“Ah,” Paul says. “She is the fruit of one of those impulsive back-alley alliances and now she has renounced such irresponsibility. When we entered the order of nuns here from the Humane Society, we too took vows of chastity.”
“Abetted by a good vet,” Louise says sourly.
I must say that she does not take moonshine from anybody. I enjoy being not the sole object of her scorn.
“What can we do for you, Louie?” Paul exchanges a glance with Peter. “We have seen you stalking about the property.”
“Evil-doers may lurk.”
“We too have observed strangers on the grounds. We are cats of peace, and since the brutal attack on Peter, we keep close to the convent.”
“Attack?” Louise perks her ears straight up.
Both boys shift their eyes to the side at the memory.
“Yes, it was when we first joined the convent, some time ago. Someone tried to crucify Peter to that back door.”
“A crazy man who hated godliness.” Peter hunkered down on his haunches. “I fought, but he had bagged me first and I was knifed.”
Louise gives a short, angry growl.
Paul nods. “The act was discovered soon after and Louie’s human, er, cohabiter happened to be visiting the convent. Not from any intention to join, I must add. Peter was rushed to the Lord High Veterinarian.”
“Who was a female,” I point out, to win favor with Louise.
“Louie saved me,” Peter mutters into his whiskers. “I had lost too much blood. Louie donated his. He is a hero.”
“Him confined in what carrier under what tranquilizer shot?” Louise demands skeptically.
“Louise,” Paul says with a stern brush of what I would consider my second-most-valuable member, although his first is now pretty useless to him. “You are a cynical young female. We will never forget the bravery Midnight Louie showed here at the convent and church when we were besieged by a killer. He did nothing under duress, but was a heroic and kind volunteer.”
What can I add to that? I give a Mr. Spock eyebrow-hair lift—there was something very catlike about that beloved character—and fastidiously preen my shiny black hair. I must look farther into the Vulcan nerve pinch. I believe it is a variation of the firm way a mother cat will gather her kitten’s nape into her mouth for discipline and transportation.
Transportation! Another parallel universe conjunction.
Indeed, I believe all felines have a bit of the Vulcan in them. And do not forget the slinky, ebony feline fatale in the Gary Seven episode of Classic Star Trek.” Wowsa! I would put the remote control on permanent pause for her!
“Well,” Louise says with one of those damned Vulcan eyebrow-hair lifts. “Not to fear. We are here. Midnight Investigations, Inc. will inspect the grounds and the major buildings for traces of intruders. Totally gratis to you, dear boys. Is that not right, Louie?”
I was hoping for payment in custom-minced delicacies from the convent cook, Sister Mary Deli, named for Saint Delicius, virgin and martyr, but so heavenly manna slips away.
Lucky it did.
Miss Midnight Louise and I are heading to the parking lot, hoping to hop a ride, when I signal an urgent halt by curling my shiv-tips into her shoulder.
“Cut the unwelcome paternalistic guidance, Pops. I know where I am going.”
“Sssst!” I nod to the sleek familiar silver car. Of course, a renowned automotive model would be named after a cat.
“Mr. Matt’s Jaguar,” she whispers.
I look around the lot. “And over there, in the Juniper shadows. That low-brow guy’s junker. Now he is following Mr. Matt, and my Miss Temple. They must be seeing Father Hernandez, so the wedding is not only on, but imminent.”
“Why would the wedding be of interest to shady characters like that guy?”
“I do not know, but steps must be taken, Louise.”
“But what? How?”
Recalling the dozens of felines from The Case of the Cat Hoarder, an early investigation I assisted Miss Temple on before Louise’s day, I realize they still inhabit the neighborhood and have a churchly turn of mind and meow. That gives me an idea, but I cannot share it with anyone.
One thing I do know. No shady criminals will make mincemeat out of the happiest day of my Miss Temple’s life if I am around to make mincemeat out of them.
18
Bloody Mary Morning
What does the average bridegroom need besides a rented tux and a ring? Matt had that nailed. What he desperately needed was a reliable source.
