"It is different."
"A gin cocktail, I think. I had a gin account once. Orange bitters and straight gin. Don't worry.
Everything's on the house . . . until we get there."
"Worrying's a basic tenet of my religion."
"Well, at least wait until we get there."
"Where is 'there'?"
Temple sighed hard enough to stir her sleeve ruffles. "I guess you didn't eyeball the license plate on this limo."
"I didn't notice the car until it was at the curb."
"It's a vanity plate: Mobmobile three."
"That's supposed to be reassuring?"
"We're being taken for a ride."
"Free. Even less reassuring."
"To Gangster's."
"Friends of yours, no doubt."
"Doubt it. They don't know me from Adam Ant, but nothing is too good for us."
"Why?"
"We're customers. Look."
Temple pointed out Matt's window. He pressed his nose to the tinted surface and squinted at the lights looming on the right.
"It's ... some kind of--"
"Joint," Temple finished happily. "Newest little gyp joint in Vegas. Gangster's. Apostrophe's all wrong, of course, but why should any attraction start getting grammatical now? Look at Caesars Palace. Back to Gangster's: casino; mob museum; theater and revue with Darren Cooke headlining; two restaurants, Speakeasy and Hush Money; and two attached shopping malls."
Matt turned back to her. "Plus a line of limos two blocks long."
"Right. Gangster's makes up for having only a small hotel with a gimmick: importing tourists from other hotels by the load. Call 'em and they'll pick you up anywhere in Las Vegas. First-class and free. Want that vintage martini now? Might be here for a while before all the other uneasy riders disembark."
Matt stretched out a hand while Temple passed the alcoholic ammunition, and talked.
"I peeked into Hush Money when I was there earlier this evening picking up poor Louie. It's really quiet. Old-fashioned telephones at each table and booth; no one speaking louder than a whisper. The waitstaff even wear Hush Puppies. Should be ideal for a civilized discussion."
"And they take us home?"
"Round-trip service . . . unless you end up in cement overshoes in Lake Mead."
Matt shook his head. "I can taste bitters in this drink, that's what is different."
"How does an ex-priest like you know about bitters?"
"Comes with the territory."
Chapter 4
Father Confessor
As soon as I am sprung from my cage, I head for the hills.
When we are talking Miss Temple Barr's condominium, we are talking about up hill and over dale in interior terms. In other words, I dash for the spare bathroom, do the two-step up the commode and then hop high onto the narrow sill. Finally, I am out the ajar window and down to the narrow triangle of patio that is the only thing between me and a twenty-foot splat on the ground-level concrete.
Where is a guy to go when he seeks an upstanding and sympathetic ear?
I examine my options. There is Sassafras, but she might be in stir.
She is always being jailed for streetwalking, until she is bailed out by a sympathetic human.
(Sassafras is a mighty engaging bit of pussycat.)
Then she struts away from her new home as fast as her spike-heeled nails can take her.
Unreformed, that is Sassafras's M.O. And that is why there is no chance I will find a sympathetic ginger ear there; she is too hard to locate in a pinch, being that she is so often pinched.
I consider Ingram. Are you kidding? He is so lost in the theoretical world of books that he would not know what to do with a real-life dilemma if it walked up and snapped him in the bow-tie collar, which it often does when I come around seeking information for a case.
But now I am the case in question.
I pace the twilight streets, wondering where a guy who solves everyone else's problems can go when he has one of his own. Who listens to the listener? And I am a prime-time listener, who nods off on cue, gives o ut frequent, profound "hmmmms" and flexes all my thinking toes during the long, boring recitals of woes both human and feline.
Now I need somebody to sit still and lend an ear. Miss Temple is not adequate for this service at the moment; she has problems enough of her own.
For an instant the name "Midnight Louise" flashes through my fevered brain. But I am dreaming. My hard-as-nails offspring is hardly one to sympathize with her papa's delicate condition.
