Max’s office had an even fancier layout than the lounge. Between the door and the huge desk at the far side of the room lay a marble floor inlaid with a rosette with a cat-race motif, like everything else in the place. The far wall held floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the track. Max was staring out of them when we came in.
“Hello, Maximino.” I said as we came in.
“Why, if it ain’t Manny Calavera!” Max said when he had turned around. He came toward me with his hand out. “Come to see how the big boys play, eh, Manny?”
I put my hand in his and let him crush it. “From what I can tell, they play with kitties.”
Max laughed and said, “Kitties, roulette wheels… what’s the difference? They go ’round and ’round all day and they’re both more reliable when they’re fixed, am I right?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say so in open court,” I said.
“Me neither,” Max said with a laugh. “So, who’s your lovely companion, huh?”
“Oh, this is Carla.” Max took her hand and did a little bow over it. “She actually works for you, Max.”
“Yeah, over at the LOL security gate,” Carla said, “but I’ve never been up here before.”
“Well, don’t ply your trade around here, young lady.” He waggled a finger in a mock scold. “My boys might take it the wrong way. On the other hand…”
“Max…” I said in a joking scold.
“Just kiddin’,” he said. “Come on over here,” he gestured toward the windows, “I wanna show ya somethin’.”
We crossed the office and I said, “Very impressive trophy collection,” as we passed the cabinet holding it.
“Paws of fire, every one of my babies.”
“You know,” Carla said, “I get the feeling you’re not much of a dog guy, Max.”
“You know me better than I thought. Now just look at that view,” he said, pointing down at the track.
“Wow,” Carla said. “You can see everything.”
“Nothing in the way from up here, no sir!” Max said. “Hey, Manny,” he said pointing at a drinks trolley beside the desk, “why don’t you… oh, hell.”
Max broke off and turned toward the door where a man dressed in about the sharpest suit I’d ever seen was coming in. “Sorry, Maximino,” he said, “but…” he held up a sheaf of papers.
“Yeah, yeah,” Max said. “Just put ’em on the desk. I’ll look at ’em later.” He sighed. “Manny, this is my lawyer, Nick Virago. Nick, Manny Calavera.”
“Oh, yes,” Virago said with a slight nod. “You’re shorter than I expected.”
“I don’t mean to be,” I said.
Virago made a quiet hmpf and said to Max, “They’ll need an answer by tomorrow.” His voice dropped lower as he added, “I’m told they don’t like waiting.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll get to it tonight.”
Virago nodded and left.
“Nick handles all my headaches,” Max said, “and, brother, do I ever have one right now.”
“Trouble?” I asked as I went over to the trolley to mix some drinks.
“Sorta. I’m tryin’ to close a business deal with some boys who aren’t making it easy.” Max shrugged. “But I won’t bore you with any of that.”
Max didn’t bore us with anything that evening. I’ll say this for Rubacava’s alleged crime boss: he knew how to entertain his guests, and I certainly learned a few things about playing host from him. We stayed a lot longer than I had intended, but a couple of phone calls to the club reassured me that everything was OK. Eventually we made our excuses, and Carla and I left the High Rollers’ Lounge for more boring climes.
When we got away from the track I took a deep breath. The air was getting cooler and, no lungs or whatever, it still felt good, especially after all that cigar smoke I’d eaten.
“Max sure throws a swell party, huh?” I said.
Carla laughed too loudly. “You said ‘swell’!”
“What of it?” I wanted to know.
“Nothing, I guess. You’re just cute when you show your age. Ooop!” she exclaimed as she stumbled.
“You really should have worn your flats,” I said when I caught her.
“I should’ve gone easier on the booze. Oh, well,” She sighed. “Die and learn.”
I chuckled. “That’s a good one.” I sighed myself and tugged at Carla’s arm to try to get her to pick up the pace. “C’mon. Maybe Meche’s at the club.”
“Oh,” Carla grumbled, “why are you so interested in that woman, anyway?”
“I’ve told you before. I let her down and I gotta make up for it. That’s all.”
“Yeah, and I bet you’ve let a lot of women down, Manny. I bet that’s why she ran out on you. Maybe you just don’t know how to hold on to a woman, you ever think of that?”
“You’re drunk,” I said.
“So am I,” she said. I gave up.
Disappointment
Meche wasn’t at the club that night. Or the next. Or any other. It got to me, the one black mark on the club. My name was up there in lights on the hottest new night spot in Rubacava, and the one person it was meant to draw in was a no-show. Each night I was sure that this was the night. And then… the big letdown. The club itself was a blast. A lot of work, but a blast. And yet it was such a failure in its most important reason for being there. Oh, sure, I sent a lot of money to the LSA. That was good. I was proud of that; but failing to lure Meche made it a kind of hollow pride. But, despite the disappointment, I’d take Calavera Café at its worst over the DOD’s best any day. Besides which, Glottis was the real party animal so I don’t think anyone really missed me when I scoped out the night’s suckers and then went back to my office to sulk and to teach my scotch just who was the boss around here.
There was just one other blemish other than the absence of Meche: Police Chief Bogen. The guy had a problem and he wanted to win at the wheels all the time. He wouldn’t pick blackjack where he had some realistic chance. No, it had to be roulette. Maybe he was really into watching that shiny little ball spin around, I don’t know, but I had to keep him happy to hold up my deal with Max (along with paying the ‘service fee’ for the bets my customers phoned in to the track, natch). Problem was, he wanted to be too happy for my own good. Bogen’s ‘luck’ was so unreal that it started to tarnish my reputation for honest tables. The regulars knew the score and were sympathetic, but there were a few loud-mouths who spread their gripes around. I’m sure that hurt me a little. Once, on a visit to the track, I got up the nerve to talk to Max about it. I was getting the feeling that Max did actually like me, in a cold professional way, so I was pretty up front about the problem.
“You know, Max,” I said, “I don’t mind showing people a good time—that’s why I opened a nightclub in the first place—but Bogen is kind of abusing my hospitality.”
Max just stared at the ash at the end of his cigar for a couple of seconds before saying, “Yeah.” He then took a deep breath and turned to face me. “I’m sorry, Manny. I really am. I was tryin’ to solve a problem when I steered Bogen your way, not make a bigger one.”
I was a little surprised to hear Max apologize. He seemed sincere. “I’m not sure I understand, Max,” I said when he didn’t add anything more. “What problem were you trying to solve?”
“Well… let’s just say you’re not the first operator that bastard has put the screws on.” He gave an angry shake of his head. “The guy’s corrupt, of course, but he’s a prig. Do you have any idea what a tough combination that is? Of course you don’t. I’ll tell ya. He wants a piece of my dough—of our dough—but ya can’t buy him off, give him a regular cut. Goddam’ hypocrite! I don’t mind crooked cops, Manny, but they gotta be straight about it. You get me?” He jabbed the forefinger of the hand holding the cigar in my direction for emphasis. “I try to bring Bogen into the organization… and he threatens to enforce the blue laws against me! I can’t control him. So,” he shrugged helplessly, “I hear about your little club and I think maybe I can get the heat off. The cats don’t always run the way he wants. I can’t help that. They don’t always run the way I want. This joint is too big to make the races that crooked. But a casino… I had a gambling joint once when I was alive. It’s easy. Not my racket now, I learned that the hard way, but I thought maybe Bogen would ease off if he got his way a little more often.”