Bad Luck City - Matt Phillips Read online

  The stranger tilted his head at Jackie and squinted beneath his hat brim. “I’ll take care of this one,” he said. “And then you can cash me out.” He pulled a gold money clip from his coat pocket. The cash seemed crisp and ripe and worth more than what it really was. He peeled off a twenty and let it float onto the bar before sliding the clip back into his coat.

  I said, “I can pay for my own drinks.”

  “Maybe, but do you want to pay if somebody else is willing?” He paused for a long moment and then said, “ You’re Sim Palmer. I’ve been following your work. I mean, over the years. Now, it’s not so good. But the early stuff, a few years back, you could call it ambitious. I’d call it that.” He spoke with lazy pronunciation, like he wasn’t required to finish his own words. “Ambitious is good,” he said, “it’s honorable.”

  In the bar’s half–light, I tried to see the stranger’s eyes. The fedora cast a deep shadow and I couldn’t tell their color, but they were shiny and wet, like whittled marbles run through a pond. The stranger was bigger than me; he had an extra thirty pounds and three inches in height. I also imagined he carried a gun; it would surprise me if he didn’t. I followed his gaze as he lifted his chin to the television. Two men were on base with a known home run hitter at the plate. It was the bottom of the ninth in New York—a new reliever was warming up on the mound.

  I blinked twice and said, “I’ve heard it called foolish too, my work. And a bunch of shit nobody needs anymore. Maybe that’s why I never get a good story anymore. The world got sick of me.”

  “Now that you’re writing for the entertainment section… It’s less than important, I guess. A couple years back, though, you wrote that series of stories about illegal workers. I remember that. Good detail in that series. What do they call that? Shoe–leather reporting, right? It was real people talking, all these hard luck tales about crossing the border and finding nothing but slavery. I wondered how you got to all those people, why they said anything to you. That, my friend, was impressive.”

  I thought, maybe this guy is smarter than he tries to look. On the television screen, the reliever finished his warm up throws and started taking signs from the catcher. I sipped whiskey from my glass and said, “You show people you care, and you’d be surprised what they tell you. It’s human nature, I’ve found. But, yeah, it was hard luck by the gallon in that story. A bunch of smugglers were bringing people in from Juarez, setting them up for work in sweatshops and, if they had the face or body for it, as prostitutes. So what? Nobody did a damn thing about it. They never do—it’s all just background music, a soundtrack for the Las Vegas party.”

  We watched the home run hitter, a lanky ballplayer with wrists like gnarled tree limbs, look at strike two. He stepped out of the batter’s box, stomped his cleats and adjusted his gloves.

  “I think you would be a help to me, Palmer,” the stranger said. “I’m here to set up a meeting.”

  “Help you? With what?”

  “If we meet, I’ll tell you.”

  “Aren’t we meeting now?” I asked.

  “You might want to think about it, that’s all.”

  On the soundless television, the hitter struck out swinging. I grunted and turned to the stranger. His eyes met mine and flashed against the light; gray eyes, I noticed. Hard gray eyes. I said, “What makes you think I want to meet with you?”

  “There could be a story in it, that’s what. Let’s remember that you used to see your name on the front page, but now you’re buried deeper than minor league hockey. You used to be a real voice, and I bet you want to be one again.” He pulled a business card from his inner coat pocket and laid it on the bar, slid it across the dark wood toward me. “Keep that in your pocket. When you’re ready, give me a call.” The stranger stood, tilted his fedora with both hands, and slipped quietly out of the bar.

  ***

  Every reporter gets his or her share of crazy during a career. I’d had mine; the jailhouse letters, the frantic phone messages, and the psychotic emails. But this, I thought, could be different. I knew what this stranger was, and I had no doubt he would use me, but could I use him? There was more than a simple news story involved—I knew that, and I was curious about what it might be. I felt that old instinct kick in, the cub reporter’s nose for story. It was like a panther prowling through the dark jungle. He’s hungry and there’s blood in the air. Maybe I was tired and getting older and cut down to the culture beat on an alternative weekly, but I still wanted a story.

  That’s what got me—the story.

  ***

  Two hours later, with my apartment’s wafer–thin walls shaking from the planes landing a quarter mile east, I sat on my creaky futon and stared at the business card. You’ve never known irritation until you’ve lived near a big city airport, but I liked the romance of it. The sound reminded me there were other places in the world, that I wasn’t bound by city or neighborhood or street—I could leave whenever I wanted. This was another thing I told myself all the time, but telling yourself something—no matter how much—doesn’t make it true. I was at a point in my life when every thought was about the reclamation of my youth. Like with my father’s death, I felt cheated by time—I took it personal.

  My attention flitted back to the business card. There was a local phone number printed on the card in an unfamiliar font, nothing else. Just a phone number, huh? I tossed the card onto the coffee table and leaned backwards into the uncomfortable furniture piece. My blank television reflected the pawn shop’s red neon. In the red–tinged dark, I lifted a hand in front of my face, tried to hold it steady. After a few moments of persistent failure, I lowered it and cleared my throat. Outside, the city hummed like a broken generator. Taxis whipped by on their path to the airport. On the street corner, I heard a beggar shouting at cars and cursing God. A group of young couples walked by chatting about an underground tiki bar for rockabilly kids. Here is what I asked myself: What are you doing, Sim? Don’t you have time to ask this stranger, this crook, what it is he wants with you? Aren’t you game? If not, what else is there?

