The Last Chance Scholarship Fund

The Paradise Lounge was a dump.  It was about two miles in distance from the casinos on the Las Vegas strip and about a million miles away in every other category.  Outside it looked like a shack and the inside was no better.  The half-lit neon signs behind the bar said “udweise” and “iller Lte,” and the floor was covered with what could charitably called a patina of dirt or uncharitably called a layer of filth.  The battered oak bar filled up one long half of the room with a fly specked mirror behind it chipped with star shaped cracks, no doubt from the clientele throwing bottles to get the bartenders attention.  There were a few scattered tables with mismatched chairs between the bar and a row of booths along the wall.  The booths were covered with orange upholstery and patched with duct tape.  The click of pool balls and slot machines could be heard coming through a doorway past the end of the bar, at least when the blaring music from the jukebox paused between songs.   The smoke from the burning hamburgers on the grill mixed with the cigarette smoke from every second person in the place almost covered up the fragrance of pot and possibly what might be a plumbing problem down the hallway marked “Restroms.” 

I was sitting in a corner booth darkened by the lack of a light bulb in the cheap plastic imitation Tiffany light, watching for a rather unsavory character named Emanuel Lewis and drinking a semi-cold bottle of beer.  No, not the short actor, this Emanuel Lewis was nicknamed, “Slick,” for his ability with the ladies; drunk tourist ladies in particular. 

It was amazing how many women, single, married or bored wandered away from the brightly lit strip in Las Vegas into what might be called by the Chamber of Commerce “problem areas,” looking for a little adventure.  The trouble was they were finding it, a dozen robbed and raped in the last three months, all women, all attractive, all carrying cash.  In an additional nasty turn of events as if being robbed and raped and left naked wandering around in the desert wasn’t bad enough, the women had turned up on violent rape sites on the Internet.  The folks that ran Vegas, and by that I mean the casino owners, had managed to keep the problem quiet, after all “what goes on in Vegas stays in Vegas” means more than just wifey or hubby getting carried away with a hooker dressed as Elvis.  The Las Vegas police were making the situation a high priority, at least that’s what the police chief told me as I sat in his office.

“Milo Greene,” Police Chief Richard Curtis peered at my driver’s license as if it was something he’d found on the bottom of his shoe, “tell me again why I’m talking with you about something that isn’t any of your business?”  “Because Leonardo Bucilli asked you to.” I smiled my most winning smile, which didn’t seem to impress him at all, “and he owns one of the biggest hotels on the strip.”  “Uh huh,” he gazed out his window at the skyline of Las Vegas, “and what police agency are you with?”  “None,” I smiled some more, “although I do play poker every Friday with some guys from the Missaukee County Sheriff’s Department.”  “Uh huh,” he repeated, not bothering to look at me, “and do you hold any kind of private investigators license?”  “Certainly not,” I finally gave up my rather winning smile, my face was starting to hurt, “far be it for me to take a job from somebody that really needs it.”  “Uh huh,” he said again, and swiveled his big leather chair around to face me, “and just supposing you find this person or persons that are committing this series of crimes, what will you do then?”  “Why, I would call the Las Vegas police of course,” I tried my smile again, “I wouldn’t consider doing anything else.”  “Uh huh,” his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile or maybe whatever he’d had for lunch was backing up on him, “see that you do.”  He pushed a button on his desk, “Shirley, see that mister Greene has a copy of the Jean Vasser file as well as a summary of the other eleven cases.”  “Thank you Chief,” I stood up, “I won’t take up any more of your time.”  “Uh huh,” he swiveled his chair to look back out the window, “see that you don’t.”

The reason I was sitting in the Paradise Lounge was a seventeen year old girl named Kelly Vasser. Her older sister Jean was a kindergarten teacher in Michigan and the latest of the twelve victims found in the desert outside Las Vegas.  Her family had flown out, mom, dad and seventeen year old Kelly.  After one visit to her sister, Kelly disappeared from her family’s hotel room taking approximately $600 in cash from daddy’s wallet and leaving a note saying she was “going to find the bastard that did this and kill him.”

I could understand her sentiment, killing might be too good for whoever was responsible, but a seventeen year old girl in Las Vegas looking for trouble could find it faster than almost anywhere else on the planet.  I’d gotten a call from her Aunt, Nancy Grogan, who happened to run Greene Enterprises for me, and since I owed Nancy more favors than I could count, here I was in Las Vegas.  I’d spoken with Jean Vasser in her hospital bed, well actually she wrote me a note, she’d been beaten pretty badly and her jaw was wired shut.  “Slick Lewis, the Paradise Lounge,” was all she’d been able to scrawl before the painkillers made her nod off, but I could see the pleading and fear in her eyes for her little sister.

