So start with what you know, he thought. Three sets of intruders located Polly at the house. The first was Walter Withers, the second was Candy Landis and her boy Chuckles, and the third was a would-be hit man.
Withers apparently got the location from Polly telling Gloria and was dumb enough to keep it in writing. He was probably more afraid of forgetting phone numbers than he was of compromising his source.
Landis and Whiting claim they got the location by bugging Peter Hathaway’s office and half of Austin. They have no apparent reason to lie at this point.
The would-be button man got the location … how?
From Candy Landis and Chuckles? Not unless they’re the best actors in the history of deception, and they aren’t. Which still leaves the possibility that they leaked it unintentionally.
From Withers? The hitter drove away in Withers’s car, but only after beating up Brogan to get the car keys, although that might have been an accident touched off by the dog. And Withers had the blood-alcohol level of a Saturday night in Moscow, unless he was faking it for an alibi, and I don’t think anyone could fake it that well.
Withers did have a pile of cash on him, which matched his Top Drawer story, but he gave up that tale in a heartbeat when I thought he was working with Whiting. And the cash could have been front-end money on the hit, but then why would Withers carry it around?
Whatever the case, Walt Withers is at the center of this thing, whether he knows it or not. The answers to Withers’s involvement rest in two places: Top Drawer magazine and Polly’s best friend, Gloria.
Neal pulled the car over at a gas station in Luning, a back-route crossroads in the mineral-rich desert of southwest Nevada. The left fork led to the Sierra Madres and California; a right turn took you down through the desert to Las Vegas. Karen, next to him, in the front seat, woke up when he stopped. Polly remained sound asleep, her head on Candy’s shoulder.
“Be back in a sec,” Neal said.
He went into the phone booth, dialed information, and got the offices of Top Drawer magazine. An annoyed answering service operator told him that no one, especially Mr. Scarpelli, was in the office on a Saturday.
“Do you like your job?” Neal asked.
The operator answered that except for a few stupid calls, she liked it a lot.
“Then I suggest you find a way to get in touch with Ron Scarpelli right away and tell him that Walter Withers is at two-oh-five five-five-five three-four-four-six and that he has thirty minutes to call.”
The operator asked if he was nuts.
Neal replied that he probably was but that if she wanted to take the chance he wasn’t, that was up to her. He hung up as Karen got out of the Jeep and walked over.
“You want something from inside?” she asked.
“Coffee would be great,” he answered. “And maybe you should buy some food for the road. The Haynes sisters are going to be hungry if they ever decide to wake up.”
White Christmas was one of Karen’s favorite movies. Karen would watch White Christmas on an August afternoon when the temp was 102.
She brought him a plain doughnut and black coffee and he was surprised at how good they both tasted as he stood waiting in the phone booth. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.
“Walter?” Ron Scarpelli asked. “Where the hell are you? Did you find Polly?”
Neal hung up.
Either Walter Withers had an extremely elaborate cover or the hit man had used him as a bird dog.
Neal had heard of a button man who liked to do that, a guy who preferred to stay in the background, let other people shake things loose, and then step in. But he’d always thought he was just a legend, one of those apocryphal underworld superkillers that turn out to be just a legend. In the whispers he’d heard, the guy even had a jive name, like boxers often gave themselves. What was it?
Neal got back in the car and turned left.
“Neal, you’re heading for Las Vegas,” Karen said.
“I know.”
“Half the mobsters in the country live in Vegas and the other half vacation there! Why the hell—”
“It’s neutral ground, a money machine as long as the tourists feel safe. The wise guys don’t do hits in Las Vegas.”
He’d driven about five minutes when he remembered the legend’s name. Overtime—because it means sudden death.
Sudden death, my butt. We’ll play for the tie.
Jack Landis stood on the terrace and gazed out across the Great Family Plaza that formed the center of Candyland. The Candy Club Condos, or the shells of them anyway, rose unsteadily from the ground on the far side.
“I have a vision,” he said.
“Who’s that dicking around on the water slide?” Joey asked him. The gigantic structure loomed to his immediate left.
Jack turned and looked up about one hundred feet in the air where a small man stood on the starting platform.
“That’s just old Musashi,” he said.
“Who’s Musashi?” Joey asked. He didn’t like people who didn’t work for him messing around on the construction site, in case a ladder rung snapped or a piece of wall gave way or something.
“He’s the engineer who designed the damn thing,” Jack said. “Candice heard the Japs were the best for moving water. Something about Zen, I think.”
“Oh.”
“He used to be a kamikaze pilot,” Jack added. “Don’t you want to hear about my vision?”
Joey didn’t want to hear about Jack Landis’s vision. Joey figured the lights were about to go out on Jack Landis’s vision, anyway. Unless Polly was smart enough to keep her mouth shut, which wasn’t likely, the afternoon papers would be screaming about the attempted hit.
Jack would be the prime suspect—which was okay with Joey, except he’d better arrange to suck as much cash out of Jack while it was still there to suck.
“What’s your vision?” Joey asked, rolling his eyes at Harold.
Jack’s eyes got dreamy.
