Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alphabet Endgame

“Guess what?”

“Someone killed Ted for the money.”

“Tried to make it look like a drug overdose, but it was faked. Nasty kinda death, drugged and then overdosed and then smothered.”

“I remember news about excavating that huge desert vault,” Matt said. “Who got the money?”

“Crazy. The scheming couple was convicted of murder, but went to a retrial on a technicality, where they were acquitted of murder, but convicted of burglary! Binion had changed his will two days before his death to exclude his girlfriend, but she got it all anyway, the house and the millions in its safe. There were millions in the hotel safe too, and still four or so million unaccounted for, and it has never been found. Presumed to be buried out on the Mojave.”

Mario finished his Compari with a lip smack. “Fitting end for a bad outfit over six decades from Dallas to Chicago to Vegas. I love it when the legal system screws itself royally. Benny Binion was dumb not to have a bigger family. My nephews would never try to off me for my money, because there are too many of them. They can watch each other.”

“They’re also savvy businessmen who can make their own money, unlike what you say of the Binion clan.”

Aldo came over and clapped Matt on the shoulders, raising him from the sinkhole of the potty chair at the same time. “Thanks for the great reference, Uncle, but I think our time has passed.”

A woman in hospital scrubs covered in tiny penguins had materialized like a magician’s assistant to take the still full Compari glass from Uncle Mario’s hand.

Matt started to bid the old guy farewell when he realized Macho Mario Fontana was in lullaby land.

20

Intervention Convention

Aldo had reluctantly left Matt at his car in the Gangsters limo lot.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but it’s getting at you, my man,” Aldo had said in parting. “Time for a time out, maybe. I got some roles to play in your wedding, dude, and I don’t want to lose the opportunity.”

Matt bit his lip as hard as he thought driving home to the Circle Ritz. He turned in the parking lot on autopilot, surprised to find a black Chrysler speeding after him and cutting him off from turning fully into a parking space.

In the next moment a white SUV squealed around the corner to hem in both vehicles.

When a silent black Tesla followed, Matt got out of the Jaguar where he’d stopped it.

Frank Bucek got out of the Chrysler. Molina and Detective Morrie Alch jumped out of the SUV to join him.

“What’s this?” Matt asked. “I’m being arrested?”

“You ought to be.” Molina, dressed in a khaki pant suit with a badge gleaming on her belt, strode up to him. “Frank? Do you want to do this or should I?”

Behind them, Aldo and his rumpled ice cream suit lurked behind the authorities, shrugging.

“We were tailed,” Aldo admitted. “It’s been such a long time since any cops wanted to do so, I didn’t look. Sorry. They caught up with me after you left Gangsters.”

“I can’t drive where I want?” Matt was stunned. “You’ve been having me followed, even Rafi that time?”

Molina smiled. “I wouldn’t send a civilian on an assignment without having him checked from time to time. And you stumbled into some interesting criminals. We like where you drive. It’s been very instructive, but now it’s time for an ‘intervention’, as you might say.”

“You are throwing that at me?” Matt was furious.

Frank stepped between him and Molina. “Matt, you are in over your head. It’s not your fault. You should know even the ATF is involved as well as the locals and the FBI. It has an interest in any weapons at large in this country. The FBI put me in Las Vegas because of what you’re tiptoeing around the edges of. You have no right to risk yourself like this when you’ve found the woman you love. If one of my sons—and mine are still pre-teens, thank God—was doing what you’ve been doing, I’d have been so proud I’d cry and then I’d confine him to home for a month.

“You’ve bulled your way into a crime of the century. But you’ve got to give it up. You can’t go solo on this. You can’t risk everyone around you. You’ve got to let us pros take the reins.”

Matt stood still. In one way, he was relieved to shrug the suspicions and conclusions he’d been carrying off his back like a hiking pack. In another sense, he owned what he’d found out. He had earned his own conclusion.

Molina came around Bucek to face him. “Sometimes you’ve just got to let the past slide away. Sometimes you’ve got to let someone else show you the way. Isn’t that right?”

Matt looked up at the Circle Ritz, at the people who lived there who needed to be safe from intruders and old crimes coming home to roost.

He nodded.

Molina looked over her shoulder at Detective Alch, who was already holding up some color computer printouts. She slammed the flimsy pages atop the Jaguar roof. “You know this man?”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Chuck Effinger. My…half-brother. My God.” He paged through the three sheets. “What happened to him?”

“Nothing good. He has a long minor-crime rap sheet, but in this case, he’s the assault victim.”

“What did they use on his arms?”

“Not sure. Hydrochloric acid. Sander. Blowtorch. They wanted him to talk and we’re sure he did. But not to us. He’d see us in Hell first.”

She looked into his shocked eyes. “I’m sorry. You need to know this is serious. You need to know we’re going to get these guys and are working on it even now, and you can stay away from these crooks and go and have your happy wedding, with Aldo and all the king’s men on security.”

She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “I’m sorry to blazes I referred you to such a compromised source. I’m putting security details on the Circle Ritz, the church, and the Crystal Phoenix. Nothing of this should touch you now. Okay?”

Matt nodded, still dazed. “Okay, Lieutenant. I did my job for you and I trust you to do your job for me. And mine.”

“I promise to get you and yours safely to the wedding on time.”

21

Midnight Louie’s Dream Wedding

Many people joke about “wedlock”. I suppose that is because the bride and bridegroom vow to be ever faithful and forego any romps of a romantic nature with someone else forever and ever.

Not a problem in the case of Mr. Matt, who is a proven celibate. That word is not to be confused with the ceremony’s celeb rant , who is Father Hernandez and also one of these professional celibates.

But neither man was kidnapped and conveyed to the bottom of the altar steps of Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church in a zebra-striped carrier!

(Although I understand that in olden days some brides were taken to the ceremony by force, hence the large number of groomsmen in weddings.) In our case, Fontana brothers.

I am royally annoyed by being confined, carried away, and treated like some human infant. Why? Am I not cooperative beyond all the usual behavior of my kind?

Do I not wear—again, when I was forewarned to fight it with every nail sheath?—the formal white tie around my neck. (On a breakaway band, so I cannot strangle if I get excited and try to run.) Please. Give me some credit. I know it is my job now to pose next to Mr. Matt’s gray pant leg, immobile as a Buckingham Palace guard, during the interminable mumblings of the prayers and sermons and vows, and not move a muscle. I must admit I do have the impressive head of thick black fur for the job, if not the stature.