I wander the familiar streets, lost in thought if not in direction. I might cadge some human sympathy at the Crystal Phoenix. Miss Van von Rhine and Mr. Nicky Fontana--not to mention the entire Brothers Fontana--might give me a friendly pat on the back, but I need more direct attention.
I walk in circles, until I end up at the Gray Line bus terminal.
Terminal. That is the condition of my search.
And then I see a bus interior glowing warm in the dusk and read the destination emblazoned on the narrow window above the windshield: TEMPLE BAR.
If Miss Temple Barr is too distracted to provide me the proper advice and comfort, a closer relation lies at the end of a long, dark bus ride.
I hop aboard. (I have spent a long time cultivating the Gray Line bus drivers and must say I have them well-trained by now; a private operative can do no better for cheap, reliable transportation in a hurry than his own bus company.)
"This is our company mascot," the driver announces over the intercom. "We are thinking of changing our name to Black Line, he has been hopping aboard so regularly. We think he is a stray with a wandering paw. We call him 'Blackie.'"
I stroll the aisles, accepting coos from middle-aged ladies, a bit of mauling from preteen kids and not much eye contact from adult men. Adult men do not usually have much time for those of my ilk. No doubt they are aware of my awesome reputation with the ladies; jealousy is such a pathetic fault. Only the weak know envy.
Well, we are all soon whisked away on the air-cushion ride of a well air conditioned tour bus, not that we need much air-conditioning at this time of year.
Still, the bus is pretty full, which makes me happy for the operators of the main attraction at Temple Bar, the Glory Hole Gang. With such a colorful name, I am flattered that they would name their restaurant after me, in a sense: "Three O'clock Louie's." Yes, I am Midnight Louie, but obviously Three O'clock is kin of mine. My father, to be precise. He is a salty old dog, for a feline, and spent his retirement years in the Pacific Northwest on a salmon trawler until he was pensioned out to Lake Mead. I imagine that a lake, even a large, artificial lake like this one, is quite a come down for one used to the open ocean, the icy, fish-choked waters of the Pacific.
Speaking of icy, fish-choked waters, I can certainly use a carp cocktail at the moment, and Temple Bar landing on Lake Mead teems with them. Carp are quite an attraction for the tourists, who call them "koi" and want to feed them. And why should they not? The carp will be all the more fatter for my own delectation. Of course my own delectation must await my own satisfaction, and that is the rub. I am so distressed by my bizarre personal quandary that I can hardly extend a talon for the hunt.
But not to worry. My esteemed sire, Three O'Clock, is unofficial maitre d' at his namesake restaurant, and I am sure he can come up with a tidbit or two for an offspring in extremis.
When the bus pulls into the lot, the place looks brighter than a traveling carnival. I see lights on the water. So the Glory Hole Gang's dream of a gambling showboat that straddles the state line which runs through the lake hereabouts has come true. I know they have bigger plans for the site than an eatery and a floating casino, and am diverted enough from my own problems to wonder what is cooking (besides fish fillet).
I hop off the bus first to avoid being trampled in the general exodus. (Being as I am the Sublime Color, black, I am often in complete agreement with the turf, be it asphalt or the black-rubber matting of a bus. So i
t behooves me to be fleet of foot and out from under nearby feet.) We now must pass over an arched footbridge (very Oriental and sheik), below which carp lips are positively panting for treats. I gaze down, flexing my fingers and toes. I would have a shiv surprise for them, had I not better things to do, places to go and dudes to see.
I notice Wild Blue Pike, Encyclopedia Brown and other Glory Hole Gang guys on the gangplank, welcoming the landlubbers aboard this restaurant on a peninsula. I would say hello, but am too distracted to put up a brave front.
So I duck under the wooden deck that surrounds the restaurant and go hunting my old man.
I have to admit the old man has sunk to lower levels in his retirement. No more fresh game for him. He prefers it pre-caught, precooked and delivered to his door. With the alfresco tables surrounding the indoor restaurant, enough bounty falls through the deck-boards to feed a fleet of retired salmon fishermen.
****************
I find Three O'clock, attired in a lobster bib, reclining like a Roman emperor under a party of twelve, half of whom are having seafood.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself," I greet him, "lapping up fish flakes as if they were rain?"
