Blood Trade

Blood Trade

By Wesley Allison

Blood Trade

Copyright © 2011 by Wesley M. Allison

Smashwords Edition

Revision 12-3-20

This book is recommended for adult readers.

All Rights Reserved. This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If sold, shared, or given away it is a violation of the copyright of this work. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design by Wesley Allison

Cover art © Stanislav Perov | Dreamstime.com

ISBN: 978-1-4659-2441-4

For Vicki, Becky, and John

Blood Trade

By Wesley Allison

Chapter One: Xochitl and Novelyne

It was hard to believe that there could be a block like the one at First and Harding, just half a mile from the glitter of the Fremont Street Experience, but there were actually a lot of them. In fact, there seemed to be more of this dirty, damaged Vegas than there was of the shiny, clean Vegas. Five old broken down stores, a gas station that had been closed and boarded up for years, and an old abandoned motel that looked like something you might have found on Route 66, either the roadway or the old black and white TV show. Graffiti artists had tagged every building. The young man looked both ways for traffic before crossing the tired, cracked pavement of the street, but there were no cars nearby. That is not to say the area was deserted. Three blocks away he could see pedestrians walking and cars zipping past, but none of them turned in his direction. This certainly wasn’t a street anyone would want to be on after dark.

The small shop in the middle of the block must have at one time been a gun store. An ancient sign in the shape of a revolver, lined with now broken and inactive light bulbs, barely clung to the edge of the roof. The shop was set back into the block further than the others and the sidewalk sloped up toward the door which, like the large windows, had been painted over with black paint. A neatly printed sign proclaimed, "Sin City Detective Agency, est. 1976." Opening the door, the young man stepped inside. It slammed shut behind him.

It was extremely dark in the shop turned office. The only lights were a dim bulb in a ceiling fixture and the bright rectangle on the floor just inside the door, formed by the sun shining through the mail slot. Inside and to the right was a desk with two chairs sitting empty in front of it. Behind it was a woman, or a girl.

Sit, she said, leaning back in her chair.

Is this the detective agency?

She waved her hand as if to say, obviously.

He sat down. His eyes adjusted enough so he could truly see her now. She was one of those Goth girls. She had black hair, shoulder length. She had a lot of earrings, a ring in the right side of her nose and a ring right in the middle of her lower lip. A large and ornate cross was tattooed on the left side of her neck. She wore a white long-sleeved shirt and a black and white striped tie, and over this a leather bustier.

You’re not a vampire, are you? he asked, with a chuckle.

No, she replied with a straight face. I’m not a vampire.

I’m the secretary, said a voice from the back. I’ll take care of you.

The man gave an almost imperceptible sigh of relief at the sight of a thin blonde stepping out of a heretofore unnoticed door to the back. Except that she teetered on heels that were extremely high and that her dress was a bit on the short side, she seemed extremely normal. Thank God. The Goth girl got up, revealing a black and white checkered miniskirt and knee-high combat boots. She exchanged places with the blonde, who sat down, tucked a strand of her long wavy hair behind her ear, and picked up a pencil.

I’m Novelyne, she said with a sunny smile and a lilting Irish accent. What seems to be your problem? Mister…

Sachs, Brian Sachs. I’m trying to find my sister. She came to Vegas on the bus three weeks ago. She ran away, really. I’ve tried to find her on my own. This is the second trip I’ve made here to search for her, but I can’t find anything. I don’t know what I’m doing, I guess.

Where are you from?

Pocatello, um Idaho.

I see. The secretary scratched out a few words on a yellow legal pad.

I don’t have a lot of money, but… I have to find her. You see… I’ve seen things… here in Vegas. It’s not like Idaho.

No. It’s not like Idaho. The secretary rested her chin on her hand, pencil still between her fingers. What kind of things have you seen?

If I told you, you’d think I was crazy.

Hmph, said the Goth girl, and turning, she exited through the same door that Novelyne had entered.

If you’re the secretary, wondered Sachs, then who’s she?

