Mr. Matt Devine is not about to answer my humble question, and the situation promises to remain an impasse, so I slink away.
Chapter 14
Game for Murder
Temple was beginning to know the Crystal Phoenix almost as well as she had known the Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis, from front to back and top to bottom.
She loved being house-mouse familiar with the ins and outs of a major public building possessed of a certain aloof glamour.
Everybody likes to be an insider, but nobody demands the inner circle view more than a reporter turned public relations specialist.
Despite the Crystal Phoenixes low-brow, high-profile image compared to an understated arts institution like the Guthrie, theater and hotel weren't that unlike beneath their dramatically different skins: each had lobby, bar, stage and a paying audience.
And the belly of each beast was a fascinating below-stage labyrinth of storage and dressing rooms, props and costumes, and elevators that whisked the initiated to the performance areas above.
These vast, semi-deserted spaces seemed mysterious, especially in daylight hours. They whispered and rustled with the ghosts of a full house of impending noise and activity after dark.
Temple's high heels challenged the echoing silence as she trudged alone through the area, her tote bag swinging against her hip like a metronome keeping time to an unheard rhythm. She peered into empty dressing rooms; how could anyone ever resist the drama of such places between shows? Maybe she was superstitious enough to wonder if some of the whispering ghosts might be the shades of Kitty or Glenda. Or did she expect to encounter one of their legion of sad, still-living sisters? They all were glamorous but victimized women that men liked to look at . . . and often used and abused 'til death did them part. Stripper or showgirl, they all claimed they made a good living off the men in the darkened houses, no matter how many of them came to a bad dying.
No one was down here now. Temple told herself: not at the Crystal Phoenix, where not even the ghost of Max Kinsella prowled. Not some creepy stalker, and not some unsuspecting victim, especially not her. Now.
Then she heard voices, echoing and arguing. Her pace quickened. There was a creep down here, after all, but not an unexpected one. Unfortunately, she had an appointment with him.
The ajar doors to the unused set-construction area were tall enough to admit King Kong.
Temple scuttled through, following the trail of the voices around an impromptu screen of vertically stored flats. About fifteen people milled near some empty metal folding chairs strewn across the paint-splotched concrete floor.
On its Jackson Pollack surface, masking tape outlined a rough quadrangle shape that duplicated the dimensions of the hotel's secondary stage upstairs. An upright piano, once painted shiny white but aged to crack-checkered ivory, sat solo where the orchestra would be.
A small man in a tangerine knit shirt leaned an elbow on the music rest, picking out loud, familiar notes with one lollygagging hand.
O-kla-hom-a, the syllables rang in Temple's head, only she had recently rewritten them: Oh, Las Ve-gas . . .
Crawford Buchanan hadn't lied, then. This wasn't some sleazy ruse to get her alone in the hotel basement, but a legitimate Gridiron rehearsal of her skit.
Temple, suspicions lulled, finally allowed herself to feel pleased. Writers for the Gridiron were traditionally forbidden any role in rehearsals. They would see their work onstage only for the one-time performance, like the rest of the paying customers. They wouldn't even know which--if any--of their submissions had been accepted.
In fact, twenty-five years before. Temple had heard, women writers couldn't even attend Gridiron shows. They had been forced to write their skits blind, ignorant of audience and ambiance, which was just as well. She had also heard about earlier Gridirons: raunchy, foul-mouthed, sexist, racist exercises that committed an almost as bad crime against humanity by not being remotely funny. No wonder so few women wrote for them in the bad old days, or had wanted to.
That was then. Now Gridirons across the country had died of disinterest, hopefully due to low-grade content. The Mother of all Gridirons in Washington had always been a bigger, tonier affair. Las Vegas also mounted a major show each year. After all, the city was choking with performing spaces and talent that included top acts from Hollywood and Nashville.
One of them was walking toward Temple right now.
