Vegas Stripped (Raven McShane Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  He passed me a plate of dates and figs. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?"

  "Actually, now that I think about it, I promised I wouldn't tell anyone."

  Cody flashed a look of mock outrage. "You can't just waltz in here and dangle a juicy bit of news like that and then pull it back!"

  "Why not?"

  "Look, you know you're going to have some more champagne. After two or three more glasses, you're going to spill the beans. Let's just save us all the song and dance and hear it right now."

  He had a good point. "Ethan Longoria."

  His eyes got big. "I love Ethan Longoria. Wait here—I'll put him on." Cody flitted off into another room. Soon enough Ethan's voice emanated from an invisible built-in sound system. It was a rich, Sinatra-like sound with a touch of sadness to it. It wasn't exactly my thing, but I could see why people liked him. Cody hummed along to the tune as he danced back into the kitchen.

  "So how did you meet him?" Cody asked. "We tried to book him for the Outpost a few years ago, but he went over to the Copa instead." Until last month, Cody had been the president of the Outpost casino, which his wife owned. That all changed when she pled guilty to murder.

  "Well, this is all confidential, okay?"

  Cody nodded. I felt a little silly about blabbing Ethan's story so soon after promising to keep it quiet, but I rationalized it by thinking that Cody had been an entertainer himself and might have a relevant opinion on the subject. I filled him in on my meeting with Ethan and what he wanted.

  "Sounds like a smart move, actually," he said.

  "You don't think it's a little weird to hire a private detective to figure out why you didn't get a job?"

  "A little bit, maybe. Of course, I never got passed over for a job." Cody smiled devilishly. "But I can see where he's coming from. He's young. And he's right—Mickey Mayfield cannot possibly be a better draw for that primo slot. That man is disgusting. But there's so much money at stake, I think Ethan's just being smart. Wouldn't you want to pay someone a few thousand bucks to learn how someone else got a five-million-dollar gig and you didn't?"

  "You think he gets that much?"

  "Easy. Think about it. There are probably eight hundred seats in that theatre. Seventy-five bucks, average, per ticket." He whipped out his iPhone and pulled up a calculator app. "Seventy-five times 800 is sixty thousand. Times 300 shows a year. Eighteen million. He'd get a big chunk of that. Maybe a third."

  I was impressed by Cody's handle on the business. Like most people, probably, I assumed he was just a pretty face. "I had no idea there was that kind of money involved," I said. "These people aren't exactly household names."

  Cody smiled. "Live entertainment is where the money is. Why do you think Wayne Newton and Elvis and Celine Dion set up shop here?"

  "Don't forget Elton John."

  "Sir Elton," he corrected.

  "Whatever. But do you actually think there was some funny business involved? I mean, there are huge amounts of money at stake. And these places are all owned by big corporations now. It's not like the old days."

  Cody sighed dramatically as he refilled our drinks. "So young, so pretty, and so naïve. You're right that things are way more corporate these days, but in the entertainment business it's all about relationships. What can you do for me today, tomorrow, next year? That kind of thing. At some level, it's about the bottom line, but a lot of it gets done with winks and nods and vague promises. It doesn't mean a crime was committed."

  "I suppose. So did anything like this ever happen to you?"

  "Not me personally. But I knew guys who were in line for bigger things that never turned out. After our shows we'd sign autographs, and you'd see a mob of women around a few guys and only a couple stragglers around others. It was obvious who the ladies were shelling out to see. But sometimes the less popular ones became the stars, and the popular guys got cut. No one could ever figure out why."

  I feigned a horrified look. "Wow, so you had to actually interact with your fans?"

  "Yeah, it was terrible." He made a face.

  "No sympathy here. I have to give lap dances to my fans. I think you had the better gig." I smiled coquettishly. "Speaking of which, any chance you're going to give me a lap dance?"

  He looked skeptical. "Let's see what happens after another bottle of bubbly."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Drinks with Cody had turned into dinner, and dinner had turned into a movie. After watching Clueless on HBO in his home theater room, we found ourselves in the hot tub (my idea), and then I crashed on his amazingly plush king-size bed. I'd had no idea that having a rich, gay friend could be such a blast, and I felt a small pang of regret for not discovering this fact much sooner in life. When Cody started to stir—he'd graciously taken the guest bed for himself—I eased myself out of his bed and went downstairs to make us some breakfast.

