Matt turned back to her. "Plus a line of limos two blocks long."
"Right. Gangster's makes up for having only a small hotel with a gimmick: importing tourists from other hotels by the load. Call 'em and they'll pick you up anywhere in Las Vegas. First-class and free. Want that vintage martini now? Might be here for a while before all the other uneasy riders disembark."
Matt stretched out a hand while Temple passed the alcoholic ammunition, and talked.
"I peeked into Hush Money when I was there earlier this evening picking up poor Louie. It's really quiet. Old-fashioned telephones at each table and booth; no one speaking louder than a whisper. The waitstaff even wear Hush Puppies. Should be ideal for a civilized discussion."
"And they take us home?"
"Round-trip service . . . unless you end up in cement overshoes in Lake Mead."
Matt shook his head. "I can taste bitters in this drink, that's what is different."
"How does an ex-priest like you know about bitters?"
"Comes with the territory."
Chapter 4
Father Confessor
As soon as I am sprung from my cage, I head for the hills.
When we are talking Miss Temple Barr's condominium, we are talking about up hill and over dale in interior terms. In other words, I dash for the spare bathroom, do the two-step up the commode and then hop high onto the narrow sill. Finally, I am out the ajar window and down to the narrow triangle of patio that is the only thing between me and a twenty-foot splat on the ground-level concrete.
Where is a guy to go when he seeks an upstanding and sympathetic ear?
I examine my options. There is Sassafras, but she might be in stir.
She is always being jailed for streetwalking, until she is bailed out by a sympathetic human.
(Sassafras is a mighty engaging bit of pussycat.)
Then she struts away from her new home as fast as her spike-heeled nails can take her.
Unreformed, that is Sassafras's M.O. And that is why there is no chance I will find a sympathetic ginger ear there; she is too hard to locate in a pinch, being that she is so often pinched.
I consider Ingram. Are you kidding? He is so lost in the theoretical world of books that he would not know what to do with a real-life dilemma if it walked up and snapped him in the bow-tie collar, which it often does when I come around seeking information for a case.
But now I am the case in question.
I pace the twilight streets, wondering where a guy who solves everyone else's problems can go when he has one of his own. Who listens to the listener? And I am a prime-time listener, who nods off on cue, gives o ut frequent, profound "hmmmms" and flexes all my thinking toes during the long, boring recitals of woes both human and feline.
Now I need somebody to sit still and lend an ear. Miss Temple is not adequate for this service at the moment; she has problems enough of her own.
For an instant the name "Midnight Louise" flashes through my fevered brain. But I am dreaming. My hard-as-nails offspring is hardly one to sympathize with her papa's delicate condition.
I wander the familiar streets, lost in thought if not in direction. I might cadge some human sympathy at the Crystal Phoenix. Miss Van von Rhine and Mr. Nicky Fontana--not to mention the entire Brothers Fontana--might give me a friendly pat on the back, but I need more direct attention.
I walk in circles, until I end up at the Gray Line bus terminal.
Terminal. That is the condition of my search.
And then I see a bus interior glowing warm in the dusk and read the destination emblazoned on the narrow window above the windshield: TEMPLE BAR.
If Miss Temple Barr is too distracted to provide me the proper advice and comfort, a closer relation lies at the end of a long, dark bus ride.
I hop aboard. (I have spent a long time cultivating the Gray Line bus drivers and must say I have them well-trained by now; a private operative can do no better for cheap, reliable transportation in a hurry than his own bus company.)
"This is our company mascot," the driver announces over the intercom. "We are thinking of changing our name to Black Line, he has been hopping aboard so regularly. We think he is a stray with a wandering paw. We call him 'Blackie.'"
I stroll the aisles, accepting coos from middle-aged ladies, a bit of mauling from preteen kids and not much eye contact from adult men. Adult men do not usually have much time for those of my ilk. No doubt they are aware of my awesome reputation with the ladies; jealousy is such a pathetic fault. Only the weak know envy.
Well, we are all soon whisked away on the air-cushion ride of a well air conditioned tour bus, not that we need much air-conditioning at this time of year.
Still, the bus is pretty full, which makes me happy for the operators of the main attraction at Temple Bar, the Glory Hole Gang. With such a colorful name, I am flattered that they would name their restaurant after me, in a sense: "Three O'clock Louie's." Yes, I am Midnight Louie, but obviously Three O'clock is kin of mine. My father, to be precise. He is a salty old dog, for a feline, and spent his retirement years in the Pacific Northwest on a salmon trawler until he was pensioned out to Lake Mead. I imagine that a lake, even a large, artificial lake like this one, is quite a come down for one used to the open ocean, the icy, fish-choked waters of the Pacific.
Speaking of icy, fish-choked waters, I can certainly use a carp cocktail at the moment, and Temple Bar landing on Lake Mead teems with them. Carp are quite an attraction for the tourists, who call them "koi" and want to feed them. And why should they not? The carp will be all the more fatter for my own delectation. Of course my own delectation must await my own satisfaction, and that is the rub. I am so distressed by my bizarre personal quandary that I can hardly extend a talon for the hunt.
But not to worry. My esteemed sire, Three O'Clock, is unofficial maitre d' at his namesake restaurant, and I am sure he can come up with a tidbit or two for an offspring in extremis.
When the bus pulls into the lot, the place looks brighter than a traveling carnival. I see lights on the water. So the Glory Hole Gang's dream of a gambling showboat that straddles the state line which runs through the lake hereabouts has come true. I know they have bigger plans for the site than an eatery and a floating casino, and am diverted enough from my own problems to wonder what is cooking (besides fish fillet).
I hop off the bus first to avoid being trampled in the general exodus. (Being as I am the Sublime Color, black, I am often in complete agreement with the turf, be it asphalt or the black-rubber matting of a bus. So it behooves me to be fleet of foot and out from under nearby feet.) We now must pass over an arched footbridge (very Oriental and sheik), below which carp lips are positively panting for treats. I gaze down, flexing my fingers and toes. I would have a shiv surprise for them, had I not better things to do, places to go and dudes to see.
I notice Wild Blue Pike, Encyclopedia Brown and other Glory Hole Gang guys on the gangplank, welcoming the landlubbers aboard this restaurant on a peninsula. I would say hello, but am too distracted to put up a brave front.
So I duck under the wooden deck that surrounds the restaurant and go hunting my old man.
I have to admit the old man has sunk to lower levels in his retirement. No more fresh game for him. He prefers it pre-caught, precooked and delivered to his door. With the alfresco tables surrounding the indoor restaurant, enough bounty falls through the deck-boards to feed a fleet of retired salmon fishermen.
****************
I find Three O'clock, attired in a lobster bib, reclining like a Roman emperor under a party of twelve, half of whom are having seafood.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself," I greet him, "lapping up fish flakes as if they were rain?"