Carole Douglas - Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

“That’s right. The bastard had some sweet set-up in Chicago, I heard. Good-looking wife, a two-flat bringing in rental money. Only the wife’s brat soured the deal.”

Matt had been that “brat” and his mother the woman Effinger had used and abused. The anger surge almost choked him, but rage would ruin his plan to investigate and overheat his cool.

“Chicago can’t have anything to do with Effinger’s death here,” Woody declared.

Matt kept his voice even. “It would if Effinger had kept some…evidence there about things going on here.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“I don’t know. A map, maybe.”

“A treasure map?” Woody wheezed with laughter. “There’s been rumors about buried treasure around Vegas since the railroad came through. Only treasure is in the casino money carts and they’re better guarded than Fort Knox.”

“Effinger must have been into something that involved a huge payoff, to get killed in a gruesome way like that. That was warning someone off.”

“That’s just supposition, isn’t it? If it was real, the cops would be all over it.”

Matt was getting sick of the old man shooting down his ideas, yet he’d said as much as he’d dared about Effinger “having something” others might want. This old guy would never imagine Matt was seeking clues to a missing IRA hoard. That was such a Max quest. WWMD right now? What Would Max Do? Keep extracting information from the retired cop.

Wetherly was frowning now. “How do you know this stuff about what Cliff Effinger did or did not do in Chicago before his death?”

“I, ah, interviewed a local detective about the case.”

“Private or police?”

“Police.”

“Which asshole is that?”

Matt quelled a defensive retort. “Molina.”

“Hmph. Lieutenant. Woman. That ain’t gonna do you no good.”

“She’s extremely competent.”

“If you say so, but she’s from L.A. Whadda she know about Vegas mob history, the stuff that’s not in all the new mob ‘museums’ around town? That stuff is all for show. For Chrissake, they’re now doing weddings at the downtown mob ‘attraction’. And the Fontana brothers are keeping their pretty suits pressed more than they’re tending to their Gangsters limo service or Gangsters hotel.”

“I guess I’ve come to the right person here, then,” Matt said.

“That’s damn right, sonny.”

“And you can stop calling me ‘kid’ and ‘sonny’. I answer to Matt, or Mr. Devine if you want to keep it formal, Mr. Wetherly.”

“Speaking up, are we? I told you last time to call me Woody. And, Matt, do you answer to Father Devine too?”

Matt reared back as if punched.

“You find out about Chicago,” Woodrow said. “I find out about you. You’re not pulling the smooth cashmere sports coat over these old eyes. I wanta know who I’m dealing with. So you’re right. You’ve come to the right person, Mr. Matt. You can call me a no bullshitter.”

He braced his misshapen hands on the recliner arms and pushed himself up with a grunt. Matt rushed to support a forearm until the old man seemed balanced.

“Yup, young Matt. Ignore appearances, I am just the man for your job. We’re gonna go where what’s left of mob operators meet now.”

“When?” Matt asked, alarmed. His hours weren’t his own.

“Tonight. Don’t worry. We start at ten and you’ll be at the radio station soothing losers by midnight, Cinderfella. Get it?”

“Mobsters don’t meet on the Strip?”

“Well, in a way they do.” Woody chuckled and winked. “We’re goin’ to one of them nudie bars.”

“Nudie,” Matt repeated warily.

“That’s right.” Woody leaned near to impart a confidentially. “May be something new—get it? ‘Nudie’ may be new—to you, but old to me. I advise you to look like you like it so you ain’t mistaken for a pansy. In fact, I advise you to look all your fill, ’cuz I’m bettin’ you never imagined these places existed.”

Matt imagined he was right.

6

Off-Campus

I, of course, escort the ladies. Unlike Miss Temple, I savor my short stature and being overlooked. The canny investigator does his best work under those circumstances.

As I take up my discreet rear guard position to watch the Circle Ritz ladies wonder and wander, I muse on the fact that my Miss Temple needs a foot system like mine, whereby I can retract my hidden shivs in a nanosecond. I would look ridiculous if I tottered along on extended tippy-claws. I am not sure why my Miss Temple does not when she is doing so, but if her fancy shoes had retractable heels, she could have it both ways, as I do.

Like Miss Temple, I am used to entering and exiting the Circle Ritz by the parking lot. I had never strolled around to the building’s side entrance to view all that wedding chapel traffic. Now I notice the block of shops opposite the wedding chapel entrance. Many are empty, rental signs in their blank glass windows, but others cater to the marriage enterprise. The window of Making Marry showcases wedding cakes and champagne glasses, fresh floral bouquets and “instant engraved” napkins.

“Oh, look,” commands my Miss Temple as we pass another going establishment.

So I do, then nearly bite off my tongue in shock.

“I did not know,” Miss Temple is telling Miss Electra, “a bookshop was so nearby.”

Neither did I.

She goes on. “I would have dashed over for the latest Anne Perry and Elizabeth George novels.”

I would have dashed over to find out when Miss Maeveleen Pearl’s Thrill ‘n’ Quill bookstore relocated here, next to my stomping grounds, with Ingram, that snooty tiger-stripe, still in residence.

The women have stopped to study the window, so I am forced to pause and be IDed by its resident alien.

“Look,” Miss Temple says. “A cat in the window. How charming.”

What a lazy, lay-a-book dude he is! Just because I consulted Ingram on a matter or two in the past and he lies around all day on the likes of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment , he considers himself my intellectual superior. Even now his acid-yellow eyes descend to half-mast as he spots me. Then he yawns and fans his prized six toes against his lower jaw in a most condescending manner.

If he were human, he would wear a bow tie, in plaid, like they put on Scottish terriers, which breed happened to be involved in my last case. Ingram is reclining near a magnifying glass in the display, but I would not put it past him to affect a monocle, should he ever get his paws on one.

“Look at Louie,” Miss Electra chortles. “His tail is bristled up like a tumbleweed.”

She should talk. Her hairdo is puffed up like a plate of pastel-tinted marshmallows.

We resume walking, thank Bast. I give Ingram a quick nod over my shoulder, but he has curled up into ball resembling a very large pair of rolled-up stripped socks. I must admit that his camouflage options are impressive.

“You know,” my Miss Temple is saying, “this is such a cute little shopping area, but it needs some sharp PR to get the word out on it. Then the area would attract new shops.”

“I know,” Miss Electra says as grimly as a bouncy personality like hers ever manages. “I own the whole kit and caboodle, but the Great Recession hit Las Vegas so hard I lost a lot of renters.”