  He shuffled into the kitchen a half hour later.

  "Eggs okay?" I asked.

  He nodded. "I was thinking about Ethan."

  I shot him a look. "No wonder you were up there all by yourself for so long."

  "Not that way." He laughed. "I was thinking about the job he wants you to do. I actually kind of know Jerry Conn a little bit. I might be able to get him to see you. He could be helpful."

  "You kind of know Jerry Conn? What's that supposed to mean?"

  "A couple years ago we made him an offer to come sing at the Outpost. We figured he was almost washed up and the Copa would cut him loose before too long. Our place was a step down, but it was work. He would play well to our kind of crowd."

  "But he stayed put, obviously."

  "Yeah, but he was very grateful for the offer. I'll see what I can do, if you think it'd be helpful."

  "That would be awesome. I saw him sing live once with my parents about a million years ago. He'd probably have some idea about what strings were pulled to get Mayfield that job."

  After we scarfed down our eggs, I drained a cup of coffee and kissed Cody good-bye on the cheek. Even in my sex-deprived state, I felt a warm glow as I drove back to my condo on the Strip. I didn't have a lot of close girlfriends, so a gay male friend was the next best thing. Or was it even better?

  After lunch I called Ethan's manager, who said I could stop by his office anytime before five to pick up a check. I hadn't discussed my fee with Ethan, so I was curious to see what they had in mind. His management agency was in a building on Tropicana Avenue a few blocks down from the MGM. I usually preferred a good walk, but his office was just far enough away and the August afternoon was just hot enough that I drove.

  It was a three-story building with a branch of the Great Western Bank on the lower level. The company was called Talent Associates, and the lobby was decorated with pictures of what I assumed were its most famous clients. A receptionist led me into the office of Dennis Tolentino, a middle-aged man with thinning black hair, a big jowly face, and a broad smile.

  "I told Ethan not to do this," he said apologetically. He told me to call him Denny and motioned me into a seat while he stole an obligatory glance at my chest, which was one part Raven and two parts silicone.

  I shrugged. "It shouldn't be a big deal. I figure the guy knows what he's doing."

  "It's just stirring up trouble, if you ask me." Denny sat down behind his desk. "His time will come. It's not like he's scraping by right now, either. The kid makes six hundred K a year playing four days a week."

  I continued to be amazed at the money flowing around the entertainment business. Of course, most people would probably be shocked if they knew what I pulled down on a good night just for taking my clothes off. "He must be in a hurry to get to the top," I said.

  He sighed. "Kid's in a hurry all right. This is unprecedented, though. I've never seen someone hire a PI to dig up dirt on a guy who beat him out for a job. This is show business, not politics!"

  I smiled at his joke. "Ethan didn't mention anything about dirt. He just said he wanted to know how Mickey Mayfield got pic
ked over him."

  Denny chuckled knowingly. "That's part of it, yeah. From what he told me, though, he wants to bury the guy. I thought that was why he hired you."

  "Maybe he just forgot to tell me about that part of the job." Some warning sensors started going off in my brain. Something about this was starting to scare me.

  Denny shrugged. "Could be. Or maybe he changed his mind. Anyway, he likes your style. I think he even went to see you in your, uh, other job."

  I snickered. "It's okay. I know I'm a stripper."

  Denny got up and fetched a large three-ring binder from the shelf, which turned out to be the largest checkbook I'd ever seen. He scribbled something on one of the checks, tore it out, and slid it across the desk at me.

  I tried to keep a poker face when I read the figure on the check. Twenty thousand dollars.

  "That should be enough to get me started," I deadpanned. That fee would pay my mortgage for nine months.

  "Well, Ethan's serious about this. Obviously. I'm sure he told you that this is top secret. We don't want the word getting out that he's even upset about getting passed over. There are only so many casinos that hire singers in this town, and we don't want him seeming like he's some kind of disgruntled diva, especially at such a young age."

