Ill Gotten Gains: Diary of a Gentle Grifter, page 4
She laughed. “Okay then. I change my mind—I’ll seriously consider going to Massachusetts and Maine with you some day in the future. It’s a tentative date.” She abruptly slipped off her stool, picked up her glass, and finished off her drink. “But right now, I need to score some more cashola. Ready to go again?”
“Let’s do it.”
And we did. Two more hits at the Mirage—nearly getting caught during the second one, which almost gave me a heart attack—and then one more at Caesars Palace, to put a cherry on top of the early, yet productive evening.
Total take for me was just shy of five grand, my initial goal. Not bad for a few hours work, which included three cocktails and ample down time spent with the ravishing Drucilla Fortuna.
As I made my way back to the Golden Cactus, I felt proud of what we’d accomplished, but that feeling soon washed away when I suddenly remembered the mysterious appearing and disappearing dead lady.
If I’d had room service bring the coffee instead of going to get it myself that morning, would I be the one lying face down on the tile floor?
While it would have been super convenient to just forget about the whole unexplainable incident and stop playing the what-if game in my head all night, I knew had to get to the bottom of what happened.
So, I planned to make a telephone call to the very last person I should be reaching out to.
Contacting her truly scared me. Just the thought of it. I didn’t want to make the call…but I had no choice if I wanted to keep-on keeping-on in Sin City.
Despite the pit that grew in my stomach, I promised myself I’d man up and somehow work up the nerve to call her just as soon as I got back to my new suite. Yet, at the same time, I knew just dialing that damned number would get me in all kinds of trouble.
6
ELIZABETH AND THE MOTHERS
“Macon?”
As I walked through the Golden Cactus lobby on the way back to the suite, my heart seemed to stop for the umpteenth time that Tuesday. I wasn’t sure how much more my body could take.
“Macon Lence? Is that you?”
It was a name I didn’t hear in Las Vegas very often, if ever, so it was more than a little jarring. Terrifying, actually, because Macon is my real name, and I never use it when I’m working.
I stopped in my tracks, slowly turned, and found a stranger beaming at me from the front desk registration line. I smiled politely even though I couldn’t place the woman. But she obviously knew me somehow. The real me, damn it. “Hey you,” I said as I mustered up a half-smile and tried to look as if I knew what the heck was going on.
She shook her head back and forth. “Nope. You don’t recognize me, do you, Macon?” She put a hand to her chest. “It’s me, Elizabeth Dean-Kruger. Well, just Elizabeth Dean, back when we went to Parker High School together. The senior class play? We had photography class together, too. Remember? Mrs. Potter, wasn’t it? Gosh, I hated that old biddy.”
Ahh. Elizabeth Dean. Okay. If she says so. But I couldn’t place her at all. Not one tiny ounce of recognition. I did remember having a bit part in the senior play and I remembered Mrs. Potter’s waste of time photography class…but an Elizabeth Dean? No. I had no recollection whatsoever.
The woman was slightly over-weight, wearing some sort of high-waisted mom jeans and a conservative cardigan sweater. She sported short dirty blonde hair, red framed reading glasses hung from a colorful cord around her neck, and she towed a well-used fabric suitcase behind her.
I decided I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I wasn’t sure why I cared. “Well, well,” I said with a bigger smile. “What are you doing in Las Vegas?”
“What does anyone do in Las Vegas, Macon?” she asked as she eased forward when the folks in front of her moved a few feet. “Shows, buffets, gambling. I’m meeting some friends for our annual girls’ weekend. No husbands. No kids. It’s a dream really. But it’s real, you know what I mean?”
“I do.” I had an amused look on my face, but I wanted to run away into the throngs of tourists milling about in the lobby. I wanted nothing more than to disappear. Having someone staying at the hotel who knew me…the real me…well, that could easily become, at the least, an inconvenient annoyance, and at most, a colossal problem. But, alas, it wasn’t uncommon. Because Vegas is one of the most popular vacation spots in the world—some forty-four million people visit every year—the chick you were in the senior class play with was bound to show up eventually. “How long are you in town, Elizabeth?”
