"Whatever the reason, I have now had sufficient time to figure out who your mama was, and I think it is her you should ask a few key questions of. Like is she sure just who your daddy is? Not that I cast any aspersions her way (though I believe that there was a touch of Persian in her ancestry; I always was partial to a female who does not shave her legs). But you know that life on the streets does not encourage the exchange of visitors' cards in these matters. You may have been barking up the wrong dude all this time. Also, why do you not track down your dear old mama and ask her how it is that she seems to have vanished from your life? Perhaps you put too much stake in mere blood kin. In my experience as a master crime-solver, I have seen that the family that stays together, slays together. There is something to be said for an early and independent lifestyle, such as you and I have had.
"Frankly, I agree that the planet might be better off without you, but times change and even a surly, accusatory offspring who has snared her own (possibly) daddy's old job has a role in the overall plan, no doubt.
"I know that you are bitter because you believe that I deserted you and the other litter lice, not to mention your mama, at a bad time. What makes you think that I even knew you were a mote on the Mojave desert's vast sandbox under the sky?
"Your mama could have kept the advent of you and your siblings hush-hush, you know, for reasons of her own, such as not wanting to tie down such a magnificent specimen of feline free spirit as myself. Perhaps she saw that I was destined for greater things than wiping snotty little noses with these talented mitts.
"Whatever the reason, I have now had sufficient time to figure out who your mama was, and I think it is her you should ask a few key questions of. Like is she sure just who your daddy is? Not that I cast any aspersions her way (though I believe that there was a touch of Persian in her ancestry; I always was partial to a female who does not shave her legs). But you know that life on the streets does not encourage the exchange of visitors' cards in these matters. You may have been barking up the wrong dude all this time. Also, why do you not track down your dear old mama and ask her how it is that she seems to have vanished from your life? Perhaps you put too much stake in mere blood kin. In my experience as a master crime-solver, I have seen that the family that stays together, slays together. There is something to be said for an early and independent lifestyle, such as you and I have had
"I mention these things only because I have nothing better to do at the moment, and I wish you would get off my case. I am a normal dude. I just went my way and did my thing, and I think you owe me a little more respect, especially now that I am no longer in a position to produce disgruntled offspring like yourself. The buck stops here. You do not see me carping about my missing parents.
"So, in the spirit of the season, I wish you no in-grown claws or whiskers in the coming year, and a little mercy toward your fellow creatures, especially us poor reviled guys, who may be better than you think.
"Sincerely, your maybe-relative,
Midnight Louie, Esq.
Then I save the whole thing under the file name of "spitfire."
Chapter 12
Unwelcome Matt
Visitors to Las Vegas would find it hard to believe, but some of the city's zillion casinos weren't rip-roaring success stories.
The Gilded Lily was one of these lower nightlife -forms. The minute Matt entered he heard the telltale sluggish ring of too few coins hitting slots. True, it was only Thursday night. Luckily, his regular night off coincided with the first day that fit Kitty O'Connor's time line.
The dark interior struck him as under lit to save on electric bills, not as intriguingly dim on purpose. The low lighting also disguised a worn carpet, he discovered, tripping on a tear in the busy pattern underfoot. Curious and curiouser.
People moved as slowly as the money inside this Twilight Zone gambling den. Cocktail waitresses cruised like airliners in a holding pattern: aimless, lumbering, remote in the skimpy crimson uniforms so common to their calling. Matt couldn't envision the woman who had visited him masquerading in one of these saloon-girl getups: limp red satin ruffles edging drooping hems and framing sagging shoulders. Nothing about Kitty O'Connor had drooped or sagged, least of all her attitude.
"Drink?" One of the red satin girls had blocked his path with a tray of smudged gas-station glasses.
She hadn't really looked at him; instead she eyed the half-empty casino for more candidates, customers who had entered, then paused to reconsider.
Under one of the few bleary overhead lights, the drinks showed their true watered-down colors through the dingy glasses: these freebies were straw-colored hybrid freaks, a thimbleful of scotch to six fingers of soda, probably flat.
