“Two things we have to talk about,” Matt said, sliding into the vinyl-covered booth as his pants caught on some taped-over cuts in the upholstery. “The first and the last.”
Over greasy hamburgers and draft beer, Matt and Effinger’s son compared past and present grievances.
First.
“I hated your father for hitting my mother,” Matt said.
“And hitting you too, I bet. He knocked me around some before he left for so long. But he was my dad. And I don’t think he wanted to be in Chicago. He had to go, like someone here was after him, or he was sent away by the mob for knowing too much. Where was your dad?”
“He disappeared, never knew about me.”
Chuck nodded, lighting a cigarette. “At least my dad used to send me stuff. Comic books and toys. Even when I was getting too old for them. He’d come back from Chicago more often later.”
“I wanted to kill your dad.”
“But you didn’t do that drowned-alive operation. That was planned, I think to send a message and shut my uncle up. Someone will pay for offing my dad like that. But it’s hard to find who. Lots of people wanted to kill my dad. It wasn’t just because they didn’t like him or he bounced them around some. That was kinda his job, to do things for the mob.”
“I had a chance to kill him, though.”
“What stopped you?”
“Some parts of your life are just over, and you are what you are because of them. That won’t change, but you can. So you walk away from the bad and move forward into the good.”
“Golly, little Matt. That should be in a book. I won’t walk away until I get my revenge.”
“Let’s call it justice.”
“I’ve got a double dose of it coming, ’cuz they got my Uncle Joe into something bad too, and he ended up dead on a craps table at the Crystal Phoenix.”
Matt’s heart almost stopped. That sentence solved a cold case and maybe a big part of the puzzle that made this chronic loser a key piece. The body had initially been IDed as Cliff, but no records showed and no one had known Clifford Effinger had a brother. Meanwhile, Chuck was droning into his beer.
“Uncle Joe’d never go into a hoighty-toighty place like that, not willingly, and besides, it’s crawling with Fontana Family muscle, who are more deadly than they look.”
“So his death was meant as a distraction, to muddy the waters,” Matt said. “What role would a retired cop like Woody play in this scenario?”
“He’s always got some scheme going on. He’s telling me to do the kind of things my dad did. Handle this schnook, look up that or this made man from the old days, if they’re still alive. I can’t figure what he’s working up to.”
“A cop retired since the nineties hanging out with ex-mob guys and sending people to burglarize the Circle Ritz? That’d be another unlikely place for aging mobsters to show up.”
“Ouch, Poor Ochs,” Chuck said around a ketchup-bloody handful of French fries.
It wasn’t, “Alas, poor Yorick” from Hamlet, Matt thought, but it had a rough-and-ready eloquence.
“He wasn’t a bad egg,.” Chuck mumbled.
“Why’d they call him ‘Ox’, his size?”
“Nah, his size, maybe, but his last name was Ochsenhoffer or something that makes Effinger sound like a cool name. Woody could be putting a burglary ring in operation.”
Matt nodded to encourage Chuck to continue.
“See, Woody is so old he goes back to the time when the mob ran this town in the seventies,” Chuck said. “He was a green young cop, but they back and forthed with the mob then.”
Matt got it. “That’s why it took the FBI to come into Vegas in the eighties to get the mob out.”
“Out, but not down. My dad used to laugh with my uncle about it being the ‘same old, same old’, with one big difference. And then they’d get to laughing so hard. They’d say ‘if the dumb cops then and the dumb cops now only knew…”
“And now both Effinger brothers are dead. Murdered.”
Chuck’s slack features grew taut. “Old Woody Wetherly is the only cop left now who might know what they meant. Anyway, he sure knows who to call on for major dirty work, and for small-timers like me as errand boys.”
“And for something more?”
“I dunno who big-time is left that would engineer a mob-days, right-out-there gig of tying a gagged guy to a sinking ship in a nighttime show and letting him drown with a…what’d you call the bare-breasted ladies they had carved on sailing ship’s fronts?”
“Figurehead.”
