A/N: This is a sequel to In the Shadows of the San Francisco Skyline.
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Sara Sidle
Warnings: Rated Mature T, violence, murder, adult situations and relations, bad language, alcohol usage, and smoking.
Summary: The year is 1959. It's approaching the new year in the city of Las Vegas. It's business as usual for private investigators Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle as they get caught up a missing persons case, blackmail involving adultery and murder, and an illegal arms racket with connections to a corrupt trucker's union.
Ch.1
December 31st, 1959
New Year's Eve
Las Vegas. NV
11:30 PM
Inside the banquet hall of the Rampart Hotel and Casino, the house lights were lifted as the musical act left the stage. The casino manager, a man named Walter "Walt" Braun, bounced out onto the stage to applause. Walt, the son of the owner Sam Braun, was dressed in a tuxedo complete with a cummerbund. On his left pinky finger was a gold ring with a black jewel on top with a gold "B" in the middle of the jewel, gold cufflinks, and a gold watch on his right wrist. The gold curtain shut behind him to block the view of the stage as the musical acts changed.
From his position on stage, he could see how packed the room was. Every seat filled, even the ones at the bar. All the patrons dressed in their finest tuxedos, black ties, and dresses. Women wore gloves over their hands while smoking long cigarettes. The men held cigars. On every table were glasses of champagne, highballs, gin and tonics, beer, or straight whiskey. Above the crowd, secured in nets, were balloons. Hanging around the room were banners with the phrase "Happy New Year" printed on them.
He'd checked his watch before coming on stage. It was eleven-thirty. The next singer was the last act before the big countdown to midnight. "Ladies and gentlemen," Walt said excitedly, "please give Rampart's next act a warm welcome. He's new to show business, only twenty-three years old, practically out-a diapers, this kid," he said to laughter as the spotlight started to narrow as the house lights dimmed. "Here he is, Mr. Bobby Darin!"
The gold curtain opened as the spotlight landed on the young singer as Walt exited stage right. Bobby Darin stepped up to the microphone the moment that the music from the house band kicked in and started singing, "Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear, and it shows them pearly white, just a jackknife has old MacHeath, babe, and he keeps it, ah, out of sight…"
~"Ya know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe, scarlet billows start to spread—"~
Five floors above the stage where Bobby Darin was singing, in a hotel room with spring green siboney patterned carpet, gold-colored bedspreads and curtains, and pale green walls, a boxing promoter named Lawrence Malcolm crawled across the carpet leaving a red blood trail behind. The blood had spread quickly down his white pleated shirt and over his black tuxedo pants. He'd tried to stop the bleeding as his hands were coated in red as he reached for the phone on top of the cadenza next to the brass lamp and ashtray with four cigarette butts stubbed out inside of it. One of which had pink colored lipstick on it.
~"Fancy gloves, oh, wears old MacHeath, babe, so there's never, never a trace of red—"~
A black glove covered hand reached over the red blood covered hand and picked up the phone's receiver and dropped it out of reach. Malcolm's hand gripped the edge of the credenza, spreading the blood all over it, then dropped as he collapsed to the floor. On Malcolm's right wrist was a German B-Uhren watch and on his left was a camera watch that had taken a picture of his killer.
~"Now on the sidewalk, huh, huh, whoo sunny morning, un huh, lies a body just oozin' life, eek—"~
Leaving the phone off the hook, the killer wrapped the murder weapon in a handkerchief with the initials T.B. embroiled on it, stuck it into the tuxedo jacket pocket, and then pulled off the gloves. The door to the hotel room opened, the "Do Not Disturb" sign was grabbed off the handle and hung on the front of the doorknob before the door closed, which locked it automatically.
~"And someone's sneakin' 'round the corner—"~
Down the green and gold colored hallway, a young Asian couple in fancy clothes stumbled off the elevator. They were hanging off one another, laughing and bellowing out, "Happy New Year!" while passing the hotel rooms and Lawrence Malcolm's killer.
The killer slipped into the elevator and pressed the button for the roof. Ten floors above the fifth, there was a party around the rooftop pool. Adjusting the white bowtie of the white tuxedo in the elevator door's reflection, the killer smiled. On the right ring finger was a gold ring with a black jewel on top with the gold initial "B" in the middle of the jewel.
