A/N: Thanks everyone for the reviews and follows/favorites. I greatly appreciate the support.
Ch. 3
San Francisco, California
December 19th, 1959
Warrick leaned against the elevator that took him to the ninth floor of the Mason Building that was off the corner of Mason and Eddy Street. His boss, Gil Grissom, had sent him over to the law office on an errand. Mick had called, saying that time was running out on the Braun case, whatever that meant, and that they would likely have to go to Las Vegas in order to get what they could if they had any hope of bringing the casino mogul to justice. Even though Mick was a defense lawyer, not a District Attorney, he was always on the side of what was right. The lawyer was willing to cross to the other side of the courtroom if it meant putting someone like Sam Braun behind bars.
"What'd you think," George, the elevator operator asked him as he lowered the sports magazine he'd been reading.
"Don't get me wrong, I love Sugar Ray, but he's getting worn down. I think Pender's goin' to take him."
"Nah, Rick, you're crazy—"
The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped out as he patted George on the shoulder, saying, "Keep it here if ya can, George. I won't be long."
"I'll be waiting," George told him as he sat down on the stool by the switches as he went back to reading the sports magazine.
He headed down the hallway to a door that read "Michael Nolan Attorney at Law" and pushed open the door. Inside he saw a poinsettia on the desk, a decorative tree in the corner, and several Christmas cards on the corkboard from various clients who'd sent the attorney and his office cards. The door to Mick's office was shut and sitting behind the desk, dressed in a simple two-piece woman's skirt suit, and on the phone, was Mick's secretary: Wendy Sims.
She was a cute little brunette with a no-nonsense attitude and snarky sense of humor. She also knew that her boss was in love with a man named Lewis Dawson, who was Grissom's best friend. Sitting on the edge of the desk, he kept his eyes on the door as Wendy ended the call. Gesturing to the door, he said, "Is your boss in?"
"He is. He'll be right out."
"He got a client in there?" he asked.
Wendy smiled as she told him, "Lewis stopped by a few minutes ago."
Ah. He gave a nod as he said, "He got a mistletoe in there?"
"I'm pretty sure if he did, it's being kept conveniently concealed." Wendy pushed away from the desk and stood, asking, "Would you like a glass of water while you wait?"
"How 'bout a cup of coffee. It could take awhile."
The moment that was out of his mouth the door to Mick's office opened and out walked Lewis Dawson looking all cheeky. Getting up off the desk, he walked to the doorway as he glanced up and all around, searching the ceiling.
"What're you looking for," Lewis asked as he turned and craned his neck to search the ceiling in Mick's office.
"Mistletoe."
Lewis turned a deep shade of red as Mick, who was standing by the door, ducked his head to hide his laugh. Both men were caught red handed and they knew it. "Well," Lewis said as he cleared his throat and hurriedly walked by him towards the door, "I have to get back to the office. I've got houses to sell and—"
"Hey, wait up, Lewis. I'm going to need your help."
Lewis stopped with his hand on the door and let it go as he walked back over to him. "On a case?"
"Yeah," he said as he moved into the office as Mick moved aside.
Once all three of them were in the office with the door shut, Warrick told them, "I volunteered to go to Las Vegas. I'm from there, so I know the city." Thinking about his hometown, he said, "It's not like San Francisco." Lewis sat on the edge of the desk as Mick sat down behind it as Warrick leaned back in the chair in front of the desk. "It's rough."
"How rough?" Lewis asked him.
"I can get jail time for just breathing wrong," he said as he stared up at Lewis. "So would you."
Lewis glanced at Mick who was already watching him. "In my case, no one knows. In your case, you can't hide your skin color."
Warrick felt himself laugh a little bitterly as he gave a nod. "Are you still willing to help?"
"What'd you need?"
He really liked Lewis. The man wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty if need be. He figured it was because he'd been in the war. "Right now, there is a big real estate boom. Land is going like hotcakes. One of the things we uncovered about Sam Braun is that he's the president of Silver Key Industries. One of the biggest developers in Las Vegas. I know nothing about real estate."
"I'll be glad to help in any way."
Warrick gave a nod. "Thanks." Turning his attention to Mick, he asked, "What's this about time is running out?"
