Insidious
Page 2
Conroy said in the same calm, soothing voice, “I suggest you don’t move or I’ll let her cut your ears off.” He turned back to Missy, who was still breathing fast and hard, not from all the running, but from the adrenaline rush. “Talk to me.”
Missy’s foot was raised to slam down on his back if he moved. The urge to kick him was nearly overpowering.
“Talk to me,” Conroy said again.
“Phew, well, okay. Like I said, this out-of-shape worm is a stalker, been lurking around corners for months, even followed me here from L.A.” And Missy couldn’t stop herself, she kicked him, not very hard at all, really, since she wasn’t in her boots, only sneakers.
He lurched to the side, hugging himself, and yelled, “You saw what she did. I’m going to have her arrested; I’m going to press charges. I didn’t do anything. I was walking down the Strip, minding my own, and she starts screaming at me and waving that knife! I want you to call the police.”
Del Conroy, a retired cop himself and head of security at the Wynn for three years now, knew that very probably nothing was going to happen to this guy, and hated it. He said politely, “Sir, again, what is your name?”
“Blinker—well, that’s my nickname—I’m John Bayley. I have a good job. I’m a fine citizen.”
“Why does anyone call you Blinker?”
“I’m a bond trader. I’m fast, I can make a trade in the blink of an eye.”
A bond trader who was a stalker? That was a new one, even to Conroy. He said, “Please give me your wallet, Mr. Bayley.”
The man pulled out a butt-flat alligator wallet, good quality, Conroy saw, and handed it to him. A California driver’s license, three credit cards, an AAA card, a gym membership for Fit Bods in Santa Monica, a couple of hundred-dollar bills. “You want to tell me what you’re doing here in Las Vegas, Mr. Bayley?”
“Just like the other hundred thousand mutts wandering the streets out there, I’m here to unwind from the high-stress job I’ve got—see shows, play some machines—until this crazy girl came after me with a knife.”
“You’re thirty-two.”
“Yeah. Let me up.”
Conroy memorized the address in Santa Monica and gave Mr. Bayley back his wallet. “Get up, Mr. Bayley. We’ll go back to my office and call the police.” Del Conroy prayed the guy had prior charges, or he’d get off without a doubt.
Missy became vaguely aware of people’s hushed voices and looked up to see a good dozen bystanders watching the little drama. She slipped the knife back into her pocket, tossed her head until her beautiful hair swirled and danced, and gave them a huge wave. “Come see me sing at the Mandalay tonight! I’m in The Beatles Retrospective.” She turned, shook Del Conroy’s hand. “Thank you for keeping me from sticking my knife in this pervert’s neck. But I wanted to, I really did.”
“I know, but you didn’t. You did good.”
“I didn’t do anything! It’s you who’s going to jail!”
“Be quiet, Mr. Bayley,” Del Conroy said. He turned to Missy. “Keep that Ka-Bar in its sheath, Ms. Devereaux. You don’t want the cops to see it. How’d you get it through airport security?”
“I bought it here, at Larry’s Pawn Shop. Why would the cops care? I was defending myself.”
“Better to play it smart. With Mr. Bayley ranting how you sliced him up, they’ll probably take it anyway.”
Well, that didn’t sound right. Missy eyed her stalker. “It’s over now, anyway, you pervert. I know who you are and I’ll soon be free of you. You’re going to leave me alone or you’ll be going to jail for a good long time. And me? I’ll be normal again.” She felt so very fine she started to sing her favorite song, “Twist and Shout.”
