this interview. But on the other hand, my father may very well be using his go-go boots to outrun the Mob, so I didn’t feel I had much choice. As fortification, I added another layer of mascara and a thick swipe of Raspberry Perfection lip gloss.
“Ready?” I asked Dana as I puckered my lips in the mirror.
Dana pulled her stun gun out of her purse. “Ready.”
“Dana!”
She jumped in her seat. “What?”
“What are you doing with that thing?”
She blinked her wide eyes at me. “What? It’s just a little protection.”
“Condoms are a little protection. That thing is dangerous.”
Dana waved me off. “Oh please. It’s harmless. Marco just didn’t know how to use it.”
I eyed the cell stunner. “And you do?”
“Of course,” Dana said, clipping the phone onto her belt. “I used one last year in that sci-fi flick I did with Ben Affleck. I was Alien Girl Number Three.”
“And they gave you a real stun gun?”
“Well…” She puckered her eyebrows. “At first they gave me a real gun. But then there was this little incident and they said it would be better if I had a prop. But it totally looked like the real thing and I swear by the end of the shoot I was totally a master of that prop gun.”
“Little incident?” I narrowed my eyes at her. “What kind of incident?”
Dana waved me off. “Oh, it was nothing. Just a misunderstanding. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
Why is it that when someone says “trust me,” I always feel less inclined to do so?
But before I could stop her, Miss Alien Girl Number Three was out of the car and walking up the pathway to Maurice’s front door.
I followed her, silently praying to the saint of stun guns that hers wouldn’t go off as I walked between the lawn chairs and dried grass to unit 24A. Dana rapped on the door. I heard footsteps approaching from the inside, but the door stayed firmly shut. As the seconds stretched on, I got that creepy feeling that someone was watching us through the peephole.
Dana knocked again, louder this time. Finally the door opened a crack and Maurice’s tiny eyes peeked out.
He was dressed this morning in gray slacks and a black blazer over another turtleneck, this one in somber charcoal. Mourning colors. Though I noticed he still wore those hideous tasseled loafers. His eyes held a red- rimmed look, like he’d been crying nonstop since yesterday, and they darted back and forth, sweeping the area behind us as if we might have brought the fashion police with us.
“You again. What do you want?” he asked, his voice nasally and strained.
“I was wondering if we could talk to you for a few minutes. I’m worried about Larry.”
Maurice’s eyes shifted from Dana to me, then back again. Finally he shrugged, a sad, defeated little move of his shoulders, and stepped aside to let us in.
It was immediately apparent who had decorated the house in Henderson. The same blend of flowery, stainfriendly furniture dominated the living room. Only in Maurice’s tiny condo, the bright fabrics and large wooden furnishings looked cramped and out of place. It struck me that Maurice was a housewife without a house.
As in Henderson, everything was immaculately clean and the air held a thick odor of Windex and potpourri. The little yapper dog I’d seen at Larry’s bounded out from a back bedroom and began circling our legs. He did a series of high-pitched barks and wagged his tail at me like I was the bacon fairy. I had to admit, he was kinda cute. As long as he didn’t drool on my shoes.
“Oh, what an adorable doggie!” Dana exclaimed, reaching down to pet the little yapper. “What’s his name?”
“Queenie,” Maurice said, then choked back a little sob. “He was Hank’s baby.”
Maurice scooped Queenie into his arms and motioned for us to sit on the chintz sofa. He perched himself on the edge of the matching loveseat, clutching a balled-up tissue in one hand and the dog in the other. He was a small guy to begin with, only a few inches taller than I was, but he seemed to have shrunk inside of himself even further since yesterday, as if all the life had been drained out of him.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I started, genuinely meaning it.
Maurice nodded, pressing the tissue to the corner of his eye. “He was all I had,” he squeaked out. “If only I’d known he was so unhappy…” He trailed off, biting his lip as his eyes filled up.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, patting his arm awkwardly. “How long had you two been together?”
“Three years.” Maurice sighed, swiping at his nose with the tissue. “Ever since I started dancing. Hank took me under his wing and showed me everything he knew.” Maurice did a little hiccup gulp.
“So you’re a performer too?” I asked.
Maurice nodded. “At the El Cortez.”
That explained the lousy paycheck. The El Cortez was Vegas’s first casino and had the clientele to prove it. None of them a day under eighty and all on a fixed income. Not exactly big-tipper territory.
While I tried not to picture Maurice in feathers and heels, I formulated my next question. The one I was seriously dreading the answer to. “Maurice, I need to know. What exactly did Hank and his friends do for Mr. Monaldo?”
Maurice looked down at the carpet, an olive green shag. Apparently renters couldn’t be choosers. “I told you, we’re all dancers.”
“Then why are you living in a one bedroom, while Hank and Larry can afford a house in Henderson?” Dana asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
Maurice pursed his lips and began absently patting Queenie’s head. “Hank liked to spend money,” he said, careful to avoid eye contact.
“Look,” I said, leaning in closer, “you said you were done with Monaldo. What did you mean?”
Maurice looked from me to Dana, but kept up his silent routine.
“Please?” I pleaded. “I don’t want my dad to end up like Hank.”
That did it. Maurice’s shoulders bobbed with a deep hiccup-sigh thing again and he caved.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you, but I swear I honestly don’t know what they were up to.” His face took on that sad, abandoned look again. “No one would tell me anything.”
“But they were involved in something?”
Maurice nodded. “All I know is that they were doing some work for Monaldo on the side. But I swear to you I don’t know what. I tried to get it out of Hank but he…” Maurice’s voice cracked as he trailed off. “We hadn’t exactly been on great terms lately.”
“Oh?” Dana leaned forward again.
Maurice stared at his hands. “About three months ago, Hank started working late at the club. Going in at odd hours, when I knew he wasn’t on stage. I asked him what it was about. At first he wouldn’t answer me. Then one night I saw him coming out of Monaldo’s private office. I confronted Hank. I…” He blushed. “I thought maybe they were having an affair. When he came home I accused him of cheating on me and we fought. He told me he was doing some extra work for Monaldo. He, Larry, and Bobbi. He wouldn’t tell me any more than that. But the next day he brought me these as a peace offering.”
Maurice held out his arm for inspection. Diamond cuff links twinkled back at us from their spot on his worn jacket. And they didn’t look like the Home Shopping Network knockoffs. These were genuine, mined in Africa diamonds. And they were big.
Dana did a low whistle. “How many carats?”
“Two. Each.”
Dana whistled again.
Maurice got a sad little smile on his face and his eyes filled with tears again. “Hank could be very generous.”
“So was Larry working with him too?” I asked, thinking of the beat-up Volvo my dad had driven off. He hadn’t exactly seemed like he was rolling in dough.
Maurice shrugged. “I don’t know. I assumed he was, but…” He paused, staring down at the carpet again.
“But what?” I prompted.
His hands twisted around the tissue, making little white shreds of paper dance in the air, spurring the yapper