Leaning on his desk, Mick told him, "There's a four year statute of limitations on felony fraud and embezzlement. As of now, we don't have enough to be able to bring charges against Braun. What we do have, there's no guarantee that any of it will even hold up in court."
"You don't think it will?" he asked.
"With the money Braun has and his influence," Mick said as he shook his head. "I've seen people with less walk. I've gotten people with much less off. We need more evidence to be able to convict. Tell Grissom we have until January 1st to file charges. After that, legally, we won't be able to."
"Anything else?"
Mick gave it some thought before saying, "There is no statute of limitations on murder."
Warrick nearly laughed. "Unless we dig up evidence the Sam Braun committed murder to extend the legal proceedings—"
"There might not be any legal proceedings. At least not here in San Francisco."
With that pressure mounted on his shoulders, he stood and left the office with Lewis in tow. Passing Wendy, he grabbed the to-go cup of coffee she had prepared for him. "You're the best."
Her smile was all teasing as she told him, "Huh-hun, stop flirting."
"I may flirt, but I don't ever stray. Besides, you got a new man now, don't you?" he asked as he took a sip of the coffee.
Wendy blushed as she pushed around and straightened up the already organized files and papers on her desk, saying, "Maybe."
"I see how it is," he said as he opened the door. "Not ready to kiss-and-tell?"
"When I have something to tell—"
Lewis, who had been busying himself with taking his sweet time taking out his pack of cigarettes and lighter, quipped, "Sounds like there's been no kissing to do any telling."
Wendy balled up a piece of paper and threw it at Lewis, saying, "Get out."
He heard Lewis laughing all the way down the hallway to the elevator. Hanging around the door, he said, "Hey, Wendy?" When she looked over at him, he told her, "Sometimes it takes the girl to make the first move to get things going, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I know," she told him with a genuine smile on her face. "Thanks, Warrick."
"Good luck."
He met up with Lewis at the elevator and they rode it down together to the lobby. As the elevator started to move down to the lobby, he told George, "Now take this up and comer out of Kentucky that I heard about, he's won six Kentucky Golden Gloves titles, two national Golden Gloves titles, an Amateur Athletic Union national title, and he made the Olympic team—"
"What's his name?" George asked.
Lewis answered, "Cassius Clay," as he kept his eyes on the floor numbers.
He smiled over at Lewis as he said, "What'd you know about boxing?"
"I know that he's the one to watch. That kid's looking like the future of the sport," he said before going back to being quiet, leaning back against the wall, thinking. The man reminded him a lot of how Grissom was. Always in his head, thinking about something. No wonder they were friends. Once they were out of the elevator and started walking across the lobby, Lewis asked, "Wanna head out together or separately?"
"Rather go separately."
"Are you afraid of someone watching?"
"I wouldn't put it past Braun to have eyes everywhere. We've been doing a lot of our investigation into Braun on the Q.T. so as not to draw attention. Grissom thinks that Braun knows that we know he was the one behind Grayson's activities here four years ago."
Out on the sidewalk, Lewis finally lit the cigarette he had in his hand. Warrick saw the watch he wore on his right wrist. He'd been picking up a lot of skills and knowledge over the years working with Grissom. One of them was determining the dominant hand of someone by what wrist they wore their watch on. Left hand dominant people put their watch on their right wrists. It wasn't the fact that Lewis was left-handed that drew his attention, but the watch itself. He'd seen the watch before, but only on the wrist of a German U-boat sailor.
In four years, they never really saw much of each other. Only in passing several times at the P.I. office or the courthouse. There was a lot he didn't know about Lewis Dawson, except for what Grissom told him, which wasn't much.
"You German?"
"What?" Lewis asked as stared over at him in confusion as he puffed out the smoke from the cigarette.
"Your watch. It's German military issue."
Lewis glanced at the watch as he told him, "Souvenir. How'd you know something your boss doesn't even know?"
"'Cause my boss didn't serve during the war. I did. Navy. He said you were a mechanic. How did a mechanic end up with that watch?"
Puffing on the smoke, Lewis kept his eyes moving up and down the street like a hawk. The guy didn't miss a thing. "The navigators of German bomber crews were issued their watches before flight, and then once they returned to base, they turned them back in. The navigator who received this watch," he said as his dark brown eyes landed on his, "never returned to base."