“Just until Friday. Three nights. It’s much cheaper to be here mid-week. But you must know that, because here you are. Are you staying at the Golden Cactus, too?”
Ugh. Too. Much. Information. Lady. “Yup,” I said with a nod. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
She noticed there was a growing distance between her and the next person in line. “Oh goodness. I need to move. I’ll look for you around, Macon. I would love if we could grab a drink and catch up.”
Catch up on what exactly? I don’t remember you in the slightest. We couldn’t have hung out or spent any significant amount of time together.
I’d remember that.
“That would be super great,” I said instead. Why the heck I said that, I have no idea. It was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. Catch up? No thanks.
She smiled and nodded quickly as she struggled with her luggage between the stanchions, and I made a hasty beeline for the elevators.
As I took an empty car up to the fifty-seventh floor, I seriously considered checking out of hotel. A mysterious appearing and disappearing body…and now a blast from my supposed past? It was all too much. I should have probably run for the hills.
But I loved the Cactus so much, I decided I’d give it a day or two and see if I could survive without killing myself.
Or getting killed.
Or worse—having to sit with the all too cheery, rather mousy Elizabeth Dean at the bar off the lobby, sharing a bottle of cheap chardonnay and reminiscing about the good old days at stupid old Parker High.
Even though the Golden Cactus is top notch, every time I leave a casino floor after several hours, I feel dirty all over. So, after yet another long soapy shower, I wrapped myself in the oversized hotel-provided bathrobe, the one with the embroidered gold cactus on the breast pocket, and planned to spend the rest of the night secured in the suite. I’d had enough of people—alive or otherwise. And I felt drained of all my energy.
I used the suite’s multi-purpose iPad to order a room service dinner consisting of a bacon cheeseburger, sweet potato fries with the hotel’s incredible sour cream dipping sauce, and a Caesar salad, then sat on the sofa and nursed a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. I had my notebook sitting next to me with the intention to record, for posterity, the events of that crazy day. My phone was there, too, charging. And it was the cell phone that kept calling out to me, not the notebook.
CALL HER! CALL HER! it yelled.
I decided to wait until after I ate. Plus, I was all kinds of nervous. The her in question was hands down the scariest woman I’d ever met.
I was almost positive she knew me as my alias, Trace Harrington. If I did end up calling her, I had to remember that. So I made a note.
Keeping tabs on who knew me as which name was a fulltime job of my own doing. I had the six aliases going…all with their own credit cards, driver’s licenses, and passports. I’d spent many thousands of dollars to get all the documents made, so I wasn’t going to waste them. They were mine; I bought them with my hard-earned money.
“Ha!” I laughed out loud. Earned. Try, scammed. Stolen. Pirated. Pinched. Bamboozled. Grifted.
Macon Lence: the kindhearted grifter. I sort of felt bad about my chosen profession, mind you, and I never knowingly took anything from anyone who looked like they couldn’t afford to lose it. That was an unwritten golden rule of mine. It’s not like I was a heartless criminal. I’ve got empathy. I help my fellow man when time allows. I even give to charities every now and again.
See? I’m a good bad guy.
And, yes, I have to keep telling myself that. It’s laughable and it gets old, I guess, but it’s important. Positive affirmation and all that. It’s good for mental and physical wellbeing.
Or so I keep telling myself.
I finally worked up enough nerve after dinner—with a little extra assistance from my old friend Mr. Jack Daniel—and called Lucia (pronounced loo-CHEE-a; the Italian way) Marinelli, otherwise known as Mother, to those in the know.
And I knew her all too well. Unfortunately.
I guessed Mother might be able to shine some light. And I wanted to get ahead of any possible misunderstandings.
“Speak,” she said in her gravelly, heavily New Jersey-accented voice.
