“So this is a kangaroo court,” Max said, looking around.
“Are you not going to plead mercy because of the stupidity of your youth?” Liam asked.
Max shook his head. “I did what I did to the best of my lights then and would do it again.”
“Yet now you know your cousin did not die in the bombing, did in fact join us later.”
“So you’ve been following us. Sean joined you in making the peace. And even though Deirdre saved Sean’s life, other innocents perished in that explosion. They deserved justice too.”
“We called in a warning. Whoever answered at O’Toole’s pub couldn’t hear in the hub-bub, put down the receiver and forgot it, thus tied up the line.”
“You had cars.”
“The time was tight and the traffic heavy.”
“You had feet, as some in the pub probably lost.”
“We were too late. During the peace negotiations, it was recognized the warning was intended and went awry. The men you and Randolph fingered for the job had their life sentences commuted at that time.”
“So they’re free, Sean is alive, and Garry is dead.”
“Yes, Garry Randolph is dead.”
Liam stood aside from his place against the polished wood bar.
Max stared past him, confused to see two empty pint glasses and a tall brass vase.
Not a vase, an urn.
“We’ve been expecting you. You’re not one to let go, that’s for sure.”
“You cremated him out of revenge?”
“Respect. His death was not intended. Yet he was an agent who acted against a free Ireland. We’d never put him in Irish soil for eternity.”
Max bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying, doing something foolhardy, but regret for leaving Gandolph’s body behind still burned his soul like rock salt would sear the raw place inside his mouth.
Liam narrowed his unsmiling Irish eyes. “Swear his ashes will go anywhere except the soil below and the air above Ireland, and you can take them away.”
“I swear,” Max said.
“Then your work here is done.”
Max stepped to the bar, picked up the urn. It was lighter than he expected. Holding it gave him no self-defense moves.
The man guarding the door stepped aside. Max could carry Gandolph into the misty Irish night and back to…wherever a homeless man from Las Vegas would go.
“Hotheads remain among us,” Liam said. “We intended to get information, not to take a life, even yours.”
Max laughed wearily. “Sorry not to oblige you.”
“That could be rescinded at any time. We still want information.”
“About what? I’m retired. At least I am when I’m left alone. The two thugs you sent to find me in Las Vegas a couple of years ago forced me to leave for a while and then they beat up my girlfriend, a true threat to noble Irish manhood weighing in at one hundred pounds.”
“She must not have said anything.”
“She didn’t know where I was.” Max thought. “I don’t think she’d have said anything if she did. Stubborn as a Skye terrier and as good at rooting out vermin.”
Liam chuckled. “Her I’d like to meet. Sorry to inform you that you are not the high-value target you’d like to think yourself. We sent no men to find you, or to Las Vegas, although we may send some now.”
“What about the rogue branch?”
“Too lazy. They like to vent a bit o’ venom locally. We have a new benevolent mission.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“You don’t want to stay,” said a man from the fringes. Flanagan, Max remembered.
Liam nodded. “This is a kangaroo court, as you call it. Only you’re not the one on trial.”
“Maybe I don’t want to go,” Max said slowly.
“Watch and pray, then,” Liam said, consciously quoting Jesus’s instructions to his disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane, where Judas would shortly finger him for the Romans.
Max grew even more uneasy. That reference evoked brutality, betrayal and destiny. He eyed the handsome urn. Someone had respected Garry.
Would he be forced to choose between getting Gandolph or Kathleen out of here before the night was over?
37
Ghost Stalking
Matt looked with loathing at the worn baseball cap on the Probe’s passenger seat, then picked it up and pulled the grimy sweatband down over his clean blond hair.
The right “wrong” hat was the quickest and best disguise a man could manage. Matt had figured that out since he’d started tailing the guy from the Lucky Stars nudie bar. The hat and a beater car.
