“Nice,” I said. “Which one’s yours?”
“Number twenty-three. On the second floor.”
“I’m gonna leave my gun in your car under the seat, so lock up. I’ll get it later. Don’t get it out and play with it.”
“Like I’m gonna play around with a gun.”
I got out of the car. She got out, locked up, and headed toward her apartment. I headed for the street.
“Hey!”
I turned. “What?” “It’s this way, Mort.”
“Yup. Got that. Now I know. I’ll have to see it sometime. Right now’s not that time.”
She watched me go. I thought she’d come after me, but she didn’t. I went past elms and a fence covered with honeysuckle and she was lost to sight.
I was in the Green Room nursing a sarsaparilla when O’Roarke came on duty. He stared at my drink and said, “Hell has froze over.”
I was considering a witty comeback, something like, “Screw you,” but I’m an adult.
Sort of.
But it wasn’t easy with Holiday still attached to my retinas, the way she’d looked in that room last night when the bed cover had tumbled down.
“Okay, time for a Pete’s Wicked Ale.”
“That’s more like it, spitfire,” O’Roarke said as he reached for a longneck.
“May even your fleas have fleas.”
“Rough day?”
“You might say that.”
“Heard something about it on the radio this afternoon. Don’t leave without autographing a napkin or one of my butt cheeks.”
“Something I hope never to see.” I took a swig of Pete’s. “I heard somewhere that people still listen to radio. Really old people. Got any great-grandchildren photos?”
He hit the remote, turned on the television over the bar. “Five o’clock news’ll be on in a few. Might be more fun today.”
Avoiding it wouldn’t make it go away. “Turn up the sound,” I said. “Let’s see the damage.” I took a moment to check the picture I’d taken of the FedEx shipping label on my cell phone. I zoomed in and saw that it had been sent from Bend, Oregon.
Then the news came on.
First up was Mortimer Angel and Sarah Dellario, exiting Corti’s Casino in Gerlach through a snowstorm of asinine questions. That brought O’Roarke up short. “That’s Sarah Dellario?”
“Yep.”
“Heard the name on the radio. She looks a hell of a lot like your favorite hooker—Holiday.”
“Doesn’t she, though?”
“And that shirt she’s wearing. Man, that’s . . . something.”
“You oughta see it in 3-D.”
Which, then, he did, because Holiday-Sarah chose that moment to wander in and plop down on a stool next to me. In that shirt.
“Thought I might find you here,” she said. “I mean, where else would you go?”
“Like I’ve got no friends in northern Nevada, no life beyond this barstool. Thank you. Anyway, you’re really into that shirt, huh? Probably dangerous to try to get it off without a spotter.”
She looked down at herself. “Snug little number, isn’t it?”
O’Roarke said, “Reminds me of a slingshot I had when I was a kid. Powerful one, too. Kill a rhino with it.”
“You’re probably remembering the stretch,” I said.
Holiday suppressed a smile. “You two’re like what, thirteen years old? Anyway, I can’t get rid of it. It’s special.” She looked up at the television. “Oh, jeez. Is that us?”
“Next time you go to class, you’ll be asked for your autograph. Or something.”
“Well . . . that’s sort of a bitch.”
“Better believe it. I’ve been asked to sign a butt cheek.”
The news unfolded, talking heads barely able to conceal their delight now that the severed right hand of presidential hopeful Senator Harold J. Reinhart had turned up in a FedEx package early that morning, sent to private investigator Mortimer Angel, the same Mortimer Angel who found the severed heads of blah, blah, blah. There was a nice close-up of me, and an even closer-up of Sarah, braless in her new shirt. Networks were in the business of ratings and revenue. What she was or wasn’t wearing wasn’t their fault.
“Oh, jeez,” she said.
“Yup. Expect movie offers.”
Right then my cell phone rang. Played a few bars of Light My Fire before I could swipe the screen. It was Jeri, no surprise. “Hi, there,” I said.
“Jesus, Mort. I leave you for just one day—what the hell’s goin’ on?”
“You know. The usual, finding stuff. It’s what I do.”
“Oh, for Chrissake. I saw it on television. And who was that with you? I mean, why was she with you? Sarah somebody.”
“Dellario.” Holiday-Sarah looked at me, tilted her head. “In fact,” I said, “I’m in the Green Room right now and she’s right here. We’re watching the news. You two should talk.” I handed the phone to Holiday. Or Sarah. “It’s Jeri,” I said. One way or another this was going to get worked out—in the open. No secrets.
Later I would remind myself that I was the one who said they should talk. Me. I did that.
“Uh, hi,” Sarah said. “I’m, uh, Sarah.”
At that point I had to piece the conversation together. There was a one-sided discussion about her hiring me, private detective that I am, Allie’s phone call, the trip to Gerlach, the gas problem, the room problem, the hundred-dollar bribe, more back and forth during which my future was a ping pong ball, so I left. Went out into the casino and up to the mezzanine, got a hot dog with mustard and onions, no relish. I’ve never gotten sick from a hot dog so I don’t worry about what’s in them, especially since they’re loaded with enough preservatives to kill a rat, and poison has no effect on IRS agents. Got done with that, so I went back to the main floor and found a roulette wheel, put five dollars on red. I won, so I let it ride. Won again, let it ride. Thirteen, black. Let it ride long enough and you’ll lose, every time.
Speaking of losing, I went back to the Green Room. Holiday was
