“It will be: Three O’Clock Louie’s Speakeasy subterranean bar and restaurant at Gangsters, the underworld departure point for Vegas’s coolest high-speed underground mobster run.”
“I am confused here. Is this a seafood restaurant? With lobsters?”
“Naw, Ma. Not lobsters, mobsters that run with gangsters. Kinda like you,” I add slyly. “Gangsters Hotel and Casino is amping up its theme with an expanded mob museum and cosmetic redo.”
“Oh. Are any female mobsters represented in the Gangsters renovation?”
“Ah … I am sure your namesake, Ma Barker, will be represented, and an immortal gun moll or two.”
She seems “mollified” by that and adds, “I must confess that the human Ma Barker did precede me on the planet by a few decades. So. Three O’Clock is now again leading the life of Riley at a new human feeding station, and outta my hair. I know he took off for somewhere.”
“I promise, Ma. Meanwhile, my humans are facing a three-pronged Death Challenge. I need twenty-four-hour, around-the-clock operatives to cover the Crystal Phoenix, Gangsters, and the Neon Nightmare, along with some layabouts in the tunnel that is the immediate scene of the crime. So far.”
“You have Midnight Louise already at the Phoenix.”
“Bast be good,” I mutter, disturbed by having found no trace of Louise here at clowder headquarters. I would not expect to her to be slumming, but where can she have gone from the Neon Nightmare, and where might she now be? “I could use a couple more there. It is a big place.”
Ma cocks her whiskers at a pair of ninja-black shorthairs enjoying a Big Mac for two.
“These are your half brothers. Having Louise look-alikes on the grounds will be good cover.”
“Smart thinking, Ma.”
“I will ‘smart’ your ears if you condescend to me again, boy. I happen to have a lot of ‘midnights’ in my gang, so I can send a couple more to cover the Neon Nightmare. It is a rough place, I hear, and I do not let my people tackle gin joints like that without my personal supervision. Where will the duffer go? You need anyone out at Lake Mead?”
“Not now.”
Her yellow eyes bore into my green ones. At least I got my Black Irish coloring of black hair and green eyes from Dad.
“Might as well assign the Old Man and the Sea to Gangsters, where he belongs now.”
“The sea?” I ask.
“Me. Ma Barker. The mother of all mothers. Mother Ocean. Mother Hell-on-Claws. I gotta itch to see this Gangsters operation. See if it gets the Ma Barker seal of approval.” She slashes a foreclaw in the sand. “See what kind of cushy gigolo job your so-called father has got himself now.”
Three O’Clock and Ma Barker back on the same turf together again, after all these years. It kinda makes even a street-tough dude choke up … with horror at the prospect of the two of them mingling with the ex-prospectors of the Glory Hole Gang.
I fear my esteemed parents will require a referee, not a job assignment.
Bottoming Out
“Where can we meet,” the man’s deep voice on the phone asked Temple, “where nobody we know will be there?”
“‘We’?” Temple asked, still blinking from the recent departure of Rafi Nadir’s long-ago ex-girlfriend.
“Well, not your alley cat and me.”
Temple glanced to see if Midnight Louie had sensed himself being dismissed. Yup. He had no doubt left the premises by the open-bathroom-window route she had reinstated. As the sole resident second-story man now, he was a frequent patron of the exterior high road provided by an old, leaning palm tree trunk.
Her mind snapped back to her caller. “You and me lunching together, alone?”
“Yeah. I thought you’d decided I don’t bite.”
“But … why? Why the secrecy?”
“I’m not Mr. Popularity in some quarters. And the why is … personal. Do I have to send an engraved invitation?”
“No. I’m just … surprised. Ah, are you off work? How about a picnic in Sunset Park today?”
“Picnic? Sunset Park? It’s long after lunchtime.”
“I know, you’re not the picnic type. That’s why it’s an ideal locale. We’ll call it a picnic supper. I can’t imagine anybody we know loitering there after working hours on a weekday. And nobody can eavesdrop on one of those well-spaced picnic tables. How about six P.M. near the parking lot? We can hike to a likely spot from there.”
“Not if you’re wearing the usual spikes.”
“You shouldn’t be surprised at what I can do in high heels by now.”
His laugh sounded relieved. “Naw, I wouldn’t. Ciao.”
Good golly, Miss Molina, thought Temple as she hung up the phone. Good thing Matt’s out of town. Rafi Nadir was still a slightly sinister presence on the Vegas scene. Then she imagined how Molina would react to Temple having a private picnic with her long-ago live-in and giggled all the way to the kitchen to look up man-size-sandwich possibilities.
She arrived at the parking lot ten minutes early, raised the Miata’s top, and locked the car, then sat on the hood with her insulated lunch and tote bags, swinging her feet, realizing she should have asked the make and color of Rafi’s car.
What would he drive? Molina had that awful aging Volvo. About as sexy as support hose. Rafi … let’s see. He’d been on the skids, working temp security details, until he got that security job at the Oasis.
He’d quickly become assistant security chief and had seemed so solid-citizen lately that even Molina had thawed toward him. She’d thawed toward Temple too. Toward everybody but her teen daughter, Mariah. There she was Mama Bear in every sense of the word.
Poor Mariah, having a homicide cop for a mom! Mothers of teenagers had reason to be paranoid to begin with, and the Molina household had been violated by a stalker. At least Mama no longer thought that had been Max. As if he would have to force himself on women and Temple would be going with a guy who did! Molina was right. She was a horrid judge of men.
“Sensible shoes,” a deep voice said behind her, breaking into her mental tirade.
Temple looked over her shoulder to see Rafi standing at the Miata’s other front fender.
“Thanks,” she said, eyeing her broad-based but insanely strappy red wedge sandals. “For me, they are.”
She was about to hop down when Rafi came around and took her hand, quite the gentleman. He was about six feet, swarthy, around forty, wearing the usual black jeans and boots, not cowboy, and a black T. Just a regular guy. He was also carrying a cooler and incarcerated Temple’s insulated bag of sandwiches in it as soon as she was on level ground.
“How’d you get here?” she asked.
“Parked across the road and walked in.”
Meanwhile they were pacing along the hard-packed red clay hiking path toward the concrete picnic tables. Quacking ducks swam near the small artificial lake at the park’s center, when not beak-diving for snacks or waddling after bread-carrying tourists on the grass.
Temple was used to taking long steps to keep pace with Max’s six-foot-four stride. Nor was Matt an ambler. She may have worn high heels for business since college, but she’d never been a tiny-step totterer.
In three minutes she and Rafi were settled at a picnic bench under the concrete sun shelter. He’d brought bags of oven-roasted vegetable chips and Amstel Light beer and spring water to go with Temple’s roast-beef sandwiches on rye. Tasty spread. Temple accepted a beer, and Rafi took the water.
“Molina would have a bird if she could see us now,” Temple remarked after the first few bites of sandwich, “but not a duck.”
“No, she’d have an ostrich,” Rafi agreed, upping the ante. “Whole.”
“Never a flamingo,” Temple added, recalling the Las Vegas visit of concept artist Domingo with his thousands of pink plastic yard-birds.
Enough preliminaries, she thought.
“What’s this secret meeting about?” she asked Rafi. “I thought you and Molina had at least blunted the hatchet. You were a great go-to guy at the Oasis celebrity dance contest. Matt and I sure appreciated that; even ol’ C. R. seemed to.”