So far it had worked, but he needed to keep Woodrow Wetherly ignorant of his plans. When he’d started driving the Probe exclusively, Woody immediately had accepted Matt’s explanation that the Jag was “in the shop”.
“Knew a guy once, Matt. Mobster. Drove the pettiest Jaguar in Mafia-black you ever would see. Like a grand piano on wheels. Had two of ’em. Exact year, exact model. You know why?”
Matt had waited for the old guy’s punch line. “One to drive while the other one was in the shop.”
Matt then had added some rueful ha-ha’s to Woody’s wheezing laughter. “I tell you, Matt. Next time someone offers you a gift horse, hold out for a spare.”
“Great advice,” Matt had said, bracing for the sure shoulder clap. You’d think Wetherly had lived in Minnesota.
Now he wished the Probe hadn’t been repainted white. Driving it in daylight was like bareback-riding Moby Dick. He’d never let Woody see him with the cap on. That might set Wetherly’s retired cop instincts on edge. What did Matt have to hide?
Plenty, now that he’d glimpsed a ghost at the nudie bar. And now Matt was wondering if Woody had something to hide. He hung back far down the block, watching the beater of a different color he’d tailed to Woody’s doorstep. He’d backed into an empty driveway with a screen of yuccas and waited for the beater car to leave.
The ancient Chevy was ugly enough to be a stand-out, yet a common sight. The dry Las Vegas climate allowed cars to cruise its streets for decades, even automotive dinosaurs just past the tail-fin stage, huge and wallowing, with trunks big enough to convey the cast of Le Miz. This seventies beauty had originally been a deep moss green, but the sun had bleached the car’s paint job into a dull pea green pocked with dark gray, psoriatic spots.
Although Matt was too far away to see the driver, his features were burned into Matt’s retinas. He was wearing the same ubiquitous baseball cap so useful for shading features and concealing hair, only this one had a greasy, graying ponytail trailing through the circle at the back.
Matt might have glimpsed a sparse soul patch above his chin. Or not. Either way, he was unshaven in a way that said “lazy” rather than trying for a fashionable stubbled look.
Age? Hard to tell. He had the slouching lope of an idler, but it could have as easily been an adolescent affectation as a sixtyish spinal curve. Something about him said “smoker”, although Matt had never gotten close enough to tell or smell…hadn’t dared to get that close in case he was recognized back.
Now, it was getting dark and that scabrous car had been parked outside Woody’s house for a couple hours.
No less a law enforcement power than homicide lieutenant C. R. Molina had referred Matt to Wetherly as a possible source of information on old-time Vegas crime figures. Had she been helping him out, as Matt expected? Or setting him up in some way?
Molina had been pretty grim about something. She’d warned him against obstructing the law, at the same time as she’d sent him on a path that led to a nudie bar, of all places for an ex-priest to “frequent”. Vegas entertainment venues equated getting “naughtier” with getting “nakeder”. Even now the Circle Ritz population was reeling in deep legal trouble with an adult entertainment venture moving into the neighborhood, along with a truly nasty murder.
Matt spotted a shadow moving off Woody’s old porch and around t
o the car’s street side. Matt’s prey was on the move. Matt started the Probe and drove a block over before taking the same direction. This older neighborhood didn’t have confusing curved streets and cul-de-sacs, like the newer suburb of Henderson.
The familiar grid structure would allow Matt to avoid cruising past Wetherly’s house in his own distinctive ride. Matt shook his head. Now that his prey had turned up at his recent mentor’s home, Matt needed a second tailing car…or maybe a partner in tailing. Rafi Nadir came to mind. Someone had sicced Nadir on Matt, probably “for his own good”. Could have been Molina. Or Max Kinsella before he’d left town, and probably the country.
Matt checked his rearview mirror. No vehicle was remotely near in this sleepy neighborhood occupied by aging people who’d paid off their modest mortgages years ago.
At the next cross street he spotted the Chevy’s broad, undistinguished rear. The seventies sure manufactured ugly cars. Now that the sky was growing dim, Matt realized a white vehicle was a liability for nighttime tailing too.
