“Van wants all us Crystal Phoenix folks up in the Jersey Joe Jackson Ghost Suite for a cocktail calm-down in half an hour or so.”
“Just folks?”
Nicky glanced down at the four cats still swarming at Temple’s ankles.
“My brothers will bemoan the black cat hair on their usual pale and expensive Ermenegildo Zegna suits, but two of these four felines have lived at the Phoenix, and the quartet does seem to be the new Cat Pack in town. So sure, bring on the dander.”
On those not-feline-flattering words, Nicky grabbed his uncle’s arm and they headed for the elevators.
Temple sat, unsatisfied and uneasy.
Yes, it was good Santiago had been unmasked as someone criminal. Even now, he might not be fully unmasked. What if he’d been one of the foreigners in the Synth club room?
Whew. The Synth and its schemes remained a conundrum that could go any of a dozen ways. Whether the Synth’s extravagant mass casino heist scheme was a group delusion or they were being used by terrorists, it was best to keep them out of the limelight until some real evidence existed. The secret underground link between Gangsters and the Crystal Phoenix and Neon Nightmare needed to stay that way for a while too.
Temple was sure the new Cat Pack would be patrolling it for rats of any variety now.
Maybe stopping and arresting Santiago would end all the plotting. The Synth had lost their real leader, Cosimo Sparks, but had he been truly linked to a larger scheme, or playing some game of his own? The silver dollars and rat-snatched bearer bond proved the vault had once been full of filthy lucre. Had it been hoarded IRA money, though? And where had the guns and explosives gone, if so? Had Sparks gotten greedy or scared and decided to move the hoarded IRA money? Had he just found a Jersey Joe Jackson hoard and had he been trying to save the Synth’s Neon Nightmare investment? Or was he a true loyalist to the last-gasp alternate IRA cause, trying to protect its holdings from elements who’d raid it? Had he died rather than give Santiago the location of the moved treasure? Or had he simply known … nothing? And died because of that?
If Temple kept quiet about all these unsettling questions, maybe Max Kinsella’s name would never need to come into it. And he was the last thing she needed on her mind with a marriage to plan.
Besides, Detective Ferraro had been dubious a solid case could be made against Santiago. As long as all these questions remained unanswered, Max’s possible connections to all and any of it remained unknown to anybody but her.
Unfortunately, that put news of his fate in a similar limbo.
Might it be better for all concerned for the situation to stay that way?
Forever.
Beside her, Louie, surrounded by his triplets, meowed plaintively.
“Right,” she told him. “The old-time gangsters knew that sometimes ‘mum’s the word.’ That’s ‘meow’ to you.
“I’ll keep quiet about your street gang connections and we’ll all move forward. And you can be ring bearer again.”
Da Denouement, Dudes
I have been the life of the party before.
I have also been the death of the party, if the party in question deserved it.
All in the line of duty, defending my partner and her interests, whatsoever they may be.
I must say, she is sufficiently grateful. Although my not-inconsiderable contributions to subduing crime in Las Vegas and meting out punishment are often overlooked by officialdom (this was even a problem for Mr. Sherlock Holmes), my Miss Temple never fails to see that I get in on the celebratory party.
Hence, we are all gathered in the Jersey Joe Jackson Ghost Suite at the Crystal Phoenix, where a feast of gourmet appetizers is laid out for the guests of honor: yours truly, Pa Three O’Clock, Ma Barker, and the kit chit, Miss Midnight Louise.
A bunch of Fontanas also happen to be present, and the Glory Hole Gang. Actually, Miss Van von Rhine, being the hostess from whom all good things edible and drinkable flow at this affair, and my roomie are the only females present, the Midnight family femmes excepted.
Apparently, Miss Van von Rhine’s hot blonde foreign friend, Revienne, had a headache after all the Chunnel of Crime ride excitement and is dining quietly in her room. Fine. Leaves more for me and mine.
And what a spread the Glory Hole Gang helped lay out! The overgrown members of our party are nibbling from a long table with some foodstuffs the Cat Pack is being polite about and leaving for demolishment later.
Along a classy plastic runner on the vintage carpet are exquisite Asian dishes tricked out with exquisite tidbits of world cuisine, including anchovies à la orange, shrimp and liver with sautéed giblets, and catfish in a sauce of liver and milk.
Maybe not your menu, but right up my alley.
“The Jersey Joe Jackson Ghost Suite is filled up to the gills,” Miss Temple notes.
I do like her figure … and figures of speech. “Gills.” Aaah. I foresee a leisurely midnight dip at the koi pond.
So does Chef Song, who is presiding over the buffet table and knifes me a sharp warning look. I am reminded that the kitchen is among the most likely places for an “accident” in the house, and that a kitchen tool was the murder weapon in this case.
“Stifle yourself,” Midnight Louise hisses in my ear. “This is the family ‘coming out’ party at the Crystal Phoenix. There shall be no crude fishing expeditions.”
“Look at that cat’s poor eyelid, Nicky,” Miss Van von Rhine croons, bending low to examine Ma Barker’s puss.
I squint my eyes shut. Miss Van von Rhine will get four in the first three epidermal levels from Ma for that liberty.
“I know a great eye surgeon for that,” Miss Van von Rhine goes on, speaking directly to Ma, “if you would consent to drop by my office with Midnight Louise and let me treat you to Gangsters’ new spa for a facial and even maybe a tummy tuck. We will have a plastic surgeon on hand for Botox and laser eye lifts.”
Eek! A tummy tuck is my mark of honor for surviving a premature surgical attempt on my, er, fur balls.
I am amazed to see Ma Barker erupt in a purr and rub on our hostess’s ankles.
Female! Thy name is vanity! What a traitor.
Whilst I am stewing about the turn of events—I seem not to be the object of every eye—Miss Midnight Louise slinks up to me again.
“Good job, mein papa. Who knows what that South American terrorist would have done to our poor human associates had we not been there to staple his treacherous suit lapels to his epidermis through his trachea.”
Females can be so visceral.
I do see how Ma Barker, after her harsh street life, might be ready for the Queen for a Day treatment. As for my esteemed pater, Three O’Clock has drifted to sleep with his whiskers in the catfish pâté. Pater is in the pâté. What a family! I could die.
“Louie,” says my Miss Temple, “it has been a busy day, and I think you and I should head home to the Circle Ritz.”
Sweeter words were never spoken. I cannot wait to hit the solo sack with her and have my … tummy tuck scratched. I am the exclusive sort.
Meanwhile, there are some tiresome matters, always as clear as a crystal phoenix to me, that the humans always have to settle.
“What made you suspect Santiago, Nicky?” my Miss Temple asks.
“Actually, my brilliant wife. Van, do you want to explain?” He turns to her with a bemused smile.
She shrugs charmingly. “It was nothing. Merely my broad knowledge of international finance.”
Macho Mario barks out a laugh at the word “broad,” which evokes cocked shivs in the Midnight family females, not that anyone biped would notice.
“I always say, Nicky,” he predictably says, “if you do not have it, marry it.”
Mr. Nicky Fontana is a modern dude and knows to give credit where credit is due. “And how did your superior knowledge save the whole project and remove the blot of a murder rap from all my nearest and dearest? Dearest.”
“You … flattering phony Santiago, you,” Van answers with a smile. “Temple came to my office and asked me to explain bearer bonds, after we found that one … ‘rat dropping’ in the tunnel.