“Arlene,” Russ said slowly.
“I don’t know her last name. But it’s likely she’s the owner of Arlene’s Diner. You’ll pass the place on the way to Caliente. It’s in the middle of nowhere on US 93. Can’t miss it. She’s in her fifties or sixties, if that helps.”
“So, what do you want to know about this person?”
“Whatever you can find out. Does she own the place? How much did it make the last few years? Does she have relatives nearby? And there’s a motel there, too, the Midnight Rider Motel. Does she own it? If so, for how long? If not, who does? Does she own other property anywhere? Rent anything? How long has she been in the state? Where was she born? Is she educated?”
“Jesus,” Russ said. “Who is this woman?”
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
“Four minutes, twenty seconds,” said my assistant. “But I’m thinking of trimming that ten minutes down to like eight.”
Russ stared at her, then back at me. “What’s with this Arlene lady?”
“I don’t know. Place is a little odd,” I said. I didn’t want to mention that Arlene almost certainly knew that Jo-X flew in and out of the place, and that she knew Shanna was Celine—which I wasn’t ready to reveal to Russ yet.
“Odd how?”
“Minute and a half,” said my assistant, giving me the kind of look that could mean only one thing.
“Odd as in strange,” I said to Russ.
“Strange how?”
“Strange as in a little bit off.”
“Shee-it. Talk about runnin’ me around in circles.”
“Just find out everything you can, Russ. I don’t know what’s important, but I’ll sift through it.”
“Fifty-five seconds.”
Russ gave me a look. “What’s with the countdown timer, Angel?”
“She needs a bath.”
“So? Who’s keeping her? Bathroom’s right over there. It has a door. She was just in there.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. Her lips parted and her teeth showed. “In thirty-eight seconds I’m gonna throw you out a window.”
“Jesus, Angel. Okay, I get this information, how’m I gonna get it to you?”
“You’ve got my number. Cell phone coverage is sketchy out in the desert. Keep trying. You might confide in your overgrown behemoth sidekick, give him the information. Or have him get it for you, if he can do that. I’ll phone you. If I don’t get through, I’ll phone him. One way or another, I’ll get it.”
“Okay, great. We all done here?” Lucy said.
Russell stared at me. “Your assistant’s kinda—”
“Out,” Lucy said. She hauled him toward the door by a sleeve and propelled him out into the hallway.
I blocked the door with a foot so she couldn’t slam it in his face and further damage what had evolved into a useful working relationship.
“She’s new,” I said. “We’re still workin’ things out—”
Lucy’s bathrobe landed on my head. When I got it off, Russ was staring somewhere behind me with eyes the size of tennis balls before I got the door closed.
I turned around. Lucy was wearing nothing but a grin she’d borrowed from an Alice in Wonderland movie.
“She’s new,” she chirped, jumping up on me, arms around my neck, legs wrapped around my waist.
“Hey, wait—” My hands automatically grabbed her rear to keep her from falling and hurting herself, which turned out not to be necessary—but it was the kind of warm, firm, rounded butt I would be able to feel in my hands for the next twenty years.
“And pretty worked up,” she whispered. “So you’ve got a lot of work to do—you know, like you told him—workin’ things out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DINNER WAS LOBSTER thermidor and a very fine Vouvrey from France’s Loire Valley, courtesy of the Luxor who had lost another three grand to Lucky Luce minutes before we sat down and got menus. I was almost starting to feel sorry for them, especially the pit boss who watched a month’s salary walk away after just six minutes of play. It wouldn’t be long before Lucy was banned from roulette in this place. They did that in casinos. Casinos were notoriously sore losers. Notorious. Card counters were regularly escorted to the sidewalk by the seat of their pants, but this thing with roulette would have them scratching their heads. She didn’t have a system and she used the word “shuckins.” She’d bet on both red and black at the same time, which qualified her as a genuine idiot. They might check her birthday, discover that four planets had been lined up like duckpins, none of them Mars, then run us out to the sidewalk and put us in their infamous Black Book, which they claim doesn’t exist—except that it does.
On the way down to the restaurant, my legs had felt rubbery. I hadn’t been used like that in a while. In fact, it had been about nine months. First there was the Jacuzzi, then a shower, then a brushing of teeth, then a bottle about the size of my thumb that produced dabs of liquid on her chest and inner thighs that smelled faintly of musk and orange blossoms, then she led me over to a bed and, if memory serves, there was quite a lot of pre-fooling-around and girlish giggling—not mine; I try to suppress it since it plays havoc with my PI gravitas—before things got serious. Words from the Vagina Monologues were used. At one point, one of us said, “Giddyup, Mort,” in a breathy whisper and I’m ninety-nine percent certain it wasn’t me.
“Wow,” she said, flat on her back and naked. “I haven’t been roughed up like that in . . . like forever.”
I was on my back, too, unable to produce lifelike sounds.
Lucy sat up nimbly and straddled me on hands and knees. She bent down and brushed my lips with a nipple, then gazed into my eyes. “Speak. I want to hear signs of life.”
“Can’t,” I croaked.
“How about a little CPR kick start?”
“I’ll let
