"You miss the work, don't you?" Higgins asked.
"Every goddamn day," Valentine replied.
For someone who'd never been arrested, spending twenty-four hours in a holding cell in the bowels of Metro LVPD headquarters was a nightmare with no point of reference. It did not compare to a rotten day at work or getting fired or a head-splitting hangover. It was more like all of those experiences rolled together and then doused with gasoline and lit on fire. And because Nola Briggs didn't know better, she'd allowed a slinky black transvestite named Jewel to befriend her.
"This your first time, ain't it, honey?" Jewel had asked, her homespun Southern drawl dripping sincerity.
They sat on a bench in a steel cage with eleven other desperate-looking women. Nola nodded her head.
"Well," Jewel went on, "these bitches might look mean, but we're all the same deep down inside. You understand what I'm saying?"
"I guess," Nola mumbled.
"You keep your chin up," Jewel said, patting Nola's knee. "To survive in here, you got to be strong."
Nola nodded, fingering the tiny St. Christopher's medallion the police had missed during her strip-down. It had been her mother's and her mother's before her.
"Who's the little guy?" Jewel asked.
"My bodyguard," Nola said, pulling the pendant from her shirt so Jewel could have a look. "He goes wherever I go."
"He sure is pretty," the transvestite said, nearly drooling.
Hooking her manicured forefinger around the pendant, Jewel popped the chain, tossed St. Christopher into her mouth, and swallowed him. The cell erupted in jeers and catcalls.
"Give it back," Nola cried, bouncing her tiny fists against Jewel's chest. "Goddamn it, give it back!"
"Next time I shit," Jewel said, hopping off the bench.
A short time later, a bald detective led Nola upstairs to a windowless interrogation room and handcuffed her to a steel chair bolted to the floor. She laid her head on the pocked table and cried herself to sleep.
When the detective returned, Nola's boyfriend Raul was with him, his arms and legs manacled together. Raul's cocoa-brown eyes briefly met hers, then stared gloomily at the floor. A second chair was brought in. The detective handcuffed Raul to it, then departed without a word, slamming the door loudly.
Nola leaned on the table, trying to get as close to Raul as possible. He was the prettiest man she'd ever known, with high, sensual cheekbones and skin the color of toffee, as good outside of bed as he was in it, with a smile for any occasion and a laugh as uplifting as a hit song on the radio. So what if he wasn't educated and made his living washing dishes for five-fifty an hour? Let her friends make all the fun of Raul they wanted: He was the real thing, an honest-to-goodness man who treated her with respect and kindness and constant affection, and she was going to hold onto him as long as she could.
"Oh my God," she whispered. "What happened?"
She saw his feminine eyes well up with tears.
"I'm screwed," he said.
"Why? What on earth did they say?"
"They're going to deport me," he moaned.
Nola nearly bit her tongue.
"I went to your place after work," he explained. "The cops were there. They sat me down, started asking questions. One of them wanted to see my papers. I showed him, and he saw my green card had expired."
"You let it expire?" Nola said, starting to cry. "No! No! No!"
"He said you cheated the casino," Raul went on, "and if you didn't come clean, they were going to screw me."
"It's a lie," Nola spit angrily, her tears bouncing off the table like drops of rain. "I didn't cheat anybody. How can they say such a thing? I've worked there for ten goddamn years."
"I know," Raul said, his voice a whisper. "I told them: My baby, she's never cheated anybody; her heart's as pure as gold. But they don't want to listen. They say they know you're guilty. They say you're guilty as sin."
"I didn't do anything," Nola screamed defiantly, the tears bursting from her eyes and splashing her lover. "I swear on my mother's grave I wasn't in on it. The guy somehow knew the cards I was holding." She began to bawl, her chin touching her chest. "I couldn't do anything. Why didn't Wily take me off the table if he thought I was cheating?"
"I don't know, baby; I don't know," Raul said, his voice as soothing as a morning dove's coo.
"He's trying to pin it on me so he can save his ass," she sobbed, lifting her head and looking at him, her eyes red and distorted. "He's so fucking stupid."
"What you going to do?" Raul said.
"I'm sticking to my story," Nola replied, her fear turning to rage. "I didn't do anything. I don't hang around with hustlers; my record is clean. I've won Dealer of the Month ten times. They have no evidence, no proof. They let the guy who was doing the cheating go and arrested me. Well, that won't stand up in court."
"I already told them all those things," Raul said.
"And what did they say?"
"They said if you don't help them, they're going to screw me." Raul paused, hoping she'd change her story. Back in Tijuana, he had a mother and two baby sisters who stood by a mailbox each week, awaiting his check. "You sure you don't know this guy?"
"I swear to God, Raul-I've never seen him before."
Her boyfriend found the strength to laugh.
"Well," he said, "then I guess it's adios, baby."
"You know why a Mexican is like a cue ball?" the Metro LVPD lieutenant handling the investigation asked, his open mouth fogging the interrogation room's two-way mirror. A few feet away, Higgins and Valentine sat on folding metal chairs. Higgins made a face. "Watch it," the GCB chief said.
"Because the harder you hit them, the more English you get out of them."
The chubby lieutenant's name was Pete Longo, and he was a scumbag. Instead of interrogating Nola properly, he'd chosen to haul in her boyfriend and use him to blackmail her. It was the dirtiest trick in the book and the type of thing that had given the Metro Las Vegas Police Department its sordid reputation.
"That's not funny," Higgins said testily. "Maybe I should sign you up for the cultural diversity class my department's conducting."
"Fuck cultural diversity," Longo said. He lit up a cigarette and blew smoke in their direction. He didn't appreciate Higgins's bringing another detective to the interrogation, even though Valentine was retired, and he was intent on showing his displeasure.
"Your humor is offensive," Higgins said.
Longo inhaled pleasurably on his cigarette. "I'm thinking of dropping charges."
"Like hell you are," Higgins snapped.
"You told me this morning she was innocent," Longo said.
"That was this morning," Higgins replied.
"Let me get this straight," the lieutenant said. "This morning you said the GCB wasn't interested in prosecuting Nola Briggs. Now you're telling me to hold her. I don't get it."
"I changed my mind," Higgins said. "You got a problem with that?"
Longo chuckled. "You're like that song. Should I stay or should I go? Make up your mind."
"I just did."
"But I don't want to press charges," Longo said stubbornly. "Your case sucks."
Higgins stood up and stuck his face within inches of the chubby lieutenant's. "Stop jerking me around, Pete. I'm telling you to treat this like any other case of cheating. I'll go directly to the judge if I have to."
Longo's face turned into one big sneer. In a measured tone, he said, "It's your call, Bill, but let me tell you something. I'm sick and tired of having the likes of Nick Nicocropolis telling us who we should and shouldn't arrest. It's bad enough my people spend their time dealing with crimes the casinos are causing, and not on the street fighting the drug dealers and street gangs that have migrated from L.A. during the past decade. The fact that this case is bullshit doesn't seem to bother you. Well, it bothers me. But, like I said, it's your call, my friend."