“I see that big empty plaza filled with thousands of happy people,” Jack said, “each one of them carrying a Jack and Candy souvenir. Over yonder, I see the condos all built, a hundred percent occupancy and a waiting list. I see people in line for rides, people in line for food … shit, people in line just to get in.”
I see people in line to get a chunk of your ass, Joey thought, unless we can get to Polly.
“I have a vision, too,” Joey said.
“We ain’t naming the water slide after your hooter,” Landis said.
“No,” Joey continued. “I have a vision of a terrible fire at night, the water slide crumbling to the ground, the condominiums as burnt-out shells. I see Candyland as a big black wasteland.”
Jack turned and looked up at him.
“Your plan didn’t work, did it?” Jack asked.
“Construction insurance, Jack,” Joey said. “This is a beautiful country.”
“Arson?!”
“Let’s just call it nonspontaneous combustion.”
“This is the biggest theme park in the world!” Jack yelled. “You’d need a goddamn tankerful of gas to burn this down!”
“Or a couple of guys from Louisiana,” Joey said.
“We used the finest fire-resistant materials—”
Joey shook his head.
“No, we didn’t.”
“We didn’t?”
“We billed for the finest fire-resistant materials,” Joey explained. “We used the cheapest shit we could find.”
“And half of that we hijacked,” Harold added.
“You got a big discount, Jack,” said Joey.
“I thought you were just padding the labor.” Jack groaned.
“Nah,” Joey answered.
Jack turned around and gazed across the plaza. His dream was looking more like a nightmare.
“None of this stuff can pass a safety inspection, can it?” he asked.
Joey and Harold cracked up.
“Shit,” Jack muttered.
/> Joey put a big paw around his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” Joey said. “We’ll get a big insurance check, and then we can build it all over again.” All over again? Jack thought. It’d be nice to be able to do it all over again.
16
Las Vegas, Neal thought, is a town designed to make people feel like winners, using money paid by losers.
He crossed the viaduct over the electric lava flow, wound his way around the tiled hot springs, eased past a trio of chariot drivers, and found his way to the registration desk. The lobby of The Last Days of Pompeii Resort and Casino Hotel was crowded with tourists, conventioneers, and gamblers.
“May I help you?” the clerk asked in a voice hinting that this was a doubtful proposition. The young man wore a simple white toga with a cloth belt, indicating that he was a “household slave.”
“Mr. Heskins,” Neal said. “I have a reservation for two adjoining rooms.”
The household slave punched some buttons on his computer.
“I don’t see you,” he said.
“Thomas Heskins,” Neal said. “I made these reservations months ago.”
The slave punched some more buttons.
“You’re not in here,” he said with the barely concealed delight of a teenager wielding power, “and I’m afraid we’re completely booked. The convention, you know.”
“I do know. I’m with the convention.”
Neal, Polly, and Candy had waited in a tiny motel north of Vegas while Karen went in to check things out. She came back with the information that the Association of Adult Film Makers was holding its annual bash at The Last Days of Pompeii.
Neal figured that was as good a cover as any for a man traveling with three women. The cover wouldn’t last long, not in this town, but he wanted to buy every minute he could.
“You must have something for me,” Neal continued. “Tommy Heskins? Moonlight Productions?”
The slave shook his head and frowned.
“The Swap Meet?” Neal asked. “Swap Around the Clock? Swap Around the Clock, Down Under? I did the Swapper series.”
“You made Swap Around the Clock!” the slave said with admiration.
“Did you see it?” Neal asked.
“Yeah,” the clerk said.
You did? I thought I made it up.
“I’ll get you stills,” Neal promised. He looked at the clerk’s name tag: ATTICUS.
“My name’s really Bobby.”
A tall woman clad in a way-off-the-shoulder toga stuck a tray of drinks under Neal’s nose.
“Complimentary ambrosia of the gods?” she asked.
Neal took a Bloody Mary, thanked her, and turned back to the desk clerk. “Bobby, can you help me out here?”
“We do have emergency set-asides for VIPs …” Bobby said doubtfully.
“One room’s for my wife and myself. Two of my top stars will share the other room,” Neal said with a wink.
“Were they in Swap?” Bobby asked.
“Remember the scene on the rubber raft?”
Bobby went back to the computer.
“And how would you like to pay for this, sir?”
Neal opened Withers’s briefcase on the counter.
“With cash,” Bobby said as he typed into the computer. “I’ll need names for the other room, sir.”
I should have known you would, Neal thought. I wish I had a couple.
“Amber Flame and … Desire,” he said, because it was the best he could come up with.
“Just Desire?” Bobby gulped.
“Sometimes just desire is enough,” Neal answered with what he hoped was a knowing wink.
Bobby finished the paperwork and handed Neal four plastic key cards.
Now all I have to do is sneak Amber and Desire up to the room, Neal thought.
Bobby greeted the next guest, “May I help you, sir?”
“Ron Scarpelli, Top Drawer magazine,” the guest said as Neal’s ears spun 180 degrees and stood up. “I get the convention rate, right?”
Or I could just leap into the lava, Neal thought.
Walter Withers was out of luck.
