Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Crimson Haze

"Schmoes?" Temple was lost.

"Stand-up fools made to knock down. But schmoes always come back for more, bounce back, and we did, one more time; than Jersey Joe, in the end. In the end, that's all that matters."

"Why was Jersey Joe such a successful con man? What did he have?''

''Besides nerve? He had half our silver dollars. Somehow he cashed them in to buy the land and put up the Joshua Tree and still bury this stash of silver dollars in his mattress. Can you believe it? The guy owned his own hotel on the Strip. He had his own suite in it, like a poor man's Howard Hughes, and he stashes a hoard of the stolen silver dollars in his mattress . Then he hangs on, and loses everything and the hotel is a wreck and a ruin and deserted, and he dies.

And years later someone bounces on his broken-down mattress and out tumble a king's ransom in silver dollars,"

''No," said Temple quite sincerely. "I can't believe it. Why did he stay in those rooms when the hotel was such a wreck?"

"He'd become a derelict, that's why. A derelict at the heart of his own lost empire. And--"

Eightball lifted the butt of his cigar from the ashtray to regard it fondly, as an old friend that had died, and therefore, quite naturally, stank. "There were rumors."

"Rumors?"

"Guy like Jersey Joe always is better at rumors than reality. They say he was sitting on a gold mine. That the Joshua Tree was built on a hidden vein of glory-gold so thick and long and bright it would take you to Oz and back. They say the dirt and desert beneath the hotel is eaten away by earthworms. Tunnels. Secret passages. Gold for the taking, if you can find it. That useful?

That suit your theme-scheme. Missy?"

"Oh, yes," said Temple. "To a Tee and that rhymes with B to Z and that stands for Truth. Oh, yes, thank you very much."

Temple shoved her tote bag back on her shoulder and stood.

"By the way, who at the Circle Ritz is keeping you up past your bedtime these days?"

Eightball picked up the dead cigar, flicked his Bic and sucked on it until the tip reddened in the steady flame. "You know that information is confidential," he offered on an exhalation of putrid smoke.

Temple backed up, but not off. ''Nothing's confidential to a PR person but her client's business. I suppose the same is true of a P.I.?"

Eightball nodded, still puffing away poisonously. The room was clogging with smudge.

"Just tell me this," Temple pushed. ''Are you still working for someone at the Circle Ritz?"

"Maybe not."

"I guess you wouldn't be averse to helping Electra out in a jam," Temple suggested.

"Guess not, but maybe not."

She frowned. Eightball hadn't flickered an eyelash at mention of her landlady's name. Was that a sign of iron control, or of ignorance? Who else would employ him, if not her or Electra...?

Temple recalled the phantom figure she had glimpsed at the Crystal Phoenix. An aura of Max was settling ever lower on this whole muddled landscape, from the Crystal Phoenix to the Circle Ritz.

"It's not . . . couldn't be . . . Max ..." she thought aloud.

Mention of that name alarmed Eightball as nothing else had.

"No!" he said quickly. "Not him . Never laid eyes on the guy."

Except that Eightball's emphasis had been on him .

So he had been hired, not by Max, but by another "him" who was associated with the Circle Ritz.

Temple nodded slowly.' 'Goodbye, and thanks for the information."

Eightball watched her suspiciously, not sure to what "information" she referred, which was just the way Temple wanted it. Let him stew for a while.

Temple wove her own way out of the house, bumping gently against dim walls. She was also beginning to see her way out of the current maze. Not him, but a he .

Was it Matt, who had been so busy and distracted lately?

Matt, who she had worried, was pulling away from her because she had been too pushy?

Maybe Matt was simply pushing in another direction.

Maybe not.

Maybe they were both headed in the same direction from two different places. And maybe the collision point was the Crystal Phoenix.

Chapter 27

Lou Who?

Although I am used to undercover operations, it is more than somewhat galling to be forced to slink around my former digs like a criminal.

But this is exactly the lot that is mine at the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino, now that Caviar, a.k.a. Midnight Louise, has taken over my turf. Normally, I would not sit still under the nearest topiary tree chewing my nails while some upstart usurps my territory.

However, in this instance my tongue and tail are tied.

This does not suit my larger goal of sniffing out what foul forces are afoot and endangering my devoted roommate, Miss Temple Barr, and her current project, the Gridiron show.

Miss Caviar, In the meantime, shows no shyness whatsoever about swaggering around the grounds and hotel interior, gathering compliments for her resemblance to yours truly, albeit in a somewhat slimmer and younger form.

The more the unsuspecting humans mention my name, the more they ensure that the relentless Caviar remains in the vicinity. I even spot her interrogating the occasional canine that lopes around the fringes of the hotel, hoping for some Dumpster dining.

The first such ugly customer she broaches has me covering my eyes with my mitts as I lurk in the ever-convenient oleander clump near the service entrance.

The browsing dog is a pit bull-shepherd mix, no type to trifle with, believe you me. My forbearance with the young upstart may have given her too high an opinion of herself, for she sashays up to this truly terrifying dingo without a qualm.

"Pardon me, sir," I hear her say as he rips open a body bag with expert slashes of his canines.

He looks up. One eye has a squint and the opposite ear is semi-chewed. "Get lost, cupcake. I will be ready for dessert soon and you would do nicely."

"Funny you should mention 'lost,' bud," she replies without stiffening a single hair. "I am looking for someone who is apparently missing."

"We are all missing in action, babe." His staple-gun jaws wrestle what's left of a t-bone steak out of its plastic wrapping.

Caviar sits on her cute little tall and applies a prissy paw to her whiskers, no doubt offended by her subject's crude dining habits. "The object of my search is somewhat notorious around here. Have you ever heard of Midnight Louie?"

"Heard of him?" The dog spits out a few splinters of bone. "I am the first one in this town to pin his ears back. Has the big bully been bothering you, cupcake? I am the one to knock him into next week, even the next world, and if you tip me off when the goodies are about to hit the buffet table"--his scrawny tail bangs once on the Dumpster side--"I may even let you live a while longer."

"That will not be necessary," says she. "I do my own knocking. So he is afraid of you. I thought he was big and tough."

I cringe in the bushes, my tail beating up a cloud of dust. The reason this dingo dude squints is due to the number three shiv on my right mitt. Yet I am forced to grit my fangs while I hear him libel my battle prowess, not to mention my courage.

"Big and tough," the dirty dog repeats with a growl. "Hearing news like that is what makes a hyena laugh. This Midnight Louie was a creampuff, cupcake. Big, maybe, but it was all lard and laziness. I for one am glad to hear that the old layabout is off the premises. It improves the neighborhood."

As if this scrounger adds some elegance to the environment!

Apparently Caviar is not buying this bozo's story. "Why would Midnight Louie leave such a cushy job if he is as lazy as you say? A position of house detective at a major Strip hotel does not open up every day. And the staff--with the understandable exception of Chef Song--seems fond of him. I have even heard him credited with rescuing the manager, Miss Van von Rhine, from a mob of musclemen."