And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2) (8 page)

“Good theory,” Trace said.

Hubbaker nodded. Marks had a what-else-would-you-expect look.

“Only one thing wrong with it,” Trace said. “Maybe two.”

“What’s that?” the baron asked.

“Yeah. What’s wrong with it?” Marks said.

“Jarvis rented a car at the airport. If he met somebody he knew who had a car, he would have driven in that person’s car. And if he met somebody who didn’t have a car, they’d probably have waited for Spiro to pick them up. Either way they wouldn’t have rented a car to drive into town. And why did Jarvis park on the road and not in Felicia’s driveway? But it’s not a bad theory. It just needs a little work.”

Marks looked as if he had swallowed a rat tailfirst, but Hubbaker merely shrugged. “That’s the blessing of being an amateur. We can postulate anything we want and we bear no responsibility if it doesn’t work out.”

They were interrupted by Willie Parmenter returning with the drinks, napkins carefully wrapped around their bases. Hubbaker thanked him. Marks sipped his and grumbled, “It’s still too sweet.”

Parmenter said, “Sorry. Should I have another one made?”

“No. I’ll get my own the next time. I guess it’s the only way to get it right.”

Parmenter walked away and Trace looked to the far corner of the room. Paolo Ferrara, a fresh drink in his hand now, still had Chico trapped, and her smile, thin to start with, was now as finely drawn as a line from a freshly sharpened pencil.

Trace put his glass down on an end table and started to stroll over to her, but he was intercepted in midroom by the countess.

“She’ll survive,” Felicia said, nodding toward Chico. “She could handle four like him before lunch.”

Trace nodded but started to move away and Felicia caught him by the arm. “I couldn’t find that passport. It occurs to me that maybe the jewel thief stole it,” she said. “Passports are worth something on the black market or wherever you sell stolen stuff, aren’t they?”

“So is cash,” Trace said. “But the thief didn’t take Jarvis’s wallet.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“And if I had a million dollars’ worth of jewelry stuffed in my pockets, I don’t think I’d stop for either a wallet or a passport,” Trace said. “Excuse me, Felicia. Something needs doing.”

Chico saw him coming and gave a tiny little shake “no” of her head. It was obviously not noticed by Ferrara, who kept oozing snake oil over her and who didn’t notice Trace, even when he stopped alongside them.

“Hello, Miss Mangini,” Trace said.

“Hello, Trace. Do you know Mr. Ferrara?”

“We’ve met,” Trace said.

“Not really a high point of my trip to America,” Ferrara said. He pointedly turned his back a little more on Trace, inviting him out of the corner conversation.

Trace tapped him on the shoulder. “I think you’ve monopolized our hostess’s time long enough,” he said.

“I think that’s for her to say,” Ferrara said.

“She can’t.”

“Why not?”

“She has a fatal weakness. She can’t tell bores to shove off.”

“I can,” Ferrara said. “Shove off.”

He turned away from Trace again and Trace picked up Ferrara’s drink, which the Italian had set down on a small end table. Slowly he began to pour a thin stream of the vodka over Ferrara’s jacket sleeve.

It took a full second and a half of spilled highball before Ferrara realized something was happening. He turned, looked at Trace, and then at his wet sleeve.

“You bastard,” he said, rubbing his sleeve. “I’m going to punch your face.”

“I’m afraid that’s not the way it’s going to happen,” Trace said calmly.

Ferrara swung anyway and Trace slid to the side and the punch moved harmlessly past his right ear. Trace grabbed the man’s right wrist in his own right hand, moved it down, and then twisted it up behind Ferrara’s back. He reached around in front of the man with his left hand and handed him his glass.

“You forgot your drink.” He suggested strongly that Ferrara take it by forcing the right wrist up higher behind the man’s back. Ferrara took the glass in his left hand and Trace released him.

“Go away now,” Trace said.

Ferrara stood there momentarily, his back still toward Trace, then rubbed his sleeve again, bellowed “Willie,” and set off across the room to his hapless assistant. Trace looked around the room. No one had seemed to notice what had happened, except the countess, who smiled at him. Everybody else was still talking.

