want Dick to know I'd just gotten up. So I lied a little. "Why don't I meet you at the station and we can go over to Jake's. I was just going out of the door when you called,"

  "Jesus Christ. Don't do that. Ted Kemper is here and I don't want another fight in the middle of the squad room. Meet me at Alice's Truck Stop in half an hour."

  Alice's Truck Stop was once a railroad dining car which had been permanently sidetracked onto a concrete slab. The truckers who were on the Los Angeles to Salt Lake City run all stopped there. Tourists, who believed the best grub could be found only at truck stops, flocked to the place. To me, Alice's greasy eggs and ham weren't any different than any other greasy eggs and ham, but Dick didn't think so. I ordered eggs and ham and without being asked, the waitress sat a steaming pot of coffee in front of me. I don't drink coffee but it smelt nice and I didn't protest its presence.

  Dick walked in and poured himself a cup. He said, "You about ready to pay Jake ‘the snake' a call." Dick got an evil grin on his face and said, "Rousting him at this hour of the morning will really piss him off."

  Dick was right. Jake didn't like being woke up. He stormed out of his bedroom in a red silk robe and told us to leave. With greasy black hair and pock-marked skin Jake was no prize during the day, but first thing in the morning he was ugly enough to make Alice's Truck Stop eggs do a rumba in my belly.

  Dick told him he didn't care what he wanted. Jake fumed, snorted and refused to answer any questions until he could call his lawyer. Dick lost his patience and slapped Jake across the face. Jake turned bright red and sputtered, "Who in the hell do you think you are? You can't do that. I'll have you up on charges if you lay another finger on me."

  Dick balled up his fist and hit Jake on the nose. It started spurting blood, and Jake looked like he was going to pass-out. Dick grabbed him by the collar and shook him. "Look you weasel. I want to know why Johnny Del Rio was here the night before he got stiffed." Dick slammed Jake into the wall. "Now, tell me you S.O.B. or I'll..."

  "Screw‑you, Pearson." Jake bellowed. "I'm going to get my lawyer and he'll make dog food out of you--Now get the hell out of here."

  For a second, I was afraid Dick might come unglued and really bounce Jake. Instead he laughed and let go of him. "Dog food? Where in the hell did you come up with dog food? You're a funny guy, Jake. You should do a routine for your customers. I'll bet they'd die laughing. Is that how Johnny died--laughing?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Jake hissed.

  "I'll bet you do."

  Jake stuffed some tissue up his nose to stop the bleeding. He looked like a Walrus and sounded like he had a cold. "I got nothing to say and I want you out of here. I'm a business man and part of my business is not talking about my customers."

  Dick broke into laughter and poked Jake in his chest. "What's this businessman crap? You're a pimp, Jake. You run a whorehouse--an illegal whorehouse, which up to now, has been allowed to operate because it wasn't bothering anyone, but that could change. Your girls could get rousted and your customers could get the word it isn't safe to come to Jake's anymore. Do you want that to happen?"

  Dick had Jake by the short hair and he knew it. While prostitution is legal in Nevada, it isn't in Clark County. It was outlawed during the war because the Army insisted it be banned before th
ey would put a base in north of Las Vegas. The Army didn't want to explain to mothers, wives and girlfriends why they allowed their fathers, husbands, and boyfriends to be corrupted by the legal temptations of Eve. The size of the Army payroll convinced the city fathers all the cribs on Front Street had to go. The law didn't eliminate prostitution; it just moved it out of town, and as long as the cat houses stayed a respectable distance out of town nobody squawked. Least of all the military, whose officers made up about half of Jake's cliental. Dick could make Jake's life miserable and Jake was well aware of his status. He meekly asked, "What do you want?"

  "I want to know about Johnny, and, Jake, don't leave anything out."

  Jake pulled the tissue out of his nose and lit a cigar. "Okay, so Johnny was here the night before he died. He dropped by to see his girlfriend. What's wrong with that?"

  Dick chuckled and shook his head. "What do you mean girlfriend? Cut the crap and don't try to convince me this is a social club and the girls are almost virgins. How long did he stay, who did he see and when did he leave?"

  "He showed up about nine. He went to see Angel in number three and stayed about an hour. Then he left. That's all that happened--satisfied?"

  "After we talk to Angel, I'll let you know." Jake started to get up but Dick pushed him back into his chair. "We'll talk to Angel alone. I wouldn't want her becoming upset because of your presence." Jake didn't look pleased but he didn't protest either.

  He didn't have to protest because Angel did enough protesting for both of them. She told us several times she'd only gotten three hours sleep she wasn't happy to be talking to us. She also wasn't a big fan of Johnny Del Rio's. To prove her point she rolled up her robe and showed us some bruises on her arm from her last encounter with him. "Jake says he'll take care of the rough trade, but not Johnny," she said. "Jake don't say nothing to him. I might as well go back working the street. There, at least, I didn't have a couple of cops waking me up in the middle of the morning."