Free Vegas Vengeance by Randy Wayne White Page B

Right now I want you to go inside. Don’t tell any of the girls, because it will just upset them. But first, I want to make sure you don’t need any medical attention.”
    She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Like I said, I just had the wind knocked out of me.”
    â€œGood. Then go back inside. Get your car keys for me. Then, if you’re able, go to the front of the house and join the party. It’ll take your mind off what I’m doing.”
    â€œAre you sure I shouldn’t go with you? You might need some help. You’ve been badly hurt, James.”
    â€œJust bring me your car keys, Barbara. And leave me alone.”
    There was a wistful tone in her voice. “You’ll stop back … later? It doesn’t matter how late. God, after tonight, I don’t think I could get to sleep no matter what.”
    Hawker squeezed the woman’s arm gently. “I’ll be back, Barbara. I promise.”

ten
    Two hours later, just before midnight, Hawker pulled into the parking lot of the Doll House. He steered the car around back, touched the Genie control and the garage door slid open. He got out of the car and closed the garage door behind him.
    It was a full-size American car. Black metallic paint and a lot of useless electronic gadgets guaranteed to drive the average mechanic right out of his mind. But the car had a trunk bigger than the wheelbase of most of the Jap imports.
    Hawker had hooked up the sweeper before he left. He vacuumed the trunk thoroughly, then vacuumed his own clothes. Then he carried the catch bag to a stainless steel sink mounted inside the garage and flushed the contents down. Then he shoved the catch bag deep into the garbage.
    A professional job. And getting rid of the body is always the trickiest part.
    Even trickier than disconnecting the dry cell from a homemade bomb.
    Hawker knew too well that a murderer could be traced by a microscopic speck of thread in the suspect’s trunk, which was exactly why he had blanketed the trunk with garbage bags before dumping the corpse in.
    Vacuuming the car had been an added precaution.
    As he double-checked the car’s interior, Hawker found his memory drifting back to the ker-chunk of his shovel cutting the night silence; the image of him draping the corpse over his shoulder and walking heavily beneath the star-bowl of desert darkness; the remembrance of the gaseous hiss and fecal stink as he dumped the corpse into that infinite pit which, he knew, would inevitably swallow him and all other temporal creatures who reared themselves on two legs to walk the earth as gods—for their pathetically short threescore and ten.
    Death adds an edge to reality. It throws a damp gray gauze over the spirit.
    James Hawker wearily rotated his head on his neck.
    He turned the knob to Barbara Blaine’s suite and wasn’t surprised to find it locked.
    He was almost glad.
    In him there was no longer a taste for feminine company and polite conversation.
    He wanted to be alone for a while; away from the humid looks and the wilting perfume and the teary-eyed gazes.
    He was eager to get back to his room at the Mirage. Eager to wash the night away with a hot shower, crack a cold beer and get to work. He wanted to check his room for electronic listening devices, and he had to get moving on breaking the code Jason Stratton had used in his journal. He also had to talk with Captain Kevin Smith at greater length, and maybe get a hook on who—if anyone—in Smith’s employ was spying for the mob.
    But as he turned to go, the door opened. Barbara Blaine stood before him. She wore a white satin pajama suit. The high collar gave it an oriental flavor. Her black hair was longer than he had thought, combed in a dark sheen over her shoulders. Her brown eyes were a combination of worry and hurt.
    â€œYou were leaving?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œDid … everything go all right?”
    â€œJust peachy. He