Ninety minutes later Matt found himself back in Las Vegas, scratching his head. The Chevy had made a round trip almost to where it had started in Wetherly’s neighborhood.
The driver had headed toward Red Rock Canyon, a popular tourist area north of Summerlin housing development, what was left of Howard Hughes-owned land in the valley. The canyon was thirty minutes outside of Vegas, so Matt had no trouble fading into the bus and SUV traffic.
Then the Chevy jolted off-road east into the desert just before the canyon, on a rough ranch road like many nameless paths branching off. The slow sunset in the west painted what was naturally orange-red by day a deep blood-red scarlet.
Matt could hardly stop watching the National Geographic-quality panoramic scene to keep an eye on his quarry. He had to bring Temple out here some evening as a surprise. Not long after they met, as he was fumbling toward his first romantic relationship after years of priestly celibacy, Temple had brought him out into the desert for a make-up “prom date”. There’d been champagne and appetizers and some great CD music she’d selected.
“We’ve Got Tonight” by Bob Seger was now his favorite song. They’d “danced” and then they’d “made out” in the innocent fifties version of the phrase.
The memory had Matt’s libido sizzling. He’d hardly known what to do then, but now he could imagine a pre-wedding dessert rendezvous at this same hour that would match the sunset for beauty and heat and seal their love for eternity.
Matt shook off the potent combo of scenic overdose, romance and lust. Sam Spade wouldn’t be plotting to sweep “some dame” off her feet on a stakeout.
There was just enough light for him to see the driver bent over near a camel-shaped rock, digging something up.
A body?
Whatever it was required heaving into the seventies Chevy’s huge trunk. The heavy steel frame did the car equivalent of “grunting”. It swayed low for a moment.
Matt sensed departure and drove farther down the road. Tourist time was over so he did a Uey on the empty main road, pulled the Probe onto the southbound shoulder, and crouched by the front wheel well.
He stood up, gimme cap low over his bowed face as the Chevy turned south on the main road and headed back to Vegas. Even a white car was shadowy in this deep a dusk, and a driver who’d changed a tire or had a bit of trouble would be expected to limp back into town after one of the few vehicles heading that way.
It played like Matt had laid it down in his mind.
Until…
The Chevy ended up, not at Wetherly’s place, but in an empty parking lot very near…the Circle Ritz.
The big dark car pulled up cozy-close to the semipermanent construction RV near the building. And didn’t exit the car.
Matt parked the Probe down the street, noticing a faint light from the building’s second-story windows. The murder scene.
Holy Christ. What was going on here? Well, he’d just have to do what Jesus had told his Disciples. Wait and watch.
He had a feeling he’d be glad the Lord was with him before this night was over.
38
Psychrisis
Most of us guys do not go in for this psychosomatic stuff—you know, supposed sixth sense abilities like precognition, clairvoyance, astral projection, telekinesis, telepathy and the like.
I must say my breed is more sensitive than most to unseen things, but that is because our vision operates on multiple focus, our spidery vibrissae sense every little stir in the atmosphere, and our spines are so agile that we are noted for always landing on our feet, which results in the belief of some that we have nine lives. I admit that we do seem to possess a mystical mojo.
However, I pooh-pooh “woo-woo” on principle. I do not wish to be taken for a ditsy dame of any species. Although I will admit to having plenty of telegenesis…that is not a real word, just a wee bit of word-play on my once and future career as an ace TV commercial personality.
Yet there comes a time and tide in the rational skeptic’s life when certain eyewitness events call for an interpretation from more than the ordinary sources, such as the paranormal.
With light step but heavy heart, I prepare myself to bound up the Circle Ritz palm tree to the fifth-floor penthouse and into the paws of Miss Electra Lark’s reclusive Birman, Karma, professional Sacred Cat of Burma who, yes, takes herself just that seriously.
