Douglas, Nelson - Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

And yet it strikes me, as I gaze at the merciless fluorescent light above me, that I am paying the ultimate price for something I did not do. I never once successfully touched the Divine Yvette. Not through any failure of my own intention, but through mere circumstance.

For the first time in my life, or what is left of it, I am able to state: I am a completely innocent dude.

Chapter 33

At the Drop of a Card

Temple awoke the next morning with flamingos on her mind.

Dream fragments still floated on the out- of-focus white screen of her ceiling. Oh, yeah. She had been doing a fandango with Max, for an audience of flamingos, who were swiftly grabbed by passersby for use as . . . golf clubs.

Then Midnight Louie had waddled by, upright on two feet, wearing an orange vest and top hat, clutching a pocket watch and complaining that he was late for work. Electra appeared out of nowhere as the Red Queen, followed by a pack of Darren Cooke's conquest recipe cards.

Matt had been nowhere in sight in this Mad Hatter's dream, which was typical.

She sat up in bed, donning her glasses to inspect the coverlet for Louie. He seldom stayed out all night anymore, but he had now.

Flamingos. Things had been so hectic lately that she'd forgotten to check in with Domingo.

And she hadn't gotten a message from the A La Cat film crew, so she didn't know when Louie would be needed next. Perhaps not until Yvette had recovered from her dysentery or distemper or whatever was supposed to be wrong with her, besides sprinkling in her carrier and shrinking when wet. Meanwhile, Temple could laze in bed a little and speculate on all sorts of things that were none of her business, always the most fascinating topics of consideration.

Had Sid Caesar stepped into Darren Cooke's soft shoes yet? Did it feel creepy to stand in for a dead man? Omigosh! She'd neglected to ask the director for a free show pass for Electra. Even with Cooke dead, she was sure a devoted fan like Electra would want to see what he would have been doing if he weren't dead.

Snatches of the chorus production number swirled in her head, the human hoofers intermixed with quick-stepping flamingos. Pretty good show. Clever idea to hark back to Las Vegas's colorful days of yore, when larger-than-life figures like Bugsy Siegel and Howard Hughes had made Las Vegas their private playpen, then ultimately the world's.

Actually, the revue, with its tribute to Bugsy and the Fabulous Flamingo hotel that he founded, was more appropriate to the current Flamingo Hilton. The one that gave Domingo's installations such a run for the money with its lavishly lit facade of a flamingo chorus line. Bits of the original 1946 structure still lurk within the thrice-rebuilt hotel today. And Temple had learned why Bugsy (who hated his nickname) had named his hotel-casino the Flamingo: Flamingo was a nickname for his feisty girlfriend Virginia Hill! Virginia apparently turned a vivid shade of red when she drank, which was often. Temple would have to tell Domingo sometime ...

Flamingos. So many feathers to cover a gawky-graceful bird that only weighed three to seven pounds, including lightweight, long neck and legs--even the six-foot-tall ones, which would almost match Max's height. . .

Temple's hand drew patterns along the comforter's zebra-stripes. Darren Cooke had almost been ready to perform that revue for an audience. He'd been drenched in Old Las Vegas flavor for weeks. He used a recipe box to hold Cooke's cookies and their cards. Why wouldn't he use a flamingo box to hold the missing manila envelope?

Nothing to do with Domingo's presence here. That was coincidental. But the Flamingo Hilton's safety-deposit boxes... Cooke must have stayed there before, been "comped" as a celebrity. Wouldn't the management have let him use a hotel safe for a few weeks if he had asked? Treating celebrities with discretion had been a Las Vegas password even before Sinatra's Rat Pack ran up tabs and tabloid coverage in the sixties.

Temple checked her clock face in the harsh light of day. Ten-thirty. Time to rise and shine, Lt.

C. R. Molina!

Temple speed-dialed the police number, and was lucky enough to reach Molina eventually.

"Barr," Temple said as brusquely as Molina announced herself. "Have you tried the guest safes at the Flamingo?"

"For what? Being broken and entered?"

"Not tried in that way. Have you checked to see if Darren Cooke kept a box there?"

"Why would he? He wasn't registered there."

"Maybe not this trip, but I've got a hunch he might have hidden the envelope of letters there."

"You left out 'crazy' in front of 'hunch.' We don't have time--"

Temple cut her off. It felt good. "Only the police could find out for sure. What would it take?

A phone call? I'd be happy to identify anything you find."

"It takes a warrant too. And I bet you'd be--" Molina began, but Temple hung up.

Being a chicken, she had mumbled " 'Bye" first.

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

Temple figured she could handle the second stage of this paper chase herself. She called the Oasis and asked for a room. The operator put her call through, but the phone rang until it tripped a voice-mail request to leave a message.

No way, Temple thought, with all the savvy of a PR veteran. Leaving messages gave people time to think about what they'd say to the message-leaver. Temple didn't want that. Surprise was paramount when you wanted to elicit a confession. And she did think one aspect of the Darren Cooke death called for a confession.

So she decided to take a chance on trying another likely site in person. She went on a whim.

She had a hunch, and a nagging, itchy hunch is as demanding as any unsatisfied drug habit.

The drive wasn't long, but it gave Temple time to plan her approach. She would be matter-of-fact, but nonaccusatory. The idea was to confirm a suspicion, not to stir up defensive anger.

She parked in front this time, in plain sight, and neared the windows with their blinds drawn tight against the . . . overhead sun, which wouldn't hit the glass full on until late afternoon. A little early to be so discreet.

Temple's knock set the closed miniblinds shimmying against the door's inset glass. She knocked again. And again.

Finally she walked to the corner, counting and studying cars, and down the side street to the building's rear. Parked halfway down that side, all by its lonesome, sat an old Volkswagen Beetle convertible painted a dazzling new white.

Her hunch already paying off, Temple marched back to the Strip shopping center's front facade and the blind-shrouded office.

She knocked again, waited, then said loudly, "I know you're in there, and I won't go away.

You could leave, of course, in the car parked out back, but I'd just find you someplace else."

She waited, forbearing to knock again.

Finally, the door blinds rattled. A lock clicked. Temple turned the knob and entered.

The outer office seemed almost as dim as last night, even with all the tabletop lamps on.

Against one wall, the copier wheezed. Temple could see its tiny green operating lights from the door.

Alison Darby looked hot and bothered in a shapeless gray jogging suit with baggy pants. Her fashionably cut, burgundy-tinted salon hairstyle was flat on one side and pushed into an inappropriate pouf on the other, as if slept on. Her face was in similar condition, puffy and hollow at the same time, making her look far older.

"Did you often sign documents for Darren Cooke?" Temple asked, figuring her victim was stressed enough to tell the truth without thinking about it.

"Sign? What are you talking about? Why are you here? I've got to finish up the office work quickly, because I certainly can't afford an Oasis room now that Darren's dead."