~"Could that someone be Mack the Knife?—"~
The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened to reveal the hordes of people gathered to ring in the new year. The murderer stepped out, grabbed a glass of champagne off the tray of the passing black lady in a waitress uniform, and took in the bright lights of the Las Vegas strip. A half mile away, over by the horse track, a red, blue, and green neon sign lit up Pike's Gambling Hall.
~"There's a tugboat, huh, huh, down by the river don'tcha know, where a cement bag's just a'drooppin' on down—"~
Strolling under the neon signage for Pike's Gambling Hall, with a gym bag gripped in his hand, was private investigator Grissom's associate and top operative Warrick Brown. He opened the backdoor to the hall that also held a boxing ring in the back for private fights. He heard the roaring of the crowd gathered through the wood paneled walls. Passing the open auditorium door, he glanced in and saw a bout already underway between Sammy Robinson and Fredo Gambini. It was in the fifth round and both men were battered and bloody.
~"Oh, that cement is just, it's there for the weight, dear, five'll get ya ten old Macky's back in town—"~
He pushed the door to the locker room open and dropped the gym bag on the bench. Opening the bag, he moved aside the boxing gloves and robe and saw the polaroid camera when the locker room door opened. Looking over his shoulder, he saw two men in dark suits walk in. One big and one about his height, both were mobsters. The big guy started his way as the other guy shut and locked the door.
There was a radio plugged into the wall by the door on top of a cabinet. The mobster who'd locked the door turned it on before adjusting the volume up high as it broadcasted the fight across the hall on KENO radio station 1400 AM.
~"Now d'ja hear 'bout Louie Miller? He disappeared, babe—"~
Two miles away, under the blinking red light on top of the KENO radio station tower that was between Hotel El Rancho and the Union Pacific train tracks, a pile of sand and dirt was piled next to a hole that had been dug. A wooden box was dropped down into it by two men, one white and one black, who wore truck driver uniforms with WhiskeyTown embroiled on the back, as the headlights of a delivery truck lit up the dark desert night.
~"After drawin' out all his hard-earned cash—"~
The white truck driver, Dave Fromansky, grabbed the shovel, pierced the pile of sand with it, and started dropping it on top of the box, burying it. As Fromansky shoveled in the dirt, the black truck driver, Cyrus Lockwood, lit a Lucky Strike cigarette with matches he'd gotten from the Blue Sparrow Motel then opened the truck's driver side door. Sitting down in the front seat, Lockwood turned the volume down on the boxing match being broadcasted on KENO radio station 1400 AM as he removed the microphone from the CB radio and made a call. He saw through the windshield of the truck, across the flat open desert, the red and white sign of the Le Château Rouge.
~"And now MacHeath spends just like a sailor—"~
Six feet under the sand, and being buried alive inside the box, private investigator Gil Grissom awoke into darkness. Immediately he felt the restriction of the confined space that trapped him as he kicked his legs and arms out as he tried to sit up. Laying back down on his back, he checked his pockets. He still had everything: wallet, keys, his gun, switchblade, notepad and pen, four polaroid pictures, a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, matchbook from Hyde Park Liquor Store, a camera lighter, and a handkerchief with blood stains and the initials T.B. embroiled in it.
Pulling out the lighter, he flicked it on as he felt and heard thunder in the ground as the pine wood box started to shake all around him. He was inside a coffin. Using his shoulder, he tried to push up on the top of it, but it wouldn't budge.
~"Could it be our boy's done somethin' rash?—"~
As the Union Pacific train roared past the parked WhiskeyTown delivery truck, two miles northwest off of Forest Way between Orange Drive and Valley View Boulevard on the Las Vegas side of the city limit line was the Le Château Rouge nightclub. Inside, a white woman in a flowing blue dress named Mrs. Karen Rosenthal stood off stage left and watched the band play. Out on the stage, standing between the trumpet and piano players, was the saxophone player: Harry Bastille. He was a tall, slender black man, and as he glanced her way a warm smile touched his eyes. Touching the heart necklace that hung around her neck, Karen watched Harry play with deep longing and affection.
