“I explained that they had been a convenient way to do international transactions and were available for up to ten thousand dollars apiece. The investment was poor because they often did not earn interest, and their usage is being phased out as we speak.”
Nicky frowns. “We knew any valuables found in a Jersey Joe Jackson stash would be … out of date.”
“Yes. Of course, dear.”
Uh-oh. That is the prelude to a forthcoming contradiction.
“However,” Miss Van von Rhine goes on in that sweet, reasonable, feminine way that always stiffens my hackles into boar bristles, “bearer bonds are worth the loss of interest to international illegal parties who need ready cash. In fact, despite the colorful update of Gangsters attractions, we Americans have been pikers in the ‘gangster’ stakes since Prohibition was reversed, at least north of the border, as Las Vegas is.”
“Agreed, my dear niece-in-law,” Macho Mario rumbles from his kingpin seat on the chartreuse satin chair, which is usually my private throne.
I guess I will submit to age before beauty. This time.
“Anyway,” Miss Vanilla goes on in her tooth-decaying way, “bearer bonds have remained popular in South America, which made me wonder why a North American rat was playing Foosball with one. Upon further studying of the document in question, I saw that it was dated.”
“It was in Jersey Joe’s locker, albeit it was otherwise empty,” Eightball O’Rourke puts in, while chowing down on a caviar cracker. “He has been gone since the seventies.”
Ouch! Not true, especially here in the Ghost Suite. And maybe now!
The hairs on my backbone are standing up and singing “Clementine.” And I cannot even carry a tune, much less wear a size-nine boot or carry a bearer bond. I do so hate to see humans of my gender rushing toward their doom, unless it is Santiago.
“The bearer bond was dated nineteen ninety-seven,” Miss Van puts in, as if we should all get it now.
“So it is a teenager,” Macho Mario disparages. “It is still worth the ten thou. That is a pretty good baccarat-room tip in these times.”
Are mine the only vibrissae that are reaching for the ceiling in this room? Can Macho Mario be that behind the times?
Yes.
Miss Temple takes up the theme. “What was a major world event in nineteen ninety-eight, one that was actually positive?”
There is a long, long silence. Nobody remembers much by years, only by personal ups and downs.
“Uh …” comes a lone, cautious response from a Fontana brother. Ralph, the second youngest to Nicky. “… Windows Ninety-Eight?”
“Good answer!” Miss Van responds. “But not relevant.”
Frankly, the last thing on the Fontana brothers’ minds is being relevant, and the whole clan heaves a sigh of relief.
“And,” Miss Temple adds, “on the pesky international front, the peace accord in Ireland.”
“What should peace have to do with this mess here today?” Macho Mario asks.
“After what Temple told me she learned at the Neon Nightmare, a lot,” Miss Van von Rhine says. “I will let her take up the narrative.”
“I do not want a ‘narrative,’ ” Macho Mario says. “I want an answer to who killed who, so long as it is not a relative, and why.”
“Commendable,” Miss Van says dryly. “I will let Temple continue with what she risked life and limb to learn at the Neon Nightmare.”
Macho Mario frowns. “Her knees did seem to be dry and nubbly today.”
My Miss Temple rolls her eyes. “It is not what happened in nineteen ninety-eight, it is how what happened in the Irish peace process that year that made the U.S.’s nine/eleven attack so earthshaking over there. I did some research and—”
“—And I hope this is not another boring TV news thing,” Macho Mario says.
“I will cut to the chase,” Miss Temple says. “On record, there is only one ‘beneficiary’ of nine/eleven, as admitted by the Dean of Saint Anne’s Anglican Cathedral in Belfast. He cited the ‘worldwide revulsion against terror it sparked.’ As American dollars to support the IRA cause vanished almost overnight, the dean concluded for the Protestant side that ‘We here in Ireland are perhaps the only beneficiaries of nine/eleven.’ ”
“What do the Irish have to do with it?” Macho Maria demands. “Gloomy northern folk with a jones for justice and music and alcohol hard and soft, like their heads.”
“Yet they did what almost no one in the world has managed in recent decades, Uncle Mario,” Nicky says. “They made peace.”
“And because of that wonderful step forward for humanity,” Temple says, “the core of this whole puzzle of murder and magic was a war chest.”
I yawn and make my way to the buffet. I see that this is going to be a talky party, and I prefer rebuilding my strength to social chitchatting. I have a lot to face in the future: having both Three O’Clock and Miss Midnight Louise hounding me when I visit the Crystal Phoenix and Gangsters and the additional stress of Ma Barker crowding me near the Circle Ritz.
And having someone sleeping in my bed again, when Mr. Matt comes back.
I am starting to feel very crowded by family on all fronts. Maybe I should just move! I could run away and join the Big Cats and the evil Hyacinth at the circus, or more realistically, the Fontana brothers at Gangsters. Nobody crowds them.
Do not worry for one minute about Midnight Louie not landing on his feet in some lavish and satisfactorily lethal new situation. Yes, sir, I have more options than a trader in pig futures.
Closing Call
“Back to the hole-in-the-wall pub with the alternative IRA chappies?” Max asked, after Gandolph had thoughtfully shut his cell phone.
Max was reclining against one of the made-up beds’ headboard, his stockinged feet and legs stretched out on the goose-down coverlet.
They were digesting an informal but fine dinner they’d had at a restored restaurant on the square: pepper steak with béarnaise sauce for Max, and pan-fried monkfish with curry-mango sauce for Garry. The after-dinner coffee had been dark and rich, and the Bailey’s Irish Cream liqueur that accompanied it absolute heaven: Irish whiskey and cream that would draw any cat in the world away from looking at a queen.
“Back to the alternative IRA,” Gandolph confirmed, “if you can move your lazy after-dinner Irish-American frame.”
“Barely,” Max admitted. “You know, that’s one ‘memory’ that came to me after the coma: after-dinner coffee with you when I was young and green and listened to everything you said as gospel.”
“Good. The way to a man’s memory is through his stomach, then.” Garry stood, slapping one of Max’s feet. “Come on; Liam sounded excited. I think the scent of money has recharged his desire to deal. We can take the Mondeo.”
“And drive down that rat hole of unrestored slum streets?” Max asked, rising.
Gandolph fetched their black trench coats, bought on the square, from the narrow hotel wardrobe. The night often misted. “Yes. My GPS has the coordinates, and I checked the computer maps for routes. That’ll spare your legs, at least.”
“Modern spy ware,” Max mocked. “I’ve been retired too long.”
“Not long enough,” Gandolph said. “We’re in this only to name and disarm your would-be murderers. I don’t want you back in the counterterrorism game. It’s totally new, more brutal, and not happening in our bailiwick anymore. One last round to ensure your future safety, and then we’re retired for good.”
Max nodded. “Agreed. Four votes from me and my damaged legs and brain.”
“Recuperating, Max. Not damaged.”
“No,” Max said, struggling to stand while shrugging into the hokey trench coat. “Not damaged as Kathleen O’Connor was, glory be. Lead on, Macduff.”
Gandolph laughed. “We’ve got something from these guys or they wouldn’t have called! We can tell them some Las Vegas legend in repayment. Maybe give them the location of Ted Binion’s now-empty vault.”