A waitress with silicone breasts the size of watermelons and a skirt short enough you could tell the color of her thong, dropped me off another bottle of beer with one hand while she balanced a tray of something burned in the other.  I handed her a ten and waved the change away which earned me a quick smile that reveled she might have missed her last dental appointment.  As she passed the next table a hand reached out and slid under her skirt, causing her to almost drop her tray of gourmet food offerings.  “You son-of-a-bitch,” she said without stopping or turning her head, “keep your hands to yourself.” 

I’d spoken to the bartender when I first came in, a rail thin gentleman with nicotine stained fingers and a hacking cough that only reinforced my determination not to order anything at the Paradise Lounge that didn’t come sealed from the factory. We had reached a satisfactory agreement, he would tell me if Slick Lewis came in the bar and I would give him the other half of the hundred dollar bill I was holding.   That had been five days ago and so far nothing had happened except the bartender and I were now on a first name basis, his was Crick, and I’d told him my name was Bill Clinton, even though it wasn’t.  He’d smiled, showing yellow teeth to match his fingers, and gave me a slow wink telling me I guess that he knew it was a fake name.  I figured fake names were pretty much standard at the Paradise Lounge, who was I to break the custom? 

 There was a woman setting two booths down, attractive but losing the twenty pound battle that a lot of women fight in their twenties and thirties.  Her name was Eleanor Fitch and she was in Las Vegas at the Middle School Teacher’s Convention.  I knew this because she had walked past me three times to visit the “restrom,” and her convention badge was pinned to her sweater.  Her companion was a thin dark complected man with brightly shining teeth that showed when he smiled and he smiled a lot, especially the more Eleanor drank.  During one of Eleanor’s three trips to the bathroom he’d quickly rifled through her purse, extracting a small wad of cash and a folder of credit cards.   I expected him to disappear after that but he just motioned to the bartender to bring another round as Eleanor, staggering slightly returned to the table. 

I almost missed Slick when he came in, I was eavesdropping on Eleanor and her friend and trying to decide what if anything to do about it.  I mean people do stupid things all the time, even middle school teachers, was it any of my business that she’d picked the Paradise Lounge to look for adventure in?  

Slick paused in the entrance, or maybe posed in the entrance, he was either looking for somebody or waiting for a fanfare.  He was about six foot tall, handsome in a smooth executive drug runner way, with perfectly styled blond hair and beard stubble that was so even you knew it had to be trimmed that way on purpose.  He looked kind of like Don Johnson in Miami Vice, wearing an expensive sport coat with a T shirt and enough gold chains to give you a sore neck.  I tried to guess where his gun was, because he would have one of course, probably a big 9mm or maybe one of the new Glock .40’s.   A shoulder rig was out, his coat swung stylishly open so he could show off his six pack abs in the tight T shirt so I guessed a middle of the back holster tucked inside his fawn colored linen pants or maybe a strong side hip holster with a forward tilt.  My silicone enhanced waitress hurried over and handed him a drink, something brown in a rocks glass with ice, but he barely noticed her as his eyes scanned the room.  They settled on my corner, I don’t suppose I was more than a dark shape through the smoke and dim lighting, but he gave a barely perceptible nod and headed in my direction.  He switched his drink to his left hand and casually hooked his thumb in the right side of his belt and I congratulated myself on my guess about the location of his gun. 

He stopped in front of my table and waited so I could admire his satorical excellence, or maybe since he was giving me his best tough guy stare, I was supposed to wilt in terror.  I just smiled politely and took a drink of my beer with my right hand, my left hand held my little Smith and Wesson .38 Special under the table about two feet from his groin, in some areas I’m ambidextrous.

“You look for me?”  he had a Spanish accent which surprised me a little with the wavy blond hair and all, but hey I guess there’s no reason a man can’t dye his hair blond and get a permanent if he wants to, women have been doing it forever.  “If you’re Emanuel Lewis I have been,” I nodded, “our friendly bartender must have given you a call.”  He shrugged, “it’s my business to know if some asshole is asking around for me,” he said in what was probably his best menacing voice, “so whaddya want?”  “Well I guess that would depend on if you’re raping women and beating them half to death then dropping them off in the desert or not.”  I took another sip of beer, “are you?”  “What the fuck?” he sounded surprised, then angry, “listen you son-of-a-bitch....” 

