09 To the Nines (16 page)

He cut his eyes to me and I sent him a blank-faced look back. No way was I going to come to his rescue. I wasn't taking any chances on guilt by association. I was afraid the airport gestapo would haul my ass off to a back room and give me a body cavity search.

I grabbed Lula and pulled her along. Connie followed. We only had a couple minutes until boarding.

“What about Tank?” Lula asked.

“He'll catch up with us.” Maybe.

We got to the gate and Lula was wide-eyed, looking everywhere. “I don't see no kiosk with fried chicken,” she said. “I just see doughnuts and ice cream and bagels and big pretzels. I can't eat none of that food. Where's the friggin' meat?”

“Maybe we'll get something on the plane,” I said. “We'll be in the air over dinnertime, so maybe we'll get some dinner.” Yeah, right. If we were flying first class we might get a bag of peanuts.

We were seated three across, six rows back in coach. Lula was on the aisle. I sat next to her. Tank's seat was empty. Connie sat on the other side of the aisle.

I called Morelli and told him about the photos.

“And here's the thing,” I said to Morelli. “I'm sort of on a plane. Singh is in Vegas and I'm going out to apprehend him. So I was thinking maybe you could just let yourself in and, uh, take charge.”

Silence.

“Joe?”

“This is the sort of thing Ranger usually takes.”

“He has a problem with the state of Nevada.”

“Okay, let me rerun this,” Morelli said. “You went home to pack and you found more snuff photos. Then you drove to the airport and waited until you were boarded before calling me so it was impossible for me to bring you back to Trenton.”

“Yup. That's about it.”

The conversation deteriorated pretty quickly after that, so I said good-bye and shut my phone off.

The plane filled and the usual announcements were made. No Tank. I was feeling a little worried without my bodyguard. I had Connie and Lula with me. I liked Connie and Lula, but I suspected they were more liability than asset.

The flight attendants closed the doors and the plane began taxiing. Lula was singing with her headset on and her eyes shut. Connie was talking to the woman next to her.

All right, calm down, I told myself. Probably flying to Vegas was safer than staying in Trenton. Tank would get the next plane and everything would be fine. If I'd stayed with Tank I wouldn't be on the plane. I would have had to call Morelli and he would have insisted I return to Trenton.

Minutes after taking off it was announced that no food or beverages would be served. “What about peanuts?” Lula yelled out. “Don't we even get any freakin' peanuts?” Lula turned to me. “I want to get off this plane. I'm hungry and I'm uncomfortable. And look at the seat in front of me. It's all ripped. How am I supposed to have confidence when they can't even keep their seats sewed up? I bet some terrorist was practicing on that seat.”

I put my finger to my eye.

“You getting that nervous eye twitch back?” Lula asked. “It's from this plane, isn't it? I feel nervous, too. I'm just a bundle of nerves.”

“It's from you,” I said. “Put your headset back on and listen to your music.”

An hour into the flight Lula was fidgeting again. “I smell coffee,” she said. “I bet they're gonna give us coffee. Probably they feel bad about treating us like a bunch of cows and they're gonna hand out coffee.” She sniffed the air. “Hey, I smell real food. I smell something cooking.” She hung over the armrest and looked up the aisle at the front of the plane. “It's not first class,” she said. “I can see into first class and they're not getting any food, either.”

Now I was smelling it. Definitely coffee. And maybe a tomato sauce and pasta dish. And cookies baking!

“It's like there's ghosts up there,” Lula said. “I haven't seen a flight attendant walk down the aisle since we took off. It's like they vanished and their ghosts are cooking. I'm dying here. I'm starving. I'm getting weak.”

Connie looked over. “What's going on?”

“I smell coffee,” Lula said. “I must be hallucinating from hunger.”

“Maybe the flight attendants are making coffee for the pilots,” Connie said.

“I don't like the sound of that,” Lula said. “That sounds like an emergency. Like the pilots are tired. Just my luck I get on a plane with a pilot who was up all night. I'm going to be really pissed off if he falls asleep and we crash and we all die and it's before I get to Vegas.”

Connie went back to her magazine, but Lula was still leaning over the armrest into the aisle. “I can see them!” Lula said. “It's the flight attendants. Someone pulled the curtain aside and I can see the flight attendants eating. They're having coffee and fresh-baked cookies. Can you freaking believe it? They're not even going to offer any to us.”

