From the three viewing balconies on the second level (that would be Parasol Up) come exclamations and exhortations.
“How’d that cat get in here?”
“Maybe he thinks the parasols are birds.”
“Dumb cat.”
“Oh, the poor thing. He could fall and die!”
“He could fall and kill someone.”
“Someone call Security.”
“I’m filming. Get outa my way.”
“Hey! They said at the desk, pets weren’t allowed at this hotel. I had to leave my Mexican hairless at home.”
“This is going on YouTube.”
And, cruelest cut of all, “Is that a big fat bat, Mommy?”
Despite the rude comments, I paddle and churn and claw my way upward, hearing telltale hisses of fabric in my wake. Steve Wynn will be after my skin. Luckily, one of my type looks much like another on first glance and I doubt there will be any organized witch hunt.
I ignore the, uh, catcalls, and continue to walk on moving parasols, making a last daring leap to the brass top rail on the balcony and bounding off it to the floor.
“Get that cat!” a few someones yell in chorus, but there are so many tourists consulting smartphones or texting as they tour that I am soon lost in a welter of moving legs.
I am an expert at doing a serpentine do-si-do through that kind of crowd. My prey is heading for the exit. That means I only have to sprint through some luxurious displays of exotic plants and flowers. The fancy loam is clogging up my shivs, but dirt is great camouflage for me, and my trail can be detected only by a sinuous shaking among the greenery. I bust through to the south entrance and out in plain sight of Bast, parking valets, and everyone …
… to see the sassy rear of a little red Miata disappearing down the driveway.
What an expedition. What a day.
When I see sassy rears, I expect a lot better success rate than this parasol chase.
Chapter 7
Stunted!
Temple found the rubber soles of her “sensible” ballet flats no match for rubble.
She’d agreed to meet Silas T. on this uncivilized stretch of Paradise Road, but had underestimated the ability of her soles to deal with desert hikes.
Well, walks anyway.
Her tender arches strove for balance on the sharp irregular surface of stone-studded sand. It was like walking over a spike-embellished Hells Angels motorcycle jacket, not that one of those guys would ever do a Sir Walter Raleigh and throw his outer garment down for a lady to walk on.
Beside her, Silas T. Farnum hooked his thumbs in his trouser belt loops and gazed at the desolate sun-baked scene like Alexander the Great contemplating an empire extending from the Arabian and Caspian to the Black and Mediterranean Seas. She guessed that’s why history called that sort “visionaries.”
Farnum’s vision was on the small side, like him. “That’s it, right there.”
Temple squinted despite sunglasses. No gigantic hotels shaded this backlot to Vegas Strip glory. Looking where his stubby forefinger pointed, she saw what seemed like a giant parking garage abandoned after going up a scant ten stories. It was just a skeleton of a building, intersecting girders and concrete making a dull gray brown plaid mostly obscured by giant tarps and plastic sheeting. Past its homely, raw structure, Temple glimpsed gaudy slices of completed Vegas Strip edifices.
“That’s all you’ve got?” she asked Farnum. “I’m sand-blasting my insteps to see another stalled construction project?”
“Not … quite. Watch the top of the building.”
“Building” was an overambitious word for it, but Temple dutifully looked.
A blast of noise right beside her made her jump. That was some phone ringtone he had. Deep drums throbbed.
She glanced sideways, disapproving, only to see him holding a small recording device with a mighty big sound she was starting to recognize.…
Farnum beamed. “The symphonic opening theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey. So glad a person of your generation recognized it. That confirms you’re the one for me.”
“Well, I may not feel confident that I’m the ‘one for you,’ Mr. Farnum.”
“Are you watching the top of the building, Miss Barr?”
“All right, but if I’m watching that space, I’m giving it one more minute flat to impress me.”
He just chuckled.
Had Temple been wearing her usual spike heels, she would have kicked herself for being dragged into this iffy outing with a certified fruit loop. Here she was always telling Matt he was too sympathetic to life’s losers. At least that was his job. Her job was publicizing legitimate enterprises.…
Temple stared as she saw the familiar disk of the spaceship Enterprise rising like the Earth over the moon in the film 2001: A Space Odyssey. No … that iconic Star Trek ship had big thrusters behind the main disk. This thing was all disk as it elevated against an ocean-deep sky of intense blue. This thing was a—
“It’s you.” She turned on Farnum. “It’s you releasing those fake UFOs all over the Strip.”
He shrugged modestly. “Well, my minions anyway. I’ve stationed operators in all the highest towers.”
“Those otherworldly balloons are radio controlled, but I’m not, Mr. Farnum. My PR practice does not go in for cheap tricks. I am outta here.”
She would have spun on her heel, but she didn’t have one right now. The move just ground her sore soles deeper into the loose stones.
“Ow!” she exclaimed, disliking the weakness of her position both physically and mentally. She’d let herself be charmed and taken for a ludicrous ride. Being a hundred pounds and five-foot-zero often got her dismissed as young and silly, not serious, and now she’d earned that designation.
“Wait, Miss Barr. Just look at the building once more, for the space of a nanosecond.”
Temple glared, but he’d produced another small black device from his summery suit jacket pocket.
She glared. At the building, not the man.
And it was gone. No, replaced by a dazzling tower with a glittering, spinning top. Blink. No, all that raw concrete and steel was still there.
Had she eaten something at lunch, something sprinkled over her salad while she’d gazed at the patio gardens? Something in the wine? She hadn’t seen the bottle opened. Careless. She was alone with this strange man and possibly doped in the medical sense of the word.
“What did you see?” Farnum demanded with almost a giggle.
“A magical illusion. A trick. I must admit it was a trick on a David Copperfield scale. A whole building shifting skins, I mean. But, I warn you. I’ve … associated with magicians. You’re using some kind of controlled projection.”
“On this size and scale?”
“Copperfield does it,” she repeated.
“Do I look like him?”
“More like the anti-Copperfield,” she admitted.
“I told you I would take you to where X marks the spot. This is the spot. This is the secret to be revealed in delicious bites by you. Sound bites, film bites, cell phone bites, old-fashioned print bites. Think. What did you see?”
“In a nanosecond? I saw a tower—as if Vegas isn’t filled with them. It could have been the Stratosphere across the Strip. Something revolving, suspended. Again, like the roller coaster around the Stratosphere. I guess the icing on the layer cake could be a giant version of your annoying mini flying saucers.”