EUGENE & ANOTHER MYSTERY

I lifted my head. I heard something, I think. Apparently I'd gotten halfway through my bottle of bourbon last night before I passed out at my desk. I heard that thing again. Was someone knocking? Someone was knocking. But why? I stood up, gave my reflection the once over, cleared my throat and opened the door. It was a clean cut young man wearing a suit. He covered up his dismay well; it was obvious he expected the man on my side of the door to be awake and... human. "Do you know what time it is?" I asked him.

“It’s 1PM.” he answered flatly.

I checked my watch. He was right. I guess I missed my lunch date with Double D. She’ll understand. “What can I do for you Mr...”

“To start with, you can invite me into your office.” He didn’t offer his name.

“Where are my manners,” I asked him, “come in.” He came in and sat down in the chair in front of the desk. I sat behind the desk and poured myself a glass of bourbon. “Hair of the dog,” I said. Just the slightest hint of a frown appeared on his brow. I started to wonder how hard it would be to break this guy’s composure. "What can I do for you, stranger?"

"Do you know who Igor Ivanov is, Mr. Monroe?"

"The Russian billionaire? I haven't heard much about him except that he's moving out here to open a casino." That was a lie. He has life-long ties with the Russian Mafia. He's planning on using the casino as a front for money laundering, dog fights and much more. I heard he was a sick man. The part that really scared me was that I was here when the Chinese muscled their way into town, and it wasn't pretty. Now the Russians want in?

"You're a private eye and you haven't looked into a foreign businessman moving into town?" He snided.

"Are you planning on paying me to?” I snided back.

“I represent a group of concerned citizens that would like to have Mr. Ivanov discreetly investigated. We feel it would be better for Las Vegas if Mr. Ivanov stayed in New York. Perhaps there is something in his past that could prevent him from getting a gaming license.”

Two questions entered my mind. One, hasn’t this guy seen Casino? You don’t need a license to operate a casino. And two, who on Earth told this guy I was discreet? I should have been more concerned with who it was he represented and what they had against a good guy like Igor, but I guess, despite what you see in the movies, drinking and detecting don’t always mix. "How were you referred to me, son?"

"A taxi driver," he answered quickly. "And you can call me Barnes. Eric Barnes."

"Well Eric Barnes, this will take time. We'll have to discuss my retainer and per diems."

"I think this should cover a couple weeks of your time," he said as he gingerly placed a medium-thick envelope in front of me.

I never took my eyes off his. I lit a cigarette and said, "I'll see what I can dig up."

He stood up, gave me his card and found his own way to the door. His card said he was a lawyer. "Fucking nerd," I said to myself as I watched him step into his Lincoln. Taxi drivers, I thought to myself. Sure plenty of them knew me from various excursions wherein my old car just could not keep up with my rigorous schedule. But who among them would actually give me a referral? One problem at a time.

I spent the rest of the afternoon looking into Eric Barnes. I checked with the Nevada Barr and they’d never heard of him. I checked all my regular informants and got nothing. I couldn't even find a facebook profile. The guy was a mystery. I fucking hate mysteries. I needed to clear my head so I could come at the problem fresh. I took Barnes’ envelope and headed down to Fremont Street, where a guy with an envelope full of cash can still spend a night enjoying some honest gaming and some honest hookers.

Two days went by before I finally googled Ivanov. I got the address of the company handling the construction of the casino and made my way down to find myself an informant. Now, a trustworthy informant is not always easy to pick out. I try and look for the youngest and hottest of the women hanging around the gang, then usually end up settling for the lowest in the gang's hierarchy.

After about two hours of sitting in my Buick watching these geeks I figured the girls just weren't going to come. I saw an errand boy running out so I followed him. He was a young guy, about nineteen. The trick was to approach him without looking like I was a fag. I followed him into a busy drycleaners and got in line behind him. There were two people ahead of him.

“Come on,” I said, “I don’t have all day! You believe how slow this guy moves?”

“Sure, I guess,” he said. I was in.

“Hey, haven’t I seen you hanging around that new construction site? I park cars across the street, I’m out there all day.”

“You a fag?” he asked. Damn! I thought I was doing so well. “‘Cause if you are, that’s cool.” He smiled.

Sometimes I hate this job. I smiled back, “What are you doin’ for dinner?” He smiled again, gayly and pretty soon we were in a hotel room together. This was either going to be the smartest or gayest thing I'd ever done.

His name was Dennis. If it wasn't for all gayness he seems like he'd be a normal, straight guy. I'm not homophobic or anything, but goddamn it's uncomfortable being alone with these people. I looked across the room. I didn't see it when I first picked him out, but this guy was pretty gay. He was telling me about his parents and sisters. I was feigning a boner. I walked over to him and he put his hand on my chest. I started unbuttoning my shirt and he just took his off. He reached for his belt and I karate chopped him in neck then tasered him to the floor. Ah memories. I took pictures of him crying and threatened to send them to his Russian Mafia buddies if he didn't get me the information I needed.

