Vegas Vengeance by Randy Wayne White

wasn’t carrying any identification, so I didn’t learn anything about him. And his car—if he came by car—wasn’t parked anyplace obvious. Strike two.”
    â€œI know you’re upset, James. But you don’t have to turn your sarcasm against me.”
    He made an impatient gesture with his hands. “I guess I’m just in no mood for interrogation, Barbara.”
    â€œIs that what I was doing?”
    Hawker punched a button on the wall, and the garage door rolled open. He said over his shoulder, “I’ll call you tomorrow, Barbara.”
    Her voice turned chilly. “If it’s really necessary, James.”
    He thought of a number of cutting replies, most of them dealing with how many times it had been necessary for him to call a whorehouse. But he choked down the surge of adolescent meanness and walked silently into the darkness as the door clattered down behind him.
    Hawker was a hundred yards down the road when he heard the clumpity-pat of her slippers on the pavement. He turned and saw her running toward him, running with that peculiar stride of the dancer—hands too low, legs too straight.
    Her eyes glistened in the streetlights. Hawker did not respond when she threw her arms around him, crying.
    â€œOh, Hawk, there was no reason for saying what I did. It was cruel of me—especially after what you had to do tonight.”
    Hawker patted her shoulder noncommittally. “It’s okay, Barbara. Really. I’m just tired. I need to get some sleep.”
    He tried to pull away from her, but she wouldn’t allow it. “No. You’re still mad. And besides, you’re tight as a drum. I can feel it in your shoulders. They’re all knotted. You won’t be able to sleep even if you try.” She took his big hand and tugged him back toward the Doll House. “I owe you a dinner and an apology. And if you go off and leave me feeling the way I do, James Hawker, I really never will speak to you again.”
    So, feeling sheepish and silly, Hawker allowed himself to be led back to the suite; allowed her to hum and cluck over him while a striking blonde served them roast quail and wild rice and fresh strawberries and a French wine so good that he actually drank two glasses before ordering the beer he had wanted so badly.
    And when he stood to thank her for the meal, Barbara Blaine took his hand once again and pulled him along behind her. She took him out onto the patio and into a small adjoining building. The structure smelled of cedar and heat.
    The tiny room in which they stood was tiled from wall to ceiling, and there was a stainless steel table near the shower stall. “That,” said the woman, pointing toward a large window through which Hawker could see cedar benches, “is the sauna bath. The girls have had it on most of the night, so the temperature should be about one-seventy. Right outside is a Jacuzzi. We keep it at about one-ten. You need to relax, and those two will relax you.” She pointed to the table. “That is for massages. One of my girls is an accredited masseuse, and I will send her down in about half an hour—”
    â€œBarbara, that’s really not necessary—”
    â€œNot a word, James Hawker. You’re going to have a proper massage, whether you like it or not. Her name is Mary Kay O’Mordecai Flynn, and Mary Kay O’Mordecai Flynn is also going to bandage your cuts and soothe your wounds, and make you feel altogether human again—”
    â€œI think I’ve already turned down that offer—”
    â€œA massage , James, and some tender loving care—nothing more. I will send down a girl immediately with a bucket of ice. In that bucket of ice, you will find a fresh bottle of beer. Drink the beer and then soak those awful knuckles of yours in the ice. Every twenty minutes thereafter, I will send another beer and another bucket.” She stood to her full height, fists