No, thanks," he said with no regrets. "But maybe you could check out this ID. You ever see this guy in here? Last name is Effinger, first, Cliff."
"Honey, in Las Vegas the only names that count are on the games of chance, and you see everybody everywhere at some point. Jerry Lewis even came in here once. 'Course, it was years ago, before he had his big Broadway revival and this place hit the skids. No, I don't remember this here guy, but I don't look much anymore, you know? And I guess I don't have to."
She glanced up finally, as her restless eyes stopped their weary evasions.
"Whatever name he uses, that guy's your typical low-rent loser. They all look alike. You, though--"
"Kitty been in lately?" He didn't expect her to know that name. Now that he'd seen the place, he couldn't see Kitty O'Connor working here, not even long enough to earn thirty pieces of silver.
"She quit."
"She did?"
"Don't sound so surprised. We'd all quit if we could get jobs at anyplace other than this dump."
But he was surprised, so taken aback that he forgot to resent the sudden speculation in her tired eyes. She was maybe forty-one passing for forty-eight, with the underfed, slightly bucktoothed look of a lot of not-quite-pretty women who end up slinging hash and dipping at the knees to place paper cocktail napkins on damp tabletops while avoiding punches and worst.
He was thinking of moving on, when he realized he'd never gel anywhere at the private-investigation game if he didn't play the cards he had. It she thought he was the best looking customer who'd come in a blue moon, so be it. Amen. Use it, brother, use it.
"I don't know if they allow you to sit down, but I'd buy you a drink if--"
"Listen. They let us do anything that sells booze or poker chips." She sashayed ahead of him to the almost-empty lounge area, ruffles swaying.
Barrel chairs upholstered in dirty-orange crushed velvet sat at inhospitable angles to each other, pulled away from tables as if all the Gilded Lily's customers had decamped in a mass panic not long before.
"Verle." She threw herself into the chair nearest a table. Crossed legs showed off fishnet hose with one visible hole. She worried a pack of cigarettes from under a once-puffed red satin sleeve. "Got a match? Hey, I don't mean personally, honey. Obviously no one in this place, and a lotta other ones, can't even come close to you. I mean, can you light my fire?" By now, an unlit filtered cigarette was attached to her lips like an albino leech.
Matches, Matt noted. Something no investigator of the back alleys of life should be without. That and a strong stomach for rotgut.
He shook his head, but she was already beckoning the waiter. Or an albino leech seller. Matt smiled. If Temple could see him now.
"George," Verle wheedled. "You still got that Zippo lighter of yours outta hock? Hit me. Thanks." She sank back into a contrail of her own fresh smoke, coughing. "The usual, and see what Pretty Boy Floyd is having."
"Black Russian," Matt said quickly. Whatever brand passed for vodka at the place, they couldn't fake Kahlua. He hoped. He also hoped that the coffee liqueur would overpower any untoward tastes.
"You work here for long, Verle?" Matt asked pleasantly.
"Six years, off and on. I come and I go."
"Did Kitty come and go?"
"N
ah. She was here for a few months, then she quit suddenly. You know her?"
"Not well. I heard about her, you know?"
"Yeah, well, she's gone, Little Boy Blue."
"Too bad." Matt had pulled out his wallet and now fingered the greasy sketch of Cliff Effinger. "I heard she might know something about this guy."
"What if she did? She's been gone eight months or so now. She's not the one who could tell you about this Effinger guy, if he was here lately."
Verle had picked up the portrait like a card dealt to her in a game, maybe even a lucky card. Her lukewarm brown eyes flicked at his.
"You want to find this guy bad?"
"I'm looking, aren't I?"
"You're not a cop. You a private dick?"
He shook his head.
"I didn't think so. This isn't your scene, is it?"
He shrugged, spread his fingers, and wondered if he should search for a lie, realizing that he had no good story ready. And Kitty? She had left too long ago to be the woman at the Circle Ritz. Kitty was a good name for a lot of women in Las Vegas.