2
* * *
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
SATURDAY NIGHT
Marty Sallas moved quiet as a thief, which he was, to one of the side windows of the small pastel-blue house, his glass cutter in his hand. It was a good fifteen minutes from the Strip, in a quiet middling residential neighborhood. Perfect, really, for what he had planned. He’d kept his eyes on his princess—called Legs by everyone in the cast of The Beatles Retrospective—for the past two days, ever since he’d noticed a rich guy coming on to her. Last night he’d seen the dude give her an expensive emerald-and-diamond bracelet from Laszlo’s, a not-so-subtle inducement to hit the sheets. Tonight the rich guy wasn’t with her, he was playing high-stakes poker again at the Mandalay, where he’d seen her singing and dancing in her show. Molly Harbinger was her name, but to Marty, she was his princess who would give him her crowned jewels. He looked at his watch, lit a cigarette. Of course he’d stick the butt in his pocket. Soon now, Molly should fall into bed, exhausted after her three-hour workout in the show.
Marty used the time to think about how he’d spend the money he’d get from this job. He was considering the San Juan Islands off the coast of Seattle, perfect weather this time of year, not like this hellhole, and who cared there’d be no hot girls hanging out drinking beers? He’d buy himself a wet suit and swim in Puget Sound. He had to pay off Alf, a security guard at Laszlo’s, who’d texted him about the bracelet. The rich dude had shelled out fifteen big ones. So one thousand to Alf. It always paid to keep his boys happy.
Marty froze when the kitchen light came on at the rear of the house. He moved around so he could see into the kitchen. Why wasn’t she in bed, getting her beauty sleep? He’d seen her caress the rich guy’s hand just that afternoon, over two glasses of chardonnay, the bracelet sparkling in the dim bar light, and heard her thank him again, tell him she had two shows tomorrow, and she needed to get to bed early, but—lovely pause—she was off Monday. The guy had bowed out gracefully, no doubt he’d wet-dream his night away. Marty hoped he would win big at poker and give her more bling. The princess deserved that.
It was after midnight and there she stood, wearing pink pajama boxers and a tank top, drinking water over the kitchen sink. Back to bed, princess, back to bed, time’s a-wastin’. Come on, honey, it don’t pay to hang around in one place too long.
He heard a man’s wheedling voice but couldn’t make out the words, then the princess yelled, “I told you to get out of here, Tommy! What you did this time tears it. You gambled away all the money I’ve saved. Get out now, you loser, I don’t want to see your stupid face again.”
Missy’s foot was raised to slam down on his back if he moved. The urge to kick him was nearly overpowering.
“Talk to me,” Conroy said again.
“Phew, well, okay. Like I said, this out-of-shape worm is a stalker, been lurking around corners for months, even followed me here from L.A.” And Missy couldn’t stop herself, she kicked him, not very hard at all, really, since she wasn’t in her boots, only sneakers.
He lurched to the side, hugging himself, and yelled, “You saw what she did. I’m going to have her arrested; I’m going to press charges. I didn’t do anything. I was walking down the Strip, minding my own, and she starts screaming at me and waving that knife! I want you to call the police.”
Del Conroy, a retired cop himself and head of security at the Wynn for three years now, knew that very probably nothing was going to happen to this guy, and hated it. He said politely, “Sir, again, what is your name?”
“Blinker—well, that’s my nickname—I’m John Bayley. I have a good job. I’m a fine citizen.”
“Why does anyone call you Blinker?”
“I’m a bond trader. I’m fast, I can make a trade in the blink of an eye.”
A bond trader who was a stalker? That was a new one, even to Conroy. He said, “Please give me your wallet, Mr. Bayley.”
The man pulled out a butt-flat alligator wallet, good quality, Conroy saw, and handed it to him. A California driver’s license, three credit cards, an AAA card, a gym membership for Fit Bods in Santa Monica, a couple of hundred-dollar bills. “You want to tell me what you’re doing here in Las Vegas, Mr. Bayley?”
“Just like the other hundred thousand mutts wandering the streets out there, I’m here to unwind from the high-stress job I’ve got—see shows, play some machines—until this crazy girl came after me with a knife.”
“You’re thirty-two.”
“Yeah. Let me up.”