This time he couldn’t consult Temple, Internet researcher extraordinaire. He owned a small laptop, but digital wasn’t his instrument. The church organ was, and he was smiling as he contemplated the music for their wedding. It would be impromptu, but Temple was insistent on one piece and one only for the walk down the aisle, their perfect song, however offbeat.
But first he had to survive for the ceremony.
He wanted to, but couldn’t consult Lieutenant Molina. She owed him help, but she’d blow the game because she had to, as a representative of the law.
He suspected Max Kinsella was out there somewhere, following his own star, but Max had his own problems, as always. Matt knew from Temple that loner Max realized he needed help patching his family fissures together and pinned his hopes, for the first time, on someone other than himself. Temple and/or him. Rewarding as that concession was, Matt had bigger sharks to fend off.
He needed to figure out Woody’s game, to explore those seventies local crime connections neither Max Kinsella nor Carmen Molina would have a clue about. He needed slightly shady savvy and major muscle.
So. Matt showed up at Gangsters custom limo rides and signed up for a solitary tour to Red Rock Canyon.
Of course, there wasn’t a Fontana brother who didn’t know who he was.
Ralph was on booking duty, single earring, probably a green garnet, winking at him. “Certainly, Mr. Devine. Will that be a party of two?”
“One.”
Surprised at the imminent bridegroom’s solitary order, Ralph, (the clan had apparently run out of Italian first names at one point) asked, “Custom limo style?”
“Something…Al Capone. But not with a snub-nosed, midnight-black Chicago aggressiveness. I’d like a softly lethal desert vibe.”
Ralph cleared his throat. “Platinum Gray Ghost. And the preferred driver?”
“Aldo.”
Ralph paused.
“I realize he’s finally married and semi-retired.”
“Mr. Devine,” Ralph rebuked him. “One can never retire from being a Fontana brother. We are Family, and you are soon to become so too.”
Matt nodded. Mob types are not over talkative.
A cell phone was used. A back-turned, hushed tone employed.
“When would be convenient?” Ralph asked over his shoulder.
“This is serious,” Matt said. “Now.”
Ralph pulled on his pierced ear and again muttered into his cell phone. Then he excused himself to go into the front office.
He emerged a couple minutes later to offer Matt a tall glass with silver rings embedded around the top half and a crimson Bloody Mary inside. Matt accepted it gratefully.
The Gray Ghost was a beauty, as pristine as in her nineteen-thirties heyday. The long, high vehicle pulled up before Matt had sipped down to the second silver ring.
Aldo stepped out of the driver’s side, tall and tailored and tan and lovely like the Guy from Ipanema as opposed to the girl on the beach in the old song. He opened the driver’s seat passenger door.
“We’re soon to be related,” Aldo said, “in some fashion far more complicated than guys know how to calculate. My wife’s niece is soon to become your wife. Women keep better track of that, or so my very precise wife, Kit, tells me. I assume this is a private conversation between us guys. Welcome to the Family. Hop in.”
Matt breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Aldo flashed him an ice-pick-sharp look. “That bad.”
“That bad.”
Matt had Aldo drive out on County Road 215 West through Spring Valley, Summerlin South, and then empty desert toward Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area. He savored the strong, spicy Bloody Mary as his eyes scoured the monotonous desert terrain of sand and sagebrush to the east as they neared the park’s scenic drive turnoff.
Ironically, glancing west, he spotted the white gown and black-and-white formal attire of a bridal couple, who looked the size of a wedding cake topper, taking photographs against the magnificent rusty-red rock towers bristling on the western horizon.
He finally spotted the landmark he wanted, a biggish bland yellow rock southeast of the park entrance.
“I think this is the place,” Matt said. “Can you pull over along here?”
“Done,” said Aldo.
The Gray Ghost sat parked on the shoulder of an anonymous stretch of highway through the desert, a couple tour buses kicking up dust at it as they passed. No biggie. Gangsters’ limos were well-waxed and washed daily, Matt was sure.
Aldo gazed toward the dull, faded eastern horizon. “We’re far enough off the beaten track to be en route to some long-ago Vegas mob boss’s ‘Boot Hill’.”