Twenty-four hours later, Dennis sent me an email with detailed information about Ivanov’s business in Vegas. I forwarded it to Barnes without even reading it and settled in to watch a good movie. I was ten minutes into Fried Green Tomatoes when I saw headlights outside and heard a car door. I looked out the window and saw Barnes’ car parked across the street. A large man in a ski mask had gotten out of the passenger seat and was heading my way. I retrieved the Colt from the coffee table and made sure she was loaded. Sometimes I really fucking hate this job!

It was about this time that I seriously wondered why I’d never set up any booby traps in my office. I’d thought about it before, but never put any time or effort into it and now I was determined to Home Alone this grown man to death. I grabbed the only thing I had, the jerk lotion off my desk, and applied it, liberally, to the nine square feet directly on my side of the door. I walked out the office and shut the door behind me. I went across the hall to an empty office with a dark, shadowy doorway and crouched down.

Ski Mask walked up and pulled a sawed-off shotgun out of his ass cheeks and kicked in my door. He took two steps into my office and slipped, causing him do the splits. I laughed pretty hard, he was obviously in a good amount of pain, but that gave away my position. He swung his arm around, the one with the shotgun in it, and gave me two blasts. I made it into the empty office and had to laugh again, it was being painted. I set up an A-frame ladder in front of the door and used my shoelace to rig a can of paint to it. As soon as Ski Mask appeared in the doorway, I let the can fly like a pendulum into his balls. Ski Mask went down. Then I shot him in the face. I guess there’s not gonna be a sequel in New York.

I headed out to the street and got a couple of rounds off, but Barnes was gone. I went inside and reflected on the fact that at least fifty percent of my clients end up trying to kill me. It was time I got serious and found out who Barnes worked for.

I called all the local rental car companies and gave them the license plate number and finally got a match. I drove down there to find out who rented it. Luckily, the kids who run these places have easily greaseable palms. For $50, I got the name Sunrise Divisions, Inc. I raced back to the office and looked it up. It was a subdivision of an Italian corporation. I couldn't find any info about what they did, but I did get something; on their website they list a mob webmaster who grew up in my neighborhood and just happens to owe me a favor. His real name is Ronald Conway. His webmaster name is Roncon666.

I picked up a bottle of gin and headed to Conway’s house. When I got there, I saw three squad cars and an ambulance parked outside, lights flashing. The paramedics were loading a body bag into the ambulance. I thought about asking the cops what happened, but I still had Ski Mask’s blood splatter on me, and I was pretty sure I knew the answer... Barnes had gotten to Conway. I was dealing with some heavy hitters, and I needed to get on their good side. There was only one thing I could think of... I was gonna have to kill Ivanov.

He was flying in tonight at 9:35 from New York. I took a quick shower and ran down the street for a steak. Then I drove to the airport and waited. My biggest fear was that he would be traveling with his family, but I got lucky. He was alone. I had assumed that he would have a car waiting for him, but no. He took a taxi. I followed him three cars back until the hotel.

He had just stepped from the taxi when Barnes drove in fast, coming the wrong way, and made a move on him. I jumped out of my car and screamed, "Ivanov!! Duck!!" He dove to the ground while Barnes sprayed the front door with an Uzi. He killed three people, but not Ivanov. Or me. That's important, too. As Barnes drove by me, mid-getaway, I fired one shot and hit him in the shoulder, causing him to crash into my car and knock himself unconscious.

Ivanov's goons arrived shortly after and cleaned everything up. No police involved. Then he invited me in. This could be the start of a beautiful relationship, or the gayest thing I've ever done.

Cold, Dead Case

It was nearly 3am and I was digging a hole in the middle of the Nevada desert on some hideous blue planet. I hadn't eaten or slept in almost two days. Not a drop of alcohol for eight hours. I was running on empty after that two-day standoff with Rin Chen, another Chinese mafia goon. He had barricaded himself in the bathroom of the Chinese restaurant his recently deceased uncle owned and he had my wallet in there with him.

So anyway, he was dead and I was in the process of digging his grave when I happened upon another deserted body. It had obviously been there at least ten years based on my sober analysis of the bones. I dug a foot east to find some identification and found the answer to an eighteen-year-old question: Where was Timothy Anderson?

It was my first case. I was just a kid, a teenager with no P.I. license and no business sticking my nose in a missing persons case. Timothy was the son of Vegas developer John Anderson. He disappeared after a night of clubbing with a showgirl. The cops found half a kilo of coke in his car. Sex, drugs and money... it was too much for an aspiring P.I. to pass up.

It was also the first time I met Tommy the Tooth. This was before he had his tour guide business set up. Like me, he was young, crazy and never knew his mom. Tommy and I were both regulars at MacPhearson's pub. It had whisky, slot machines and a basement with a wide variety of classy hookers, plus they didn't bother with  ID. Timothy Anderson, whom I'd never met personally, also frequented the pub.