“Yeah. Those ship ladies were more boobs than heads, if you ask me. And now the show is closed down and dead in the water too, and you can only see one anchored lit-up ship from the Strip. Did you know they did weddings on that ship for years?”
“No,” Matt said, not liking the topic of weddings coming up with an enemy. But Chuck was still wrapped up in his “Wayback Machine”.
“It’s funny. My dad sent me a kit once. A put-a-ship-together kit. Too many pieces. I threw it away. Who’d ever dream he’d die on one? I’m going to find one of those kits and make whoever did that to him eat it.”
Matt didn’t know what to say. The monster had a kid who loved him, in his way.
“I’m sorry, Chuck.”
“Are you, little-perfect-photograph Matt?”
“For you.”
“What are you going to do with all this info? You’re not the law. You’re just some D.J. I know that.”
Disk Jockey. Matt chuckled. He’d hardly touched his burger, but threw two twenties on the table. To reward the waitress who’d been derelict in coming around, which perfectly suited his mission.
“So?” Chuck pushed away his plate of massacred leavings, dead cow crumbs and cold fries buried in ketchup.
“So, I think the police will finally get a lead on who killed your dad and your uncle, and why. I don’t know who or when, but it will happen. And you’ll have your revenge.”
“You mean ‘justice’,” Chuck mocked. He actually had a sense of humor. “I get the ‘first’ thing and all that stuff, but what’s the ‘last’ thing you were talking about?”
Matt leaned in on Chuck, hands braced on the table rim, eyes and voice on the same jagged edge as broken glass.
“You will forget any instructions from anybody to follow, threaten, or harass with even a glance Miss Temple Barr at the Circle Ritz or anywhere in Vegas or the universe, or I will hunt you down and this time I will kill an Effinger. The last of the Effingers.”
10
The Tony Awards
“Matt,” said the man on the phone. “I have serious news for you.”
He flashed back to his conversations with Frank Bucek and Chuck Effinger earlier that day. So what new crime figure was haunting him, because the caller sure wasn’t Woody Wetherly. Yet the voice was vaguely familiar….
Then Matt recognized the caller, and wondered, What next today?
Caught by his personal appearance agent, Tony Valentine, a great guy he’d been avoiding, he turned to face Temple’s balcony.
With his amateur sleuthing turning up deadly suspicions, his supposed career jump to going live on air in Chicago was a distracting issue he wished would go away. He’d have to be honest with Tony, but not just yet.
“‘Serious’ news,” Matt repeated. “Usually, agents only have good or bad news.”
Darn. By now the sound of his voice had drawn Temple from the kitchen, where she’d been tossing one of her “everything” salads.
“Matt,” Tony was going on, gently but firmly. “We must talk. You and I know you haven’t been acting wildly enthusiastic about this opportunity for some time.”
“I’m sorry, Tony. With the wedding in the offing and…some personal matters involving relatives—”
“No serious family illness, I hope? I can certainly explain that.”
“No. Complications, but not that.”
“Then I hope you and the ‘little woman’ can still com
e by my office today.” Tony was chuckling. “I’d like to see Temple reacting to my using that descriptive phrase.”
Matt looked over his shoulder at Temple, who’d lurked there since he used the words “serious” and “Tony”, trying to interpret the trend of the conversation.
“Couldn’t resist,” Tony said. “She’s so earnest when she’s angry.”
“Ah, you want us to come in today?”
Temple was nodding vigorously.
“I think that would be best.”
“Of course,” he told Tony. “We’re daytime people. About 4 p.m.?”
“Very good. See you then.”
Temple was jumping up and down, her shoulder-length fiery waves bouncing, looking like a twelve-year-old who’d just gotten tickets to the rock band of the day. Her mind wasn’t dwelling on the possible resurrection of the long-dead Jackhammer Killer. Or at least his jackhammer.
“Tony!” she screamed after the phone went off. “Needs to see us? Finally!”
“But for ‘serious’ news. I don’t think it’s good, Temple. He mentioned my putting Chicago off for so long. First, I’ll need to give the Jaguar back, which is fine.” In fact, Matt wanted the whole deal and every trace of it to disappear.
