Polly and I were sitting in Leon’s room in the Intensive Care wing, when a man wearing scrubs came in. He pointed a.45 automatic first at Polly, then at me. “Zak,” Polly said, “my Lord, what are you doing?”
“Shut the fuck up, slut. You two almost made me kill my son.”
“Zak, I…”
“I told you to shut the fuck up. You just listen. For years I’ve been watching you and my son. You never even told him about me. If you had, I would have come back. He didn’t know that the shit-for-brains TV producer you married was not his real father. How could you do that?”
“I nev…”
“Don’t you say one more word or I’ll blow your brains out right now. The last straw was you getting Gerald to give him a job. I watched his admiration for Gerald grow. Your fucking ex-lover, my fucking cheating ex-partner earning the fortune that should have come to me, and getting the love and respect frommy son that was rightfully mine. So I killed the bastard slowly on his own stinking trick. I…”
It was my turn to get in on the act. “You sick bastard, you’re going to kill us anyway, so do it now. I don’t want to hear any more of your Goddamned pitiful story. You’re making me cry.”
“You think I won’t? You think I won’t?” he repeated, his hand trembling.
“I know you will, but you’re going to make us listen to more of your shit first. Well, I for one…,” I started to say while turning to Polly. As I did, I whipped my.357 magnum from the gold lamé holster under my jacket and put a slug into his forehead, dropping him on the spot.
“Jesus, Pete, how did you know you could do that?”
“The hammer on his.45 wasn’t cocked, and with him waving his hands around while spewing his venom, I knew he couldn’t cock it and get a shot off before I got him.”
Leon didn’t win the estate: Abe and the Babe did. But they kept Leon on and gave him a piece of the action. Dandy Randy is still wowing them at Rita’s. Kam went back to being the plain old Number One Drag Queen in Vegas. Abe and the Babe, and Leon, designed an act for Howie that, at my insistence, included him talking. I also named his act, Howie the Hayseed Houdini. Beside my fee, Howie also replaced my XKE.
And me…
As is my habit, I was sitting in my office at Numero Uno Rodeo Drive, wearing Gucci loafers, an Armani suit, Lagerfeld shirt, and a gold lamè shoulder holster, in which I keep “Golda,” my gold-plated.357 with mother-of-pearl grips. I was laid-back, listening to the honeyed tones of Johnny Mathis, sipping on a Perrier, just waiting for who knows who to come in and ask me to do who knows what, who knows where, when I got a phone call from my friend, Kam.
Now, that’s an End
CATNAPPING by Gay Toltl Kinman
When I hit Las Vegas, which wasn’t often, I usually headed for the MGM and a certain blackjack table, my heart palpitating over its normal range-not good for a guy at fifty, and a beefy 6’2” one.
This time I strode into the Mirage, my heart in the same condition. A pair of beauties they were, I was told. Blue-eyed, white, with paws as big as dinner plates, the Siberian Tigers held court in their den with all of their admiring subjects on the other side of a thick glass partition.
The male paddled around in his pool, and just like every other male of any species, watched her, the female, sprawled ladylike on a ledge, one leg draped over the edge, asleep.
Perhaps.
Was he waiting for her to wake up so he’d have company? Or an audience? Was she sleeping, or just pretending? Would he wake her up when he couldn’t stand to be alone anymore?
Was he any different from me?
Everyone loved those tigers judging by the crowds in front of the glass, and in the shop buying stuffed replicas.
But someone loved them a lot more.
And that’s the real reason I was here.
Someone was planning to steal them. I was here to stop him.
“Why” was a question, but not the question. The question was how. If I knew that, my job as a P.I. would be a lot simpler. I liked simple these days, but that wasn’t what I was getting.
The other reason I was here was Marge. She’s a dental hygienist in Los Angeles, and she was attending a convention at the hotel.
I could tell them right off from the other conventioneers. The jokes. Like what ride in amusement parks do hygienists like most? The molar coaster. How can you not like them?
Oh, yeah, there was a third reason I was here.
My daughter.
Marge said I had to call her this time, arrange to meet her, blah, blah, blah.
Marge knows how to get me to do what she wants. So the call was on the agenda, but first I had to stop a catnapping.
Before I let the management know I was ready to start work, I started. I closed out those beautiful furry bodies and looked around the den. Fake rocks, cavelike on three sides, with a ledge on the left, walkways and a real cave on the right. Above, blue sky. Nothing in between.
Couldn’t imagine trying to steal those two. Pussycats they looked like, but I wasn’t going in there to find out. Not on your life, or rather mine.
I took out my notepad and jotted down a few things. Can’t believe how much I forget things these days. It can only get worse was a thought that didn’t thrill me, so I didn’t think about it anymore.
Instead, I took a moment to think about the good things in life-Marge, the tigers, and dinner tonight at Tillerman’s, where the locals go. A nice Chivas on the rocks in the lounge first, then seated at my favorite table with fresh lobster-and it always was, ironic for a place out here in the desert, but that’s Vegas-with a bottle of Raymond Cab.
Enough of that, back to work. I went to the Security Office and met up with Doug Hassenfeld, the Chief. We’d worked LAPD together. I’d done a few cases for him before.
We chatted a bit about life in general, what was it like back in Los Angeles now, how’s the wife. He knew mine was dead, the big C, about the time he took the job here. I hadn’t introduced him to Marge yet, but I would.
He had another officer, Karen Grafton, and one of the tigers’ trainers, Melissa Caldwell, show me everything. I mean everything. Somehow those two pussycats weren’t looking so cute anymore, particularly when I learned the amount of poop they produce and what it looks and smells like. Not too surprising that there was a lot of it when I saw what they ate. They ate well. But, again, that’s Las Vegas.
They herded the two out while I climbed around the den in borrowed boots. The smell was something I hadn’t expected.Did I think they’d smell of baby powder? Open at the top, the tigers got the desert heat but misting was a constant so it was damp and coolish.
“The tigers were bred in a wildlife park,” Melissa told me, “not a jungle, and they never had to hunt for food. They’re used to humans now, but that doesn’t mean they won’t revert to their wild nature in a blue-eyed blink.”
I didn’t plan to find out. Ever.
They showed me the security system-cameras, sensors, alarms, you name it, top of the line as far as I could tell-Las Vegas again. No way could anyone steal those two.
I shook hands with Melissa and Karen as we were now on a first-name basis. Melissa gave me her card. As soon as I was out of their sight, I jotted down that she talked about them like they were her children. She was maybe in her mid-twenties, Karen about five years older.
I heard my name being called and turned around. Melissa. “I forgot to ask you, Mr. Kendall,” she said, “when will the south camera be back in operation?”