She'd only seen Gentleman Johnny Diamond in bigger-than-life photos on hotel placards; in the flesh he was almost as imposing as the Colossus of Rhodes figure straddling the entrance to the Goliath Hotel. He was big, broad without being burly, and blond in a robust way reminiscent of frontiersmen. The shoulder-length hair he swept back into a trendy ponytail furthered the Old West impression, as did his no-holds-barred handshake with Temple.
She liked that. Nothing made her feel worse than being treated like a porcelain princess.
Johnny Diamond's voice was as big as his body. ''You're the PR whiz who's going to turn Nicky and Van's magic kingdom here into the family farm," he boomed into the giant echo chamber of the hotel basement. "You also sling a mean satirical line. I'm gonna have fun doin'
this gig. Nice to meet you."
Since Gridiron roles were unpaid, Temple practically did a somersault to hear that her suggestion for the lead singer of "Las Vegas Medley of 1994" had gotten past Crawford. Having its headline singer in the show's big production number wouldn't hurt the host hotel--Temple's current client--either.
She actually turned to an advancing Buchanan with a left-over smile on her face, which faded quickly. He had traded his around-town suit for his idea of informal rehearsal attire: blue jeans about six shades too new (even for Beaver Cleaver) and a golf shirt in an obnoxious shade of lime. (Were there any other shades of lime clothing? she wondered. She would have to look into that later.)
''How's it going?" she forced herself to ask.
"Fine." Crawford seemed distracted. He barely glanced at his guest star, as hard as Johnny Diamond was to miss. "The director's over here. He wants to see you."
The director was a guest star too: the Phoenix house choreographer named (honest-to-plain-Pete), Danny Dove. His crimped dark-blond hair was as woolly as an English barrister's wig and framed a genial, slightly homely face. Temple was surprised that Dove was so slight-looking; most male dancers had to be strongmen to partner and sling about the females of the Terpsichorean species, who were often tall. Temple pictured Danny Dove piloting Carmen Molina through Swan Lake and fought back giggles.
"Cute skit shtick," Dove pronounced after Crawford had introduced Temple, pushing up the sleeves of his black. Gene Kelly turtleneck to his bony elbows.
Danny Dove's jeans were black, too, and so well-used that they looked chalk-dusted in places, though they fit tighter than the skin of your chinny-chin-chin after a ten-thousand-dollar facelift. They sported a completely sincere frayed horizontal slit in one knee, also bony.
Danny Dove was a spare man whose gestures were bigger than he was. They had to be to control dozens of dancers, including giraffe-tall showgirls.
"I'll do a total takeoff of the 'Broadway Melody' shows of the thirties," he said, separating his hands into the frame of a proscenium stage. 'The backdrop will be wallpapered with chorus girls kicking their little asses into next week against a Big White Set. You know, kaleidoscopic knees and such. That's what you intended, right? The overdone approach. Do you dance?"
Danny Dove's dark eyes zeroed in on Temple's legs in such a professionally assessing way that she could not take offense, though Crawford Buchanan's monkey-see scan was distinctly unwelcome.
"Yes," she said. ''I mean, I don't dance, but I did envision an over-the-top production."
''One thing." Danny Dove scratched an angry pimple on his five-o'clock shadow. "We might be smart to lay off on a few things."
"Oh?" Temple's voice had moved into cool neutral. She wouldn't tell Danny Dove how to block a ballet; she hoped he wasn't about to tell he
r how to write a revue.
"This mob stuff, isn't that rather old?"
"That's the idea. It leads into the 'Luck, Be a Lady' part of the number."
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn what it leads into, it's such a hokey concept. The mob.
I've been in Vegas for over fifteen years and the only mobster who's set tacky wing-tip in this town since then is the figurehead from Little Caesar's pizza chain."
