Mr. Max is still AWOL.
I pace beside the bar, blending beautifully with the black high-gloss floor that reflects the clientele and offers me further cover. Who would notice me when you can eyeball Victoria’s Secret thongs on half the babes in the room?
The noise that passes for music nowadays is louder than a chorus of queens in heat, and the smoke and mirrors and neon of the dance floor is interfering with my night vision.
I decide to slip out the front door for a bit of fresh air while I figure out what to do.
And then whilst I am in the act of successfully slipping and the clamor and commotion inside is fading into a bad dream.. I happen to notice the two muscle men I am ankling behind.
There has been a changing of the guard since I came in, and one of them is now Rafi Nadir, the indomitable Miss Lieutenant Molina’s ex-squeeze and no friend of Mr. Max, although he has a soft spot in my heart for coming to the aid of my Miss Temple recently.
That does not mean that I cut him any slack in the hired hood line.
But I am really perplexed now.
I slip along the building’s foundation and the row of trendy metal and neon cutouts of Las Vegas’s favorite flora, palm trees and cacti.
They are spatters of Technicolor chalk and I am the soft unseen canvas of a velvet painting behind them. Apparently I am not soft and unseen enough, however, for I hear a hissing sound.
I pause, ready to leap left, right, or up. Snakes do not faze me but I cannot stand these timer-operated sprinkler systems they have around here that can drench a guy to his toe-hairs.
Before I can execute a Kitty Kong move I am tapped on the shoulder by a set of delicate feminine shivs. That is to say that they dig in like a hellion with hangnails.
“Say, Pop. Chill out. It is Number One Daughter.”
“No Charlie Chan–speak from you, Miss Louise. And you presume.”
“Of course I do. I am a professional investigator now, non?” She sits down beside me and directs a narrow glance to the guys at the door. “Who is that dude you gave the evil eye to on the way out?”
I guess a partner should know the cast du jour.
“That, my inquisitive sneak, is one Rafi Nadir, aka Raf. He is a shady character around town, but I have it on eyewitness testimony—mine—that he helped my Miss Temple collar a crook who was threatening to close down her windpipe not two nights ago.”
“So he is a bad guy with one gold star to his credit, but only from you and your girl-tortie roommate.”
“Right.”
“Okay, he is not the reason you are dithering around here outside Neon Nightmare. What gives?”
“What gives is why you are dithering around here outside Neon Nightmare. I at least have been inside.”
“This rave and mosh scene is not for me. Hard on the eardrums. Truth is, I came across Mr. Max Kinsella a couple hours ago and decided to tail his Hush Puppies until they cried Uncle.”
“He wears Hush Puppies? Mr. Max?”
“Do not sound so wounded. No, he remains the sartorial fashion plate you know and loathe. His shoes are Bruno Maglis, which, as you know, have served many a celebrity, but they are as silent-soled as plain old sneakers. One whiff of his footwear and I knew he was someone to watch.”
“‘Sartorial,’ Louise! That is a big word for a street kit.”
“Listen, I can sling around anything you can, including vocabulary.”
“Whatever. I have determined that Mr. Max is indeed inside. Somewhere. I also have a dame I wish to tail. I was just wondering how to go in two directions at once, or serially, but perhaps you can solve my dilemma.”
“Of course I can solve your dilemma, and any other cold cases you have hanging around. We are not Midnight, Inc. for nothing. Speaking of vocabulary, that was actually a rather clever idea of yours, Pop.”
“Thank you, Louise. Now—”
I gaze aghast at the open door to Neon Nightmare.
She is limned against the interior neon like a silhouette of evil incarnate. Miss Kitty O’Connor.
“Something got your tongue, and eyeballs? Ah.” Miss Louise perks up her ears and the hair on her hackles. “Some hussy, I see.”
“If you see her, can you tail her?”
“Like her thong bikini.”
“She will have transportation.”
“So do I.” Louise snaps out her shivs. I hear them bite sandy Las Vegas dirt.
“Go, girl,” I order in the day’s vernacular.
I hardly see her blend into the dark, but one of my problems is now Miss Kitty O’Connor’s problem. She has set all my human friends atremble, but I send her my heartfelt sympathy. Miss Midnight Louise is one fierce tiger to have on your tail, and I ought to know.
All right. I decide on a stroll around the foundation of Neon Nightmare. Above me the mare in question ripples with a blaze of neon … magenta, indigo blue, yellow, red, and purple.
I detect no obvious exits and end up near the main entrance again … just in time to see the figure reminiscent of the Cloaked Conjuror appear in the parking lot with a swirl of cape and a glimpse of white-face.
That hokey Phantom of the Opera getup has never fooled Midnight Louie. I hotfoot it along behind Mr. Max’s striding feet. Rats! Miss Louise is correct. He wears sound-softening shoes with the exquisite redolence only found in Italian leather goods. From Caesar’s sandals to Gucci loafers. So far has Rome fallen. And its vaunted arches.
As I expect, we soon pussyfoot up to a black car parked on a side street.
As Mr. Max swirls aside his theatrical black cloak to enter the driver’s side, I dive into the entrance to the backseat. Thank heaven for black car interiors.
Instantly the engine throbs slightly under my feet. I extendmy shivs into carpeting as I prepare for takeoff. I do not expect Mr. Max to linger.
He does not disappoint me. I am hurled forward, then back as the car accelerates smartly, before settling down to cruising speed.
So black is the night, and the car, that I risk peering over the backseat.
Mr. Max is pulling off the mask and loosening his hair with his fingers. He has no more idea that I am hitching a ride on his wagon than that his most bitter enemy had been indulging in Martian-green martinis at the Neon Nightmare bar.
I wonder where he was during that interlude. Wherever it was, he is now in a more distracted mood than I have ever seen him indulge before.
Streetlights cast bright prison bars over our moving vehicle. He drives fast, smooth and sure. I find a thrill catching in my throat, for I am certain that this time I will know what my Miss Temple knows and has not seen fit to share with me: where the Mystifying Max goes to ground. His home turf. The hideaway that even Lieutenant Molina has not been able to find.
What a night!
I am so jubilant I brace my shivs on the backseat’s upright portions to glimpse the streetlights shining above.
I see one particular light pierce the rear window and then slide across the car’s ceiling like a luminous serpent.
I frown. Streetlights flash by at a downward angle.
This was an upward light.
Risking discovery, I ratchet up the backseat upholstery until my ear-flattened head can see out the rear window.
The moon has fallen from the sky, or maybe the horse from Neon Nightmare is on our trail.
A single wild bright eye follows the car.
The Neon Nightmare is a cyclops?
I blink as the expanding ball of light rakes my delicate irises, turning my pupils into spikes.
We are being tailed by a one-eyed monster.
Luckily, considering my kind and my color, I am not superstitious.
I immediately realize our peril.
It is a motorcycle that follows us, and Mr. Max is obviously thinking of other things. In fact, I hear him chuckle to himself. He is daydreaming when a nightmare is on our tail. Tails!
I am along for the ride, after all.
The lone light winks shut.
I cannot see it, but I hear the faint vibration of a growling motor gaining on us.