I shot him in the upper thigh, the .38 made quite a noise, even with the blare of the jukebox.  He staggered backwards and went down and I was around the table quickly, just in time to kick the big stainless auto out of his hand.  It went spinning across the dirty floor towards the bar and as he started to scramble after it I kicked him right between the legs as hard as I could.  It rolled him over and his face turned gray with pain as he doubled over and vomited.  I yanked him to his feet by his blond locks and I don’t know where in the hell he came up with the switchblade, but when he tried to bury it in my ribs I grabbed his wrist and threw him over my hip and slammed him down onto the floor.  He was stunned for a moment but not out, so I dropped to one knee and broke his nose with the barrel of my little .38 Special.  He roared in pain, both hands going to his face, as blood sprayed everywhere.  I snapped the handcuffs on his wrists I’d taken out of my pocket and jerked him to his feet again.  He was kind of a mess with the blood and the vomit all over his expensive sport coat, but maybe he could deduct it from his taxes as a business expense.  I shoved him towards the door, the whole exchange hadn’t taken more than ten or fifteen seconds, the juke box was still deafening, and only the people at the closest tables had even paid any attention to the short altercation. 

Two of the people that were paying attention were Eleanor and her companion.  She seemed to be frozen in place with her eyes riveted on Slick Lewis, her companions eyes were riveted on me.  “I think you should take Eleanor back to her hotel,” I told him, “I also think you should give her back her money and credit cards.”  The man licked his lips and nodded, for some reason he didn’t seem to be able to speak, “I’ll check in on her later,” I smiled at him, “I’d hate to have to come looking for you.”  “You....you won’t,” he managed a croak, “I’ll make sure she gets there okay.”  “Excellent.”  I waved at the bartender, who looked worried then pushed my companion out the door and into the parking lot.    

“Where’s you car?” I asked him politely.  He shook his head and said “fuck you,” so I punched him once in the kidneys and after he writhed around in the gravel parking lot for a moment or two I knelt down and asked him again, “where’s your car?”  “Blue Porsche,” he said, his voice thick with the blood running down his throat from his broken nose, “over by the side door.”

I pulled him to his feet, shock was setting in from the gunshot wound and broken nose and he didn’t give me any more trouble as I guided him towards an electric blue Porsche convertible parked in one of the handicapped spots. It was one of the expensive ones and probably had cost him a hundred grand without any options. One of the options he did have sat in the passenger seat redoing her lipstick in the rearview mirror.  She was young.....really young,  maybe only fifteen or sixteen.  She had blond hair cut short in some kind of loose shag with dark eye make up and bright red lipstick.  Her dress was as tight as a second skin, cut so low in front she was in danger of falling out and so short you would be able to tell if she was wearing panties or not if she wasn’t careful.  When she saw us coming in the mirror her eyes got big and she threw the door open and scrambled out, staggering on her 4” heels and confirming my guess about the panty issue.  “What the fuck?”  her voice was high and thin, “what the fuck happened?”  “Sudden attack of the flu I think,” I told her, “you can’t be too careful about your inoculations you know.”  “Flu?”  She looked at Slick Lewis and then back at me, “fucking A it’s the flu!  What the fuck happened?”  “You’re right,” I nodded and pushed Slick into the passenger seat, “I don’t think it was the flu....food poisoning maybe.”   “Food poisoning?”  she watched me in a kind of shocked horror as I took a small roll of duct tape out of my pocket and forced Slick’s elbows together and took a couple of turns around his forearms.  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  “These sports cars are very dangerous,” I yanked Slick’s head back against the headrest and wrapped three lengths of tape around his throat, holding him firmly in place, “sometimes a seatbelt just isn’t enough.”  “Stop it!” she was close to screaming, “just tell me what the fuck is going on!”  

“Slick and I are going for a little ride,” I shut the passenger door and walked around the front of the Porsche, “a business meeting you might say.”  I opened the driver’s door and slid inside, “you probably ought to go home, it’s a school night after all.”  “I....I don’t...have.....I live with him,” her eyes filled with tears, “what am I supposed to do?” 