The night before he disappeared, I was at the pub, as usual, but Timothy had been at the Rio with a hot date. Per the police reports, her name was Jemma Browning. She told the cops Timothy had a few too many, got handzy with her and she made him drop her off at home. She said he drove off angrily and she hadn't seen him since. If memory serves me, she was working a show at the Stardust.

A couple of nights after the disappearance I started asking questions around the pub. That’s when I met Tommy. He’d been asking questions too, because he was aspiring to be the guy with all the intel. I didn’t know people aspired to that sort of thing. It takes all kinds. We took it upon ourselves to break into Browning’s dressing room at the Stardust.

We figured the dressing rooms would be mostly empty during the day, so we went around eleven in the morning. We met up at Stardust buffett to discuss our plans. We didn’t have any money to bribe security, so we’d have to be clever.

Getting backstage was easy, but the door to the dressing rooms was guarded by a lone, monstrous bouncer. I turned from one corner and asked him for directions and Tommy turned the other corner and tried sneaking in behind him. Fucking Tommy's foot bumped into the door as he opened it. The hideous bouncer turned to catch him and I shot him in the back with a taser. This was back when I carried a taser. It seems stupid now because women are usually the ones who carry tasers around and shoot me with them. I've never been shot with a taser by another man. I'd rather be shot dead than poop my pants at someone else's will again.

We found Jemma's dressing room and sleuthed around a bit. Jemma had a picture of herself and a wealthy older man who also happened to be on the board of directors of one of John Anderson's leading competitors. For eight months, I focused all my attention on this guy, but it turned out to be a dead end. His name was Albert Silverman. I tailed him all around town whenever I could borrow my mom’s car, I even tried to sneak onto his compound once disguised as a pizza delivery boy.

“Everyone knows Jews don’t eat pizza!” Tommy said when I told him of my failure.

“I thought it was Asians who didn’t eat pizza.”

“Yeah, Asians and Jews.”

Eventually, it was announced that Anderson and Silverman had been secretly working on a joint development deal for over a year. Apparently they’d ended their rivalry and become partners, just like Siskel and Ebert. I had to turn my attention elsewhere. Unfortunately for Timothy, elsewhere never led me down the road to solving this case.

I searched for clues around old Tim’s bones for a while and came up with nothing. All he had in his wallet was a drivers license, a picture of him with some cute blonde and an obscene amount of dirt for some reason. Dumbass. I threw Rin Chen into Timothy’s expanded home-in-the-ground and went back to my office for two beers, two shots, a steak and a nice, long nap.

I woke up at 2pm. I made myself a coffee cocktail and I walked two blocks east and waited for Tommy to roll by on his daily tour. He picked me up and we toured up and down the strip and over by old Vegas. I must confess I learned a lot of things about Vegas from Tommy during that tour. He also seems a little obsessed with Siegfried & Roy. He knew family history, dates, where and how they got the tigers. He knew things about their mansion, their fashion preferences, their relaxation techniques. He knew where they went to school and what they studied and why. He could name every car ever owned by both Siegfried and Roy. He knew where they shopped, which bedroom was theirs, what the sink in the bathroom in the master bedroom looked like. In all the years I’ve known him he’s never let it slip out.

After the tour, I told Tommy what I’d found. “You have to show me!” he said. “I need to see the body for myself.”

“It’s in an unmarked grave in the middle of the Nevada desert. That I dug while I was tired, anemic and sober. We’d never find it again.”

“Shit.” He paused. “You should have brought it home with you.”

“You think I was gonna drive all the way out to the desert with a body in my trunk, dig a hole, and bury the body just so I can drive home with a different body in the trunk?” I shook my head. “ Anyway, I got this,” I showed him the picture of the cute blonde.

“That’s Jennifer Winters. She was an intern at Channel 5 Vegas back then. Got a job doing the weather in Provo, I think. Man I had a crush on her.”

The next morning we loaded up the Buick with beer and jerky and headed to Provo. Jennifer was now working as an executive at the tv station. Tommy had gone on the computer and got all sorts of Intel on her on the way there. We parked in the station lot by her car and waited. When she came out, Tommy distracted her and I snuck up and knocked her unconscious from behind. We took her to a secluded area and made her spill the beans.

Jennifer said she loved him, but I could tell right away she was lying. We kept her alone with us for 30 hours. Finally, the truth came out: Timothy had stolen a considerable amount of cocaine from her tv station boss in Vegas, Paul Delaterre. She said he planned on using it to frame Albert Silverman so that the deal with his dad would fall through. I'm still not sure what the story is there, but she was plenty clear about who killed poor Timothy Anderson. So Tommy and I went home and made plans to blackmail Paul Delaterre. Revenge is awesome, but blackmailing someone is the greatest feeling in the world.