~"Now Jenny Diver, ho, ho, yeah, Sukey Tawdry
Ooh, Miss Lotte Lenya and old Lucy Brown—"~
Sitting at a table, watching Le Château Rouge's band play up on stage, private investigator Sara Sidle sipped on her mixed cocktail and checked her watch. Thirty minutes until midnight. She stood, walked around the packed tables, and headed down the long white hallway towards the rear of the building. Up ahead was a storage and laundry room that were located next to a staircase.
Exiting the staircase was a young white lady who was dressed in a waitress uniform. As they passed in the hallway, a key exchanged hands. Sara glanced over her shoulder briefly, making sure the waitress was clear of the hallway, before walking by the laundry and storage room to the staircase that led up to the owner's, Mr. Jules Rosenthal, office.
~"Oh, the line forms on the right, babe
Now that Macky's back in town—"~
Up on stage, Harry Bastille launched into his solo as the trumpet player lowered his instrument and walked behind Harry to leave the stage. The trumpet was placed on top of the piano as he exited stage left and disappeared into the dark wings of the backstage area. Climbing a set of stairs, he pulled open the door that exited into a small roof access landing with two doors and a window. He glanced out the window and caught sight of the blinking red light from the KENO radio tower and beyond that the gold Rampart sign that was lighting up the night sky before pulling open the door to the right.
He entered a long hallway that stretched the length of the building and went into the lounge room that was next to the hotel manager's office. Opening the trumpet case that was on the floor, he removed the false bottom and grabbed a gun, car keys, and an envelope.
~"I said Jenny Diver, whoa, Sukey Tawdry
Look out to Miss Lotte Lenya and old Lucy Brown—"~
Four and a half miles south of the Le Château Rouge, under the gold marquee of the Rampart Hotel and Casino, a long black limousine pulled up to the curb. The driver got out as he adjusted his chauffeur's hat before smoothing out the fabric of the suit jacket and sleeves while circling the rear of the limousine to the back passenger door. He opened the door and a man stepped out with a woman named Vivian Verona—a sexy blond with a slick black dress and long white gloves—on his arm. The man was the Rampart's owner: Sam Braun. Mr. Braun was dressed to the nines with a tuxedo, cummerbund, gold tie-clip, gold watch and diamond cufflinks, and a gold pinky ring with a black jewel with a gold letter "B" in the middle of it.
~"Yes, that line forms on the right, babe—"~
Another blond stepped out of the limo and hooked arms with Sam Braun. She had strawberry blond hair, wore a long red dress, and black gloves that extended up her arms to her elbows. It was Catherine Willows: Sam Braun's daughter and Grissom's friend.
~"Now that Macky's…back in town—"~
Behind a camera, wearing a tan suit and black fedora with press credentials, and snapping photographs of the casino mogul as he walked from the limo into the hotel, was Grissom's associate and operative Greg Sanders. He took photos of Sam and Vivian then lowered the camera once the entourage entered the hotel. Walking under the marquee, he headed to the limousine.
The limo driver opened the front passenger door for him, saying a little too smugly, "Mr. Sanders."
Greg flicked up the brim of his hat as he approached the driver, saying, "Why, thank you, good sir," before he slipped into the passenger seat of the long black limousine.
~"Look out, old Macky's back!"~
Inside the Rampart, up on stage in the banquet hall, Bobby Darin ended the song to roaring applause and a standing ovation. Walt Braun walked back onstage and shook the young singer's hand. As Walt looked out over the crowd, he saw the door in the back of the room open as his father, his current arm candy, Vivian Verona, and his half-sister walked into the room.
Going up to the microphone, he gestured to his father as he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Sam Braun!"
The audience turned and continued the applause as Sam, Vivian, and Catherine were escorted around the maze of tables to the one front and center to the stage. As they sat down, Grissom's secretary and operative Sofia Curtis approached the table and delivered three glasses of champagne to the group, gave Catherine a wink, then headed back around the maze of tables to the bar.
She was stopped by two men who were seated two tables behind Sam Braun's table. The two men were Joe Hirschoff and Robert O'Brien. A beer for Joe, a Tom Collins for Robert, and two glasses of champagne for later. After taking their orders, she walked to the bar, placed the drink order, and checked the time on the wall clock above the liquor bottles.
It was twenty-five minutes until midnight and her boss, Gil Grissom, was late.
TBC…
Disclaimer song used: "Mack the Knife" performed by Bobby Darin.