“Mother, it’s Trace Harrington. Do you have a minute?”
“Trace fucking Harrington,” she bellowed. “It’s been a hell of a long time, hasn’t it? But, listen, hon, I don’t have a lot of time for catching up. You have exactly two minutes. Start talking.”
“Alright, I, ah…I had a situation at the Golden Cactus this morning. And I think your son might be involved somehow because…”
“Hold on, hold on,” she screeched, interrupting me. “What kind of phone are you on? Landline? Cellular?”
“It’s a burner from a convenience store,” I lied, since none of my pre-paid phones were charged. “Always. Completely untraceable.”
“Okay, good. But let me finish your story to save us both some goddamn time, okay? My dumbass Sammy was in your hotel room today.”
“What? I mean, yeah.” I was kind of astounded even though I hoped she’d have the answers. “How did you know that?”
She paused for a moment; it sounded like she was lighting a cigarette. She exhaled loudly, then continued. “Without going into all the goddamned fucking details, I’ve been having his sorry ass trailed around town the last few days. Heaven help me for saying this out loud, hon, but that son of mine couldn’t possibly get any dumber. Listen, Trace, I know you’re also going by the name Devon DuBois, because that’s whose room he went to, to fetch the woman. And let me tell you, that’s a stupid alias, too. Why do you come up with all these shitty names?”
My head was spinning. “Let’s back up. You know about the dead woman? Who the heck was she? And how does Sammy know her, Mother? Did he kill her in my room? Why would he kill her? In my room of all places. I know absolutely nothing. I’m so bloody confused.”
More exhaling. “Honestly, I don’t know more than what I just told you. No, wait. Let me rephrase that—I don’t know yet. But I’m gonna find out, believe you me. I want to know what the fuck Sammy is up to.” There was silence on the other end for a few moments. When I was about to open my mouth she said, “Listen, mothers like me take care of their babies no matter what kind of epic bullshit they get themselves involved in, but I can’t take care of nothing if I don’t know what it is to begin with. Do you understand me? Does that make sense? But whatever this shit is, it isn’t good. Not good at all. It’s apparent that Sammy’s allegiance to the family has faltered and—” Her voice trailed off, and it sounded like she might have been fighting back tears, while also sucking on her cigarette at the same time. “Well, you know what I mean,” she finally said. It wasn’t a question.
I gripped my glass of booze tighter as I pacing back and forth across the living room. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I can’t think of a single solitary reason why some dead woman, Sammy, or anyone else for that matter, would be in my hotel room looking for Lord knows what. I don’t have anything. I’m not involved in anything. I’ve been laying low and…”
“Got it. I understand,” she spat, suddenly speaking more urgently. “I’ve got it, okay? Duly noted.”
I still had no answers. “So? What’s next?”
“Trace…or Devon…or whatever your goddamned name is, I need to run. We’ll talk when I know more, okay? I promise you that. I want to get to the bottom of this fucked up nonsense just as much as you do. Probably more since this is my big baby we’re talking about.” Then she abruptly terminated the call without saying goodbye.
“Damn it all to hell!” My scream echoed off the wall. My heart was pounding, and I was more confused than ever. I was comforted by the fact that I was re-registered at the Golden Cactus as James Rock, an alias that hadn’t escaped Mother’s lips during the phone call. I was fairly certain the Marinelli crime family wasn’t aware of him, since James Rock was practically brand new.
So, there was that.
Yet, I wasn’t really-and-truly certain of anything. People seemed to know a hell of a lot more about me than I liked. It was unnerving.
Just as I was about to top off my cocktail, the iPhone vibrated in my hand. I thought it might be Lucia calling back, but it wasn’t.
It was my mother. My real mother.
I let it ring four times before grudgingly engaging the call. “Hey, Mom. It’s late there.”
“You know I’m a night owl, Macon. How are you, baby? How’s work going?”