"Who was the owner?"
Lewis tapped the ash off the cigarette as he stared down at the sidewalk, thinking about something that caused him to drift off for a moment. Another trait that reminded him of his boss. Closed off and distant. "Hans Wagner," he said with a fondness, and a slight grin, before putting the smoke back into his mouth.
"Did you kill Hans in combat?"
There was amusement in his eyes as he told him, "No. I was Hans Wagner, and when I was him, I sabotaged that bomber plane. Because of that act, a German bomber crew died in order to save many more men, women, and children from dying."
It clicked in his head as he said softly in both awe and disbelief, "You were a spy."
Lewis shrugged as he said, "Long time ago." He glanced up and down the street again as cars and people walked by all around them. It was in the middle of a busy workday. "Still want me to tag along?"
He regarded him for a moment, but it wasn't to debate his answer. He was thinking about what Grissom had told him once about how no one really knew anybody. "Absolutely."
Lewis gave a nod but kept his eyes on the street as he told him, "Hey, uh, let's not tell anyone I'm coming along with you to Vegas. Not even your boss. The less anyone knows about me the better."
"Your secret's safe with me." They shook hands and as he went to walk away, he stopped and turned back around as he told Lewis, "When you get to Vegas, I'll be at the Sunrise Motel off the Black Vegas strip." Lewis gave him an odd look. "Jackson Avenue."
Las Vegas, Nevada
December 20th, 1959
One block east of Highland Drive, on the westside of Las Vegas at the corner of Jackson Avenue and F Street, a small yet glamorous nightclub named Roxy's was lit up in purple, blue, and white lights. Warrick exited the taxi and paid the driver then stood at the corner of F Street as he stared up at the sign. There was a reason when he stepped off the ship after the war in San Francisco that he decided to stay in California. Las Vegas was no different than the south in a lot of ways as it was referred to as the "Mississippi of the West" because the city kept black residents off the Strip.
That segregation had led to the creation of Jackson Avenue, aka Jackson Street, becoming its own kind of strip for the Westside. It was bustling with black owned or integrated casinos, hotels, bars, restaurants, and nightclubs. At the edge of the neighborhood on Bonanza Road was the Moulin Rouge Hotel and Casino. It was the first racially integrated casino in Las Vegas. Now there was also the Le Chateau Rouge, which was further down off Forest Way but was also racially inclusive. Both were the neighborhood's crown jewels.
Black performers and entertainers, after performing along the Strip—where they couldn't stay or even walk through the front doors—would cross the Union Pacific railroad tracks that separated Fremont Street from the Westside neighborhood to stay at the house of hotelier Genevieve Harrison. Famous faces from Sammy Davis Jr. to Pearl Bailey to Nat King Cole would sometimes be seen on the porch of the Harrison House, or at either of the Rouge's, or traversing Jackson Avenue.
The neighborhood he grew up in during the thirties and forties was still the same as it was, only a few more churches and businesses. The ten square block area stood in stark contrast to the glamorous resorts of the Strip. The Westside had neither running water nor working sewage lines, nor paved streets. For all that, it was its own town with its own churches and schools, and a middle-class community where people took care of each other and lived well because of the wages paid to them from jobs on the Strip.
He could work a casino on the Vegas strip, or at a hotel with a "back-of-the-house" job like a cook or janitor or maintenance or maybe a waiter somewhere, but he sure as hell could never gamble in the casino where he worked, or eat at the restaurant he bused tables for or cooked the food in. It all made his blood boil and head hot. He'd gotten into trouble before he left Vegas. A few fights had led to a few nights in jail. Then the war broke out and he saw his opportunity to leave.
Instead of being a cook at a casino, he was a cook on a Navy destroyer. He worked hard, played in the Navy band, and learned to really fight as he took up boxing. He'd enjoyed it, learned a lot, and wanted to do everything he could in the world to stay out of Las Vegas even though he missed the people he left behind. It'd been worth it. Living in San Francisco had been worth it, especially once he met his current employer: Gil Grissom. He owed that man the world. In all his years he never thought he could be a private investigator, or doing anything other than be a piano player, but now that was exactly what he wanted to do with his life.