"Sloppy eaters, I love 'em," he answers without a qualm. "How are you doing, sonny boy? I have a shrimp or two I could spare."
"I am not hungry." I hunker down beside him, beneath the hulla baloo and the hooting.
"You cannot afford to be 'not hungry,' not in that fly-by-night business you operate. So what is up?"
"Possibly my life expectancy."
This catches his attention. He actually turns his head and misses a tidbit of calamari that has snaked down between the floorboards above us. I hate to see a good piece of sushi go to waste, so snag it.
"Your life expectancy? Pish, boy. You will outlive me. But not by much. I expect retirement to be extremely beneficial."
"Maybe not. I may be the victim of foul play."
"That is what you get for messing around the mean streets. You ought to move out to the country like me. Crime is down and tourism is up. You know what that means. Free eats! It is not too bad if you stay out of the sun; can get a little hot in the summer. There is a whole crew of us out here. We call ourselves the 'Lake Mead Meows.'"
"Please! I am not about to join a retirement community. I merely came out for a little paternal advice and instead I get a Sun City infomercial."
"And what is wrong with resting after one's lifetime of labors?"
"Nothing. Only one cannot rest if one is the target of a hit man."
That gives the old man pause. That is to say, he lifts his mitt and licks his pads thoughtfully.
"A hit man? After you? Why, lad?"
I hate it when he uses that old-salt talk. His seafaring days were about one-tenth of his lifespan, but you would think he had been on the Merrimac or the Nautilus.
"I know too much," I reply.
That is an odd condition for one of our family," Three O'clock ruminates, picking shrimp remnants from his teeth. "Since when?"
"Since I attended an all-cat seance and was approached by the ghost of Maurice One."
"Maurice One. That some kind of perfume, son?"
'That was some kind of TV huckster. Big yellow tiger-stripe, out of a shelter. Promoted Yummy Tum-tum-tummy cat food."
"Very bad. That stuff is not a dolphin-safe catch. This Maurice should have bought it for lending his name to such an earth-unfriendly product. At least my salmon was dolphin-safe."
"It was not very salmon-safe to the salmon involved," I grit out between my fangs. Three O'clock is hardly one to point a paw. "The fact is, Maurice One is one dead dude, thanks to the quick thinking of his body double, Maurice Two, who shoved him into a vat of Yummy Tum-tum-tummy."
"What a way to go! Whisker-deep in seafood. That is how I would like to bow out, only I would wish to be set adrift from Temple Bar here, on a barge heaped with salmon and tuna fish, and then set afire. Will you see to it, son?"
"Pricey funerals went out with Erik the Red, Dad. If you want, I can see that your ashes are thrown off the top of the Luxor pyramid. I have Egyptian connections."
"Then why not go to your 'Egyptian connections,' if you need muscle?"
"I do not need muscle. I need spiritual guidance. I am not the Yummy Tum-tum-tummy spokescat--"
Three O'clock's big paw rests on my shoulder. "I am so glad, so n. I would hate to have to tell anybody that. Especially your Aunt Kitty."
"I am the co-spokescat for A La Cat--"
"Now that has a ring to it."
That may be. As spokescat, I get to act opposite the Divine Yvette."
"Ooo-hee, boy. That is not the sleek Persian number I have seen on the old boys' television set hawking Free-to-be-Feline in the past? What a set of whiskers! Can you get me her phone number?"
"Shut up, Dad, unless something is dropping from above, and I hope it is gull guano. I need some advice."
"Oh, I am good at that!"
'The thing is, should I off this Maurice Two before he offs me?"
"Definitely. It is justifiable homicide."
"How do you know?"
"Any homicide is justifiable to save your own skin."
"But what if he has decided that two accidents on a cat-commercial set would be suspicious? I might be exercising a termination with extreme prejudice for nothing."
"Does this Maurice Two look anything like Maurice One?"
"He is the spitting image."