I was starting to think crashing and dying might be the way to go. Compared to another two hours in the air, crashing and dying held some appeal.

Lula's eyes were slitty and her forehead was scrunched up. She reminded me of a bull pawing the ground, nostrils flaring, shaggy head steaming. “I'm not calling them flight attendants anymore,” Lula said. “I'm calling them stewardesses. See how they like that.”

“Keep it down,” Connie said. “Maybe they've been working all day and they didn't get a chance to eat.”

“I've been working all day,” Lula said. “I didn't get a chance to eat. You see anybody feeding me? I guess not. Look at me. I'm beside myself. I feel like the Hulk. Like I'm getting all swollen up with frustration.”

“Well, take it easy,” I said. “You'll burst something.” “You know what this is?” Lula said. “This here's plane rage.” “Plane rage isn't allowed. It got taken off the allowed activities list along with eating. If you make a scene they'll haul you off in leg irons.”

“I'm tired of being strapped in here, too,” Lula said. “This seat belt's too tight and it's giving me gas.” “Anything else?” “There's no movie.”

When we landed at Chicago I positioned myself between Lula and the flight attendants.

“Keep your head down and walk,” I told Lula. “Don't look at them. Don't talk to them. Don't grab any of them by the throat. We need to get on the next plane. Just keep thinking about Vegas.”

Our connecting flight was ten gates down. We started walking and almost immediately we hit fast food. Lula hurried over and ordered seven double cheeseburgers. She threw the buns away and ate the rest.

“I'm impressed,” I said to Lula. “You're really sticking to this diet.” Hard to believe she was going to lose weight on it, but at least she was trying.

An hour later our row was called to board and Lula, Connie, and I got in line. We reached the gate and I was pulled aside to be searched. Random female.

“Step over here,” the security attendant said. “And take your shoes off.”

I looked down at the sandals. “What could you possibly be looking for in these sandals?” I asked.

“It's standard procedure.”

“I've already gone through this at Newark!”

“Sorry. You're going to have to take your shoes off if you want to get on the plane.”

“Uh-oh,” Lula said to me. “Your face is getting red. Remember about getting to Vegas. Just take the freakin' shoes off.”

“It's not like it's personal,” Connie said. “You should be happy security precautions are in place.”

“Easy for you to say,” I told her. “You're not the one getting picked on. You're not the one getting singled out for a second time. Your tampons and panties aren't getting pawed through.” I stared down at the shoes. There wasn't any way to hide a weapon in them, but I thought I could do some pretty good damage if I hit the security idiot in the head with one. Spike heel directly into the eyeball, I thought. I visualized the bleeding eyeball falling out of the woman's head and felt much more calm. I stepped out of my sandals and waited peacefully for them to be scrutinized.

When we were seated on the plane Lula turned to me. “You know, sometimes you can be real scary. I don't know what you were thinking back there when you took those shoes off, but all the hair stood up on the back of my neck.”

“I had airport rage.”

“Fuckin' A,” Lula said.

Lula had airport rage when we landed and her luggage wasn't there.

Connie had us booked into the Luxor. It was on the Strip, and because the bail bonds conferences were held there every year we got good rates.

“Look at this,” Lula said, head tipped back, taking it all in. “It's a freaking pyramid. It's like being in some big-ass Egyptian tomb. I love this. I'm ready to gamble. Outta my way. I'm looking for the slots. Where's the blackjack tables?”

I didn't know where Lula's energy came from. I'd exhausted myself trying to stay calm while mentally maiming airport employees, screaming kids, and security personnel.

“I'm going to bed,” I told Lula. “We need to get an early start tomorrow, so don't stay out too late.”

“I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're in Vegas and you're going to bed? Unh uh, girlfriend. I don't think so.”

“I don't gamble. I'm not good at it.”

“You can play slots. There's nothing to slots. You put your money in and you push the button.”

“I'm feeling hot for the craps,” Connie said. “I'm going to drop my suitcase off in the room and then I'm going to hit the craps tables.”

“You see?” Lula said to me. “You don't come with, I'm gonna be all alone on account of Connie's gonna play craps.”

Lula had a point. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to have Lula all alone in Vegas. “Okay,” I said. “I'll tag along, but I'm not playing. I don't know what I'm doing and I always lose.”

