“Manx! Are you a prima donna or a narc?”
“A bit of both,” Nose E. growls. “It is a very specialized position.”
“Speaking of ‘position,’ why are you not—?”
Before I can finish my query, our down-low floor-side confab is joined by a third … I guess I should say … twins.
They are a pair of female feet attired in towering platform spikes that would be a nine on the Lady Gaga Scale. My poor Miss Temple is only a six even at her most extreme. Some are not born for glitter rock ’n’ roll.
Anyway, I have not seen the rest of this babe, but the ladder of leather strings from her toes to well above her ankles is severely challenging to my chaw-and-claw instincts. Ah, leather! So tangy, so pierceable, so … dead prey.
She is obviously Nose E.’s partner on this assignment and an updated clone of Miss Savannah Ashleigh, whose day has come and gone.
This new-model starlet bends down to regard Nose E. “Here you are! Cozying up to the house mascot. Naughty, naughty, boy! That is not your job. Oh. Speaking of jobs, if you had to have a bathroom break, you need only have done the blink-and-arf signal and I would have escorted you to the sward out beside the elephants.”
Bathroom break? I mince backwards. Nose E.’s kind is known to lift, aim, and spray on carpeting like this, whereas my breed is civilized enough to dig our own latrines far from the madding crowd. “House mascot”? What does that mean? I am nobody’s mascot.
She bends down again, no doubt attracted by my movement. “Oh, you lovely thing!”
A small improvement.
Her taloned hands feel my neck. Is this a Jacqueline the Ripper? I try to wriggle away but she is quite … firm.
“You are supposed to have a prize charm on your collar, but you seem to have slipped your collar, you naughty girl!”
What a dim bulb. This woman is twelve on the Savannah Ashleigh meter if she has mistaken Midnight Louie for a girl. And a common collar-wearer! Blasphemy, O Bast, hear me and be avenged.
I show my fangs.
“You must be tired,” she coos. “Such a big yawny-wawny.”
I … am … being … forced to discharge a hair ball onto the carpet like a misbehaving dog. Begone, foul temptress!
By now, thankfully, she has swooped up the unfortunate Nose E. to silicone bosom height. “You naughty, naughty boy. It is off to work we go.”
Nose E. is right. I have the better job.
The pair of stilettos stomps off, damaging the carpet with every steel-heeled step. I hear a hiss behind me and turn to find the object of my quest glaring from under the craps table. Her fabled golden orbs are in full phase, the pupils mere black dagger slits.
I swagger over as best I can while dodging shuffling tourist steps. In a moment we share our own island retreat in the chaos.
“Those purse pooches are taking over the neighborhood,” the lithe and lovely Topaz says.
She is the short-hair sort, black-panther sleek, and her larger-than-life image lounges on all the hotel-casino signage. The Oasis is a trendy multicultural mélange of Indo-Asian with a touch of Mediterranean. Topaz is the best thing on the premises.
I dare to greet her with a Nose E. pass (sans slobber) at her Cleopatra-collared neck, dangling its precious topaz jewel. This is a custom necklace, no lowly collar from a pet store. Topaz roams free in the hotel-casino, different charms on her neck netting the customers a nice prize. Tonight she wears the grand prize. No wonder the poor girl is hiding out.
“Why are you here, Louie?”
“Need you ask?”
Her purr would soothe the deaf.
So I warn her. “I am worried about something bad going down at the Oasis. There was a murder once on one of the cove ships and an attack there just last weekend.”
“I am not surprised,” she tells me in an urgent hush, “since my job is literally to ‘get around’ and allow the maximum number of tourists to spot me and thus win the daily prizes. Our security chief is meeting with suspicious strangers in the hotel-casino’s hidden service areas.…”
“As the murderer did when we solved my last case here during the reality TV dancing show…”
“Yes,” she hisses, “but this is no cakewalk. Security preparations for the big Friday-night prize drawing outside are complex, but I fear they are not enough.”
“So you suspect our inside man, Mr. Rafi Nadir?”
“No. However, I clearly see he suspects everybody else.”
“Not good. What can one man do against a mob?”
“You have uttered the word I dare not say. I am getting the distinct whiff of ‘mobster.’”
“Someone needs to stop this.”
“I am so glad to see you here, Louie.” She does the velveteen brush all along my side. “This is my home. I am the logo mascot. A mere canine bit of comb-leavings cannot do the job. I need major muscle.”
I am easy. “Do not worry, Topaz. I can provide that.”
You and what army? I can hear Miss Midnight Louise jeering.
And then I feel Topaz’s bristly pink tongue doing a swirl inside my ear and hear nothing else but purrs.
Chapter 38
Game for Adventure
Pretending to stumble through the familiar dark mazes inside the Neon Nightmare pyramid, Max at last followed Hal Herald through the concealed pressure-sensitive door into a firelit and incandescent-bulb glow.
Polite applause greeted him. There were only three people clapping, but they were all standing. One wore the frowsy flowing garb of a medium, like Electra Lark gone Sunset Boulevard. The other was dressed for excess as a Latina Cher, only half the diva’s age. The third was bar-mate Hal, who had stopped and turned around to face him.
“Lovely, dear people,” Max said with a bow. “Thank you. And I applaud your civilized retreat from the buffoonery that now commandeers the Strip.”
He nodded at the two women in the room, addressing the elder first. “Czarina. Wonderful to meet you in person. And Ramona. Always a pleasure.”
“Wonderful to see you so well.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve been in retreat working on my new act for ages. Speaking of retreats, I missed this magnificent room. It’s like something air-lifted from the Magic Castle in L.A.”
That mention had been intended to land in their midst like a Molotov cocktail. Has-been magicians like this crew would not be invited to perform there, or even be members. Max remembered at that moment that he was one. No wonder his participation in the Synth would be a “catch” for their private club here.
“It’s better than that pretentious place,” Czarina said. “And we own this entire club, not just some fusty old mansion.”
“The building and nightclub are spectacular. All they lack is a magic act.”
Three glances exchanged fast as whip snaps. Max’s apparent ignorance of the Phantom Mage’s performance run had them guessing.
He let them toss that idea around in their devious heads and played the unsuspecting pledge at a fraternity house. “And look at this room. So cozy and yet so charged with secrets, I bet.”
As in his dream, the room had not only that Vegas rarity—a gas-log fireplace—and several expensive and comfy upholstered wing chairs, but also a mantel holding exotic objects Sherlock Holmes would have envied.