“You mean where enemies were taken out to be killed and buried? I followed a guy here.”
Aldo waited.
“The other night.”
Aldo waited.
“So,” Aldo finally said, “you trailed a guy out here without being seen?”
“I think so.”
“If you weren’t an ex-priest, I’d say you had a helluva lot of balls. Dangerous job for a former white-collar dude.”
“Funny,” Matt said.
“And what did you see him doing without being seen?”
“The guy parked and walked to that clump of rocks.”
Aldo looked, and nodded.
“You left your vehicle to follow him on foot?”
“I parked a bit farther down the highway, put my hazard lights on like the car was disabled. I backtracked. I figured he’d turn around and eventually head back to Vegas.”
“Smart. Welcome to the Family,” Aldo said with a slap on the shoulder. “Hey. You’re not carrying. No holster.”
“I’m not a member of the Family yet.”
“Sounds like you should be. That took guts.”
“Desperation.”
Matt put his empty glass in a front seat cup holder. “Can you drive a bit onto the desert floor? My guy did.”
“Not if I value the wax job on this long, lovely lady.”
“Maybe you value the wax job on my not-so-long lovely lady.”
Matt’s oblique mention of Temple won a swift steering wheel turn and more than a limo’s length of ugly jolting onto the desert floor. Aldo opened his winced-shut eyes to survey the bleak cactus-punctuated landscape before he diagnosed their location.
“More sand and scrub and stones closer up. And, uh,” Aldo scratched his noble Italian nose with a forefinger. “This is what a bridegroom-to-be does getting ready for his wedding?”
“This is what a bridegroom-to-be does to live long enough for the ceremony.”
Aldo took a deep breath, reclined the limo seat and put calming classical strings music on the system. “You watched him from behind this big rock?”
Matt nodded. “The night was dark, but the moon was yellow. He dug up something big and bulky and put it in the trunk of his seventies sedan. Whatever he unearthed was heavy enough to weigh down the massive junker trunk when he heaved it in inside.
“He drove back to Vegas,” Matt finished.
“You were inclined to think he dug up a body.”
“Yes. But it was far worse.”
Aldo’s mind was distracted. “Errand boy’s job. But why unearth it?” he muttered.
“Errant errand boy maybe,” Matt said.
Talking about this under the pulsing midday sun, listening to throbbing violins, the nighttime scene sounded stupid.
Aldo pushed himself off the cradle of his spine. “Now I like that news. We know this guy?”
“Unfortunately, I do, although I didn’t know who he was then.”
“So. You were in a great position to follow him again.”
Matt nodded. “I ended up at the parking lot of that old building near the Circle Ritz that Electra Lark just inherited.”
“Holy moly! You were driving her old white Probe. On a tailing operation. White? Man, you might as well have painted ‘Moby Dick’ on it. That’s the night you drove up two sets of stairs to interrupt a nasty situation inside the abandoned building. We Fontanas were most jealous you beat us there.”
“Yeah, but before I took that route, I followed that car to the parking lot and managed to jimmy open that old trunk lock and see what was inside.”
“Dead guy.”
“In a way,” Matt said.
“Huh? If not a corpse, what did your guy dig up?”
“A decades-old jackhammer, with rust on its bit.”
“Rust makes sense,” Aldo conceded. “Dried blood makes even more sense. No wonder The Mob Museum isn’t featuring this lost artifact in a Jack the Hammer exhibit.”
“Are you agreeing with me that someone is reviving the ghost of Jack the Hammer?”
“Looks like it. Looks like someone who knew him and his ways back in the day plans to use the legend to intimidate.”
Woody, Matt thought. He’s sniffed out the IRA bonanza, thanks to me dropping the hint of a treasure in his lap, and is planning to Jack the Hammer his way to finding it. The retired cop must have found and saved Giacco’s signature deadly weapon all these years.
“Don’t worry, Matt, my man. Fontana, Inc. is keen on finding anyone who is stirring up old venues and vendettas in Vegas. Meanwhile, you just lie back in the weeds, keep Miss Temple happy, and anticipate the wedding reception we’ve got brewing.”