“Don’t be so negative,” Temple urged.
“Look. It’s obvious he wants to break the bad news in person. He’s a really decent man. I was lucky to end up as his client.”
“Well, if that’s the case, we’ll just deal with it.
“But oh,” she said, crossing fingers on both hands and her arms and shutting her eyes. “I hope, I hope, I hope.”
Matt was glad she couldn’t see the anguish on his face.
“Come in,” Tony said as he stepped into the outer office to escort them past his young assistant’s desk. Danielle had deluged them with offers of exotic-flavored espresso, but they were both too nervous to tote liquids at the moment.
Matt suddenly saw the tall, white-haired and distinguished Tony Valentine as the solicitous funeral director. Tony escorted Temple, businesslike in an aqua-colored linen suit and closed-toed red high-heeled pumps that did not convey a mourning mood, to a high-backed upholstered chair in front of his desk.
Matt took the matching chair, wishing it was the creepy vanishing one from old forties movie comedies that would drop him through the floor and flip back into place empty.
When they were seated, Tony put his elbows on his immaculately empty but impressive mahogany desk.
“I know you both have had a lot on your minds lately, especially Miss Barr’s cat getting a commercial contract. I should get the paperwork on that in a couple weeks. And your upcoming marriage, when—?”
“Very soon,” Temple said, glancing at Matt.
“Ah, yes, this is Las Vegas, capital of quick, inventive nuptials, even at The Mob Museum. I hope I’m invited.”
“You’re on my e-vite list.”
“Excellent.” Tony cleared his throat and looked at Matt. “I wonder if you know you’ve been my most recalcitrant client. If it were a marriage we were discussing rather than a talk-show host spot, I’m afraid the network wooers would all be retiring or dead before you’d make up your mind.”
“I apologize. Sincerely. We’ve been dealing with long-term and recalcitrant family issues.”
Temple nodded to back him up.
“You know, my dear young people, you must grab the golden goose at the first opportunity or it flies away?”
“I know, I know,” Matt said. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you all.” His glance at Tony ricocheted to Temple, who was sitting forward in her seat in suspense, her hands clasped on her red patent-leather tote bag, her shoulders back and her chin tilted high to take the bad news. His bad news. He took her hand.
“So,” Tony said, “the network, being out of time and patience…”
Temple sighed.
“…finally realized that your reluctance was actually a sign.”
“A sign?” Matt was not superstitious. “Like an omen?”
“That you obviously do not wish to leave Las Vegas.”
“Ah…” Matt said.
“And they decided that was brilliant. Vegas was where to film the show.”
“Oh, Matt!” Temple said, turning to him, her eyes shining…happy-tear eyes.
“And,” Tony went on, beaming, “they decided that this daytime TV talk show should have two hosts. That you and Temple are naturals, like Kelly and Regis, and Kelly and, ahem, Michael Strahan, until recently…only New Generation. Even that darn crime-solving Disneysque cat could appear via film clips. The commercial sponsors would love it.”
Temple gaped at Matt. “It’s genius. It’s perfect. I used to interview people as a TV news reporter. Matt, you’re ‘radio’. It’d be so much fun. And no more working nights. Isn’t this the most wonderful outcome in the world?”
And, yes, he caught the firefly magic of it. Them, working together, inventing together. The couple who grows and works together stays together. He was flabbergasted, won over, excited by the possibilities. Temple was more outgoing than he was. She’d loosen him up. He was the cream in her coffee. They’d have a ball.
If he and Temple would live to enjoy a new media partnership.
Tony was right. This was serious business.
Tony saw them out personally. Advised them to “sleep on it” and “let it all sink in”.
“Can you believe it”? Temple whispered almost before Tony’s office suite door had closed. “Everything you did, all the putting off and delaying, worked like an insanely clever plan.
“I feel like we’re Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney in those old forties movies, two crazy kids who are ‘going to put on a show’ to save the farm.
