When CSI was in its heyday, some scenes were filmed downtown with just B-roll of the Strip. There’s one bar in particular that they used in a number of their episodes. It’s a dirty, angry little place that fit in with some of the sleazier, grislier crimes of the series.
Not a weed in the parking lot.
No weeds without rain.
The air in the bar seems to be stained darker than the night air outside. The close-quarters smell of sweat and spilled beer permeates the neon sign — lit room.
A dance stage with a pole waits at the far end of the bar. Right now there aren’t any women dancing, but I can’t imagine that at a place like this it’ll be a long time between dancers. Most people think exotic dancers get paid to dance, but they don’t — at least not at most places in Vegas. Instead, they pay the owner from the tips they get. Depends on the bar, of course, but I’m guessing that here, the girls don’t go home with a whole lot of cash in their pockets.
Many of the bars in this part of the city have topless servers. Here, the women serving drinks wear scant bikini tops. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to make Charlene at least somewhat comfortable having them around me.
“Well?” she says. “Where do you want to start?”
I study the place, looking for someone who might be Solomon, but don’t see anyone who fits the bill or looks like a pimp or a seedy, underworld drug lord.
A group of ten bikers is gathered on the south end of the bar. Scattered throughout the place, people sit alone or in small groups, talking in the booths and at the tables.
“I don’t think he’s here.”
“Why do you say that?” Xavier asks.
“From what Nikki told me, I’m guessing he’s not a biker, and if he’s as well connected as she led me to believe, I don’t think he would be sitting by himself or with a date. I’m guessing bodyguards close by, probably a few girls on his arm.”
“I’ll go ask around.”
“Um, I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
“Naw.” He pats his coat pocket. “I’ve got Betty with me.”
Charlene eyes him. “Betty?”
He opens his pocket to show her his Taser. “We go way back, Betty and I.”
“Two weeks,” I remind him.
“Two weeks.”
And then, before I can try to convince him to stay with Charlene and me, he leaves for the group of bikers.
Some of the guys in the nearby booths eye Charlene. For a moment I’m tempted to tell her to wait for me in the car, but I’m not sure I want her sitting out there alone.
“Stick close to me,” I tell her. And we head to the bar.
We find empty stools next to each other, I order two beers, and when the bartender brings them, I tell him I’m looking for someone.
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“Reporter?”
“No.”
“Movie producer?”
“Sorry, no.”
He studies my face, peers at Charlene and then back to me. “You look familiar.”
“I have a show, over at the Arête. I’m an illusionist.”
A look of recognition. “You’re Jevin Banks.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve seen your picture around town.”
“Billboards.”
“Yeah.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“Solomon.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know anyone named Solomon.” I’m pretty good at reading people, but he has an air of practiced indifference about him, so I can’t tell whether or not he’s telling me the truth.
“I was told I could find him here.”
Xavier seems to have been accepted by the bikers — he’s standing in their midst and they’re all laughing together. I can’t help but wonder how he made friends so quickly.
A hulking man sitting beside Charlene looks like he’s had too much to drink, and I’m not happy about the way he’s ogling her.
“Sorry.” The bartender passes a bar towel unnecessarily across the counter. “Can’t help you.”
I lay a hundred-dollar bill in front of him. “It’s important.”
He pauses momentarily. “How important?”
I place another Franklin on the bar. “Pretty important.”
He accepts the money and nods toward the end of the bar, where a somewhat dumpy-looking fortyish guy with a comb-over is sitting by himself.
From a corner booth, Fred Anders watched as the bartender directed Banks to a middle-aged guy sitting by himself, then Fred shifted his attention back to Wray, who was talking with some bikers on the other side of the room.
I look at the man the bartender pointed out. “That’s him?” But my gaze quickly drifts to the gorilla who’s checking out Charlene. His muscle T-shirt looks like it might have been painted across his chiseled chest. He has me by at least fifty pounds. He would not be easy to put down if I needed to, but I figure I could do it.
Martial arts versus brawn?
Brawn is going down every time.
Unless he knows martial arts too.
That wouldn’t play out so well for me.
In answer to my question the bartender says, “That’s the guy who can lead you to him. But if I were you, I wouldn’t go. You really don’t want to meet Solomon.”
Before I can reply, the man who can’t keep his eyes off Charlene licks his lips. “Honey, why don’t you pull your stool a little closer?” A couple of the guys nearby him grin.
“No thank you,” she tells him, then lowers her voice and turns to me. “Jevin, I think—”
“What, you too good for me? I won’t bite.” He glances toward his buddies. “Unless you’re into that.” They chuckle and give more of their attention to the interchange.
“No thank you.” She stands.
He goes on, “I think I could—”
But I cut in, “The lady said no.”
It’s obvious by now that he’s not simply coming on to her but also putting on a show for his buddies, and that means he’ll probably be less willing to accept no for an answer than if he were alone and simply looking for someone to take home. Whenever a guy has an audience he’s much more motivated to want to save face.
He appraises me coldly. “You might best keep out of this.”
“I’m having a conversation over here,” I tell him, “and neither my friend nor I are interested in being interrupted by you anymore.”
“Jevin.” Charlene puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay.”
He leers at her. “I can show you what a real man is—”
“She made it clear,” I tell him firmly, “that she doesn’t want to chat. A gentleman respects a woman’s wishes.”
Charlene closes her eyes and shakes her head slightly: Oh, Jevin. Why did you have to go and say that?
“Are you trying to start something? Boy.”
“I don’t start fights,” I say. “I end them.”
By now, all the people on this side of the room have turned their heads and are facing us. I don’t take my eyes off the man who was disrespecting Charlene.
“Well.” He grins and holds his hands out to the side, inviting me to push him or throw a punch. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Whatever I have to.”
Two of his friends push back their bar stools and stand. The guy glares at me. “Who exactly do you think you are?”
“A man who doesn’t like to see people get hurt.”
“Then stay out of this.”
I stand up. “But I don’t always get what I want.”
He follows suit, rising, and then straightening up to his full height. He peers menacingly down at me and cracks his neck.
Okay, this guy is really big.
I lower myself to get into a stance for TaeKwonDo. He swings at me and I duck, evade the punch, and get ready to do a knife hand strike to the back of his neck to put him down, but suddenly there’s a slither of electricity and the man jerks and drops, writhing, to the floor.