"Well, then, there is no problem. I have seen this Maurice One, or Two, on the tube. I never did care for yellow-bellied tiger-stripes. You would be doing the world, and Miss Silver Persian, a favor by ridding the planet of his ugly mug."
"You are suggesting murder!"
"No, I am suggesting anticipatory self-defense. It would not be self-defense if you did not strike first. Do not be a wimp, Louie. No son of mine would hesitate to do unto before he was done unto. The next time I see you, I expect to hear that Maurice Two is no more."
With this, he boxes me in the face like some Mafia don.
What an imagination. He is living in the past. There must be a civilized way of handling the entire situation, and I plan to find it, or I will have to knock Maurice Two right off the face of the planet.
And I abhor unnecessary violence.
Chapter 5
Money Talks
Gangster's had a hundred-dollar atmosphere but Hush Money boasted a ten-dollar bill of fare.
That is the great, democratic thing about Las Vegas, Matt thought as he perused the well-illustrated menu. Food and lodging are kept family-affordable even though the atmosphere shouts Big Money.
Everyone feels like a king or a queen on a parlor maid's budget.
Now that he was face-to-face with Temple across a table, he felt strangely reluctant to bring up the reason for this meeting. Maybe that was because serious discussions about other people's problems always brought underlying personal issues of one's own to the surface.
"What are you having?" they asked each other in the same awkward rush at the identical moment.
Matt, who had been stewing about food for thought, not for the plate, cast his eye on the first likely entree. "The, ah, St. Valentine's Day Massacre ribs."
"I'm not that hungry. Or that homicidal. Guess I'll get the Ma Barker baby quail. I wonder if they serve buckshot with that."
Temple picked up the tabletop upright phone and lifted the vintage earpiece to her modern ear, giving their order directly to the kitchen.
"Everybody has a gimmick," Matt commented, restoring the menus to their slot behind an illuminated jukebox radio that looked as if it had survived the Depression.
Their nook was more of a box than a booth, so high were the dark-wood backs and sides.
Green leatherette upholstery cushioned the closed-in effect. Had the booths been horses, they would have been described as springing from Spanish Inquisition out of Gin Joint.
"Feels like an old-time confessional," Matt no
ted, turning the dark beer he had ordered on arriving. The waiter had worn a shabby tuxedo and a dishcloth apron splattered with tomato sauce--one hoped it was tomato sauce, anyway.
"I think it's kinda cozy." Temple sipped her white zinfandel, whose pinkish hue clashed with her don't-give-a-damn, "frankly Scarlett" red hair. "So. Do you have confessional matters to talk over?"
"Not really. Still, I do wonder if I have a right to discuss this with anyone." Matt found himself muttering, as if in fear of eavesdroppers. Ethical dilemmas always made him sound uncertain.
"So." He was changing the subject, or maybe just delaying the inevitable or else rushing in where fools and forces of nature hesitate to go. "You never said how that Halloween-seance death was cleared up."
"It's still hanging fire. What is the Scottish court's judgment? 'Not proven.' Yet."
"Like Cliff Effinger's alleged death."
"Is this about that?"
"No. This is about the living, or the presumed living. Speaking of which, has ... Kinsella made any magical appearances lately? I haven't seen hide nor hair of him, but then I might not recognize him without a Hawaiian shirt and a pony tail."
"I've seen him a couple of times," Temple said after a moment's hesitation.
"So he's planning to become a fixture on the Las Vegas scene."
Temple laughed. "Max as a landmark? I don't think so. He's only here to do his Invisible Man act."
Matt contemplated that. "Invisible? Or Invincible? Maybe not seen ... but also not forgotten.
That would suit a magician's ego."
"Listen, this time Max wants to be forgotten."
"Will he be?"
Temple shrugged. "Not by us, I suppose."
Matt sipped the imported ale. Bitter, like medicinal brews.
"You wanted to talk about Max?" she went on. "Or me and Max?"
"No!" Too strongly said to be quite true. "I'm ... avoiding the real issue, I suppose."
Cat in a Flamingo Fedora Page 4
