Max Collins - Neon Mirage

“This hardworking gentleman,” Siegel said good-naturedly, “is Bud Quinn, formerly of the LAPD.”

“Don’t get up,” I said.

Quinn smiled widely, making his cheeks tight, and it should have been a jolly smile, but it wasn’t really a smile at all. It was an expression the hard fat little man had adopted to use at appropriate times, to affect humanity.

“You’d be Nate Heller,” he said, removing the sunglasses, thrusting a pudgy hand forward.

Reluctantly I took it. Shook it. It was as moist as Sedway’s, and even more repellent.

“I didn’t know you were working for Ben,” I said. “Let alone his top security man.”

Piggy eyes narrowed in pouches of fat. “Have we met?”

“No. I’ve just heard about you.” I turned to Siegel. “I take it you haven’t mentioned to Fred Rubinski that Quinn’s in your employ.”

“Why, no,” Siegel said. Then with a little edge in his voice he added: “I didn’t know I needed to clear my staff with Fred.”

I shrugged. “It’s just that Fred’s late partner and Lt. Quinn had their share of run-ins.”

Quinn grinned yellowly. “Jake took a likin’ to my rubber hose. I never knew a boy who took to the goldfish like Jake.”

I pointed a finger at him. “Have some respect for the dead. You’re going to be that way yourself some day.”

“No disrespect meant,” Quinn said, standing now, gesturing with both hands, trying to smile away my ill will. “I liked Jake. He was a good boy. He put money in my pocket, time to time.”

Siegel, frowning slightly, said, “Is it going to be a problem, you fellas working together? I had no idea there was bad blood…”

“There’s no bad blood,” I said. “We don’t even know each other. Forget I said anything.”

Quinn smiled magnanimously. “No hard feelings, Nate. Mind if I call you Nate?”

I did, but said, “Not at all, Bud. We’ll get along fine, you and me.”

“Good,” Siegel said, putting a hand on either of our shoulders. “Bud isn’t working today, but I asked him to stop by so you two could get acquainted-set up a time to work with his people.”

“I hear you’re gonna teach us all about pickpockets,” Quinn said, in a sing-songey way. Pretending to be friendly but reeking condescension.

“Just a few pointers. Is this afternoon too soon?”

“Not at all,” Quinn said. “I got a few boys on the grounds, keeping an eye on the hired help and the delivery people. Can’t be too careful-pilferage can be a problem, you know, with all this building material here, in such short supply elsewhere.”

“Right,” I said. “What about the rest of your staff?”

“They’ve all settled in,” he said. “Found apartments and homes. Regular Las Vegas residents, now, looking forward to a long and happy association with the fine, fabulous Flamingo club.”

“Hotel,” Siegel corrected.

“Hotel,” Quinn amended.

“Why don’t you call ’em all in so we can meet here around one-thirty,” I said. “In the casino-it’s not being used for anything, and the construction there seems complete.”

“Nothing left but to put the new fireproofed curtains up,” Siegel said, smirking to himself.

“Casino’ll be just dandy, Nate,” Quinn said, putting his dark glasses back on. “Looky here, I’m sorry about your friend Fred’s partner. No offense meant. Got run down by a car, didn’t he?”

“Well, Fred’s more than a friend, Bud. He’s vice-president of my detective agency, and that makes his late partner an associate of mine, even though we never met.”

“That don’t make sense to me,” Quinn said, thoroughly puzzled, and a little disgusted.

“It does to me,” I said. “That’s what counts.”

Siegel was watching me warily, and then said, “You want to come along with me, Nate? I can show you around a bit.”

He took me across the stretch of scalp-like ground to the building where the plasterers on scaffolding hovered like a dozen Harold Lloyds as directed by Busby Berkeley. We went inside, where a carpet layer was at work in the small lobby; the ceiling rose through the floor above, creating a circular balcony, making room for a fancy chandelier. The sounds of carpentry echoed down, making the chandelier’s crystal shake and shiver. The carpet layer, on his hands and knees, looked up at Siegel and smiled and nodded, saying “Mr. Siegel.”

“What the hell is this?” Siegel snapped.

“Pardon?” The man had to work to get his voice over the hammering coming from above.

“Are you responsible for this?” He was pointing to a sooty palm-print on an as-yet-to-be-painted plaster wall.

“No, Mr. Siegel.”

“You tell your foreman for me that I’ll kick his ass back to Salt Lake City if I see that sort of thing again. What, do you people think you’re working in a cheap bar somewhere? This is the Flamingo -and don’t fuckin’ well forget it!”

He stalked up the nearby stairway. I shrugged at the kneeling carpet layer and he shrugged back and returned to his work and I followed our mutual boss up the stairs.

“What is this building, Ben?”

“The hotel. The check-in’s in the main building, but all the rooms are here.”

No carpet had been laid on the second floor, or the third, but when we got to the fourth, via a narrow out-of-the-way staircase, a plush money-colored carpet appeared. In fact, it began on those narrow stairs, which took us to a door, which Siegel unlocked, and he ushered me through a side entry into a penthouse suite that was entirely finished and furnished. More money-color carpet with lighter, pastel green walls.

We entered next to the well-stocked bar; to our right, picture windows looked out on the swimming pool. The room was tastefully if sparsely decorated, not at all garish; it reminded me a little of Ragen’s room at Meyer House. Siegel lounged on a chintz-covered sofa and grinned.

“There’s four bathrooms in this dump,” he said.

I wondered if each had its own septic tank.

“I’m moving in with Tabby later this week. Some of the furniture hasn’t arrived yet.”

“It’s quite a spread, Ben.”

“There’s four ways out of here.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Only thing is,” he said, looking upward, “that fucking beam.”

There was a massive central concrete beam, in the white plaster ceiling, running down the middle of the spacious living room, cutting it in half; it dipped low enough that a man six feet or more would have to duck some.

“I told ’em to tear the goddamn thing out,” he said, “but they said it was a support beam. It coulda been done, but it would’ve cost twenty-five grand or so. And there just wasn’t time.” He looked up at it with regret. Let out a weight-of-the-world sigh. “What the hell. You got to draw the line somewhere.”

No shit.

He slapped his thighs, stood, said, “Come on, Nate-I’ll finish the tour.”

He showed me throughout the facility, most of which was done, except for the hotel building; and he rattled off his plans for the months ahead: a wedding chapel; private cabins; a health club with gymnasium and steam room; courts for tennis, badminton, squash and handball; a stable with “forty head of fine riding stock”; a nine-hole golf course; and shopping promenade-nine “major stores” already signed up.

“When do you expect to have all that up and running?” I asked him.

“June,” he said. “Late June it’ll be finished.”

At a loading area behind the kitchen, a truckload of silverware and glassware, coming from L.A., was being delivered. Siegel signed for the stuff, after examining several boxes. Two delivery men were doing the unloading. One of Quinn’s security people was keeping an eye on them. Neither he, nor anybody else, saw me mark the sides of several boxes with a grease pencil.