  I stood and walked to my dresser; it sat in the corner near the bed, adjacent to my night stand. There was a picture there in a plain black frame; me and my father visiting a ghost town in the high desert. I was 12–years–old at the time and sketched a smaller version of him. We wore similar loose black slacks and off–white collared shirts—we both wore black ties and had our hands shoved deep into our pants pockets. There was an old building behind us with a hand–painted sign on the door: “Big Saloon,” it said. My father always dressed that way. As a kid, it seemed to me he was constantly doing business, at the ready for action no matter the day. And I went to school dressed like that, too. It became part of my persona, an essential element to my young identity.

  Next to the picture, wrapped in a white t–shirt, was my father’s gun.

  I reached out and unfolded the cloth. There it was, a snub nose .38 Colt Detective Special, a revolver. I kept the gun loaded, but it had been a year or more since I’d looked at it. I hadn’t touched it in longer than that. The stranger’s hard gray eyes surfaced in my brain; I thought about picking up the gun and shoving it into my waist band, but then I thought better of it. I didn’t like guns, and I had my reasons. I reminded myself that the keyboard carried more firepower than one thousand assault weapons—the word is mightier than the bullet. I folded the shirt over the gun and went back to the creaky futon.

  I pulled my cellphone from a coat pocket and dialed the number on the business card. There were ten elongated rings and then a woman picked up the line. “Yeah?” Her voice was bored, distracted by television noise in the background. Sounded like an action movie on high volume. After a brief silence, she prodded me. “You need something?”

  “This is Sim Palmer. A friend gave me the number.”

  The woman shouted for somebody and, after a minute or so, the background noise softened and the stranger’s voice came over the receiver. “That didn’t take long,” he sa
id. “Let me guess, you’re curious? There might be a story in it, right?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Call me Mathis.”

  “So, why pick on me, Mathis?”

  “You’re my first choice. And you’re the only one who can do this story, the only one who will understand. I’m not picking on you—I picked you, plain and simple. There’s nothing more to it.”

  “There’s lots of reporters in Las Vegas—” I paused for a moment and then added, “Mathis.”

  “None like you. You’re—”

  “Nobody. If it’s because I did that work a few years ago, the stuff you mentioned, I want you to know I don’t have that in me—I can barely keep myself in a job these days.”

  “Oh, you’ve still go it in you. It just takes the right situation, the right story. Besides, I think this one’ll grab your interest. Hell, it already has.”

  I ran my finger under my chin and cleared my throat. Before replying, I listened to the whir of light traffic outside my window. Finally, I said, “Tell me about what this is. Maybe, then, I’ll meet with you.”

  The stranger lowered his voice and said, “I’m looking for somebody—okay? A girl I know, or… A girl I knew. The thing is, I can’t have anybody know I’m looking for her. It wouldn’t sit right with my colleagues, so to speak. The stories you wrote… Well, I’ll just tell it like it is—you didn’t even get skin deep into that smuggling business, Palmer. You were on the surface, I’ll give you that. But you didn’t find out anything the whole city didn’t already know. There’s more to it and you’ll want to get as deep as you can.”

  “The girl, what is she to you?”

  “Let’s not do this over the phone. I’ll meet you in a half hour downtown. You know Smitty’s?”

  “Dive bar across from The Tokyo, right?”

  “Half hour,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”

  Chapter Four

  At Smitty’s, a dark place with lopsided pool tables and video poker embedded in the booths, I found Mathis sipping beer near the rear exit. I pulled my reporter’s notebook from my coat, tossed it onto the table and collapsed into the vinyl–covered seat. “I can’t believe this place is still here. A guy was wrapped in a sleeping bag right outside the front door.”

  Mathis shrugged and used a finger to lift his fedora higher on his forehead. His upper lip was wet from beer and his gray eyes seemed level and sure. “I didn’t take you for one of those gentrification types. Not everything needs blinking lights and a roller coaster, you know.”

  I didn’t reply. Instead, I unfolded my notebook and wrote ‘Mathis; Smitty’s shitty bar; Friday, 8–13.’ I set my pen down and folded my arms.

  Mathis looked down at my printing and then met my gaze. “I won’t put my name in the papers. Not for you or anybody.”

  “I write whatever I want,” I said.

  “Do you?” Mathis leaned backwards in his seat and touched his chin. He was smug, but right. At least in some respects.

  “You won’t go on the record?” I asked.

  “It’s a death sentence; if they found out, they’d have my hole dug before I got there.” Mathis looked past me to the bartender, swept his eyes over the entire bar and then, with cool precision, he glared at me. “I’m invisible, Palmer. I’m supposed to be invisible. Anything else is suicide.”

  “So, why am I here?”

  “I want to give you some information. About this girl.”

  “Who is she and what makes you think I care?”