Oh, Mom, you have no idea. She believed I worked as an account executive at a commercial lighting company, because that was the story I’d come up with when I’d first moved to Las Vegas; it was necessary to tell Jim and Carol Lence something that sounded legitimate. Something they’d believe I could handle. “Work is work. We’ve been busy with all the construction going on here in the valley. It’s kind of insane. Tons of ambitious projects popping up all the time.”
“Ambitious projects,” she repeated absently. “Honey, listen, I have a little bit of news to tell you, and I do not want you to get too upset about it. I’m just going to come right out and say it…your father’s in the hospital. But he’s going to be fine. Eventually.”
I sat up straight. “What are you talking about? Eventually? What happened?”
“Jim had a very mild heart attack while we were playing golf this morning. We got him help in time, and now he’s resting comfortably. They’re not even going to keep him more than another day or two, the doctors said. But he needs to slow down, your father. And they think he needs to start eating better.”
“All right…okay…but I’m confused. You’ve always fed him only the best meals, Mom. Y’all have always been so conscious about that. Watching carbs and salt and all of that. How could this happen? He’s active, too. He’s really going to be okay?”
She sighed softly. “Your father is really okay, yes. At the moment. I’ve come to find out that he’s been cheating on me though. He’s been going to the McDonald’s most every single afternoon to get himself a second lunch. Every day, Macon! For years! Double Quarter Pounders with cheese and large French fries. For years, Macon. I just can’t conceive how he thought that was a good idea. Filling his body with that…crap, if you’ll pardon my French. I’m just so mad at him over this deceit. It was deceitful, Macon. There’s no other word for it. No wonder he had so much trouble with his waistline. I thought it was genetics.”
“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. What she described seemed completely out of character for my straight-laced, health-conscious pops.
Another sigh from my mother; this one sadder than the last. “He’s going to be fine, honey. Your father has no choice, now. The McDonald’s jig is up for good.”
I dreaded the next question, but it seemed mandatory that it escape my lips at least once during the conversation. “Do you want me to come home?”
She seemed to gulp some air. “Oh, heavens no, Macon. That’s so expensive, and you were just here two months ago for his birthday. Maybe you can do one of those video call thingies with him tomorrow? He’d love to hear from you. And see you, of course. But don’t come home right now. He’s going to be fine. And your brother has been visiting with him, of course.”
Of course. My brother. How nice.
To say my brother and I regularly channeled Cain and Abel, well, that would be a huge understatement. I had very little patience for, and generally couldn’t stand looking at, Randolph Lence, and he hated me right back. It took all of our collective willpower to be in the same room at the same time without ripping off each other’s heads. My poor parents had an inkling we didn’t get along as adults, but we did a good job hiding the fact that we wanted each other dead and in the ground and had for years. But despite all of that, I felt compelled to suck it up and act semi-mature. “That’s nice,” I managed.
“Randy sends his love,” my mother said without an ounce of sarcasm.
I erupted in laughter. It was unavoidable and mean. “Now that’s the biggest, fattest lie I’ve ever heard. Randy said no such thing.”
“Well, maybe he didn’t actually say it out loud,” she stammered. “But I’m sure he would have.”
“Uh huh. Whatever you say.” I took a breath. “Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need anything, Mom?”
“No, baby. Thank you. You’re sweet to ask, but I’m fine. The house is fully stocked, and the dog is staying at the next-door neighbor’s house—you know I can’t walk that behemoth; why your father insisted on a Great Dane is just beyond me. And his poops are bigger than my head.” She took a few beats, apparently collecting her thoughts. “Listen, everything’s going to be fine. Just say a little prayer for your father before you go to bed tonight. Can you do that? You still say your prayers every night, Macon?”
“Of course, Mom.” I let myself relax a bit. “I can do that. And I love you. And give my love to Dad. Tell him I’ll call in the late-afternoon your time.”
“We both love you, Macon. Bunches and bunches. I’ll update you as needed. But if you don’t hear from me, he’s fine. He’s going to be fine. God is watching out for him. And all of us.”