That’s Xochitl. She’s one of our detectives. She’s really, really good.

Zoh-she?

It means flower in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs.

Xochitl McKenna navigated her way through the pitch-black back room and out the back door into the bright Nevada sunshine. Locking the door behind her, she cut north through the alley between the 60-year-old shops on the east side of the block, half of which were empty and the 60-year-old shops on the west side of the block, all of which were vacant and condemned. Passing through an arch in the only building that touched both sides of the block, she opened the third door down and stepped inside.

Dancing in the Moonlight, the 1973 hit, was playing in Robot Slut Tattoo, loud enough that it seemed the walls, covered with sketched tattoo designs and tattoo photographs, would sway with the music. Sid Case, the shop owner, was lying down on the couch set aside for customers, singing along with the music. His Dilbert t-shirt had slid up and most of his art-covered beer keg-sized belly was hanging out over his brown shorts and the edge of the couch.

Hey, Sid!

"What? Oh hey, Xochitl.

Have you got time?

Sure. Get in the chair.

Xochitl sat down and rolled up her right sleeve, exposing the tattoo of Batman on the outside of her lower arm and just the feet and calves of Betty Page on the outside of her bicep. Sid took her wrist and turned it over, revealing the image of Stephen King on the inside of her wrist.

Bats here?

Yeah. And maybe some spider webs, you know, nasty looking ones with wrapped up insects in them.

Those would go better up near Marilyn.

You’re the artist.

As Sid got his equipment together, Xochitl reached over to the radio on his workbench and searched for another station. After five stations with commercials, she stopped on one playing Katy Perry.

Really? asked Sid, sitting down.

She shrugged. She’s got chops.

He turned on the tattoo gun and began drawing tiny bats to fill in the space between the caped crusader and the master of horror.

How’s Novelyne?

She’s fine.

He paused to scratch his blond goatee.

Gotta be hard, he said.

What?

Going vegetarian.

Cows aren’t vegetables.

You know what I mean.

She shrugged again.

At the end of 45 minutes, Sid had finished a dozen bats, had filled in some of the background behind them, and had completed black lace filigree around Xochitl’s wrist. He flipped off the tattoo gun and sat it on the work counter next to the small torch he used for soldering jewelry. She looked at him and raised a carefully drawn eyebrow.

That’s all I’m doing. You have to make some decisions about your elbow.

His phone rang and he spoke with someone about the positives and negatives of tattooing swastikas. His phone was a 1950s vintage home model that weighed at least ten pounds. A moment later he was back, smearing the new tattooing with antibacterial gel and covered it with a piece of Saran Wrap. Xochitl rolled down her sleeve, buttoning it at the bottom.

Thanks, she said, getting to her feet. I’ve got to get back. I’ve got a case.

Are you gonna?

Gonna what?

Make a decision about your elbow.

Why?

There’s about three hours work left, and I want to do it, so I can schedule my photographer friend.

All right. I’ll decide.

Xochitl went out the back door and made the reverse journey to the office. She unlocked the door, stepping into the darkness, and locked the door behind her.

Did you say ‘hi’ to Sid for me? Novelyne was right by her ear.

No.

He’s really, really nice. I really, really like him.

No, you don’t, said Xochitl. So, do we have a case?

Sure. Daphna Sachs. She’s fourteen and she ran away. Came to Vegas.

Why? Somebody abusing her? Her brother, maybe?

I don’t think so.

Crossing the dark room, Xochitl’s combat boots sent a round metal wastebasket and a second unidentified object clattering across the room. She reached the foot of a narrow staircase and stomped up.

Novelyne followed right behind her, continuing the conversation. Her parents were killed in a car crash. We ought to save up and buy some furniture for that room down there. I hate them, you know.

You hate what; her parents, car crashes, or furniture?

Car crashes, of course, answered Novelyne. Cars go way too fast nowadays.

Did you get the retainer?

Sort of. He couldn’t afford a thousand.

How much did you get?