You can imagine how unseriously she takes an earthy guy like me.
Still, I am haunted by a vague worry about the past and present manifestations I have experienced in the large abandoned building Miss Electra just inherited. It sniffs too much like big trouble much too close to the Circle Ritz and my protégés there, Miss Temple Barr and, by extension, Miss Electra Lark.
I land on Miss Electra’s balcony and prepare to make abeyance to the sole feline presence. Karma is usually reluctant to admit me through the glass French doors and makes condescending comments about the state of my intelligence and even soul when I do get in.
Only my reflection greets me in the lowest pane of glass. Ordinarily, Karma has to assert her psychic superiority by being there to greet me, like a crazy mirror apparition.
I am expert at operating the lever handles on these Circle Ritz balcony doors, but when I leap up to begin my athletic second-story man contortions, my weight pushes the entire door open as if…as if a spectral hand had aided my efforts.
The sudden opening has my tender pads thumping hard to the floor, and I almost take it on the chin as well before I can pretzel myself into a relatively graceful four-point landing.
Once again Karma has put me off my paces.
Speaking of paces, I hear agitated shuffling within the dim landscape. Would you believe Miss Electra keeps the lights low for her visitor-shy companion? I have visited Karma before, and know the so-called psychically “sensitive” Birman requires a dim environment supplied with large upholstered furniture she can retreat under so as to “meditate”.
Frankly, I believe Karma has a special condition, all right. She is agoraphobic. Miss Electra Lark has always catered to Karma’s self-centered needs, to the point that almost no one even knows Karma is a resident. I have to admire our landlady’s dedication to her needy roommate. Luckily, I am no strain on mine.
Besides shuffling, I also hear sighs.
Following these ghostly sounds into the main room, I come upon Miss Electra herself. She is holding a cell phone in her hand, and pacing back and forth, muttering. “I do not have what you want.”
As my eyes swiftly adjust to the even dimmer darkness, I see the neatly ordered furnishings are littered with white pieces of paper tossed hither and yon.
“I do not have it! I do not even know what it is, much less where.” Miss Electra’s hand riffles her freshly zebra-striped hair (perhaps in honor of my new carrier of that pattern) and stops to admonish the phone screen in her hand. “Yes, you have what I want, you monsters! My poor, shy, sensitive, sweet Karma.”
Uh…here
I must interject—in the interest of full disclosure—that certain Asian dishes are sweet and sour, but I have only experienced the sour from Karma. However, an act against one of my kind is an act against all of my kind. And I suppose Her Tibetan Specialness is not a bad looker with her vivid blue eyes, brown mascara, and dainty white gloves and socks.
“I cannot find anything remotely like what they demand,” Miss Electra is saying, biting her lip. “What shall I do?”
I have noticed that elderly individuals talk to themselves more than young ones, which comes in handy for an investigator like me who is all ears…they being very sharp and pointed and flexible ears. You might even say they had something in common with the Big Bad Wolf, except that I do not eat grandmothers like Miss Electra.
She is now shaking her head. “I cannot tell Temple, get her involved, dear girl, with her wedding plans and all. Nor Matt, that would be as bad. Who to call? Oh, dear. Going alone to that building where Jay died…I told them, I do not know. I do not have anything like that. And now they have taken my dearest companion. Such an ancient, gentle soul, in the hands of murderers.”
Oh my Goddess! Karma has been kidnapped. Is it possible I was the object of a kidnapping when Miss Temple’s place was broken into?
“‘Tell no one,’” Miss Electra reads off the phone screen. “Oh, dear. Anyone coming to my rescue will give away the fact that I told. Maybe… If only I could make one tiny call…”
I can come to the rescue and no one will suspect me of being “told” a thing. Consider me Toto. Yes, comparison to a canine is demeaning, but that mincing little black dustmop was always one step ahead of Dorothy. Think about it. True. So it shall be with me.
Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit Page 26
