LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Please, have a seat,” the woman said, motioning toward a pristine brocade sofa. “Ah’ll be back in a jiff.”

      I didn’t sit. I’d caught sight of a small framed placard propped up next to the flower arrangement, and I moved closer to the piano so I could read it. “Menu of Services,” it said, and the list began with “Straight Lay.” I was pondering what “Extreme French” might be when the woman in the tweedy suit came back.

      “Ah’m Bernice Broyhill,” she said, holding out her right hand.

      “Copper Black,” I said, shaking it.

      “You want a tour?” she asked, as though she couldn’t quite believe it.

      “Yes, I—” And if I’d had the chance, I think I would have said, “I’m a reporter.” But Bernice was already talking again.

      “If you’re wonderin’ why there aren’t any prices on our menu,” she said, launching into a sing-songy spiel, “it’s because our ladies are independent contractors. Their rates are in-tar-ly between themselves and the gentlemen. So are the services they provide. How they accommodate their clients is in-tar-ly up to them. Some of our ladies are world famous for their specialties.”

      Bernice then explained that if I’d been a “gentleman,” she would have called a “lineup,” and I would have chosen a “lady to party with.”

      “And if you weren’t quaht ready to party, you’d be welcome to have a drink in the bar and socialize awhile,” she said. She crossed the room and pushed open a saloon-style door. “We’re proud of our new sports bar,” she continued as she held it open, “and we have a full kitchen and a gen-you-wine Core-don Blue chef. If the gentlemen want to party in one of our bungalows, we serve them steak and lobster—real gore-may meals.”

      Bernice kept yakking a mile a minute as she showed me pictures of the bungalows, which were really just more trailers on the other side of the gazebo. Each one had a different theme, like “Psychedelic Sixties” and “Arthur & Guenevere.” Then she led me down a hall that looked exactly like a motel except for some artsy black-and-white photos of nude women on the walls. The smell of disinfectant was a little stronger, reminding me of the rest home where my great-grandmother spent her final decade. Just the smell, though. I’m pretty sure Great Grammie’s place didn’t have a dungeon with shackles attached to the wall or a whirlpool room decorated with Budweiser posters.

      “These are our public rooms,” Bernice explained as we moved from one to the next. “All our ladies can use them. Their own rooms are in-tar-ly private, of course.”

      I was beginning to wonder if there was anyone else in the building when a door opened and a woman in a skimpy hot-pink tank top and a G-string emerged and walked toward us. Stretched across her obviously augmented breasts was the word “JUICY” spelled out in rhinestones. She was tan and slim and pretty, although I noticed she was missing teeth on both sides of her mouth when she smiled. I couldn’t help turning to watch her when she passed, and from the back, it looked like she had nothing on below the waist.

      Bernice had launched into a new line of patter about health and cleanliness standards by this time, explaining how nobody had ever contracted a sexually transmitted disease in a legal Nevada brothel. Opening the door of a large closet, she pulled out a plastic bag.

      “We call this a trick pack,” she said. “The ladies pick one up when they have a client. It’s got a sheet, a condom, a towel, and a washrag.” When she closed the closet door, I noticed that next to it was a bookcase full of shoes. At least thirty pairs were all lined up neatly, eight-inch stiletto heels facing out. Slut shoes, we called them in college, and I almost laughed as I realized just how accurate we had been.

      As we rounded the corner and headed back into the living room, Bernice’s cell phone rang. She looked at it before she answered, and she wasn’t too happy about what her caller ID revealed.

      “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning, Kent,” she said. “The glass man was here.” She turned away from me. “Close to two grand,” I could still hear her say, “and there’s only eight hundred in Victoria’s account—okay, okay, just git your butt over here, and you can decide for yourself.” Bernice snapped her phone shut.

      “Sorry,” she said. “Where were we?”

      And here’s where I was either very brave, or very stupid, or both.

      “Were you talking about Victoria McKimber?” I asked.

      Bernice stared at me.

      “I knew her,” I said.

      “We’re all very sorry about her death,” Bernice said, her surprise quickly hardening into suspicion.

      “Do you know what really happened? I mean, she was supposed to be here when—”

      “She was hit by a car,” Bernice replied quickly. “A terrible accident.”

      “I’m not so sure,” I said. “I know that’s one possibility, but I was hoping you—”

      “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here and conning me into a tour,” Bernice interrupted. “Who are you, anyway?”

      “I told you, I—” but Bernice was barking into her cell phone.

      “Parlor, Bill,” she said. “Now.”

      Almost immediately, the bar door burst open, and a muscled guy in a black leather jacket was practically on top of me.

      “I’m gonna need some ah-dee,” Bernice said, and while I was still figuring out that she was talking to me, she barked again. “Yer driver’s license. Hand it over.”

      Bill intentionally slid his hand to his hip, pushing his jacket back. Stuck in the waistband of his jeans was a big handgun—the kind hit men use in Mafia movies. Dangling from his belt was a pair of handcuffs.

      I didn’t waste any time digging my driver’s license out of my wallet. Bernice snatched it from my hand and disappeared. Bill moved closer, enveloping me in a disgusting miasma of old cigarettes, breath mints, and sweat. I was just envisioning the cops examining my abandoned body when Bernice came back and slapped my license into my palm. She nodded at Bill, and suddenly I was out in the parking lot.

      “Where’s your car?” Bill said, his hand gripping my upper arm firmly enough to leave bruises.

      “Over there,” I said nodding across the street. He marched me to the edge of the road.

      “Get in it,” he said. “Drive away. Don’t ever come back.” Then he leaned closer. What now? I thought, but when he spoke, he was almost kind.

      “You look like a nice girl,” he said. “This is a very dangerous place for nice girls.”

      If he was trying to scare me, it worked. I got in my minivan and drove down Homestead Road so fast I missed the first stop sign and almost hit an old man on a bike. After that, I pulled into the parking lot at the Pair-a-Dice Casino. I needed to calm down, and I knew there would be a coffee shop inside where I could sit until I stopped shaking. As I walked into the smoky darkness, I couldn’t help thinking that teaching kindergarten in Connecticut wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

      An order of fries and a Diet Coke went a long way toward settling my nerves, though I barely touched either of them. I mostly watched legions of blue-haired bingo players mill around while I eavesdropped on a conversation two waitresses were having about their boyfriends. It was all so ordinary that it helped me forget I’d just been evicted from a whorehouse.

      When I left the Pair-a-Dice, my plan was to go back to Las Vegas and go Christmas shopping. But as I was driving, I kept thinking about how convenient it was for American Beauty that Victoria was dead. Bernice Broyhill didn’t seem exactly broken up, either, and Bill the bouncer looked like he’d make a capable hit man.

      I kept seeing the look on Bill’s face. He wasn’t only trying to scare me. He was trying to

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