“Don’t see why. One thing she did right, though, she roofied Jo-X, gave him a superglue special, and left here by car.”
“Probably couldn’t find the keys to the whirly.”
“So, she knew where the place was, Mr. PI. Then she comes back but didn’t know the place had been set on fire. I’ll bet she was looking for something. She might have left something that would point to her being here and she wanted to get it back.”
“She might still be looking for that guest book Josie signed.”
“Possible, but people don’t usually haul those around.” She stared at the house. “No one reported the fire. Look at it. It went up, burned right to the ground. No fire trucks, nothing.”
“Another tremendous observation.”
“So, what did you get from this place, Smarty Pants?”
“Ash in my throat.”
She laughed. “That and an eyeful.”
“An eyeful?”
“Her halter top. Jeez Louise, it was like she was shoplifting honeydews. I bet she could’ve asked Jo-X for thirty thousand a concert. I would’ve. Well . . . if.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I RESET THE odometer, then drove us out past the first gate, the tire shredder, then the gate near the highway. I dragged the gate back across the road to keep the riffraff out. The distance from Jo-X’s hideaway to the highway was fourteen point seven miles.
“Where to?” Lucy asked as I stopped the Mustang a few feet from the highway.
Left was Caliente, right was Vegas. I checked the time—5:50. Temperature readout on the dash was dead on a hundred.
“How about your favorite resort?” I said.
“Back to our Jacuzzi. Perfect. Get the smell of ash off us.”
“I meant the Midnight Rider and its shower.”
She didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then she shrugged. “The water was tepid but the shower was still a blast. I could get you all lathered up. Which I haven’t really done yet.”
I sighed deeply.
She smiled. “What?”
“You never quit, do you?”
“Hey, I’m only thirty-one, not a hundred one, and it’s been a while since I’ve . . . since . . . anyway, we haven’t checked out the food at the diner. The place might be a sleeper. It might have a nice crab salad or a world-class lobster thermidor.”
“Right. And the ceiling farther back might be plated with gold or painted with a Michelangelo fresco.”
“Yeah. That, too. We should go see.”
“Back again?” said the lady behind the counter, head tilted slightly to the left, eyes dark behind reading glasses with violet frames on a beaded chain. Smoke filled the air around her like the ash in Jo-X’s former hideout.
“We’re traveling between Ely and Vegas,” I said. “My oldest sister died. We got a bunch of family stuff to sort out.”
“That’s never fun. I’ll put you in room four. That’s—”
“Actually,” I interrupted, “we were in One the other day. I’d rather stay there if it’s all the same.”
“Four’s a better room. Same price.”
“Even so, how ’bout we take number one again? It’s closer to the diner here if we get hungry.”
She hesitated, lips twitching. “If you insist, One it is. That’ll be fifty-two dollars, cash. Fifty-five if you use a credit card.”
I gave her three twenties and got change. “I don’t suppose you have lobster thermidor tonight in the dining room?”
I don’t know if it was the “thermidor” or the “dining room” that made her laugh, but she did. Maybe. Her smoker’s voice transmogrified it into a fragmented cackle. Spooky.
Our waitress was Melanie. Hard to believe she was eight years younger than Lucy. Before we were seated, she told us the closest they had to lobster in Arlene’s Diner was a tuna salad sandwich made fresh yesterday or a bowl of clam chowder out of a can, take your pick.
Lucy stared at me. “We could be at the Luxor in an hour and a half. Less if I drive.”
“We’ve already got a room for the night here.”
“Jacuzzi over there. Clean sheets. Free food in the casino. They might even have lobster thermidor.”
“Good ’nuf.”
I said so long to Melanie and we left, which felt weird, but I had a plan of sorts rolling around in my head.
We arrived at the Luxor at seven forty-five. The sun wouldn’t set for over an hour. Temperature a hundred and one degrees. Vegas runs hot. Up and down the Strip, half the women were in clothing that showed quite a bit more than the usual amount of skin you see in Iowa, which was both good and bad. As a result, Lucy fit right in as we rolled into the valet area and she got out in running shorts and her peek-a-boo crochet halter. Even with the competition, she drew stares. There is skin and then there is skin. Lucy’s was the latter variety.
“Got any thousand-dollar chips on you?” she asked.
“One.” I adjusted the wig and moustache.
“Gimme it. I feel lucky.”
“Last time you said that you lost ten thousand bucks.”
“They’ll be overjoyed to see me. They want their money back, Daddy. They figger it’s just a matter of time.”
“Go get ’em, Sugar Plum.”
Which she did. Red, three times, letting it ride, then she put down a “shuckins” to keep them guessing, and we headed to the suite with seven chips, up another six thousand dollars.
“Why the hell do you want to be a PI?” I asked her when we got in the elevator. “A few days here and you could retire.”
“Everything we’ve done since I got rescued from Tonopah, of course. Luck can change. But you should try waiting tables, sometime. Or renting party stuff, talking on the phone, telling people what they can rent. Same thing over and over and over. Prices, terms, and conditions. Scorpions on the ceiling. Now I’m running around with a hot PI who carries a .357 Magnum.”
“Hot, right. They have anti-psychotic drugs now, you know. Keeps people like you from being institutionalized.”
“You don’t think?” She took my hand. “Smile. You’re about to get happy with a girl who knows how to use a .38 loaded with plus-P ammo and who’s a little bit worked up at the moment.”
“Worked up?”
“Well . . . yeah. Little
