by Pati Nagle
“He’s coming,” said Joe.
“Good,” said Stauffer. “Jesus. OK, let’s set everything up for the opening number again. Tom, recalibrate the soundtrack for Ben.”
“Who’s Ben?” Chase and I asked in unison.
“He’s, um, Malone’s understudy,” said Stauffer.
“Hey, Danny,” yelled a stage hand. “Somebody’s made a mess of the props!”
“Shit!” said Stauffer, pulling off the headphones and starting down the aisle toward the stage.
“We’ll get out of your way,” said Chase.
Stauffer paused. “Yeah, I’m sorry—"
“So are we. We’ll be in touch.”
I followed Chase up the steps. As he opened the door the casino’s noise struck me like thunder.
I paused, gearing up to plunge into that chaos of light and sound. I’d always been kind of curious about Las Vegas or Atlantic City, but now I was beginning to lose interest. The people sitting at the slots all had this kind of weary, hope-against-hope expression as they fed the machines gold tokens from their plastic cups. False gold, false hopes. Seemed everything around here was false.
“Let’s go talk to the manager,” said Chase, raising his voice over the circus music. “You should meet him.”
“You know him?”
Chase nodded. “Been working pretty closely with all the managers in the Arroyo. Setting up good relations, so they’ll cooperate when there’s a problem. Lets them know we’re watching out for trouble.”
We passed several craps tables and some banks of blackjack tables I hadn’t previously seen. “Are all the casinos like this?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Uh—this big, I guess.”
“Pretty much,” said Chase, heading up a half dozen steps.
At their top the red carpet gave way to marble floors and velvet ropes. We were suddenly in the hotel lobby, and the noise of the slots diminished behind us as we crossed it. I sighed with relief. Chase led me past a bank elevators and down a hall.
Another kachina stood a little way ahead. This one was male, wearing a green mask with feathers on top and a white kilt-thing. His bare torso was painted black with green and yellow designs.
“This way,” said Chase’s voice behind me.
Turning, I saw him standing at the foot of an escalator discretely tucked into an alcove. I’d gone right past without even seeing it.
We rode up to a floor blessedly silent: not a slot, not a video game, not a scrap of neon. Even the carpet was more subdued. A small brass sign pointed the way to Meeting Rooms.
Chase led me through a set of carved double doors into a plush reception area. I mean, seriously plush. Leather sofa and chairs. Bronze planters full of calla lilies. Expensive art on the walls.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Chase,” said a smiling Native American receptionist.
“Hello, Sally. This is Agent Marsh. Is Kyler still in that meeting?”
“All day. Can Emily help you?” said the receptionist.
“Sure,” said Chase.
He sat down on the leather couch and invited me to join him. I did, feeling a flash of the little kid’s trepidation at sitting on the grown-up furniture.
Chase’s fingers tapped the shiny brass of an ashtray standing next to the couch. The pristine sand had been shaped by some modern magic into a relief of the Rainbow Man’s mask.
“Mr. Chase?” said a soft voice to our right.
A woman walked out of a side hall and up to us, a pretty Native American with a long waterfall of black hair spilling over the shoulders of her cream-colored suit. She looked vaguely familiar, I thought. Chase stood up and shook her hand.
“Ms True-hee-oh,” he said. (I learned later from Mondo that it’s spelled ‘Trujillo.’) “This is Agent Marsh.”
She shook my hand with dry, warm fingers. “I’m Mr. Kyler’s assistant. How can I help you?”
“Can you give us a room to conduct interviews?” said Chase. “We’re investigating the death of Alan Malone.”
Sally the Receptionist’s eyebrows went up, and she glanced at Ms. Trujillo, whose face showed a flicker of pain. The latter opened one of the heavy doors and led us out into the empty hallway.
The escalator hummed quietly at our feet. Ms. Trujillo led us down a hall flanked on one side by meeting rooms and the other by a wall of glass. The windows overlooked the hotel’s swimming pool, a huge affair with a waterfall, lots of landscaping, and a couple dozen tourists courting melanoma.