When George returned, Verle grabbed the drinks from the tray before he could set them down. Matt paid, and handsomely. He had seen George's glance narrow at the tiny image of Effinger face-up on the table. Verle, he figured, had done him all the good she could, but now he was stuck for at least half an hour, easing her out of his way without hurting her feelings. He supposed Sam Spade would just smash her cigarette into her buckteeth and leave.
Verle puckered her lips into a wrinkled O to exhale a blast of blue smoke. "God, you are a breath of fresh air in this place. What's your name?"
"Matt."
"Matt. Good name. I get taken for Pearl a lot. Now I ask, do I look like a Pearl to you?"
He eyed her dry, bleached tangerine hair, her long artificial nails covered in a milky-blue polish that had chipped along the thick, uneven edges.
"Not a Pearl. Maybe an Opal."
"Oooh, an Opal. I like that. Fire opal, maybe." She waggled the cigarette, now sporting a half-inch of ash, between her long fingers.
Matt turned Effinger's face toward himself. "Maybe somebody else saw him."
"Sure. I got a distracting job. Some people just sit and wait on their ashcan all day." She glanced over a satin-edged shoulder at George behind the bar. "How many women bartenders you see in this town?"
"I'm not the best person to ask. I usually work nights."
"So do I, sugar. I do some of my best work nights. Or used to." Her drill-sergeant nails played "Taps" on the tabletop. "Anyway, there's more dough in tending bar, at least the tips. I saw what you handed George, and I'm the one who's talking to you."
Matt felt mild panic. He couldn't just throw some bills at her, but she was definitely hinting she wanted consideration. What to do? He sipped the Black Russian that was more black than Russian, and more coffee than vodka. It didn't even taste like a Red Russian.
"It's pretty important that I find this guy. Family matters."
"You mean people still have those?"
"Families? Yeah. Sure. You can't get rid of relatives, you know."
"Oh, I can. And if I were you, I'd get rid of this Effinger fellow too." A long, ragged nail tapped his nose. "Trouble, if you want my guess. I can see his kind coming a mile away. Wants some celebration honey when he wins, which is pretty unlikely, and even then his cash dries up as soon as you've let him check out your chips, if you know what I mean." She snorted in a strangely ladylike way. "But you don't. You're way out of your league here. Forget it. Forget Cliffie-boy. And forget Miss Kitty . . . oh, yeah, I can see she made quite an impression on you, probably belly to belly at some jamboree or other. You don't want that drink? Leave it, hon. I'll drink it for you."
She waved him away with fingers as flaccid as her tired ruffles.
He left a five on the table anyway as he reclaimed Effinger's likeness. "Cigarette money," he mumbled, retreating to the bar.
George held court behind a mirrored circular hulk that winked like a carousel from Hell. Gold streaks through the mirror tiles reminded Matt more of varicose veins than a mother lode of glamour. Stacked cocktail glasses and bottles of booze reflected fragments of the tawdry scene, including himself as he sat on a barstool.
"You got away faster than most," George said, jerking a head to Verle at her table, now stuffing his five-dollar bill up her sleeve. At least she didn't use a garter.
"I'm here on business. I'm looking for this guy."
"Yeah, I seen him here. Recognized him right away. You're not the law, and I can't see you working for broken-down dames like that, so you're not a PI."
"I'm a relative." Matt lowered his eyes to the sketch to hide his self-disgust at the admission. Maybe someday his mother would explain herself.
"Daddy dearest?" George's damp linen towel stopped swiping at rinsed glasses.
"No, but my mother sure would like to know where he is."
"Uh-huh. The old lost step-daddy routine. Hey, I say something wrong?"
"No. I was just startled. We don't use that expression where I come from. Yup, he's my stepfather."
"Your ma as good-looking as you?"
"She used to be, I guess."
"Yeah. Take some advice. Get out of here. Forget this guy. He's been trouble for someone all his life. Why you, now? Huh? I see a lot from behind these walls of booze and lousy tips. You don't want to find this guy. Nobody wants to find this guy but a landlord he owes or a loan shark whose pearly whites need a little exercise."
