Moon Music. Faye Kellerman

       11

      Looking more like a radio tower than a casino, the Needle in the Sky was started in the late eighties, completed in the nineties. It was the tallest building in Las Vegas, but it was lonely at the top. In the middle of nowhere, it sat in an isolated pocket between the glamour of the Strip and the light fantastic of downtown renovation. What could be said about it? The view was panoramic and the Sunday brunch couldn’t be beat. The interior sang paeans to the god of gaming future. But outside were the trenches. Behind the Needle sat a vacant lot of partial construction and piles of rubble. Dubbed Naked City by the locals, it had the dubious honor of hosting L.V.’s leanest and meanest.

      Cab drivers were wary of people headed there at night. Knowing that, Poe always tipped big. He had left his own car in the Bureau’s lot. No way he was going to drive his baby, park it on the street, leaving it prey for any jive turkey car thief desperate for a fix.

      Poe detested the place, carrying a weapon and knowing there was a chance that he’d have to use it. Shoot-’em-ups were for the uniforms, for SWAT or special teams. Not for gumshoe homicide detectives trying to trace a hooker’s last steps. Still, he’d cleaned the gun this afternoon. Sucker that he was, why hadn’t he given Steve this assignment?

      The taxi let him off in front of the Needle, picked up another fare, then got the hell out.

      Poe started walking. Turned up the collar on his coat and stuck his hands in his pocket, feeling the bulge of his holster through the coat material. Wearing his gun on his belt because it made for easier access than his shoulder harness. Past the Union 76 sign, past the block-long General Store and Toon Town toy store. Into the bowels of the bleak.

      A weeknight, but there was still some action. So many crack runners the dealers could have hosted a marathon. At the bottom rung of the ladder, the runners took all the chances, walked away with nothing. They ferried dope from the dealers to buyers in their cars, breaking off bits of the buyer’s rock to feed their habits. The girls had it better than the boys. On slow nights, the girls could hook for extra cash. The boys had to resort to petty thievery.

      If he squinted, Poe could make them out, scurrying and scattering like roaches in a Manhattan tenement. He found a dark vantage point, looked and waited. A Honda Accord with darkened windows slowed, pulled curbside.

      Immediately, they came to service it. The winner was a green-haired girl in short shorts, fishnets, and leather brassiere. She came over to the open window, nodded. Glancing over her shoulders, feral eyes in the moonlight. Reaching into her black bra, she pulled out what Poe assumed to be a rock crystal of cocaine.

      And that was it.

      Transaction finished: the car went on its way. She darted back, her loose breasts flapping like water balloons. Disappearing under a pile of construction.

      Another car.

      Another transaction.

      The scene was repeated over and over.

      Sometimes the cops roared in and swept the place. More often, they let them be. Besides, more than one detective had a stoolie who worked the area.

      No one daring to make eye contact, Poe knew he’d have to take action. Go out and turn over a rock. He spied a young white girl taking orders from an older black man. Poe could barely make out his features before he withdrew into the shadows. Poe made his move, pulling out a fifty, showing it to the girl.

      She stepped forward a few feet, then stopped. Over here, buyers came by way of cars; no one was used to walk-ins. But Poe was patient, knew that eventually the fifty would prove to be the needed lure to catch the young girl.

      Really young.

      Behind a mask of makeup was a child of maybe fifteen. One of her eyes was swollen, and she had cigarette-burn marks on her arms and legs. Painfully thin, with pink hair and red lips that were cracked at the corners. She wore a torn black halter and a miniskirt with no underwear. She had to be freezing. It broke Poe’s heart. He actually debated running her in, just to get her off the streets for a night. But without her hourly fix, she’d turn monstrous. LVMPD wasn’t set up to do detox.

      Poe waved the fifty in the air.

      Still, she was hesitant.

      Then he spoke. “More where this came from. And you can keep the shit. All I want is informa—”

      She darted away.

       Smooth one, Poe.

      God, how he hated this place.

      A moment later, the girl returned with her dealer. Around thirty, with a thin face and a goatee. He wore jeans and a leather bomber jacket. His fingers were encased in leather gloves with the fingertips cut off. Beckoned Poe onto his turf with a bent index digit.

      Heart beating, Poe came forward, stopped short of being nose to nose. The dealer had a good four inches of height on him. He also pointed a snub-nose Special in Poe’s face. His voice was surprisingly high. “You be a cop?”

      Poe nodded.

      “Lemme see some ID.”

      “Put away your piece. Then I’ll show you ID.”

      “Why would I be doing that?”

      “Because I reach into my pocket, you shoot, saying it was self-defense. C’mon, sport. I’m obviously not from Narc.”