Conroy memorized the address in Santa Monica and gave Mr. Bayley back his wallet. “Get up, Mr. Bayley. We’ll go back to my office and call the police.” Del Conroy prayed the guy had prior charges, or he’d get off without a doubt.
Missy became vaguely aware of people’s hushed voices and looked up to see a good dozen bystanders watching the little drama. She slipped the knife back into her pocket, tossed her head until her beautiful hair swirled and danced, and gave them a huge wave. “Come see me sing at the Mandalay tonight! I’m in The Beatles Retrospective.” She turned, shook Del Conroy’s hand. “Thank you for keeping me from sticking my knife in this pervert’s neck. But I wanted to, I really did.”
“I know, but you didn’t. You did good.”
“I didn’t do anything! It’s you who’s going to jail!”
“Be quiet, Mr. Bayley,” Del Conroy said. He turned to Missy. “Keep that Ka-Bar in its sheath, Ms. Devereaux. You don’t want the cops to see it. How’d you get it through airport security?”
“I bought it here, at Larry’s Pawn Shop. Why would the cops care? I was defending myself.”
“Better to play it smart. With Mr. Bayley ranting how you sliced him up, they’ll probably take it anyway.”
Well, that didn’t sound right. Missy eyed her stalker. “It’s over now, anyway, you pervert. I know who you are and I’ll soon be free of you. You’re going to leave me alone or you’ll be going to jail for a good long time. And me? I’ll be normal again.” She felt so very fine she started to sing her favorite song, “Twist and Shout.”
2
* * *
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
SATURDAY NIGHT
Marty Sallas moved quiet as a thief, which he was, to one of the side windows of the small pastel-blue house, his glass cutter in his hand. It was a good fifteen minutes from the Strip, in a quiet middling residential neighborhood. Perfect, really, for what he had planned. He’d kept his eyes on his princess—called Legs by everyone in the cast of The Beatles Retrospective—for the past two days, ever since he’d noticed a rich guy coming on to her. Last night he’d seen the dude give her an expensive emerald-and-diamond bracelet from Laszlo’s, a not-so-subtle inducement to hit the sheets. Tonight the rich guy wasn’t with her, he was playing high-stakes poker again at the Mandalay, where he’d seen her singing and dancing in her show. Molly Harbinger was her name, but to Marty, she was his princess who would give him her crowned jewels. He looked at his watch, lit a cigarette. Of course he’d stick the butt in his pocket. Soon now, Molly should fall into bed, exhausted after her three-hour workout in the show.
Marty used the time to think about how he’d spend the money he’d get from this job. He was considering the San Juan Islands off the coast of Seattle, perfect weather this time of year, not like this hellhole, and who cared there’d be no hot girls hanging out drinking beers? He’d buy himself a wet suit and swim in Puget Sound. He had to pay off Alf, a security guard at Laszlo’s, who’d texted him about the bracelet. The rich dude had shelled out fifteen big ones. So one thousand to Alf. It always paid to keep his boys happy.
Marty froze when the kitchen light came on at the rear of the house. He moved around so he could see into the kitchen. Why wasn’t she in bed, getting her beauty sleep? He’d seen her caress the rich guy’s hand just that afternoon, over two glasses of chardonnay, the bracelet sparkling in the dim bar light, and heard her thank him again, tell him she had two shows tomorrow, and she needed to get to bed early, but—lovely pause—she was off Monday. The guy had bowed out gracefully, no doubt he’d wet-dream his night away. Marty hoped he would win big at poker and give her more bling. The princess deserved that.
It was after midnight and there she stood, wearing pink pajama boxers and a tank top, drinking water over the kitchen sink. Back to bed, princess, back to bed, time’s a-wastin’. Come on, honey, it don’t pay to hang around in one place too long.
He heard a man’s wheedling voice but couldn’t make out the words, then the princess yelled, “I told you to get out of here, Tommy! What you did this time tears it. You gambled away all the money I’ve saved. Get out now, you loser, I don’t want to see your stupid face again.”