  I nodded, being an expert in disgruntled divas. "Let me ask you though. Do you think he's nuts? Is there anything to this, or is he just being a little paranoid?"

  Denny leaned back in his chair. "Do I think he's nuts? Yes. Is he paranoid? Definitely. He's got some other problems you don't need to know about, too. Believe me. But when you get right down to it, you have to admit it was a strange move for the Copa to put Mickey Fricking Mayfield in that slot over our boy. Especially without any notice. They just called one day and said, oh, by the way, your guy is not our guy. And this was after Ethan was a model number two performer. He did the matinees, the holidays, and the warm-up act on weekends."

  "So you're saying Ethan is nuts but not bonkers?"

  "I guess. The real problem is, so what? What if he finds out that Mayfield is the third cousin of the booking VP at the Copa? Or that he slept with somebody to get there? None of that is illegal. What's he gonna do about it?"

  "He says he wants to learn from the experience so it doesn't happen again."

  Denny smiled. "Maybe." He didn't sound convinced. "What's he going to do, though? Get new cousins? I tried to tell him this was a waste, that this is just how things go sometimes. He'll meet people and make connections, like everybody else. But like I said, the boy is in a mad dash to the top."

  I changed the subject. "Does Ethan have a girlfriend?" I tried to make the question sound as casual as possible, as though it was simply routine.

  Denny jumped all over it. "Why do you ask?" His eyebrows made suggestive up-and-down motions. "You got a little thing for my client?" He obviously found the subject amusing.

  I feigned outrage. "Absolutely not! I'm asking because sometimes the other person in a relationship can be calling the shots. If he's got a woman, maybe this was all her idea. You know, the guy could be perfectly content in his position in the world, but the woman is driving him to bigger and better things. And sometimes she goes overboard."

  Denny wasn't buying it. "Far as I know, he's single. Certainly nobody long term. There's no Lady Macbeth in the picture, if that's what you're after."

  "Okay, thanks." I wasn't sure if the news made me happy or even more depressed. On the one hand, if he was available, I still had a shot with him. Not that I was thinking in such terms. But if he was single, then he was a damned liar, and I was even more pathetic than I thought.

  Denny leaned forward in his chair. "Anyway, what do you say I take you to dinner? It's only five, but who cares? Don't waste your time pining after a young boy like Ethan. Experience trumps age any day."

  My mind flashed through a zillion excuses, but I decided to recycle Ethan's line from the day before. "Actually, I've got a girlfriend, so…"

  His eyes got big. "Oh! Well, it was very nice meeting you."

  Denny stood up awkwardly, and I pocketed the check. I gave him what I imagined was a firm, lesbian handshake and headed out.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When I got home, I Googled the phrase ETHAN LONGORIA GIRLFRIEND. My inquiry was strictly for professional reasons, of course, since I would never want to date a gorgeous younger man with a high-paying job and a voice like Sinatra. The results came up with dozens of hits, most of them in the local paper. Ethan had been famous a few years ago when he'd been a finalist on American Idol, but nowadays he wasn't enough of a name to make national headlines. Last winter, he'd appeared at a Vegas cancer charity ball with a television actress on his arm. Andrea Pfeifer was a statuesque bird of a woman with blonde locks and sculpted eyebrows to die for. Maybe he was only into waifs, I thought, which would explain his aversion to my unnaturally curvaceous figure. I Googled ETHAN LONGORIA ANDREA PFEIFER and came up with a few more hits, mostly blurbs in the local gossip column. Nothing more recent than March. I clicked back to my original search results and found another hit with a woman named Kelli Goss, who was a star striker on the Los Angeles women's soccer team. These two hadn't been mentioned since last year, though. That was it. Either he was keeping a low profile recently or he wasn't actually dating anyone at the moment.