“You gotta play once,” Lula said. “It wouldn't be right if you came to Vegas and didn't even play one slot. I bet there's even a law that says you gotta play a slot.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were checked into our room. We all applied fresh lipstick, and we were ready to roll.

“Look out, Vegas, here I come,” Lula said, closing the door behind us.

“I'm wearing my lucky shoes,” Connie said, leading the way down the hall. “I can't lose in my lucky shoes.”

It was the first time I'd ever walked any distance behind Connie and I was knocked over by the sight in front of me. Connie was a small Italian version of Mae West. Her hips were big and round and her boobs were big and round. And when Connie walked everything was in motion. Connie swung her ass down the hall. Connie was a broad. Connie belonged in a gangster movie set in Chicago during Prohibition.

We got to the elevator and the three of us stood waiting for the doors to open, cackling and preening in front of the hall mirror. We stepped into the elevator, went down one floor, and two guys got on. One was about five foot ten, had a big beer belly, and looked to be in his sixties. The other was average build, early forties, and was short enough that his eyes were even with my breasts. They were both dressed in tight white jumpsuits with bell-bottoms and big stand-up collars. The jumpsuits were decorated with sequins and glittered under the elevator lights. They had huge rings on their fingers and shoe-polish-black pompadour hairdos with long sideburns. They were wearing name tags. The big guy was named Gus and the little guy was named Wayne.

“We're Elvis impersonators,” the little guy said.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Lula said.

“We're part of a convention. There are fourteen hundred Elvis impersonators here at the hotel.”

“We just got here,” Lula said. “We're going down to play some slots.”

“We're going to the show,” Gus said. “We hear Tom Jones is singing in the lounge.”

Lula's eyes got the size of duck eggs and popped out of her eye sockets. “Tom Jones! Are you shitting me? I love Tom Jones.”

“You should come with us,” Wayne said. “We wouldn't mind having a couple chicks tagging along, right, Gus?”

Lula looked down at little Wayne. “Listen up, Shorty,” she said. “I don't do that patronizing, sexist chick shit.”

“We gotta say things like that,” Wayne told her. “We're Elvis impersonators. We're Vegas, baby.”

“Oh yeah, I guess I could see that. Sorry,” Lula said.

The elevator hit the casino floor and we all got out and hustled across the casino to the lounge. Me, Connie, Lula, and two over-the-hill Elvis impersonators. We reached the lounge and were stopped by a crush of people waiting to get in.

“Oh man,” Lula said. “Look at this crowd. We're not gonna get in.”

“They always let Elvis in,” the big guy said, and he started bumping people out of the way with his belly. “Uh, s'cuze me. The King's comin' through,” he'd say. And then he'd sort of snarl and curl his lip the way Elvis used to.

We were packed up behind him, moving in his wake. All of us getting excited about seeing Tom Jones, willing to step on a few toes to do it. Gus got us a position close to the stage, off to the side. The room lights were dim and the stage was washed in red light. A band was playing. We ordered drinks and Tom Jones was introduced.

The minute Jones came onstage Lula went ape-shit. Lula didn't care about anything but Tom Jones. “Hey, Tom, honey, look over here,” she yelled out. “Look at Lula!”

All around us women were throwing room keys and panties onto the stage. And then from the corner of my eye I caught sight of Lula pitching a giant hot-pink satin thong at Tom Jones. It was the biggest thong I'd ever seen. It was a King Kong thong. It hit Tom Jones square in the face. Wap!

“Holy crap,” Connie said.

Tom Jones staggered back a step, snagged the thong from off his face, looked at it, and forgot the words to the song he was singing. The band was playing, but Tom Jones was just standing there staring at the thong.

“Maybe I should throw my bra, too,” Lula said.

TOTHENINES

“No!” Connie and I said, worried Tom Jones would go into cardiac arrest at the sight. “Not a good idea. Overkill.”

Tom Jones snapped out of his coma, stuffed the thong into his tux pocket, and went back to singing.

“I don't think Tom Jones looks all that good,” Connie said to me. “He looks different somehow. Like he's had a face-lift that went wrong.”

“And he's sort of fat,” I said. “And he can't sing anymore.”

“That's blasphemous to say about Tom Jones,” Lula said. “You can't go dissin' Tom Jones.”