Read Online Vegas Vengeance by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online

the windows, a porch with pillars, lighted fountain in the front yard surrounded by formal plantings. The small parking lot and the walk to the front door were shielded by a high copse.
    And Barbara Blaine’s girls truly were spectacular.
    It was a Wednesday night, a slow night, according to Barbara. In Vegas, the junket masters usually arranged for gamblers to arrive on a Thursday or Friday. They flew them out on a Monday or Tuesday.
    In Vegas, Wednesday was the equivalent of Sunday in most other towns.
    Barbara took him in through the front door. The foyer was manned by a balding bouncer with football-size biceps. Barbara patted him on the shoulder, and the bouncer lowered his eyes and smiled like a grateful pup.
    The interior was a masterpiece of decoration, lighting and efficiency. Chandeliers draped from high ceilings. Plush carpet and velvet divans. Tasteful nudes done in oils or sculpted marble. Two sitting rooms. The first was less formal. A full bar. An antique jukebox loaded only with classics from the Big Band era and a few light opera pieces. Tables for eating and drinking. A tile floor for dancing.
    The other sitting room was kept in a softer light. This would be where the men would make their selections. Velvet chairs positioned near windows, like a photographer’s still-life. Ornate floor lamps with golden bulbs. A Gone With the Wind stairway that led upstairs to the private rooms. An intercepting desk with a leather receipt book and a credit card roller.
    American Express. Don’t leave home without it.
    But on this night, a slow night, Barbara Blaine’s girls were enjoying themselves in the least formal of the two rooms. They carried drinks in tall glasses, and the jukebox vibrated with “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”
    There were thirteen of them. Striking blondes, leggy brunettes, busty girls of glistening ebony.
    They wore pants suits or short shorts and halters, and they laughed uproariously.
    Hawker had seen plenty of whores in his time—and too often, they were facedown in some back alley, beaten to death. Or eternally asleep in their own bathtubs, wrists slit.
    The whores he had seen were creatures of the night; the streetwalkers with tawdry tight dresses, cheap flaxen wigs, gaudy makeup and bright lipstick.
    But the girls of the Doll House looked like no prostitutes he had ever seen before. They looked like they had been shipped to Vegas from some Midwestern beauty show. They were ripe and lovely, and their hair and skin glistened with health.
    Barbara Blaine called for attention and introduced Hawker. She introduced him as an “old friend,” which, Hawker noted, seemed to tell the girls he was not a potential customer. They filed past one by one to shake his hand. Their smiles were warm, the hand contact tempting. More than one of the girls gave him a burning look and a meaningful extra squeeze of the palm.
    Barbara Blaine raised her eyebrows, asking Hawker for his reaction.
    â€œI’m speechless,” he said with a laugh.
    â€œThey are beautiful, aren’t they?”
    â€œIt boggles the mind. I had no idea.”
    â€œBut they’re more than just beautiful, James. They’re smart. These girls have the looks to be film stars or big-league dancers, but they don’t have the talent. It’s not their fault. They just didn’t happen to be blessed with the abilities they need. But unlike too many tragic women, these girls have the brains to admit to themselves that they would never get past the casting couch in Vegas or Hollywood. So they’ve come here. And believe me, I only select the best. I check their records clear back to grade school. We don’t want any neurotics or drug addicts here. I want clean, healthy girls who have the emotional stability to deal with the trauma of being a high-class whore. And it is traumatic, James. I can testify to that.
    â€œWe sign a two-year contract. They can leave anytime they wish before the two