"Maybe in the sixties and seventies Las Vegas was still hungry enough, or greedy enough to court good--or even better, bad-- publicity. Now Las Vegas doesn't even bother. Anything lavish and large that the mind of humankind can produce, Las Vegas can reproduce for three times the money in one-thousandth the time. This is not a real city, it's an open-air carnival, and it doesn't need flamingos, or Domingos. But I can ask, and maybe they'll say yes."
Domingo had listened, hands in pants pockets, head lowered like a bull's.
"This is half my point. Everything is owned. Every artwork must be begged for. There is so much empty land in the United States, near Las Vegas, but it is all owned. The artist is owned. If they say 'no,' they become a part of my art."
"And if they'yes'?"
"They become a part of my art." Domingo smiled for the first time. "How will a small little thing like you broach all these lords of Las Vegas and get anything?"
"I'll do my best. And you do have a pretty impressive reputation."
This time Domingo shrugged, both his shoulders rising like snowcapped mountains moved by a volcanic emotion.
"When you get to the top of the hierarchy, arrange for an appointment with me. I speak best for myself, but have no time to hack my way up the mountain."
Temple nodded. She had expected no more, nor no less.
"Verina will get you all that you need. Our office is off the Strip."
He waved them both away, going to the window to gaze down on the real Las Vegas in miniature, the cluster of grandiose buildings laid out like Tinkertoys on a barren stretch of desert ringed by mountains. For all its multimillion annual visitors and staggering construction projects--Temple wouldn't be surprised to see an Ark Hotel go up with two of every animal on earth except the gambling, overpopulating human kind--for all its hubris, Las Vegas was still a sand-castle city, a puny architectural pretension huddled in the center of nature's most life-hostile, wide-open vista; cheek by cheeky jowl with wind-sculpted scarlet stones of the Valley of Fire, which in the ruddy gore of a desert sunset outshone all the neon that Hoover Dam could electrify. It was an oversize dollhouse, maybe, for boys instead of girls. Marzipan and mirrored glass, air-conditioning and laser-lights, stuffed toys and cotton candy.
Step right up, folks. You pays your money and you takes your chance.
Even Domingo.
Chapter 7
Call Again. . .
"I've been thinking about you," Matt told his most devoted caller.
"Oh?" The Voice sounded intrigued, even pleased. Matt smiled grimly. Manipulating back was too satisfying. Man was the only animal that could become his own tormentor.
"You've only been calling me for the last eight months."
"You counted. I'm flattered."
"No, I checked the logbook."
"Logbook?" A tinge of panic.
"As a nonprofit agency, we have to account for ourselves." This was an off-white lie; in reality, the book logged crank callers. But Matt wanted his caller to see the larger network beyond the lone counselor on the phone. He got quite a reaction.
"More than anything, you have to remain private. Discreet. Isn't confidentiality what you promise, what you sell, what you get paid for?"
"Is that how you think of us, as hookers? As an intimate service you pay for?"
"Why not? I've done it all my life. Paid for service. Nobody ever does anything for free, one way or another."
"That's a cynic's self-justification."
"What's this 'we' all of a sudden, anyway? I thought it was just you and me. You trying to hide behind an organization, Brother John?"
"Isn't everybody nowadays?"
"Not me. I stand alone."
"Except on the phone."
"Not fair! We're supposed to be talking about me, not about what you think of me."
"I don't think anything of you. I'm an organization man, remember?"
"I don't care who you are. That's the beauty of this arrangement, isn't it? We don't have to know each other. We don't have to like each other. But you have to answer the phone."
"You don't have to call."
A pause.
"There's where you're wrong. I do."
"Is it another addiction, then?"
"Life is an addiction, Brother John. You ever think of it that way? That if we're not addicted to staying alive, we die?"
"You say you're not suicidal--"
"It's a phone! You say a lot of things on the phone . . . that you're interested in somebody's deal, or body. That you won't be late for an appointment you have no intention of keeping. That you wish somebody a 'Happy Birthday' or a good life. None of it's necessarily real."
"I'm not a debating society. I'm here to help. It seems to me the only help you need is a twenty-four-hour on-line baby-sitter."
"What is this, tough love? You used to just listen. I could hear you being nonjudgmental.
Then, a call or two back, it changed. Why?"
"At least you're thinking about somebody besides yourself."
"Is that it? I'm too self-centered? Why shouldn't I be? I'm famous for it. That's why I liked talking to you. Usually I have to give people a certain amount of time to spout off about themselves, but you . . . you would just listen. You could be a robot for all I know."
"Is that your ideal partner for a heart-to-heart, a robot?"
"You don't get it. That's not an insult. That means you're good at what you do. You don't let you get in the way. Talking to you is like talking to myself, and then I see things ..."
"Insight is important, but--"
"No, you listen, listen to me about what you should do, for a change. Don't judge. You never know what circumstances made me the self-involved pig I am. You never know how much I might hate this wonderful famous self of mine, or how many people around me might hate it too. You never know when my talking to you might be a matter of life or death. Do you? Do you, Brother John?"
What could he say? Nothing. Matt felt his shoulders sag.
"Now, listen..."
Chapter 8
Breaking the Carrier Barrier
"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage," but a cat carrier makes a pretty good chastity belt. Like the Cavalier poet-dude, Richard Lovelace, I speak from painful experience.
And I am not feeling very cavalier right now. There we are, the Divine Yvette and me, together on a glamorous assignment; workmates, co-stars. There are our separate carriers, into which we are placed for hours on end without even an opportunity for a little sniff and whisker-tickle.
And there is Maurice, the Yummy Tum-tum-tummy spokescat who was originally supposed to have had my part (that of love struck swain) in the new A La Cat commercials. He should be back in some Sherman Oaks compound chatting it up with the other trained animals. But, no, he is along for the ride. On the scene of the crime, so to speak. In the wings. I wish those wings were the real thing and on his back.
For this is a very dangerous dude. I have it on good authority (albeit incorporeal) that Maurice Two is an imposter, like I told my old man. Poor Maurice One!
Imagine drowning in Yummy Tum-tum-tummy! What irony. All those dead fish doing you in.
Poetic justice, I suppose, but I have no intention of falling into a carp pond stocked with piranha.
And when Maurice Two is around, any set piece or prop is a potential murder weapon.
I am seeing potential for disaster everywhere I look.
Take the human chorus line that is supposed to back up Yvette and me when we finally get our few, brief moments on the stage. All those size nine and ten shoes (and I am talking just the girl hoofers here; the boys probably wear elevens and twe lves), all those tap shoes, armed with steel plates. Say I slipped (or was pushed) coming down the long flight of stairs on which I make my dramatic entrance.