She took out a keychain and opened a door to a small room dominated by a conference table. Masks on the walls acted as sconces, light gleaming behind their eyes. I didn’t like them; they made me feel like I was being watched.
“You can use this room for your interviews,” she said.
“Fine,” said Chase. “Have a seat, please. I just have a few questions.”
Ms. Trujillo sat down across the table from us. “I’m sorry,” Chase added. “I understand that you and Malone were close.”
“We were good friends,” said Ms. Trujillo, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Not lovers?” Chase’s voice was gentle, but his eyes watched. I was glad I wasn’t the one being questioned.
“Friends,” she said firmly.
“When did you see him last?”
Ms. Trujillo’s eyes got far away, and she didn’t respond for a moment. Then she blinked, and sighed.
“Sunday there was a Corn Dance at the pueblo. He always came to the public dances.”
“Any trouble between you?”
Her eyelashes fell over her eyes—black slits—then she looked up at Chase. “No.”
“No disagreements?”
“We understood each other. He was very interested in our ways. He studied them. He knew them well.”
“Where were you this morning?”
“In my office. Sally can tell you.”
“Thank you,” said Chase. He leaned back in his chair. “Can you get us a list of everyone who works in the theater? I know they’re having a rehearsal, but we need to start interviewing—"
“I’ll have Sally make you a copy of the roster,” said Ms. Trujillo.
I suddenly realized why she seemed familiar. She reminded me of the Blue Corn Maiden.
“Ms. Trujillo, did you pose for any of the kachina holograms?” I asked on impulse.
A flash of scorn in her eyes surprised me, then her lids half-hid them and her face became a mask of calm. “Those are actors,” she said flatly.
“Well, you might have done one for fun—"
“No,” she said. “I didn’t pose for them.” She looked from me to Chase, then stood up. “I’ve got some calls to make,” she said. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Just that list,” said Chase.
“Sally will bring it to you. Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, thanks,” said Chase.
She left, sable hair swaying. I glanced at Chase, who gazed at the doorway long after she was out of sight. She was pretty. I suppose if I were a man I’d stare after her, too.
Chase took off to find out about the autopsy, leaving me to spend the rest of the afternoon interviewing Malone’s co-workers with the masks glaring down like a row of judges. Mondo fetched dancers and stage crew and waiters for me to grill. Dark-eyed natives from catering looked in now and then, silently refilling water and coffee, and once leaving a plate of dull but nourishing sandwiches.
Through the interviews I began to build a picture of Malone. They all agreed he was talented, well-liked, and would be sorely missed.
No one could think of any reason someone would want to kill him. No one could even think of anyone who disliked him.
He had no ex-wives, estranged lovers, or creditors. His drug use was confined to an occasional joint backstage. He didn’t gamble, drank moderately, never fought except for disagreements with Stauffer over staging and such.
His family lived back east, and he spoke of them loving
ly and infrequently. Yes, they’d been notified. The mother was flying in to claim her angel boy.
Chase called around five to tell me the ME’s opinion; Malone had been stabbed several times in the back with a thin, straight-bladed knife, possibly a stiletto. The killer was right-handed and no taller than Malone. Time of death between 9:30 and 10:30 a.m., and how was I doing with the interviews?
I told him fine, fine. Actually, I was pretty discouraged.
I hung up and looked at the list Sally had brought. Check marks ran down three quarters of the page, with gaps here and there where some folks had not yet come in to work. A number of those I’d interviewed had alibied each other, and I’d established that Malone had been alive and well when he left the hotel after Monday night’s performance. Beyond that I hadn’t learned much.
The door opened, and Mondo stuck his head in. “Got the director for you finally. And the understudy. Which one you want first?”