“No way. That’s too disturbing to forget, and why I need to talk with your uncle.”
“My uncle? I’m told I’m gonna become Miss Temple Barr’s uncle by marriage, but what do you need to do with my uncle? Besides, Macho Mario enjoys everyone having forgotten about his old, cold salad days in the seventies. He’s in his own eighties now, wants to clock grandkid time, not sentimental journeys to the mayhem of the mob era.”
“He’d better,” Matt said. “Because I think seventies elements in Vegas are planning on bringing the bad old days back. Rock ‘n’ roll never forgets.”
“I have to say the old man remembers the dead gangsters in The Mob Museum better than most of his nephews.”
Aldo sighed and hit a speed-dial number on his cell phone. “Hey, Nicky. Assemble the clan. I got a feeling we’re in for a bumpy ride on the wedding carousel.” He hit another number. “Nurse Rachel, incoming.” He checked the rose-gold Rolex that (of course) matched his rose-gold iPhone, and then the Gray Ghost did a whip-neck Uey heading back south on the highway.
Matt felt his spine impact the back of his seat.
19
Don of the Dead
Matt had glimpsed Macho Mario Fontana once. From a distance, at Aldo’s and Temple’s Aunt Kit’s wedding at the Crystal Phoenix Hotel.
Matt had been most impressed that Macho Mario had all his hair at his age. And half of it was impressively silvered. He almost resembled the most Interesting Man in the World, recently replaced by a younger actor in the Dos Equis TV ads. Or the more professionally preserved Anthony Bennedetto, a.k.a. Tony Bennett.
Since Mario’s sister, Mama Fontana, had founded an empire on pasta sauce, most people, including Matt, considered Macho Mario an aging Don, quaint, colorful, and a harmless throwback, even respectable.
The new Mob Museum in the renovated 1933-built post office and courts building downtown treated former mob kingpins like any other Vegas icon from Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack to Elvis and Liberace, Phyllis Diller and Celine Dion, David Copperfield and Siegfried and Roy.
And Macho Mario also had his own persona
l high-profile exhibit at the Fontana Family hotel-casino, Gangsters. His personality seemed lavish on peccadilloes and light on lawlessness, but he definitely had been an up-and-coming young player in the bad old days of the seventies.
So when Aldo gingerly escorted Matt into the plush, secluded penthouse of Gangsters Hotel, Matt was prepared to tread lightly. He’d been suckered by one old man and he wasn’t about to do likewise with another.
“Aldo, Aldo, Aldo.” A portly man wearing a quilted maroon satin robe rose out of his easi-lift chair to kiss his eldest nephew on each cheek. “You are here to tell me of times gone by.” Macho Mario turned to Matt. “And I hear we are to have a priest marrying into the Family. What a weird world, but our own. Bene, bene,” he added in the manner of a Papal blessing.
“Ex-priest,” Matt emphasized. “And I didn’t just walk away like some. I was officially laicized when I left. I honored my vows until then.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Macho Mario waved his left hand bearing a heavy gold signet ring as he sat again. “You are a real rules respecter. And we of a certain brotherhood respect that loyalty to be demonstrated to the letter. Most impressive, my boy. But now you marry, eh? I recommend it, having done it three times, not all blessed by the Holy See. So, even better for you, my son. You have less time to sin like me.”
Mario kissed his fingers in Matt’s uneasy direction. “You are like a seasoned Mama Fontana sauce. Sautéed in Holy Orders and a blessed man for it, but now graduated into the sadly human world we all live in. What can I do for you? Aldo said you needed my counsel.”
Matt guessed it had been many, many years since Macho Mario’s counsel had been seriously sought.
“Sit,” Mario offered, or ordered. The only nearby option at a conversational level opposite the senior booster model Mario occupied was a wheeled and closed potty chair. This situation was surreal, but Matt sat.
“I need your help,” Matt said. Baldly.
Mario tented his fingers and nodded. “Direct. That is good. I have it to give. I admire a man humble enough to seek.”
Cat in an Alphabet Endgame: A Midnight Louie Mystery (The Midnight Louie Mysteries Book 28) Page 16