“My husband didn’t pay top dollar to listen to this kind of ruckus! He won’t stand for it, do you hear me? What do you think you’re doing, anyway? What was all that crashing and banging?”
Thrusting his head in between his wife’s plump shoulder and the door-jamb, the bald man made a mean face. “Yeah, what gives?” He was wearing a hotel robe, too. It was way too big for him.
“I’m the head of hotel security,” I said, suppressing a nauseating surge of vertigo as I stood up, grabbing the couch to steady myself. “We caught this punk robbing a guest room. I apologize for the disturbance. Everything is under control now. Why don’t you go on back to your room and let us take care of this?”
“Don’t order me around!” the lady said. “My husband isn’t paying four hundred dollars a night for this malarkey!” Her suspicious little eyes were darting around in her head, cataloguing the disorder in the room. “Who’s he?” She nodded sharply in Reggie’s direction.
“He’s my associate, ma’am. I am very sorry you were disturbed. There won’t be any more trouble. But you are going to have to go back to your room and let us take care of this.”
The man’s bald head and big ears poked into the room on the other side of his wife. “Don’t order her around!” he said.
“I’m ordering both of you to get the hell out of here, right now!” I shouted, walking toward them, crowding them out of the doorway. “Go back to your room before I arrest you for interfering with a crime scene!”
The man’s shiny head disappeared, and the lady drew herself up with a look of outrage on her frying pan of a face.
“How dare you talk to my husband like that!” she yelled. “Come on, Dickey! We’ll see what the manager thinks about this. I’ve never been so insulted in all my born days. I’ll have that man’s job or know the reason why.” Her commentary trailed off as she sailed back down the hall to the open door of 569, a battleship with a dinghy in its wake. Her robe was stretched tight across her ass and shoulders. It stopped just below her knees and elbows, leaving massive calves and beefy-red forearms exposed. The husband looked like Dopey from the Seven Dwarfs in his robe, sleeves covering his hands to his fingertips, hem dragging the floor. Just before he went into their room and slammed the door, the little man looked back at me and made his mean face one more time, pulling his lips back and baring his teeth like a lap dog snarling at a German shepherd through a rolled-up car window.
“We got to get out of here,” Reggie said.
“No shit,” I said, passing him on my way into the bedroom. “How did he get by you?”
“He didn’t come past me, man.”
The jewelry case was lying twisted and broken by the bed. Someone had stepped or rolled on it during the fight. I saw one of the earrings near it and snatched it up. The necklace was nowhere in sight.
I looked under the bed and on the closet floor, then started searching through the broken dishes and debris.
“What the hell yuh doing?” Reggie said.
“I’m looking for the goddamn necklace,” I said. “Help me find it!”
The jewels were crystallized bliss, emotionally potent as pure rock cocaine. I was desperate to find them. But there were voices in the hall.
“I’m not sure, sir,” I heard a woman’s voice say. Then Tawny came into the room. She was wide-eyed but calm, keeping it together. Her blouse was buttoned crookedly, each button one hole off.
“I don’t know who you guys are or what you’re doing,” she said, her voice low and intense, “but you better haul ass. The security guys are coming up the elevator!”
“Fuck!” I said, and grabbed the black bag from the bed. Pulling out the Beretta, I stuck it in my belt beneath my shirttail, where I could get to it fast. Reggie was following Tawny out the door, wobbling a little as he walked. Crossing the living room, I spotted the other earring and snagged it without breaking my stride, slipping it into my right pants pocket with its mate. Jimmy Z was still out cold. I resisted the urge to kick him in the head on my way out of the room.
There were several people standing in front of their doors along the hallway that led back to the atrium. Rodriguez, the golf pro, was leaning against his doorjamb, wearing a pair of black satin boxer shorts and smoking a cigarette, looking mildly curious. The bellboy the weightlifter had abused was hurrying away from Rodriguez’s room in the direction of the elevators, trying to tuck in his shirt and put his jacket on at the same time.
“This way,” Tawny said, leading us down the hall away from Rodriguez, the elevators, and the atrium. I thought she was heading for the fire exit, but she turned right down the short hallway I’d seen earlier, then jogged left into terra incognita.
Shortly, we came to a small elevator.
“This goes down to the pool,” she said, jabbing the down button.
There was a distant clunk as the elevator motor engaged. Shortly, the 1 above the door lit up. After several seconds that seemed like several minutes, the 1 went dark and the 2 lit up. It was a leisurely elevator, perfect for a resort, taking its time ascending to our floor.
“Come on, come on!” Tawny said.
I ran back to the corner and looked around. No one was in sight yet, but I could hear more voices in the main hallway, a loud, excited babble. The voices were coming closer.
Back at the elevator, the 4 was yellow. Then it went dark and the 5 blinked on and the door finally slid open. Tawny punched the button for the third floor and a lower one that said POOL.
“When you get off the elevator, go through the glass doors into the pool area and then go left,” she said. “Go out the gate and follow the path that goes around this wing of the hotel. It will take you to the side parking lot.”
The elevator stopped at three and Tawny got off.
“Thanks, babe,” Reggie said.
She looked back at him. “If they find out I helped you, it’s my job.”
“They won’t find out,” I said.
“I’m in the book,” she said to Reggie as the door slid shut, moving her head to keep him in view. “Tawny Pulaski.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Downstairs, the elevator opened into an empty hallway with squishy indoor/outdoor carpeting. Reggie tossed the bloody napkin in a corner and we went through double glass doors onto a concrete patio that overlooked the Oasis’s pool complex. It’s one of the largest and most elaborate in the desert, four sparkling pools connected by waterfalls and chutes, with a sand beach and a thatched-roof bar on an island that you can swim up to when you are ready for a drink.
The sun had sunk behind the black bulk of the Santa Rosa Mountains. Overhead, the desert sky was still a deep luminous blue brushed by the tops of swaying palm trees, but the valley was plunged into sudden twilight and the lounge chairs and pool decks were deserted. At the little tropical bar, a wrinkled woman in a white one-piece bathing suit sat hunched over a red drink with a yellow umbrella sticking out of it. The bartender was tidying up, getting ready to close.
There was a rack of fresh white towels beside the door we came out of and I grabbed one as we started down the concrete path to the gate, hotel rising to our left, swimming pool to our right. Beyond the gate, the path curved through a stand of California fan palm trees, past tennis courts and a maintenance building, then looped left around the back of the hotel.
The walkway ended at a set of concrete steps that dropped down to an asphalt parking lot full of valeted cars. The Seville was parked between a black BMW 720i and a silver Bentley, but the keys were at the valet station in front of the hotel.
Beyond the parking lot, a golf course lay green and hilly, charmed here and there by small lakes.
“Which way, bro?” Reggie said. His face and the front of his shirt were covered with his own blood. He had soaked up some of it with the napkin, but there was plenty left. My right hand and sleeve were stained with the weightlifter’s blood and I had knots on my head where he hit me with the.45 and his big-knuckled fists. There was no way either one of us could go to the valet stand and get the car without attracting the wrong kind of attention, especially with the hotel in an uproar.