  I shook myself out of it and began thinking about real work. Talking to Ethan's manager had made me a little uneasy. It was great to get such a big check, but the generosity made me a little suspicious, especially since Denny had been hinting that there was more to the job than what Ethan had told me. I didn't want to start poking around if I wasn't even clear on what the mission was, or if I would even agree to do the job they actually wanted me to do. I called the number Ethan had given me, but he didn't pick up. I pulled up the Copa website on my computer and found a schedule listing all of the day's entertainment. Mickey Mayfield was headlining in the main stage with shows at 8:00 and 10:30. Tickets were selling for sixty dollars and eighty-five dollars. Ethan was scheduled to sing in the lounge from 7:00 to 9:00, so I decided to catch him in person. On a Wednesday night in August, things would be pretty slow at my club. I wouldn't start dancing until 10:00 or 11:00, so I had some time to kill.

  Not being in any great hurry, I decided to take a leisurely stroll from my condo down to the Copacabana, which everyone called the Copa, at the south end of the Strip near the MGM Grand and the Excalibur. It was about seven thirty and still over a hundred degrees out, so I took my time, making my way through throngs of tourists crowding the pedestrian bridges and walkways. When the Copa was built in the seventies, it was probably one of the biggest hotels in the world. Now it was dwarfed by the MGM and its other mega-neighbors, but its more budget-friendly offerings allowed it to carve out a niche in the market. The clientele seemed a little older than at other places, but otherwise the interior was in good shape and was bustling with activity.

  I made my way to the lounge, which was tucked in a corner off several banks of Betty Boop slot machines. It wasn't a huge venue, but there was probably room for three or four hundred people in there. It was about half-full, mostly with middle-aged couples nursing cocktails and Coors Lights and eating bar food out of baskets. Four or five tables near the stage were crowded with younger women who were dressed to kill. Ethan's fan club, probably. Ethan was onstage crooning "The Lady is a Tramp." Backing him were a grizzled-looking black pianist and a skinny young drummer with a ponytail. They were all wearing light-blue suits and black bowties and looking generally like they'd rather be somewhere else. All in all, it was kind of a depressing scene. Here was a very talented singer playing to a half-filled room of nonpaying customers, while upstairs a hack of a comic had the marquee act and was pulling in the big-time money. It didn't take me more than a few minutes to see why Ethan was impatient to take his career to the next level.

  Having survived and recovered from the triple-bypass burger, I decided I might as well eat while I listened to the rest of the sh
ow. I ordered a couple chicken sandwiches with a Diet Coke on the rocks, and I eased myself into a seat in the corner of the room. Ethan was working his way through "Moon River," and the rest of his repertoire was a fairly predictable homage to Cole Porter, Stephen Sondheim, and the other great American songwriters. Despite the depressing venue and the bored backup musicians, I found myself getting into it. Ethan's voice was tinged with a flinty longing that allowed him to sell each song with just the right amount of feeling without crossing the line and getting schmaltzy. He was good.

  When he finished a half hour later, the crowd managed a pretty raucous standing ovation, and Ethan returned for an encore. Someone in the crowd yelled out "New York, New York" and Ethan killed it with a gritty and unusually slow version that tugged at the crowd's heartstrings. I managed to wave him down just as he was exiting the stage. He didn't seem terribly surprised to see me.

  "How'd we do?" he asked, looking down at me from the stage.

  "That was pretty amazing, actually," I said. "I grew up listening to that stuff with my dad."

  Ethan smiled. "Nothing beats those old standards. It's pretty amazing when you think about it. The best songs were all written during about a twenty-year period, and a lot of that was during the Depression."

  I liked the fact that he tried to deflect my praise by giving credit to a bunch of dead guys. "Can I come backstage? Is there a backstage?"

  He chuckled. "Yeah, why not? I even have a dressing room. Just wait here a minute."

  Ethan went over to the left side of the stage and gave a little wave to a middle-aged brunette woman who'd been sitting by herself at one of the tables up front. He came back to fetch me and took my hand to help me up onstage. He led me past the piano to an unseen door that led to a somewhat dingy locker room, where the two other musicians were doffing their powder-blue outfits as quickly as they could. They didn't seem to mind me walking through.

  Ethan's dressing room was nicer than I expected. It was about ten by twelve, with a comfy-looking leather couch and a mini-fridge in the corner. I wondered if he took women back here regularly or if I was an exception. I made myself at home and curled up on the couch. Ethan remained standing while he undid his shirt and tie.