Max Collins - Neon Mirage

“Oh? Where is he?”

“He left with the housekeeper and cook when I got the gun out.” She laughed; it was almost a snort. “Chickenshits. I didn’t even fire a shot.” She looked around the room. “I hate this fucking place.”

“Why?”

“It looks like a pimp’s idea of a palace.”

“Why don’t you redecorate? You got dough, I hear. That big handbag you lug around is usually packed with money, if the stories are true.”

“They’re true, all right. But I’m no fucking whore, Heller. I never asked a man for money in my life. Never had to. They just hand the green stuff over without me ever even asking.”

“That beats whoring all hollow.”

“I think so,” she said, with no sense of irony whatever. “But I can’t redecorate. Juan would kill me.”

“Who is Juan?”

She shrugged; her hair shimmered, tickling her shoulders. She smelled good-a combination of creme de menthe and, my detective’s nose deduced, Ivory soap. “He’s my agent. He used to be a dancer and made all the premieres, first nights, parties, all the big shit events. So he ended up turning theatrical agent, and publicity man, too. This is his place.”

“Does he live here?”

“Sometimes. Not right now. Anyway, he fancies himself the Latin lover type.” She laughed again. “Latin lovers, you can have ’em. Who was that girl that wrote that book? Latins Are Lousy Lovers?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t even read Forever Amber yet.”

“Well, she was right. Those fucking Italians. Peacocks, all of ’em. Needle dicks, to a man. I never knew a guy in the rackets who was well hung till I ran into Benny, and he’s a Jew! Aren’t you a Jew, Heller?”

“Half of me. But I got a hunch it’s the top half.”

“We could check that out. You don’t have to be a fucking detective to tell a Jewish dick when you see one.”

“Miss Hill, please. Take your hand off my zipper. I’ve been circumcised, if that answers your question.”

“It doesn’t, really,” she said, absently, looking away from me, glancing about the high-ceilinged room again. “This place looks like a fucking whorehouse, don’t you think? Juan, Latin lover, hah-he sleeps with the gardener, if that tells you what kind of Latin lover he is-anyway, Juan has this thing about Valentino. This was the great Sheik’s flop, you know. ’Cause he died after he built the joint, this castle’s supposed to be jinxed. Sat empty for years. Anyway, Juan decided to restore it-did his best to furnish and decorate it like it was when Rudy lived here. Yecch.”

“I kind of like it.”

“Then you live here. I swear. I gotta find a decent place to live.”

“Well, isn’t Ben Siegel building you a place?”

“Oh, there’s another dopey dream castle for you. The Flamingo. That’s what he’s calling it, you know. Named after those goddamn birds down at Hialeah. Except lately he’s been calling me his pretty little Flamingo. I ask you. Does this frame remind you of one of them spindly-ass birds?”

“No,” I said.

“I suppose I will move out there,” she said, with a weary sigh. “He’s building a suite for us in one of the buildings. Should be pretty posh, but shit. I hate the fucking desert. It’s hard on my skin. I got hay fever. I got an allergy to cactus, the docs say. Hell, my idea of outdoor living is sitting on a bar stool in the cabana of a Bel Air swimming pool.”

“Well, you’ll just have to stay inside. It’ll be air-conditioned, won’t it? If it’s as lavish a resort as I’m hearing, you should have a nice home for yourself.”

“Everytime I’m there, I get sick. I have to take those Benadryls, and they make you feel terrible.”

Particularly when you’re taking ’em with liquor.

“I just thought my girl might be staying here with you,” I said. “But I guess she isn’t.”

“Is she still your girl?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, either way, she’s not here. She only bunked here one night. We were in Vegas together, drove down there the day after she showed up. I came back on the weekend. She stayed.”

I sat up. “Stayed where?”

“In the fucking hell hole. Las Vegas.”

“What’s she doing there?”

“Staying at the Last Frontier.”

“Doing what in hell?”

“Heller, cool your nuts, will ya? She’s my secretary.”

“You seem to be here.”

“She’s my secretary, and she’s helping Ben, because I’m associated with Ben. We’re business partners, Ben and me.”

“You’re his partner in the Flamingo?”

“I’ve got some stock. I don’t like the place, but it might be a good investment. People like a nice hotel. People like to gamble. I play the horses some myself-don’t you?”

“Why’s Peg still in Vegas?”

“She’s doing secretarial work for Ben.”

“For Ben. For Bugsy.”

Her nostrils flared. “Don’t ever call him that. That’s a horrible name. He’d kill you for that. I might kill you myself.”

“Well, what’s stopping you? There’s a gun on the coffee table.”

She smiled. “Maybe I figure you’d bust me in the chops before I could fire.”

“But I wouldn’t do that, Virginia.”

“Why?”

“Because I got a hunch you’d like it.”

She didn’t deny that; she just laughed a little, and leaned back in the comfortable couch. “Peg’s a good secretary. I need her for things-errands and such; correspondence-I only went to eighth grade, and I need help with things like that. And she did my hair last week.” She fluffed the auburn stuff. “She did a nice job, don’t you think?”

“What’s she doing in Vegas, Ben’s hair?”

“This Flamingo hotel is a big project. It’s a huge endeavor.”

“That’s a big word for a girl who only went to the eighth grade-‘endeavor.’”

“Up your ass with a hot poker, pal. There’s a lot of paperwork involved in an enterprise like that. Yeah, ‘enterprise.’ Just don’t ask me to spell it. Ben can use a secretary.”

“I don’t like it. I don’t like it all.”

“Are you worried she’s gonna get seduced by the big bad Bug? Don’t be silly. Ben would never cheat on me.” She shrugged. “He knows I’d kill him.”

“You kids warm my heart with this great love of yours, but just the same I don’t like Peg being down there all alone with him.”

“There’s plenty of other people around. Ben isn’t looking for a new lay. He’s got the best lay in the world, right here. And he’s busy with his fucking Flamingo. That’s his mistress.”

“How do he and Peg get along?”

“Fine. I think she admires him. There’s a lot to admire.”

I didn’t argue the point. I couldn’t risk telling Virginia Hill that my real worry was not seduction by the Jewish Casanova, but Peg’s own misguided search for “justice.” She was obviously kissing Siegel’s ass (figuratively speaking, one would hope) to get near him and try to determine if he was her uncle’s would-be killer. It was a dangerous game she was playing. Only it was no game at all.

“I could drive down there,” I said.

“Why bother? They’ll be back Friday. For the opening of Cornero’s new gambling ship. You can see her then. I can get you an invite.”

“Maybe I should drive out there anyway.”

“She’s fine, Heller. I know she misses you, if that’s any consolation.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me so. She told me you were the best thing that ever happened to her. Made me curious. Why else do you think I tried to get in your pants? I’m not just another horny broad, you know. Or did you just think I was trying to give you an early Christmas present?”