A Vegas Happening
by Gary Clifton
“Oops, sorry, ma’am. I swear I’m not drunk at three in the afternoon.” The man laughed heartily. “Not ever’ day I manage to run over a beautiful lady in an elevator.”
The two had been hurrying to catch a lift down, and their collision in the elevator doorway was mild but awkward. The woman knelt to retrieve her handbag, but the big man in his Stetson hat beat her to it. Handing the bag up to her, he laughed. “Ahm Buck Roundell, ma’am, and a thousand pardons, please,” he drawled in John Wayne style, and extended his hand.
She touched his hand lightly. “No biggie. I’m Charlene.” Her movement in the closet-size space accentuated her chesty figure. He’d wager her little bauble-covered purse carried enough cash and plastic gold to buy him a couple of months in the Caymans and maybe a counterfeit-titled Maserati from Louie French over in St. Louis.
“Ma’am, I was on the way to the bar. I’d be honored if you’d join me?”
She giggled. “I suppose it would be okay, Buck.”
He guided her to a pair of empty stools. “Your pleasure, ma’am?”
“Jack Daniels on the rocks, a double.” She smiled impishly sideways at him.
He snapped his fingers at the bartender. “Double Jack on the rocks for the lady. Same for me.” He was surprised by a woman ordering hard liquor. He’d have this babe staggering drunk within an hour.
The bartender set the drinks in front of them. Buck tossed out a pair of twenties. “Keep the change.”
The young female bartender smiled and moved down the bar while Buck appraised her backside carefully.
Charlene said hesitantly, “Buck, I like your ten-gallon hat... It’s very macho. But could you nix the ‘ma’am’ thing? I already feel old as hell.”
“Charlene, country-boy habits are hard to break, ya know. And good heavens, you’re anything but old.”
She tossed down a healthy belt of raw whiskey. “So, you come to Vegas often, Buck?”
“Vegas, yes. And that handle, Buck, has been handy in my bidness. I own Atlas-Frederick Motors in Little Rock and Jackson, Mississippi.”
She smiled.
“How ’bout you? Vegas often?” he asked.
“I’ve never been here before.” She looked over at him. He saw the cloudiness of liquor in her eyes. Ol’ Buck was rounding third base again. He’d soon have her bedded and short one fancy purse.
“So, Charlene, what brings you to secret city?”
“I’m out here from Chicago. He — my damned husband — has one too many sweet young things becoming so brazen they actually call the house and ask me if Chad is home. Good God.” She touched a napkin to her eyes. “Looking at a Vegas divorce.”
“Bummer.” He touched her shoulder.
“Buck, I can tell you understand a woman’s needs.” She reached over and placed her hand atop his.
“What does your husband do, Charlene?”
“Lawyer and investment banker. More money than Russia. The morals and affection of a lowland gorilla.”
“Oh dear.” He improved his lay by placing a hand lightly around her shoulders. Up close, she smelled of lilacs. He’d have that shiny purse full of gold in a couple of hours. Keep talkin’, bitch.
“Charlene, what say we take a tour of folks in a better frame of mind out in the casino.”
He was surprised how easily she chugged her Jack Daniels double. “Lead on, Buck, my newfound pal.”
She slid her arm under his, and they strolled past people standing in line to lose money.
It crossed his mind that he needed to be careful in choice of names of the imaginary car dealerships. His dealings with a car dealer had resulted in a three-year stretch in Jefferson City for “borrowing” a demo in Kansas City. He’d paroled out three months earlier.
In the joint, he’d learned things. He’d driven the shiny new $300,000 Mercedes SL 63 all the way from New Orleans with the top down, laughing at the ease of putting one over with a counterfeit ID on that sleazy, supposedly mobbed-up car dealer, Tony Multisonti.
Suddenly, she stopped and kissed him with a lingering passion. No one looked up at a common scene in Vegas. “Buck, take me to your room.”
After a stumbling, embrace-heavy stagger up the elevator, he opened the door. “I’ll undress in the bathroom, baby,” she purred. “I want your body on that bed, now.”
In seconds, Buck had tossed his clothes in a pile and stood, nude by the bed.
He was stunned, not that she emerged from the bathroom fully clothed, but by the silenced pistol she pointed at him. “Your car is beautiful, baby. The key, please.”
He fumbled in his pile of clothes. handing her the key, his mind calculating how to steal a replacement. “No reason we can’t use this bed before you steal my ride, Charlene.”
“Not a chance, Homer,” Her voice was suddenly cold.
A shard of fear seized Buck. “Homer? How the hell do you know—?”
“You really think you could light-finger a $300,000 ride from Tony Multisonti, you dumb hillbilly?”
“Hey, Charlene. See, I’m givin’ it back.” He lost his bladder on the carpet.
She smiled. “Not Charlene, Homer. I’m Tony Multisonti’s repo guy.”
* * *
“Lieutenant, AFIS ID’d this mope as Homer Clark, small-time grifter out of Kansas City. Just paroled out of Jefferson City; grand theft auto. Casino office shows him registered as Buck Roundell drivin’ a high-dollar Mercedes, no vehicle registration, stolen license plates. No Mercedes located. We got security photos, but he’s dead, and the woman on camera with him is long gone. We got fingerprints up the wazoo, but none we can tag her with.”
“Sarge, it’s another damned robbery. With no vehicle registration data, we’ll play hell tracing that Mercedes. Unlikely we’ll ever get a line on who did this. File-thirteen this mess.”
“County will have to bury this guy, lieutenant. Another case of ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’”
Copyright © 2024 by Gary Clifton