As the sun was just starting to set out to the east, turning the sky a deep shade of orange and red against the palm trees that stuck out against the wide-open skyline, he let out a breath and opened the door to Roxy's. He stepped inside as he heard Barbara Lewis sing out "Hello Stranger" from the jukebox. It was still early and so the nightclub had yet to hit max capacity as there were still empty bar stools, tables, and the stage was vacant and so was the dance floor. Sitting in one of the mahogany booths, conversing with several patrons, was the owner.
She had on a purple dress, red lipstick, and her natural hair was short and curling around her plum face. Her name was Deloris "Roxy" Brown. She was also the woman who taught him how to play the piano. His grandmother. Once her eyes landed on him, they lit up in such surprise and joy he almost felt guilty for leaving. Almost.
"Oh, my goodness, Warrick?! Is that you, baby?"
Approaching the table, he smiled at his grandmother as she stood and pulled him into a huge, warm, hug. "Hey, gram."
"Oh, my," she said again. "I've missed you so much."
And he missed her. She'd practically raised him. All they had were each other, or at least that was the way it seemed growing up. The world hadn't existed outside of the ten-block neighborhood. Now that he's seen the world, he knew that there was so much more out there for him then there was in that small nightclub. No matter how much he loved his grandmother, she wasn't enough to keep him in Vegas.
"Ron," she called out to the bartender, "this is my grandson I've been telling you about. Warrick. He's a war hero—"
"I'm not a war hero," he said as he felt the heat creep up his face.
"Don't be modest," she said before introducing him to the two people who were seated at the booth with her. "Warrick, this is Douglas Jones and his wife, Eloise. They came all the way out here from Memphis."
"Hello," he greeted the couple before turning his attention back to his grandmother. "Grams, I only stopped by to—"
"You're not leaving so soon are you, baby?" she asked in disbelief. "It's almost Christmas and I haven't seen you in years. How's that new job working out and what's this about a girl—"
He spotted Ron walking over with a beer bottle in hand and when he held it out for him, he frowned slightly. Taking the offered beer, he suddenly wished he hadn't stopped by. Everyone was looking at him, and everyone of them, except his grandmother, had a look of condemnation, for lack of a better word to describe the look he'd seen in many people's faces over the years. What he felt was a sense of disownment. It wasn't the first time.
"The job's fine," he said in resignation before taking a sip of the beer. "I'm fine."
She pulled him down into the booth with her and started talking. He didn't have to say much as she did all the talking, even after the couple left. He finished the beer, told her he'd be back later that evening, and then went and booked himself a room at the Sunrise Motel where he received the same treatment. A dismissal and cold-shoulder by the manager who was warm and attentive to the other guests who were checking in.
Sitting outside on the steps, a bag of beer from the liquor store that was a street over, he rubbed his head as he watched as the neon lights all down Jackson Avenue lit up the night sky. He took in the palm trees, the vastness of the desert, and lack of the tall flashy and rich buildings that populated the Strip that was on the other side of the railroad tracks. He smelt the desert air that held no scent of ocean salt water and missed home. This was no longer it. His heart was in San Francisco. He also missed his girl. Once he got settled into the motel room, he'd give Sofia a call.
As he sipped on a beer, a taxi pulled up and Lewis Dawson got out and paid the driver. He was wearing a white cotton suit jacket and black pants, a blue silk shirt open at the top and his dark curly hair slicked back under a white hat. He'd never in the four years he's known the man seen him looking so stylish. Even his beard looked more smooth than usual. He didn't think Lewis even owned a hat. Grissom always wore one even though hats were going out of fashion. The man was old fashioned in almost every way except for the ways that mattered the most.
Digging into the bag, he grabbed a beer bottle and had it ready for him once he crossed the street. "Look at this cat."
Lewis smiled slightly as he stopped in front of him and eyed the bottle before taking it. He sat down beside him on the steps and said, "Might as well dress the part."
"Ha," he said as he took a sip of the beer. "What part's that? You a high roller?"
"Something like that. How'd it go today?"
He finished the beer and dug out another one, saying, "You know the saying that you can never go home again?"