Matt smiled at the mention of "Pearl" again.
"But if you gotta be an asshole"--George leaned close, his breath ripe with onion--"ask the bartender at the Brass Rail down the street. Ole Cliff has developed a pattern in his old age. Moves on down the line, casinowise, every couple of weeks. He was here, but not no more. Try the Brass Rail behind the Goliath."
"Thanks." Matt fished for a twenty of thanksgiving, but George slapped the damp dishtowel over his hand resting on the bar.
"You paid enough in here. Just watch you don't get hurt when you find the guy. I sure got sick of his ugly face; maybe you can rearrange it." George's smile somehow morphed into a snarl. "Don't plead innocent with me. That might work on the half-hazed ladies, but not on me. You're out for blood, not money, and I'm glad to point you on down the road, so I don't get a mess on my pristine Formica slate bar-top here. Besides, that Effinger guy stiffed me on one boilermaker too many."
"He drinks boilermakers"
"Say, you're pretty fast for an amateur. Yeah, that's the best way to ask for a guy at a bar, by what he drinks, not by his face or his handle, That's all we remember, what they drink and what they leave us."
Matt took the hint and left .mother twenty behind. A bargain, given the going priCEU for professional counseling these days.
"Down the street" was far enough to take the motorcycle.
Any map of the Las Vegas Strip looked checkerboard-simple. Just a few main roads, a few major intersections. Only when you stood on the spot, you realized that the blocks between intersections were made for seven-league boots and three -story-tall MGM Grand hotel lions.
Matt always had a moment of anxiety when returning to the Hesketh Vampire in the parking lot. One time, he expected, it would be gone. It was bright as polished sterling, obviously rare. It begged to be stolen. But it wasn't, this one more time. He was always torn about following anticrime tips and parking under a light. The light might give away a thief trying to hot-wire it, but it also would spotlight something worth stealing.
He settled for the solution the morally compromised so often take. He had it a little bit of both ways: near enough a light to be seen, not too near to flash like heat lightning.
The helmet and the motorcycle roar in his ears, the rush of cold night air, did nothing to tamp down his loose thoughts. Only flashing by the soon-to-open site of New York-New York did that: Temple was coping with the real thing this Christmas, right now. She was moving on up, to the Big Time,
on a whisker and a hair and a hank of tail.
He was heading deeper into the lower depths. The Brass Rail was stuffed between a strip joint and something sleazier that offered wares Matt couldn't quite determine. Strip joints always kept their windows boarded up, as if passersby would try to peek for free. He couldn't imagine cozying up to those grimy windows and doors or even to the nerveless naked skins of the women behind them.
Entering the seamy Brass Rail seemed like a refuge. He ignored the lackluster gaming tables and chimefree slot machines to head for the bar at the back. Another slow night in Silver City.
Matt sat on a barstool without hesitation.
"What can I get you?" The guy who slouched over was young, with thick curly hair and a mustache out of the previous century.
"Boilermaker."
"Bad night?"
"No, George up the way just said you did a good business in boilermakers." Matt listened to himself, amazed. He was learning.
"George sent you, huh? How is old George?"
"Fine as he ever gets, I guess. He gave me some good advice, though."
The guy was moving all the time they talked, wiping off the ledge, pulling out the whiskey and the beer. "I hope you were properly grateful."
Matt nodded. The shot glass filled up to the brim. The beer glass barely foamed. Both containers hit the bar top in tandem, slopping a little of this and a little of that over their rims.
Matt suddenly realized he didn't know which one to drink first. He must have seen this on television at least a dozen times: was it beer/booze, or booze/beer? His newfound pride in exploring the darker side of night-life evaporated.
So he reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty and the sketch of Cliff Effinger.
"George thought you might know this guy. If you do, there's another one of this guy--" He tapped . . . General Grant on the bow tie! Shhhhoot. He'd pulled out one of the two fifties that he used at the grocery store. Too late to retract. "There's a twin of him if you can tell me where the other guy is." Might as well go for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question at this point.
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