“Understudy,” I said. I was getting ticked at the director, who’d been putting me off all afternoon, so now it was his turn to wait. “Hey, Mondo—did the victim’s car turn up?”
He nodded. “In the parking garage. Nothing useful in it. Nothing in the apartment either.”
“OK, thanks.” Malone’s life was too clean. This was not going to be easy.
Mondo let in a sharp-dressed, slick-haired stud whose every move said “gay.” He sat down across from me while I ran a finger down my list.
“Good afternoon, Mr....”
“Hanes,” he said. “Benjamin Hanes.”
“Mr. Hanes. Where were you before nine this morning?”
“With my voice coach. Every Wednesday.”
“All morning?”
"‘Til eleven. Then I had lunch with a friend, and then Joe paged me and I came down here. I guess I got here around one.”
“You hadn’t been here before that?”
“No, thank God! Poor Alan!”
“What was your relationship with Alan Malone?”
Hanes laughed. “Purely professional. Alan was depressingly straight. We all used to—"
“You were his understudy,” I said.
“Yes.”
“So you stood to gain from his death.”
His cheerful mask slipped a little. “I resent that,” he said with a laugh, but instead of sounding light he sounded sullen. “I would never hurt Alan.”
“I see. Do you know of anyone who would?”
“I can’t imagine. Everyone adored him. Even Miss T, and she doesn’t much care for the rest of us.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Doesn’t like the new show, on account of the kachinas. Doesn’t like the holograms either.”
Now that was interesting. Maybe Ms. Trujillo had wanted to stop the premiere.
“Did she argue about the show with Malone?”
“Not that I know of. He knew how she felt, and she knew he had to work.”
So dies a promising lead. I felt like I’d reached for a door, only to have the handle melt away under my hand.
I asked Hanes a few more questions and got nothing useful, so I freed him and called for the director. They passed in the doorway and exchanged a glance that told me something more about Hanes.
“Thank you for taking the time to come up, Mr. Stauffer,” I said. “I know you’ve been rehearsing all day.”
The director looked haggard and pissed as he sat down. Coming in he’d looked worried. It had been a long day and I didn’t feel like pussyfooting around, so I said “You and Mr. Hanes are lovers, right?”
He frowned at me, then shrugged. “Yeah. You keeping a list of everybody Ben’s slept with?”
“Not yet. Where were you this morning before nine?” I said.
He sighed. “In the theater, setting up for the premiere.”
“When did you arrive?”
“I never left last night. I crashed upstairs.”
I hadn’t expected that. “In a hotel room?”
“Yeah. There’s usually a couple free. Mr. Kyler lets us use ‘em if we’re crunched for time mounting a new show.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“Ben went home. He wasn’t anywhere near the place until this afternoon.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Stauffer’s frown deepened a bit. “Steve Clay shared the room with me. He’s on an errand right now, be back in about an hour.”
“What’s the errand?” I asked.
“Somebody dicked with our props, and there’s one missing. He’s getting a replacement.”
A chill ran down my back. “What kind of prop?” A knife, perhaps?
“A rattle.”
Oh.
“Did you like Alan Malone?” I asked, for lack of a better question.
“Sure, I liked him. He was a decent guy. Saw things his own way, of course. All actors do.”
“But you’re glad Ben has his part now, right?”
Stauffer sat back, as if he’d been waiting for that. “Listen, Ben’s got a lot of talent”—he dropped his voice with a glance at the door—“but he’s no Alan Malone. Yeah, I’m glad he’s getting a shot, but if you think I’d kill Alan to give it to him, you’re crazy.”
There was not much more to say. I got the names of his alibis for the morning, and let him go back to the theater.
It was almost six by now and Mondo was looking hungry, so I called it a day. With my notes under my arm I headed back down the escalator in search of dinner, grateful to be up and about even if it meant running the casino gauntlet again.
I swear they were moving the walls. The place never looked the same twice, except that it all looked more or less the same. Slots, slots, tables, slots, and holograms. I noticed one I’d seen before—a guy painted red all over with a big, snaggle-toothed snout on his mask—and made a mental note of the landmark.