Lewis didn't say anything as he sipped the beer, lit a cigarette, and took in the scenery. It was a relatively quiet night, seeing how it was a Sunday.
"Where are you staying?"
"I got a room at a motel off the Strip. The Twilight Inn. It's one of Silver Key's properties. Making it Sam Braun territory."
He nodded as he looked southeast, towards the Strip. Sunrise Motel was on the corner of Jackson Avenue and A Street. From the steps he could see the railroad tracks and the blinking yellow of the railroad crossing on the dirt road that crossed over the tracks to Main Street, Las Vegas Boulevard, and Fremont Street.
Pointing with the beer bottle, he told Lewis, "I go over those tracks, all anyone sees is my skin color. I come over here to this side, and all anyone sees is my eye color. Two worlds, one black, one white, and I'm not welcomed in either."
"Is that why you left Las Vegas?"
"You know Sammy Davis Jr.?"
"Who doesn't know Sammy Davis Jr.?"
"He said that in Vegas, for 20 minutes our skin had no color. Then the second we stepped off the stage, we were colored again. The other acts could gamble or sit in the lounge and have a drink, but we had to leave through the kitchen with the garbage…The reason why I left was because I can't live in a city that treats anyone like garbage. This town is ruled by rich casino moguls and the mob, some of them are both."
Lewis puffed away on his cigarette, thinking, before saying, "And now you're back, ready to put one of those who's both, an all-around son-of-a-bitch, behind bars where he belongs." He tilted his beer bottle towards him and waited.
He smiled slightly as he clicked his bottle with his, making a toast, and said, "Damn right I am," before taking a drink.
Lewis finished his smoke and beer then stood. He checked the time under the yellow and orange glow of the neon sign that showed a sun rising over mountains. "I'll do some digging around Silver Key Industries tomorrow. See what I can find. When you talk to Grissom, tell him you're staying at the Twilight Motel."
He was confused as he asked, "Why?"
"The same reason you're not telling him that I'm here. I booked the room under a false name and if anyone's doing any checking, they'll come up empty."
He didn't really understand all the secrecy, but he wasn't one to argue. Lewis had a reason and he'd let him keep it to himself for now. He trusted the man, and that was all that really mattered. There weren't too many people he could trust. Lewis was the only person in Las Vegas he had to watch his back.
"What're you going to do?" Lewis asked him as he hailed an approaching cab.
He pulled out another bottle as he told him, "Me? Oh, I'm going to get myself into trouble."
Lewis stared down at him in confusion and asked, "Intentionally?"
"Yeah. I know how to do a lot of that around here. It's the only way I know how to draw the attention I want from the people I want."
Five days later he fully understood why Lewis went through all the trouble. If he hadn't, they both would have been killed.
December 25th, 1959
At 9:45pm exactly, he hung up the phone with Sofia and heard a knock on the door of the motel room he'd gotten at Dolly's Inn. He opened it and standing there, with his hands in the air, was Lewis with two goons standing behind him. They were the two mobster's that had approached him at Pike's Gambling Hall last night.
They pushed Lewis into the room and shoved him down into the chair at the table. Per Lewis's suggestion, he got a room at Dolly's Inn a few days ago but wasn't to actually stay there. It was a meeting place close to Pike's and away from the safety of the Westside that the mob never ventured into. They knew to leave the ten-block neighborhood alone.
The bigger mobster, Goon Two, waited by the door as the thinner guy, Goon One, who was about his height, gestured for him to sit down across from Lewis. He backed up into the chair and sat down facing the two mobsters and the door. Lewis couldn't see the door since he had his back to it.
Looking between them, the Goon One said, "This is starting to make some sense. The two dip sticks coming around making trouble are in cahoots—"
"We're—" Lewis went to say when Goon Two came up behind him and slammed his head into the wall. A gash appeared on the side of his head, and he saw blood trickling down his hair and into his beard as he blinked his dark eyes back to clarity.
That had to hurt, he thought with a wince.
"That'd teach ya from interrupting me while I talk," Goon One said as he glared down at Lewis. "Now, where was I? Ah, that's right," he said looking back-and-forth between the two. "Tell me one good reason why we shouldn't be taking a long walk out into the desert together?"
