“Oh. Yeah, that joint so totally has ‘Cliff Effinger’ written all over it. No wonder it gave me the creeps. The hookers were nice, though.”
“Temple!”
“Sisterly solidarity overcomes all lifestyle biases.” She drained the Daiquiri as the limo oozed to a stop so smooth and slow it felt like slipping into a bath of warm molasses.
She put Matt’s empty glass back in the bar, then laid a penitential hand over his. “I know you’d never go out somewhere scuzzy alone at night without telling me, Matt. Not now. Not now that Kathleen’s not around to blackmail you into secret rendezvous with her poisonous self. Oh, maybe back in the day when you were hunting Effinger too, but that’s over now.” She tried a smile.
Matt looked embarrassed and something else Temple couldn’t name before he swept her into an encompassing hug. “You are much too good for me, Temple Barr,” he said.
“Not really, but I’m working on it.” She grinned. “I’m sorry I left you out of the loop. I just had a relapse of Nancy Drew-itis and was so curious to see what Electra’s ex was like. She can’t have murdered him, not morally or physically. Anything we can do to help clear up that mess, we should do.”
“Amen.” Matt nodded to the unseen chauffeur and his sibling behind the dark-tinted privacy window. “And those guys up front are just the dudes to help out.”
“So Vanilla—as in Fontana brothers’ ice-cream suits—is the New Black. And…the Fontana brothers are New Max?”
Matt nodded slowly. “Never thought of it that way, but probably.”
“Well, I happen to know that Julio is on Lieutenant Molina’s cell phone speed dial.”
“We might need an inside man at the Circle Ritz,” Matt said, exiting the dim, cavernous cabin for the sizzling sunshine in the building’s parking lot outside.
Temple blinked as she was caught between the cool dark inside the limo and glaring daylight. The wink of Louie’s single eye gleamed like an emerald ear stud on the inky-black floor carpeting. Apparently, he was riding shotgun for the Fontanas now.
23
Just Hanging Around
As the saying goes, “A cat may look at a queen”.
I get a bit confused by that. A pedigreed lady-cat who is breeding stock is called “a queen”. And then there are England’s Elizabeth the First and Elizabeth the Second, queens of England. And though one was and one was not breeding stock, they are called queens too.
I mention this to Miss Midnight Louise when I drop by the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino to look her up.
I had slipped back into the Gangsters limo when we passengers were unloaded at the Circle Ritz. The lovebirds were distracted by “discussing” Miss Temple’s Unsanctioned Midnight Adventure. When I followed Ernesto into the driver’s compartment, he and Julio just shrugged at my presence. They know me well from my Crystal Phoenix days of old and have learned to accept that my druthers are the equal of theirs.
“We would not want to continue in the middle of that lovers’ spat either, Louie,” Julio said, chuckling.
And there I am back on my chauffeured way to the Crystal Phoenix and Miss Midnight Louise, as planned. I was unofficial house detective there before she showed up—from who-knows-what no-name littering and dismal alley—so I have no trouble locating her office in the lavish indoor flowering greenery surrounding the Crystal Court eatery.
I am thankful Louise scorned my old outdoor stand beside the hotel pool’s canna lily and koi pond for office use. I can visit it to commune with my old pals, the koi, and see if they require any services, like population control, I might be happy to provide.
“What,” Miss Midnight Louise inquires, “has bestirred you to make the long hike from the Circle Ritz to here?”
“Hike, hah! I was chauffeured here, but I am seeking a companion for a long hike back to the Circle Ritz.”
“You are as out of luck as any empty-pocket gambler, Daddy-o. Why should I wear out pad leather on your impulsive say-so. An elderly screen queen traveling with a pair of afghan hounds has just checked in, and I must ensure her high-strung canines do not disturb the other guests.”
This is when I bring up the queen/queen conundrum.
“Well, that is off-topic to both our jobs. The definitions of ‘queen’ have nothing to do with our firm, Midnight Investigations, Inc.”
“I beg to differ. I am keeping in mind that whereas crime scene tape prevents all curious humans from crossing invisible thresholds, we as a species have a particular free pass.”
“I have responsibilities. I cannot go gadding about just because you have found some Crime Scene tape to violate.”
“Ah, well. I suppose I will have to clear Miss Electra Lark of murder by myself. I work better alone anyway.”
I have already turned away, and would have been out of hearing range, except that I have spotted a bit of Shrimp Diablo a guest has dropped on the floor. Such culinary carelessness is not tolerated at the Crystal Phoenix, and would not be allowed to lie undealt with for a second during my administration.
While I am tsking over this sad state of affairs, Louise catches up to me, snags the tidbit with one front shiv and pops it into her mouth. “What do you mean ‘clear’ Miss Electra. I was not aware that she was cloudy.”
“What? I cannot understand you when you talk with your mouth full. And Miss Electra is indeed under a cloud, a cloud of suspicion. Of murder.”
“Ridiculous,” she comments. I am not sure to what precisely she is referring. Usually it is me. “Of course we must observe the crime scene, but we need not walk. I just saw a Fontana brother passing… There is sure to be another around.”
She bounds off, expertly threading through milling tourist feet and ducking behind hotel floral displays and luggage carts until we near the main entrance. There we slip out on a trolley, hidden behind piles of leather-scented luggage ripe for a thorough and joint shiv sharpening. I even leave my initials on one. Customizing indicates the finest brands.
We go public at the curb, where Miss Louise blatantly sits at the valet’s desk, curling her long black train around her dainty front feet. Normally, I prefer to come and go undercover, but now am forced to join her. Luckily, people are concentrating on wrestling tips and baggage and we go unnoticed.
When a low black sports car pulls up, Louise trots across to the closed passenger door. “Come, Louie,” she calls me (like a dog). I follow with a feline slink in time to see a Fontana brother unpretzel his long, pale-attired legs and stand. It is the Crystal Phoenix Hotel boss man himself, Mr. Nicky Fontana.
Miss Midnight Louise looks up at him, and blinks her round gold eyes. I back her up with an unblinking green stare.
“What is this?” Mr. Nicky asks.
The driver comes around and turns out to be Mr. Julio Fontana. My Miss Temple seems to have some difficulty telling the ten suave brothers apart, but it is no problem for me and Louise. Every human has a different scent, including traces of recent meals. Umm. Sea bass in a white wine and herbed butter sauce. I could do without the white wine, but it is nice to see adult litter-brothers socialize—whether in Ma Barker’s clowder by the police substation or on two legs along the Strip.
“Louie and Louise,” Julio says. “Seeing them making the scene together would sure get Carmen Molina’s hackles up. Have you had a recent murder at the hotel?” He chuckles.