“Oh, I’m getting so many ideas—we could do ‘flash’ street interviews in cool Vegas locations. Maybe a Louie spot through his cat’s-eye-view with voice-overs, and the scenes are in neon-color, or noir black-and-white, or mixed.”
“Temple, I’m sure the producers will have plenty of must-do ideas for building audiences.”
“And it’s such great timing that I decided on our Lady of Guadalupe. We can get married right away, and ask Electra about okaying uniting our two residences as well as ourselves. She’s been cleared of any charges in the intruder’s fatal fall. And now, more good news! I’m so happy to have this uncertainty gone too and that we can forecast smooth sailing full steam ahead from now on. Oh, I guess that’s a mixed metaphor, but you know what I mean. Can you tell me you aren’t thrilled by this chance, this amazing turn of events.”
Matt had to laugh and share her joy. Temple’s giddy relief told him how much his secret worries had been weighing them both down.
And even as Temple hung on his neck, laughing and kissing and shaking off those tears of joy like a demented water spaniel fresh out of a lake, Matt felt a thrill at the rightness of the idea, like their marriage.
Yes, it was amazing they could work together, yes they could stay in Vegas at the Circle Ritz, yes they could get married right away. Putting the brakes on all that lovely karma, would be impossible.
So he would have to fix it all, right away, and if he had to ask for help from whomever he could—God, Elvis, or Chuck Effinger—he would. It was him versus manipulative Woody Wetherly and his schemes and the seemingly immortal Jack the Hammer and his brutal weapon of choice.
11
The Mysteries of Molina
“I’m glad you could stop by, Matt,” she said after opening the front door, her left thumb nervously twisting the bulky but loose college graduation ring on her left ring finger.
Matt had never seen any other ring on Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s hands. Was it a single mother’s substitute for a wedding ring? Or valued in its own right?
That made him wonder why Molina had hung on to Temple’s ring from Matt Kinsella for so long, calling it evidence. Had even Molina fallen under the irresistible spell the magician seemed to cast on women, from psychopath Kathleen O’C
onnor to sensible Temple?
“I must admit I’m curious as heck,” he said, “but I’m not about to stand up my favorite homicide lieutenant when she calls me at home last night and invites me over for a ‘talk’.” Matt smiled as she stepped aside so he could enter. “After all we’ve been through together.”
“And after all you’ve been through with your irrepressible redheaded fiancée recently that you two haven’t told me about.”
“You’ve been pretty irrepressible yourself in saying how little you value amateur detectives, until lately.”
“The Circle Ritz Munchkin does have a knack for letting trouble find her. And now she’s even got you chasing your family skeletons.”
She stopped and turned before letting him enter farther, turning sober. “Matt, I do understand your gut-deep determination to find out the whys and wherefores of your wicked stepfather’s gruesome death. Do you take some satisfaction in his last torments?”
“No. Maybe when I was a kid under Effinger’s heavy fist I might have. Real adults don’t need revenge. So. I’m not still under suspicion?”
“Real cops don’t need far-fetched suspects. Whoever gagged and tied your stepfather to the sinking ship attraction is a practiced killer, a pro who likes to sign his work with a sadistic flourish.”
“I’m amazed you’d let an amateur like me look into that.”
“Your recent drive to the rescue at Electra Lark’s abandoned warehouse was pretty spectacular. Besides, you knew the victim. I want that creepy cold case solved myself and can’t afford to put shoe leather on it. It’s admirable you’re keeping your better half out of your hunt for step-daddy’s killer or killers. Has Woodrow been a help? The oldest uniforms still here said Detective Wetherly had confidential informants in the mob as far back as the seventies.”
Matt hesitated. Was this his chance to call in reinforcements? Molina seemed a bit distracted, maybe not yet. “Yeah, Woody’s stories from the old days would grow hair on a cantaloupe. I hope The Mob Museum founders interviewed him.”
Cat in an Alphabet Endgame: A Midnight Louie Mystery (The Midnight Louie Mysteries Book 28) Page 9