He only had one bag in the motel room, and it was on the sofa. Gesturing to it, he told Goon One, "That's why we're here."
Goon One walked over to it and opened the gym bag and peered inside. With a soft chuckle, he said, "You're a boxer? And he's?"
Looking back over his shoulder first, Lewis asked, "I can talk now?"
Goon Two went to come up behind Lewis again but this time he wasn't caught off guard. He'd never seen anyone move as quickly. One second the goon went to hit Lewis again, and the next, Lewis had the goon's face smacking the table, busting his nose as blood splattered all over the tabletop, as he pulled the goons own gun from the holster and shoved it into his face.
In Lewis's eyes, he saw something he hadn't seen since the war. Pure delight in the act of violence. Lewis enjoyed every second of that. With a slight grin on his face, he told Goon One, "Now, if you say another word, his head will be blown all over this table. Sit down."
Good One sat down.
"I could prove to you how good a boxer my friend here is by having him knock your ass out, but I'm not going to do that. We can save that for the boxing ring. Your best fighter against my guy, in one hour at Pike's. He wins," Lewis gestured to him, "and we have a deal."
"What deal?"
"We know what you're doing. You're paying guys to throw fights. It's all about the cash, and we want in on it."
They had learned that there was a human extortion ring of sorts going on in the backrooms of Pike's Gambling Hall. It was exactly as Lewis said, boxers were being paid to throw fights. In Las Vegas, it was all about gambling and making money. Bets were made and some walked away with thousands while others left busted and broke. The owner of Pike's, and the one behind the scenes and pulling in all the cash, was Walt Braun. Sam Braun's son.
Goon One worked that over in his tiny brain as he gave a nod. "One hour."
Lewis moved off Goon Two but didn't give him his gun back as he said, "I'm keeping it. Souvenir," he said as he slipped it into his jacket pocket.
The two goons left the room, one holding his nose as blood dropped to the floor and headed down the hallway. He shut the door and finally let out a deep breath as he asked, "What the hell was that all about, Lewis? You better start talking, especially if I'm going through with this boxing match in an hour."
Lewis dug into the inside pocket of the white cotton suit jacket and pulled out the business card and handed it over to him, saying, "I'm your manager and boxing promoter."
Reading the card, he saw the name: Lawrence Malcolm.
~"Your love gives me such a thrill, but your love don't pay my bills, I need money (that's what I want), that's what I want (that's what I want)..."~
An hour later, they were strolling through the backdoor of Pike's Gambling Hall as he heard "Money (That's What I Want)" by Barrett Strong playing out from the hall as a door was propped open. Lewis was dressed the same way he did when he arrived in Vegas: white cotton jacket, silk blue shirt, and white hat but he'd added a pair of sunglasses to his ensemble. While Lewis was looking all stylish, he was dressed in a simple white work shirt and jeans, and he carried the gym bag with a robe and boxing gloves, along with a towel, tape for the gloves, water bottle, and a camera.
The door to the auditorium opened between the wood paneled walls and out walked a man with black hair and a fancy suit with a gold pinky ring on his left hand. It was Walt Braun. He looked them over with a curious eye and an approving smile.
When Walt saw him, he said, "You're going to do us great business."
"How's that?"
"You'd attract bets on both sides of the aisle."
He never thought his mixed race would ever do him any good, aside from the ladies who always seemed to swoon over his eyes. They used the locker room to change and prep and he was surprised with how much Lewis actually knew about boxing but given his time in the military as a spy, he figured the guy knew how to sell a cover. And did he ever sell it.
Ten minutes later he was in the boxing ring with Lewis in his corner, rattling off all kinds of selling points to Walt Braun, as he faced off against a young boxer named Tony Fass. No pun intended, but he knocked Fass on his ass in two seconds after the open bell dinged. Then five seconds later he delivered a knockout punch to his left jaw. It was light's out as Fass hit the floor; he wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.
A spark lit up Walt Braun's eyes, one that screamed "Money!", as he said, "You're our new headliner for New Year's Eve. You'll be up after Sammy Robinson."
Lewis grinned at him as he said, "The K.O. Kid."
TBC…
Disclaimer songs mentioned: "Hello Stranger" by Barbara Lewis. "Money (That's What I Want)" by Barrett Strong.