  Mathis brought a manila envelope from beneath the table and slid it across to me. “That’s her,” he said and nodded at the envelope. “That’s Chelsea. I think you should take a look.” Mathis lifted his half–empty beer mug and swallowed yellow liquid. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and then clenched his jaw until the muscles flexed in his cheeks.

  I pushed aside my notebook and opened the envelope.

  Inside, I found a few photographs, a stack of utility bills, and a handwritten note on hotel stationary—it was from The Tokyo. I stared at the photograph. Chelsea Losse was her name. She had dark auburn hair and green eyes. In one image, she stood against a brick wall. A thick vine covered half the wall and looked like a green blob over her petite shoulders. Chelsea wore a denim shirt, blue jeans, and black knee–high boots. Her hair was tied into a ponytail. She looked all–American—a twenty–something with a nice figure and a pretty smile. “I’ve got no idea who she is,” I said, though that was obviously the case. “Is this a recent photograph? Or is it from a few years back?”

  “From a couple years ago. Those others though, they’re recent.”

  One image was a self–portrait, like Chelsea made an image of herself looking into a mirror. It was blurry and almost useless. The other, though, was telling. She had makeup on, and I could see the faded outline of a bruise on her right cheek. It looked like she was dressed for a night on the town. “The bruise, you know how she got that?”

  “Someone punched her,” Mathis said. “That’s my best guess.” He didn’t smile or flinch when he said it. His eyes pointed at me with bland determination from beneath the gray fedora. “I though you were the smart one here.”

  I sniffed hard through my nose. “Not me, I just take what people give me.” I held the note where I could read it. The writing was in black ink and slanted left while running together like half–ass cursive, but it was readable with some effort. I thought it said: ‘Chelsea, I missed you at the apartment. You know I said you had to be there until ten and I want to know, where were you? We agreed on certain terms, and I have to know where you are when you’re working. We agreed on that also. Call me as soon as you get home. I’ve got a gig you might want, something that pays well. It involves modeling, and I know you said you wanted to get into that.’ The note wasn’t signed. I dropped it onto the stack of images and said, “You know who wrote the note? Was it someone you know?” I locked eyes with Mathis and lifted my chin slightly. Sweat ran under my arms and across my chest. I looked down at my shirt; it was damp near my belly.

  Mathis said, “A guy who runs girls—high end call girls. I really doubt Chelsea worked the streets.”

  “I’ll ask again,” I said. “Do you know who wrote the note?”

  “I couldn’t tell you if I did.”

  “But you run with people like this, right?” I lifted the note with my thumb and index finger.

  Mathis followed the note with his eyes as it dangled from my hand. “I have some knowledge of the business, yes. But what I do is legitimate—it’s sanctioned by law and all the taxes are paid.”

  “Well,” I said, “If you pay your taxes, then it must be right.” I dropped the note. We sat in silence while the bartender told a drunk to drink slower because it would last longer that way. But at a bar, I thought, there’s all you need.

  Mathis finished his beer and wiped his mouth again. His eyes shot to something behind me and then moved to Chelsea’s picture on the table. “I brought this to you because I owe somebody—that’s what this is.”

  “What’s this woman to you?”

  Mathis said, “I knew her father.”

  “That’s it?”

  He nodded. “I need to get out of here now, Palmer.”

  “So, what’s the story? Some girl lost, that’s it?”

  “Look, it’s up to you. Like I said, I’m paying a debt.” He stood and moved toward the rear exit. “I need to go.”

  “Mathis, wait. Why bring me here? Why not give me this stuff earlier?” I motioned toward the pictures and the note. “You could have just handed it to me earlier—I don’t understand.”

  “I wanted you to start at the source. I wanted to make it hard for you to say no. I’m telling you, listen to me: You need to find Chelsea.” Mathis lifted his chin and pointed it at the street. “The Tokyo,” he said. “That’s where you start.” He pushed out the rear door and vanished into the dark alley. The door closed with a soft gasp.

  I stared at Chelsea
’s picture, tried to memorize her face. When I thought I had it, I shoved everything into the manila envelope and folded it into my blazer’s inner pocket. In my reporter’s notebook, I wrote this: ‘Find the girl: social media, marriage records, tax records. Where is she?’ I closed the notebook and crammed it into my pocket next to the envelope. I stood, adjusted my pink tie, and exited the bar toward the street.

  ***

  Outside Smitty’s, I stood for a moment and examined The Tokyo. Yellow taxis and sport utility vehicles crossed in front of me while I took in the site. It was a new place, built the previous year, and I’d never been inside it. A lone tower which seemed made of orange–tinged glass stretched into the illuminated night sky. The front drive was a half circle dented by a fountain with three silver swans spitting water into the air. The swans loomed three times the size of a man and appeared frozen in midair; they were suspended by a razor–thin scaffolding. There was no barrier to the fountain, so people wandered near the swans and danced backwards as the water hit their faces. I could see the flashing marquee through the mist. In a non–serif, modern font, it said: “Welcome to The Tokyo.” Out front, valets directed a stream of late model cars and hustled through crowds. Again, I followed the tower’s trajectory—at the top, I spotted a long, unbroken window tinted against the bright Las Vegas illumination. I figured it was where the executives hid.