Leaving Bill’s neighborhood, Valentine turned his rental rightonto Las Vegas Boulevard. In the distance, he could see the neon spectacle that was Las Vegas at night, the casinos burning up hundreds of thousands of kilowatts trying to outshine each other.
Traffic was bumper to bumper, and he crawled ahead while staring at a green laser beam coming out of the tip of a pyramid-shaped casino called Luxor, the light ruining an otherwise flawless sky. Turning on the car’s interior light, he removed the surveillance picture from his pocket and drove with it on the steering wheel.
Was it his fault that this guy hadn’t been caught? He hated to think that it was, but still didn’t believe the FBI’s approach had been the correct one. Profiling people based on skin color was a throwback to the dark ages. There were better ways to catch criminals.
He drove with the picture on the steering wheel, staring him in the face.
At nine twenty-five he pulled into the Jokers Wild parking lot. The casino sat on a deserted stretch of the Boulder Highway. A rinky-dink marquee boasted nickel slot machines and single-deck blackjack.
He ventured inside. There was a theater just off the lobby. People were lined up for the nine-thirty show. Had Gerry said he’d meet him by the theater, or inside? He didn’t remember, and decided to stick his head inside the casino.
The gaming area was a low-ceilinged room with enough cigarette smoke to make breathing dangerous. It was packed, and he elbowed his way through to a pair of double doors. Opening them, he entered a bingo parlor. A caller in a plaid jacket stood on the stage.
“Folks,” the caller said, “it’s time to get up from your seats. Come on, you can do it. Don’t want the support hose to cut off our circulation!”
Valentine returned to the lobby. Gerry had said that he wanted him to see an act in the theater. He’d made it sound like something special. Was his son already inside, waiting for him? He bought a ticket and went in.
The theater was filled with rough-looking people chugging beers. He walked up and down the aisles but didn’t see his son. The lights dimmed, and he went and stood by the exit. Over the PA, a man’s booming voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Jokers Wild, the entertainment capital of Las Vegas—”
“Right!” a guy in the audience with a ponytail yelled.
“—and maybe the world. Tonight we’re proud to introduce two premier novelty acts. Get ready to laugh and be amazed, to hold your sides and not believe your eyes. The show is about to begin!”
“Get on with it,” Ponytail yelled.
“Our first act is a man who needs no introduction. You’ve seen him on Johnny Carson, heard his voice in a hundred TV commercials. Here he is, the master of mirth, the one, the only . . . Hambone!”
A spotlight hit center stage. The crowd did its best to make some noise. An old guy with a face like a basset hound shuffled out. Walking into the spotlight, he shielded his eyes with his hand.
“Turn that fucking thing down,” he hollered.
The spotlight dimmed, and the old guy lowered his hand. He wore a tuxedo, or rather the tuxedo wore him, his shoulders sagging so badly that it seemed his clothes were the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor.
“So how you folks doing this evening?” he asked.
“Better than you,” Ponytail replied.
Hambone threw his arms out in surprise. “Holy cow! I didn’t know this was Jerry Springer! Hey buddy, you ever help a comic before?”
“No!”
“Well, you’re not helping one now. Shut up!”
The crowd started laughing. Valentine saw a man enter the theater, and he tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around. It wasn’t Gerry.
“Sorry.”
“A funny thing happened on the way to the show,” Hambone said. “I got here! But seriously folks, it’s tough when you’ve got Celine Dion singing down the street. Anyone know how much money she’s making a week?”
“Two million bucks,” someone said.
“Two million bucks,” Hambone repeated. “But it’s not steady!”
A woman in a red dress appeared on stage. She wore her hair like Snow White and weighed about two hundred pounds. Holding up an envelope, she said, “Telegram for Hambone!”
“That’s me,” the comic said. Snatching the envelope, he tore it open. “It’s from the William Morris Agency. Oh, boy. It says, Hambone—stop. Saw the act—stop, stop, stop, stop . . .” He crunched the telegram into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. “Everyone’s a comic!” Turning to his assistant, he said, “What’s your name?”
“Twiggy.” She had a voice like air slowly escaping from a balloon. “Hambone, is it true you were once a boxer?”
“That’s right.”
“How many fights did you have?”
“A hundred and one.”
“How many did you win?”
“All but a hundred.”
“Ever make any extra money boxing?”
“Sure. I sold advertising space on the soles of my shoes.”
“I heard you had back trouble.”
“It’s true. I had a yellow streak up and down my back.”
“Why did you quit?”
“Couldn’t make hospital expenses.”
It wasn’t long before the crowd turned hostile. Arm in arm with his assistant, Hambone shuffled off stage, immune to the audience’s taunts and jeering. Valentine checked the time. Nine forty-five. He would give his son fifteen more minutes, then drive to Henderson and start looking for him.
There was something wrong with the curtains, and the next act had to set up in front of the audience. Valentine found himself smiling as Ray Hicks and Mr. Beauregard, the world’s smartest chimpanzee, came on stage. Two months ago, Hicks had saved his life in Florida, and they had become friends. This was why Gerry had picked the Jokers Wild to meet, he realized. To surprise him.
Hicks wore a canary-yellow sports jacket, baggy black pants, and a porkpie hat. He was funny looking, only no one in the audience was paying attention to him. They were looking at Mr. Beauregard, who wore a magnificent tux with a shiny satin cummerbund. As the chimp glided across the stage on roller skates, his eyes settled on Valentine’s face. A happy noise came out of his mouth.
“Good evening,” Hicks said, holding a microphone. “My name is Ray Hicks, and this is Mister Beauregard. Several years ago, while traveling with my carnival in Louisiana, I found Mister Beauregard in a pet shop, abused and underfed. I bought him for five hundred dollars.”
“Louisiana?” Ponytail shouted. “They shoot mad dogs there, don’t they?”
“I planned to teach Mister Beauregard a few simple tricks,” Hicks went on, “and put him in my carnival. But when I tried to train him, I discovered that Mister Beauregard had already been to school.”
A large chest sat stage center. It was the act’s only prop, and the chimp flipped open the lid and removed a beat-up ukulele. He strummed the instrument with his thumbless hand.
“Someone name a song, any song,” Hicks proclaimed.
“Free Bird,” Ponytail called out.
Mr. Beauregard started playing really fast, the music instantly familiar. Ponytail and his girlfriend stomped their feet, as did others in the crowd. “He’s good,” someone said.
“Another song,” Hicks said.
“The theme from
Hicks said, “Mr. Beauregard, do you know the theme from
The chimp skated to the edge of the stage. Suddenly there was music.
“Yeah,” the person who made the request said.
“It has often been said that animals communicate on a different level than humans, and perhaps can tap into thoughts,” Hicks said. “Impossible? Just watch. May I have a volunteer from the audience?”
Ponytail hoisted his girlfriend’s arm into the air. The spotlight found her, and she reluctantly went up. She