“Well,”  I reached inside Slick’s sport coat and found his wallet and a cell phone in the inside pocket.  I opened the wallet enough to see a wad of hundreds and fifties, and tossed the phone and the wallet to the surprised girl, “call a cab, go to wherever you and Slick call home and get your stuff.  After that you’ve got two choices.  One, keep going like you are and end up a burned out whore before you’re twenty, or two,” I fished inside my jeans pocket and pulled out a blank business card with a phone number written on it, “call this number and ask for Nancy Grogan and tell her a nice gentleman gave you his card and said to ask about the scholarship program.”  “I uh....I uh....” she looked at Slick’s battered face and blood and vomit coated sports coat, “I uh......don’t think you’re a very nice man,” she said faintly.  “See your judgment of men is already improving,” I smiled my best smile which seemed to make her even more nervous, “but the offer is real, it’s your life and your choice.”  I dropped the Porsche in gear and backed out of the parking spot and the last I saw of her was a dark silhouette against the neon signs of the Paradise Lounge.

 Slick didn't have anything to say as we drove out into the desert sixty one miles to where I’d left my rental van in back of an abandoned gas station.  I pulled Slick’s Porsche into one of the empty bays and pulled the rickety door down to give us privacy.  Slick was still out of it or pretending to be, but that was all right I had a few chores to do before I was ready to talk to him anyway.  I gathered up the supplies I’d bought and left in the van, a battery powered light and a five gallon can of gas I’d filled up on the way out into the desert.

I sat the light on the hood of Slick’s Porsche and poured the five gallons of gas over him where he sat in the passenger seat. His eyes snapped open and he stared at me in horror as I held the cheap lighter I’d bought along with the gas and flashlight, in front of his face.  “Tell me what I want to know,” I said cheerfully, “or it’s barbecue time.”

“Police bust local porn producer, Police Chief Curtis cites citizen involvement as the key.”  I finished the story which was only a small column on page three and tossed the paper on the table and picked up my coffee.  I’d just had a sip and was taking a bite of bagel when the door to my suite opened and Chief of Police Curtis walked in.  “Coffee?” I asked, motioning to the carafe and spare cups on the antique headboard, “or maybe breakfast?”

“Cut the shit Greene,” Chief Curtis said, although he did pour himself a cup of coffee, and pull out a chair and sit down.  “Nice picture of you in today’s paper,” I said, “very distinguished and trustworthy, makes me want to move to Las Vegas.”  “God forbid,” he grunted, “we’ve got enough wise guys here already.”  “A few less it sounds like from the article,” I nodded, “I guess Slick Lewis and his buddies will go away for a few years.”  “Yea, kind of odd for a tough guy like Lewis to write a confession,” Chief Curtis sipped his coffee, “but I suppose after wandering around naked in the desert for three days with your hands duct taped together even a cell looks pretty inviting.”  “I understand one of the victim’s sisters was instrumental in cracking the case.”  I said. “We’re giving her a citation,” Chief Curtis said flatly taking a long sip of his coffee, “it was almost unbelievable she was able to find the house where they were taping the rapes.....” he hesitated, his eyes never leaving my face, “...almost unbelievable.”  “Never underestimate the resourcefulness of youth.”  I smiled, “it gives me hope for the next generation.”  “It gives me an ulcer,” he snorted and pushed his chair back from the table and headed towards the door.  He stopped without looking back, “forty-five tapes of girls between twelve and twenty-five,” he said softly, “they were so bad two of my detectives threw up when we had to watch them.”  I couldn’t think of anything to say so I didn’t.  “I’ll pass the word along wherever they end up sending Slick,” he said almost as an after-thought, “a lot of the inmates have wives and daughters.”  

Suddenly my coffee tasted bitter and my bagel like dust.  I picked up the phone and called the desk at the Essex, “could you get me a plane back to Michigan please, Shantel?” I asked, “the sooner the better.”  “Of course Mister Greene,” she answered, “the next flight is in forty-five minutes.” 

I was on my way to the airport in the Essex’s limo, Madeline Stone, the day manager wouldn’t hear of me taking a lowly taxi cab, when my cell phone rang.  “Greene here,” I said.  “Hello Milo,” Nancy Grogan’s voice was bright and cheerful, “and how are you this fine day?”  “Peachy,” I said, “what’s up?”  “I thought you’d like to know that Patty Arnet arrived yesterday,” she said.  “Okay,” I replied, “who’s Patty Arnet?”      

“Patty Arnet is a sixteen year old runaway from the foster care system in Nevada. Four foster homes in two years, with some indication of sexual abuse.  No father, mother a junkie and part time hooker, no other relatives.  She was given a card by, and I quote, “the scariest fucking dude I ever saw,” who told her we had a scholarship program.....do we have a scholarship program?”  “Oh yea,” I said, “I forgot to tell you she might call, I guess I didn’t really think she would.”  “She did and as of next Thursday she is enrolled at Collingwood School for Girls, signed up for their nursing program.”  “Thanks Nancy,” I said, “sorry to dump that on you, but I thought the kid deserved a chance if she’d take it.”  “She’s a good kid Milo,”  Nancy said, “afraid to trust anybody, but not so hard yet that she can’t hope for something better.” 

