Douglas, Nelson - Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

He'd talked to one before and found him forthcoming. Older men, seasoned in smoke-filled rooms clinking with ice in glasses. Heavyset usually. The casino's authority figures, not unlike bishops. On a chessboard, he remembered, a bishop could move diagonally. In the church, the bishop's only option was up . . .

If he thought of these men as bishops, he would get on with them better. But no "Your Reverences," only an inner air of respect. Perhaps that's what the heads of crime families expected too.

*********************

"Excuse me. Has this man been in here recently?"

The man eyed Matt, ruling out cop and P.I. with expert speed. "Lost relative."

"Right."

"We get a lot of those. And they appreciate it if we don't mention it even if we did see 'em.

That's why cameras aren't allowed in the casino area."

"The reason isn't security?"

"Nah. Not our security, anyway. It's theirs." He gazed out on his rowdy flock with a shepherd's satisfaction. "Don't want the folks back in Pineapple Junction to see 'em."

"This guy's a gambler, all right." Matt weighed his forthcoming lies, wondering which false tack would be most effective. "We lost track of him, and now Mom's gonna die. She's all we got left. And there's... a lot of money involved."

"And you're lookin' for him? I would think you'd want the lost sheep to stay lost."

"Oh, no. I'd never do that."

"What are you? Jehovah's Witness or something? You're way too straight for this town, kid."

"I know," Matt said with a sad smile.

The pit boss grabbed the sketch to hold it up to the light. He might also have been holding it up so a hidden camera lens could record it.

Matt's fingers itched to reclaim the likeness. Someone might want Effinger to stay lost.

But now he was stuck surrendering his passport to Effinger to some unknown factor. Maybe other people didn't think Effinger was dead either. Maybe someone still wanted him dead, if he weren't already.

"What's this guy's name?"

Matt shrugged. "I guess he would have used whatever worked. We're hoping if we can get him home, we can get him into a recovery program."

"Sure, sure. I get a finder's fee?"

"I'm sure . . . Norbert will be very generous when he finds out what's waiting for him at home."

"Norbert! They all have dumb names like that, the losers."

Matt flushed. He should have had a fake name on the tip of his tongue, not whatever his subconscious chose to dredge up. St. Norbert.

"Not your fault," the guy said, handing back the sketch. "Saw him a couple months ago, but he moved on. Used to get sloshed and talk about coming into big money. Lousy craps player, which is the way we like 'em. Ended up on the nickel slots. What a piker. Maybe when he gets home and grabs some of that moolah he'll come back and improve his rep around here. Try up the street at The Slottery. He was tapped out when he left here."

"Thanks."

Matt walked away through the crowds and the clatter, mentally repeating the key phrase like a sin that needed confessing. "Used to talk about coming into big money." If the big money wasn't Effinger's to come into, someone might have wanted to kill him. But why fail? Why plant Effinger's ID on a corpse close enough to his own physical description to confuse matters? And why hang around town when he was supposed to be dead? Even an imbecile would know enough to get out of sight and keep out of sight.

Matt felt like an imbecile himself. Maybes weren't good enough. Maybe he needed a new set of maybes, like maybe he needed something he didn't have: Cliff Effinger's rap sheet. Maybe Molina would let him see it, or at least sum it up. Matt stomped down the Strip sidewalk, finding his new boots clunky and clumsy.

The Hesketh Vampire was an evil influence. It was changing the way he dressed as well as the way he got around town. Maybe it would change the way he thought too. Maybe that wasn't so bad. He suddenly wanted the details of that rap sheet so badly he itched all over with impatience. He was a blind man, stabbing in the dark. If Molina was going to sic him on Effinger indirectly, he needed more than he had. Under the bright lights, his watch read 10:15 p.m.

Where would Molina be now? Home, probably.

Discouraged, he dragged his way back to the Vampire, blazing like irradiated platinum under the bright light it was parked beneath for security reasons, the presumption being that thieves wouldn't mess with such a visible target. Max Kinsella was right, maybe. Bold and noisy and brash is the best disguise in Las Vegas.

Matt finally knew where he should go, and unlocked the Vampire. The boots were tough enough to kick back the steel stand and come away unscuffed.

He knew where he was going now, and suddenly feared he might be too late. It was a long shot, but after all the tepid inquiries tonight, he suddenly felt lucky.

Odd that his arena of luck was so far from the Strip.

**************

The restaurant lot was half empty. A week night didn't keep people up at all hours, even in Las Vegas, and especially in the residential areas where the nine-to'fivers lived.

The Vampire was embarrassingly loud about its arrival, and Matt knew his usual relief in switching it off.

The neon sign still burned its pink-and-blue image into the night, a real standout here where the only lights were sodium-iodide street lamps that poured watery Mercurochrome shadows down on everything.

Matt studied the cars as he walked to the Blue Dahlia's entrance, wondering what Molina drove when she wasn't ensconced in a department Crown Victoria. Impossible to tell, although Temple would have made a game of guessing the car, and probably would have guessed right by now.

But this wasn't Temple's affair; it was his.

He opened the door and glimpsed the smoky dining room beyond.

The trio itself was smoking, running a hot riff out for a trial ride and then reeling that buggy back on home. Maybe . . . she wasn't on tonight. It had been a risk, a gamble, an impulse, everything Matt had never relied on.

"Table for one, sir?"

The hostess's long black crepe gown reminded him of an old Susan Hayward film. His nod rewarded him with a seat in the back where he could watch, unnoticed, the figure perched on the stool onstage.

He ordered a Coke and asked the waitress how long the set would last.

"Almost over. Sorry, sir."

"No problem. I want to see Carmen afterward. Could you let her know?"

She eyed him like he was suddenly suspect. "You have a card?"

Matt paused in digging out the ConTact-house card with his name handwritten at the top.

Instead he withdrew one of his laminated sketches of Cliff Effinger.

The waitress raised an eyebrow. "I'll see she gets it when she comes off."

The waitress thought he was weird, probably, but then the whole place was weird, a kind of time machine. The trio picked up the melody and then Molina --Carmen--joined in, her voice dream-dusky. He didn't know the song, but the words were sedately old-fashioned and the melody was deceptively sophisticated.

He felt he should be wearing a fedora and nursing a gin fizz. "Of all the gin joints in Las Vegas . . . ," that kind of thing. Matt leaned his head against the wall until all he could see were the shuttered black backs of the spotlights, and then he just listened.

The song had ended and the music had ebbed and died before he snapped out of his reverie. The Blue Dahlia was empty except for a couple lingering over their after-dinner coffees.

The hostess came around the corner to his table.

"You can go backstage now." She gestured to his half-full glass. "That's on the house; you can bring it with you."

Matt scooped it up as expected and followed her around the front again, and down a narrow hall. The restaurant's tortuous innards reminded him of a labyrinth; it must be almost as old as the era it evoked.