The stools around the perimeter of Pepe’s piano bar were crowded. On a felt doily was a big brandy snifter stuffed with singles, near his elbow a glass of white wine.
Nicky, who had been joined by another bartender, said, “Here comes that fucking ginger ale again.” He dropped ice into a glass, swirled it, squirted in ginger ale. “On the cuff.”
“Thanks.”
Dunc went over to the piano bar. Pepe mopped his face, shook his head. “It gets worse later, when all the divorcées who struck out for the night show up. How did it go with Nitro Ned?”
“God, Pepe, I can’t believe it, he’s giving me a job out at the ranch, helping him train for the fight.”
“Not so dumb at that,” Pepe said. “Terlazzo’s fast — and ten years younger. Maybe Ned needs you to push him a bit.”
Ned Davenport shoved back from the table to stretch his long, thick, almost apelike arms over his head. He intertwined his fingers, pulled to make something pop in his upper back.
“Time for me to get my beauty sleep.”
Artis started putting her chips into her purse.
“No,” snapped Gimpy Ernest. “In bed, alone, goddammit. We don’t need any complications right now. And I don’t like you hiring that guy.”
“Lucius says he’s a good kid, smart.”
“Okay, but Artis stays in town for one goddamn night. I’ll be along after Carny and me discuss some business.”
Ned’s deep-set eyes got hot under heavy brows. Any hint of something that might have seemed benign had left his face.
“Not business about Terlazzo.”
“Of course about Terlazzo,” said Carny. “I’m guaranteeing the gate, for Chrissake, we’d better talk about the fight.”
“Just so you know I fight my own fight.” Ned turned to Artis, ignoring Gimpy. “I’ll be up front, baby.”
Loud voices, the clink of chips and whir of slots came through the door when he opened it, were cut off as it swung shut. Carny Largo sighed as he watched torn cigarette smoke eddy together again behind Ned Davenport’s broad departing back.
“If that man had a brain, even a piece of a brain, he’d be fighting Marciano in ten weeks instead of Terlazzo in two.”
“Poor Ned,” said Artis. “Over the hill without a brain — just like the scarecrow.” Contempt lit her face. “Don’t you believe it — and he’s still got that dynamite right hand.”
“So go keep your punchy prince happy,” sneered Carny.
She crossed the room with long savage strides, her hip motion holding Rafe spellbound. Gimpy started wheedling again.
“Carny, not tonight, the reporters are like vultures—”
“He’s only sparring with Jantzen tomorrow, for Chrissake.” Carny leaned across the table, his face suddenly set. “I’ve kept Terlazzo under wraps for two years, but eventually he’s going to need an old-timer like Ned under his belt.”
“I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”
Carny leaned back, bit the end from a lean cigar.
“Whatever happens with Terlazzo, a few more bouts and Ned’s hearing bells. Now, we have some serious things to talk over.”
Chapter Eleven
A woman with a sad eroded face and a good figure and an expensive dress asked for “Mood Indigo.” Pepe sang it in a bluesy voice, segued into “Stardust,” finished with “Willow Weep for Me.” The woman cried while he played, stuffed a five-dollar bill into his brandy glass, and fled.
“Oldies but goodies,” said Dunc.
“Like the lady.”
Then he started a seemingly pointless story about a gambler at the Desert Inn, which had opened three years before, the fifth major hotel since 1941 on the extension of South Las Vegas Boulevard now known as the Strip.
“There’s a big Joshua tree out in front of it — Vegas was originally settled by Mormons and they gave Joshuas that name because all those angular branches looked like outstretched arms beckoning to them from the wilderness.”
“And they went forth and they found Vegas,” grinned Dunc.
“And lost it just as quick.” Seemingly of its own volition, his left hand started a Fats Waller walking bass as he managed a small shrug. “Mormons and gambling.” He tilted his head in the direction of a tall lean player who’d gotten up from his table to stretch. He said, “That’s him there — he once held the dice at the Desert Inn casino for twenty-eight straight passes, but he was a careful bettor and walked away with just $750.”
“Sounds pretty good to me,” said Dunc.
“Pretty good? It was a million-to-one chance! If he’d let his winnings ride he would have had $289,406,976. Artis in there at the poker game would never miss her big chance by being timid like that.”
“What is Artis short for?” asked Dunc.
“Heck, Dunc, who knows? She never says.”
“Why do they call Gimpy Ernest Gimpy?”
“He limps — you don’t notice it until he stands up. Says he got it in the ring, but I doubt he ever was a fighter.”
“And Carny? He looks like a house man, but he was betting on the hands along with everyone else.”
“You have a good eye — he owns the place.”
“Then he’s your boss.”
His left hand kept on walking. “For my sins.”
“Okay. The little guy. Rafe.”
“Rafaele Raffetto. Little, yeah — but watch out.” Pepe’s right hand made eerie arpeggios far up in the treble keys. “Rumor has it that he’s a dangerous little bastard if Carny points him in your direction.”
Dangerous, that little rat-faced guy? Well, maybe. Pepe was going on as his fingers roamed the keys.
“Listen, Dunc, a record producer might come out from L.A. in a week, ten days to talk about cutting a demo. That happens, I’m gone like a shot.”
“Jesus,” said Dunc. “That’s great! Good luck with it!”
“Don’t tell anybody — especially Carny.”
Big, grinning Nitro Ned punched Dunc playfully on the shoulder. Dunc’s whole upper arm went dead. Ned exclaimed, “You can always tell a good piano man by his left hand.”
Doing arpeggios with his left hand, Pepe said, “And you can always tell a champion by his right,” and sang:
The other people around the piano recognized Davenport and started applauding. “Place is full of glad-handers,” he said, as if secretly pleased by the recognition.
Artis appeared. Ned put an arm around the tall woman’s shoulders. “What kept you, babe?”
“I had to cash in my winnings.”
“Way you watch your money, you’re gonna end up rich.”
“That’s the idea, big boy.”
“Come on, you suckers, come to Vegas and lose your shirts!” Artis paused outside the Gladiator as she tried to consider Las Vegas through Dunc’s eyes. She gave a little self-conscious laugh, added in softer tones, “Glitter Gulch didn’t glitter until we got neon a couple of years ago. Now Second and Fremont’s the brightest-lit corner in America west of Times Square.”
Dunc believed her. Flashing sequential bulbs spelled out CASINO, CAFE, LAS VEGAS, GAMBLING, MONTE CARLO CLUB, and OVERLAND HOTEL in man-high letters.
The three of them turned east; Fremont dead-ended in a little egg-shaped city park beyond which was the Art Deco train station. Opaque glass-cube windows and wide doors opening on a platform for the moment devoid of even redcap porters. But at 2:00 A.M. the Union Pacific’s City of Los Angeles would steam in with its trainload of hopes.