Two hundred dollars.

Well, that will cover two days, said Xochitl, reaching the top of the stairs. Did you at least get a picture of the kid?

Yes, but she looks just like all the rest of them—sad little girl lost in the world.

So, chances are either the pimps or the vampires got her.

Yes.

Xochitl stepped through the door into her tiny bedroom and plopped down onto the undersized bed. She fluffed the pillow, and lying down, rested her head on it.

What time is it?

It’s almost six, answered Novelyne.

Get me up after dark and we’ll go over to the Mint. You can play the slots while I go down to the café. After that, we’ll see if we can’t get a lead on the girl.

* * * * *

Xochitl, wake up.

What time is it?

It’s 9:30. Come on, I’m hungry.

The detective sat up, swished her tongue around her mouth, smelled her underarms, and ran her fingers through her hair. Reaching up, she pulled a small beaded chain that turned on the little lamp that sat on the nightstand beside her bed.

Let me at least brush my teeth.

The tiny bathroom also had a light that turned on when a beaded chain was pulled, but this light was a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The 60-year-old sink had two spigots with four-pronged handles. The one with an H on it dispensed cold water while the one with the C on it dispensed slightly warmer water. Her green toothbrush was sitting alone on the porcelain, well away from the large mildew spot, and the toothpaste was in the cabinet behind the mirror. The cabinet was so old that it had a slot for used razor blade disposal. Xochitl wondered how many old Gillette blades were resting down in the building’s wall.

Hurr-rey uh-up, Novelyne whined from behind her.

Xochitl looked up to see only her own reflection in the mirror. Most of her black lipstick was worn away and a copious amount of black eyeliner had smeared down her cheeks. She kind of liked the look. She tussled her hair with both hands and turned around but had to shoo the other woman out of her way so that she could get out of the bathroom. Downstairs, her shoulder holster was on the coat rack with her .45 resting within it, right next to her black leather jacket. She put on the holster and then the jacket. She didn’t need to check the pistol, but she did anyway. The clip was full. Then they were off.

Instead of walking toward Glitter Gulch, the two women made their way west two blocks to the large square Pacific Meats building. The butcher shop was closed, but the lights were on and when they looked in the window, they saw Mike the butcher looking out. He motioned that they should meet him at the back door, which they did.

I know what you’re here for, he said, handing them a glass jar filled with thick red liquid. Two quarts of blood. I know what you’re doing by the way.

You do? said Novelyne.

You should invite me over. I could really get into it.

You could? she asked huskily.

Sure. I’ve never had blood pudding, but I’d be willing to give it a try.

Blood pudding?

Yeah. I recognized your Irish accent, so I figured blood pudding.

Very clever of you, said Xochitl. When we get the recipe right, you’ll be the first to know.

Good night, said Novelyne, as Xochitl pulled her away.

Mike waved.

He’s really, really nice, said Novelyne. I really, really like him.

No, you don’t, said Xochitl. Now, drink that and toss the jar before we get to Fremont Street.

Stepping onto Fremont Street, at least the cleaned-up portion under the Fremont Street Experience, was a lot like stepping into a shopping mall—a shopping mall with a ceiling that constantly displayed giant animations of Air Force fighter jets, rocket ships, rock bands, and scantily clad women riding lions. There were quite a few tourists, their mouths agape, wandering between casino fronts, though it was nowhere near as busy as it would be when the weekend arrived. Xochitl and Novelyne entered between the Union Station and the Tangiers, the secretary tossing her empty jar into a trashcan shaped like a pair of stacked dice. Then the two crossed over on their way to the Mint. Two Metro cops passed by on their bicycles. Their yellow shirts made them easily visible to local citizens and visitors—criminals too.

Xochitl! called one of the cops, turning his bike around and coming to a stop beside the two women as the other continued on.

Officer Rizzello, said Xochitl.

I told you to call me Lance. He smiled broadly. Are you carrying?

Xochitl nodded.

You have your permit with you?

She nodded