I was making progress; the casino still disoriented me, but it didn’t seem quite so huge. I had almost gone past the Blue Corn Maiden before I recognized her and stopped.
The little hallway was empty. A damp area of recently-shampooed carpet was the only sign of disturbance.
I stared at it, feeling a crazy stab of loss. Blue Corn Maiden still stood guard over the spot where Alan Malone had died, but the casino had already forgotten him.
Well, I wouldn’t. Someone that handsome—and, apparently, that nice—deserved justice.
Looking up at the hologram, I had no idea why I’d thought she was like Ms. Trujillo. Her hair wasn’t loose, and her face was a mask. I reached toward her, my hand passing through the air where she was and was not. My fingers seemed to disappear into her basket of corn.
“There you are,” said Chase’s voice behind me, making me jump again.
“Damn it,” I said. “Quit sneaking up on me like that!”
“Sorry. What were you doing with the hologram?”
I looked up at him, then on impulse I stepped into the hologram and turned to face him.
He shook his head. “Doesn’t work. You’re just blocking the projector. Watch.”
I moved aside, and when Chase stepped into her place the Corn Maiden vanished. We found the projection equipment in the wall behind her, and played a little more with the image, figuring out how it worked. We concluded the hologram could hide a small object—my notebook disappeared nicely into her feet—but nothing as big as a person.
Still, the back of my neck tingled, as if some dormant hunter’s sense had awakened. I fumbled with the projectors, squinting to see past the bright beams of light, and spotted a small red button.
Flute music blasted out of the speaker in front of me. I jumped back, and the hologram flicked into existence, raising the basket of corn in her arms.
“I am the Blue Corn Maiden,” she said. “I guard the seed of the sacred corn, and watch over the young plants as they grow. I am the keeper of our gift from the gods.”
“What did you do?” said Chase, as the Corn Maiden gestured in different directi
ons with her basket.
“Pushed a button,” I said.
“You must have found a test mode.”
The flute music subsided, and the Corn Maiden resumed her normal frozen stance.
“Chase ... would you mind blocking the projectors again? I want to check something.”
“Not now,” he said softly. I turned and saw Ms. Trujillo coming toward us.
“Agent Chase, I’m glad I caught you,” she said. “I had a note from Daniel Stauffer asking me to give you these,” she said, handing him an envelope. He took it, and pulled out a pair of tickets.
“They’re for the 7:00 dinner show,” said Ms. Trujillo. “Is that all right?”
“Fine,” said Chase. “Want one?” he asked, turning to me and making me blush, because of course, yes I did.
Ms. Trujillo smiled briefly at us both, said “Enjoy the show,” and headed back into the depths of the casino.
Chase held out a ticket. I glanced up and saw him smiling. I guess I was more tired than I’d realized, because that smile hit me straight in the chest.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the ticket and hoping he hadn’t noticed how red I was getting.
“Be warned—I’m going to talk about work,” he said.
Chase led the way back into the depths of the casino. I saw the buffalo guy coming up, and noted that he was near a large bank of slots with a neon eagle above them. Across from him was a doorway.
Now, I was pretty sure that that was the same wall I’d been standing by earlier, and there had not been a door in it, and there had not been a hologram in front of it either, but now there was. I stared at the kachina, which had curving antennae and was painted head to toe in black and white stripes. He was wearing a black kilt and holding what looked like a handful of grass. How I could have missed him earlier I don’t know.
Chase went through the doorway into a fern bar. He made a bee-line for a table of executive-types, one of whom looked up and grinned.
“Chase! Pull up a chair! Who’s your friend?”
“Agent Marsh. She’s assisting me in the investigation,” said Chase, turning to me with a nod. “This is Mr. Kyler.”
“Agent Marsh,” said a big, friendly rancher-type, standing up to shake my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”