"The skit satirizes all of the legendary forces that shaped and tried to control Las Vegas,"
Temple said patiently. "Crime syndicates were no laughing matter in the early days. Sure, musical comedy gangsters don't run this town, anymore than a secret government alien-intelligence installation sits under the new Luxor's pyramid. Let's just have some fun and pretend all the cliches are true."
Danny Dove shrugged. "It's your show, but I hate to put my dancers into those tacky brown zoot suits with white ties" His blase face brightened. "I could have the ladies wear just the jackets and skip the baggy pants, though, and do a bluesy Kelly nightclub number." He came as close to a smile as a choreographer who was a combination of Tinker Bell and General Patton ever could. "Yeah. It would play."
Danny Dove retired nodding and happy. Too bad Crawford Buchanan had suffered no such mood change.
"Maybe he's right." Crawford's deep voice burst in the air right next to Temple's left ear like a bad-news bomb.
She tried not to jump, and tried even harder not to jump into a defensive position. That would be sure to cement Crawford's irritating objections.
"I think so too," she said sweetly. ''His notion for the Gangster Guys and Dolls bit sounds terrific."
"Yeah, a lot of leg is always good, but maybe we should soft peddle the mob angle."
''Why? Everybody agrees they don't exist, right?"
"Sure, but--" Crawford leaned uncomfortably close. "Maybe we shouldn't aggravate 'em, just in case."
"This is a satirical show." Temple's voice was rising to match her aroused temper. "It's supposed to aggravate everybody!
Maybe I should write out the alien enclave; that might make E.T. phone home with a complaint about stereotypical misrepresentation.''
Crawford visibly thought about it, nodding solemnly. "The UFO people do take this stuff pretty seriously. And the Luxor might be annoyed. Not to mention the government."
"The Luxor should be delighted with the publicity. The UFO people will feel vindicated to be even mentioned! The government can't do anything about conspiracy theories because they're everywhere in real life. This is only a stage show, Crawford. For Helen Hayes's sake, don't take it so seriously."
"Easy for you to say. I'm in charge of this show. You're just a hired hand."
"Thank you for explaining the facts of life. May I stay a while and watch?"
He looked around as if searching for government toadies to okay her request. "I guess so, but you gotta promise not to meddle."
Temple folded her arms over her chest, which Crawford had been concentrating on rather too much. ''I won't if you won't," she promised.
And on that unpromising note, the rehearsal began.
An hour later. Temple took the back stairs up to the hotel's main floor, just to hear the angry clatter of her high heels on hard cement.
The rehearsal was so preliminary that they barely got through two phrases of her script at a time. She had expected that.
She had not expected Crawford to sit beside her, whining with worry over every phrase.
How on earth do you put on a satirical revue if you're afraid of offending someone? She fussed to herself. And why was Crawford so worried about offending people at this late date? The notion had never troubled his tiny little mind before.
Temple was huffing and puffing by the time she emerged in the service hall, another reality that ruffled the temper that went with her red hair. She wasn't used to climbing stairs.
Then who should be awaiting her but a brace of Fontana brothers?
Temple blew damp bangs off her slightly clammy forehead. And Crawford said the mob was dead in this town. Who did he think these boys were, the sales reps for 31 Flavors?
"Miss Barr," the first Fontana brother said with a friendly smile.
''Ralph?" she asked.
As he shook his dark head, she saw the golden glint of an earring. This must be the reason why Ralph considered a bloodletting for his earlobe. Big Brother had already done it.
''Emilio. Not to worry. We get mistaken for each other, don't we, Rico?"
He eyed his swarthy clone in a pale suit, who nodded. No earring. In response to Temple's inquiring look, Brother Number Two jabbed the Southwest-colored silk tie making like Monet's water lilies on his chest. "Rico. Van said to see if you needed any help.''
"What kind of help would I need?"
Brother eyed brother. "I do not know," Emilio finally confessed to her, ''but we are here to provide it, whatever it is."
Temple sighed. These Doberman dandies would not be called off until they had performed what they saw to be their duty.