“Glad to hear it,” I told her, “anything else?”  “There is one problem, Nancy said seriously, “and I don’t know how to handle it.”  “Really?” I asked, “do you need investment advice?”  “Not hardly,” she snorted, “the problem is the name of the Scholarship Fund, do you like, The Milo Greene Scholarship Fund for Rehabilitating Young Hookers, or The Soft Hearted Milo Greene Scholarship Fund for Young Nubile Girls?”  “Let’s just leave my name out of it entirely,” I couldn’t help but laugh, “why don’t you just call it, The Last Chance Scholarship Fund, hell sometimes that’s all you get.”

The End

Favorite Authors

I loved the writing of Pat McManus growing up, his wildlife and hunting stories were always a treat to read and the hilarious situations he described always made me laugh.  I grew up hunting and fishing in lower Michigan and while my adventurers couldn’t compare to MaManus’s experiences there is always something odd that happens in the outdoors.  One year on the way to go deer hunting in Michigan’s Ontonogan County (a nine hour drive) my friend Dennis and I rolled our truck and trailer on some black ice.  It totaled the truck and trailer both and although neither of us was hurt we were stranded just north of Claire.  When I called my wife that night to report our situation she asked, “so you’re canceling the hunting trip right?”  “Certainly not,” I was astonished at her assumption, “my dad and Bud are driving up a replacement truck as we speak, we will be back on the road in the morning.”  It was a successful hunt that year, the 6 man camp killed 11 deer and forever after that season was called, “roll a truck shoot a buck.”  Not Pat McManus quality adventure I’m sure, but hopefully in the ballpark.

 One of the best books I ever read on writing was Stephan King’s, “On writing: A memoir of the Craft.” If you want to be an author read it. Solid and inspirational by an author that has literally written more books than the bible.

You would have to go back quite a few years to read one of my first favorite authors, Donald Hamilton.  He wrote a series of books about a spy named Matt Helm, code name Eric. My favorite quote on his book jacket was something like “the toughest Agent to ever crush a Russian spy’s kidney with a crowbar.”   How can you be any tougher than that?  If you are into movie nostalgia you might remember a cheesy old movie from the sixties with Dean Martin playing Matt Helm, it was just horrible, trite and unrealistic and I kind of remember him swinging from a ceiling somehow.

I moved on to John McDonald and his Travis McGee series with his knight errand character living on a houseboat called “The Busted Flush.” Throw in Steven King and Dean Koonz and Harlan Coben and Eric Lustbader and a half a hundred more and you can see my reading list is not exactly limited. 

I loved Science Fiction and Fantasy as a kid, mostly the old time authors like Asimov, Roger Zelany, and John Norman although he is so politically incorrect that I’m not even sure he could be published in this day and age.   The Dave Duncan series I read a half a dozen times over the years and all the old Andre Norton books.  Barbara Hambly was another favorite, her detailed descriptions of London life a hundred plus years ago and her characters are always first rate.

These days it’s John Sanford and Lee Child and some of the woman authors I especially like such as Lisa Jackson, Linda Howard, Sandra Brown and especially Janet Evanovich. 

I read everything, I still have every Louis Lamour western he ever wrote and the complete set of Zane Grey novels.

Near Cadillac in Michigan where my wife and I live is a thrift store that sells paperbacks for a quarter and hard cover books for fifty cents, we stop there every week and load up on reading material.

Upcoming Books

The next two books I hope to publish are called No Signature and One Good Date.  No Signature is the first in a series whose main character is Milo Greene, a disgraced ex-baseball player that was raised by a US Senator after his parents were killed and occasionally “does favors” for the government that lands him in trouble.  In the first novel he goes to Las Vegas to intentionally lose a million dollars to a Cuban criminal as a hidden payoff so the government can find out which Senators have taken bribes to help Las Vegas gambling interests open casinos in Cuba.

 In One Good Date, Nikki Sans has given up looking for love, she is just trying to find one good date, a date with someone that “isn’t horrible or lives with his mommy or has some weird foot fetish, just a date with a nice guy, is that too much to ask?”  When her best friend Shelly recommends Jack, a customer of her real estate agency she is happy and even though they haven’t met yet, he seems to fit the bill.  After all, she just wants a date, just one good date, what could go wrong?