He bombed at twenty-one—or “XXI,” as it was known in the Vesuvius Room—got burned by old VII at the dice table in the Molten Lava Pit, and was out-and-out killed by a steely-eyed gladiator holding three kings over VIII ’s in The Coliseum Poker Arena.
He did not make back Ron Scarpelli’s fifty thousand. Instead, he’d tapped his cash, maxed out both Visa and MasterCard, and been laughed at by the woman on the AmEx 800 line. She told him that not only could he not get another cash advance; he couldn’t even get a room unless she had a cashier’s check by noon.
He was on his last day in Pompeii.
He found a phone booth with a stool and perused the late games. Then he dialed Sammy Black’s number. Sammy would take his bet on account and maybe he could get well on San Diego with the points.
A recorded voice came on to tell him that the number had been disconnected.
That’s strange, he thought. I hope Sammy hasn’t been arrested.
He called the Blarney Stone and was relieved to hear Arthur’s live, familiar voice.
“Walter! How are you doing?”
It was refreshing to hear a little warm bonhomie again.
“All right, Arthur, all right. Listen, I tried to call Sammy just now, but his number has been disconnected.”
There was an uncharacteristic silence from Arthur.
“Uh, Walt, I thought you knew that,” Arthur said.
“How would I know that?”
Because you did the disconnecting, Arthur thought. But he said, “Walter, Sammy is dead, remember?”
“Dead! Good God, man, what happened?”
Arthur got it then, and he was offended. Withers was calling to make sure his alibi was intact.
“A guy walked into the bar and shot him,” Arthur said. “And Chick.”
Walter Withers was shocked. New York had achieved a promiscuity of violence that was simply unacceptable.
“Who would want to do a thing like that?” Withers asked.
“I don’t know,” Arthur said pointedly. “I was in the can.”
“How traumatic for you, Arthur.”
Arthur hung up thinking that Walter Withers was one cold-blooded cookie.
Walter hung up and tried Gloria again. Perhaps she had heard from Polly. If he could just get a lead on Polly, he could probably persuade Scarpelli to give him another advance on the expense money.
“Hi!” Gloria’s voice said brightly.
“Hello,” Withers said.
“I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now,” Gloria’s voice continued, “but I would love to get a message from y-o-u. So leave one at the sound of the beep.”
“Gloria, it’s Walter again. I’m wondering if you heard from your friend. Please ring me. Please.”
He hung up and wandered into the lobby to score another free drink.
He approached one of the fabulous showgirls in the revealing togas and tried not to stare at her breasts as he requested a drink.
She looked down at him suspiciously and asked, “Are you really with the convention?”
“Certainly.”
“There’s supposed to be a three ambrosia per guest maximum,” she said. Then she saw his face crumple in disappointment and added, “I can give you a virgin ambrosia; it’s just tomato juice. A lot of the Triple-X people are in the program; maybe you should try it.”
Withers looked dolefully at the vegetable concoction.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked. “Sacrifice it to the volcano?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” He sighed. “And no thank you.”
“I’m a friend of Bill’s,” she confided.
He looked unabashedly down her toga and said, “Bill must be a happy soul.”
She looked around quickly and handed him a real drink.
“You’re a kind person, Calpurnia,” Wi
thers said.
“There’s a meeting in the Sandals Sandals room tonight,” she whispered. “You should check it out.”
“Are you and Bill going?”
“You’re a funny guy,” she said as she padded off to inflict hospitality on other guests.
“You’re a stitch,” Ron Scarpelli agreed. “Where’s my money?”
“Ron!” Withers exclaimed.
“Call me Mr. Scarpelli,” Ron growled. He was dressed for business: a three-piece white suit, black silk shirt open at the neck, gold chain, and white loafers, with no socks.
Ms. Haber, in a white tube top and white pantaloons, stood over his shoulder like an erotic backdrop.
“What are you doing here?” Withers asked.
“What am I doing here?” Ron shouted. “What are you doing here! You’re supposed to be out getting me Polly Paget!”
A few heads in the lobby turned at the name. Ms. Haber steered the two men to a banquette behind an enormous palm tree.
This gave Withers a few seconds to think. There was only one thing to do: Lie.
“That is precisely what I am doing,” he said quietly. He leaned closer to Scarpelli. “She’s here.”
“In Vegas?”
And keep lying.
“Right here in this hotel.”
“Is that why you called?”
Is that why I called? … Is that why I called? … Did I call?
“Yes,” Withers said.
Scarpelli leaned closer. The smell of Brut was overpowering.
“Why’d you hang up on me?” he asked.
“I was about to lose her,” Withers said. “Had to go. I’ve been on the trail ever since, so I couldn’t call back. That’s why I look so …”
“Shitty?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re making this up,” Scarpelli accused.
“Certainly not,” Withers answered.
“Ron,” Ms. Haber said, “if she’s in this hotel, is it possible she’s signing with the film people?”
Scarpelli looked genuinely alarmed.
“Hard-core?” he asked. “That’d be a terrible mistake. We’d pay her more for one spread than she’d make in a dozen movies!”
“All the major magazines are here, too,” Ms. Haber warned.
“Shit,” Scarpelli said. “Walt, we gotta make our move. Where is she?”