''Actually, I haven't seen much of the gaming area. I'm relatively new to Las Vegas; all these craps and baccarat rules confuse me. Maybe I could use a crash course."
"Say no more." Rico held up a palm with the aplomb and authority of a grade-school crossing guard who was dressed by Nino Cerutti. "Emilio and I are experts at games of chance."
"We are also tops at escorting babes in Toyland," Emilio added.
"I believe you mean 'babes in the woods,' " Temple said.
"Whatever." Rico shrugged. "Babes is babes."
"I am not that kind of a babe," she said firmly. "I am a self-supporting professional."
The boys' eyes widened like windows. Temple realized that they had taken her too literally, or not literally enough. Either way, she was getting a headache.
"Show me everything from the slot machines to the craps table. I need to start at square one."
"Hey," Rico admonished her, adjusting the knot on his tie. "There is nothing in the least square about you, Miss Barr."
It was a square knot, of course.
**************
Temple had to say one thing for the Fontana brothers. They were generous to a fault, spending deeply of their own pockets to demonstrate the hazards of slot machines, video poker, blackjack, craps and other forms of gambling.
Temple had never paid much attention to the inferno of noise and humanity that eddied in the casino areas. Sure, she had shoved a few nickels into the odd slot. That was about all she ever got out of it: a few nickels and a slot where the odds were never even.
She was pleased to see Fontana, Inc., strike out at the slots as rapidly as she had.
"Sucker City,'' Emilio confided. "If you're gonna play the chrome-armed bandit, at least do the quarter and dollar slots. They pay off better."
She watched Rico lose two hundred and forty dollars at blackjack in two minutes. She could have bought a really radical pair of Weitzmans for that money. She watched Emilio do
'something at the craps table--lots of somethings--but he didn't win there, either. And these guys were experts.
The brothers reluctantly drew away from the action to explain the arcana to her.
"The lead player actually plays," she said, "and the other people bet for or against him?"
"Right."
"So they put their chips on certain places and sometimes they win, sometimes they don't . . .
but there's no pattern to it, no sense. Everybody's excited, but I can't tell for the life of me why or for what--"
The brothers looked properly sympathetic, and were about to explain the whole tedious set of inexplicable rules one more time.
Then the crowd around the craps table oohed and aahed as the dice rolled and they all leaped back screaming at the sound of a thud so strong it seemed to rock the immediate area.
Maybe the dice were hot, but even the ceiling was giving off puffs like smoke. A woman began a shrill screaming that j
ust kept going and going up and down the scale of distress.
Temple could see why: the craps table was an utter mess. You couldn't tell whose chips were on what. Temple couldn't begin to figure out who had won or lost, because of the man's body lying there, covering everything, limbs splayed to the table's four corners.
People were backing away, even as her intrepid Mario Brothers--uh, Fontana brothers--
were pushing close to the table, along with a couple of armed guards in burgundy uniforms who had materialized from nowhere.
Someone was calling her "folks," and telling her to clear the floor. There had been an accident and they needed room.
The people behind Temple drew back lawfully, but the immoveable object before her was just a private security man, after all, and she was small enough to duck under his arm. She was a legitimate hotel employee, a public relations person, and she had a pressing need to know....
She pressed forward when everyone else ebbed back.
The brothers weren't at all surprised when she burrowed between them for a good look at the craps table.
"It's pretty hard to see the action right now,'' Rico apologized, "with this stiff lying all over it."
Temple consulted the brothers' intent, suave young faces. "Doberman" wasn't half wrong.
"Are you sure he's . . . dead?" she asked.
Emilio nodded mournfully. "We'll never know how the dice landed now."
The man who fell from the ceiling lay there, mum, not moving, not giving away a thing, not even the action.
Temple concluded that craps was not her game.
Chapter 15
Oddball Witness
"You witnessed the victim's plunge onto the table, too, Ma'am?"
cat in a crimson haze Page 12