“You’re really a vile-tempered thing,” Chico told him.

“I think alcohol deprivation is ruining my ability to tolerate people. How are you?” Trace asked.

“All right, until this guy. I mean, I figured I’d be fighting Swenson off, but Bob’s in love.”

“He’s in love every day with somebody different,” Trace said. “You’re one of the few constants.”

“Frozen out now, though,” she said. “I think National Anthem there has him by the nose.”

“One of the most inappropriate figures of speech I ever heard,” Trace said.

“She is something, though, isn’t she?” Chico said She was looking across the room at the porn actress. Trace turned to see National Anthem with her hands together, both of them held in Bob Swenson’s big hands. “Trace, if you decide to take a run at her, I’ll understand,” Chico said.

“I’m sorry. I’m not her species,” Trace said.

Chico giggled and said, “Come on, big boy. You can buy me a drink.”

Trace knew that meant soda. Some Oriental gene, common among Japanese, had made it impossible for Chico to drink alcohol. Any liquor at all brought on a flushed face, a quickened pulse, and if the drink was strong enough, a pass-out.

Trace got them both tonic waters so they could at least look like drinkers, and they stood in a corner of the bar room by themselves.

“Remember you thought that Marks was up to something?” he said.

“Yup. Congratulations by the way on not drinking.”

“Don’t remind me. Anyway, Groucho’s waiting for me to fall on my face. There’s some big insurance detective in town to check out the jewel robbery.”

“Do you know him?” she asked.

“Nope. Nobody does. He’s a big mystery man. Wears a mask and a cloak when he works, I think.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Bob found out from one of his drunken cronies and told me.”

Chico nodded. “That must be what Marks was talking about last night. Remember, I told you, he said something about enough rope to hang himself. He was talking about you. Oh, Trace, it’d be wonderful if you could figure this one out. What a kick in the ass for that surly little Munchkin.”

“Did you see him abusing that other guy inside?” Trace asked.

“What guy?”

“Willie. Your boyfriend’s assistant.”

“Yeah. I was watching. Don’t give a small person power,” Chico said.

“Not a chance,” Trace said. “I gave you power and look what it’s gotten me. A sober, dull, ill-tempered miserable life.”

“Speaking of which, here’s your mother. You’ll forgive me. I’m going forth to commit
seppuku
.”

“And leave me to suffer through by myself? Not a chance. Stay alive.” He grabbed Chico’s arm and held her by his side.

“Hello, Mother. You remember Michiko? The woman I live with?”

“Devlin, I played the machines by the casino door just like you told me. I lost another ten dollars.”

“Maybe it wasn’t your lucky day. Where’s Sarge?”

“Maybe everything in this casino is crooked,” she said, finally looking at Chico. “You work here, Miss Manzano. Would you think so?’

“Mangini’s the name,” Chico said. “Actually, I wouldn’t know. I deal blackjack and a lot of people win at blackjack. We don’t really think about slot-machine players because there’s a saying in casinos.”

“Oh? What’s that saying?”

“People who play slot machines are imbeciles,” Chico said. “Excuse me, Trace.” She walked away.

“Really,” his mother said. “I don’t know how you can stand that woman.”

“She makes good shrimp tempura. Where’s Sarge?”

“He had a drink in his hand. He went out there, I think. I swear, he’s enough to make me crazy. Every time I turn around, he’s vanished.”

“I can’t imagine why, Mother. Except maybe he doesn’t like watching you lose your inheritance in the slot machines.”

“What else would he do except get into trouble?” she said.

“Walter Marks is inside,” Trace said. “He asked me if you were coming tonight. Why don’t you go say hello? He’s with a real baron.”

“Oh. Well, of course.”

Trace found his father sitting in the first room on a sofa, holding a glass of liquor in his outsized mitt, staring at the floor, looking glum.

“I never saw anybody in Las Vegas look that forlorn,” Trace said.

“It’s that woman,” his father said. “I never realized how comfortable my house is. Somehow, when we’re there, I tune her out. She goes to the bedroom, I go to the kitchen. She goes to the kitchen, I go to the cellar. She goes to sleep and I go to the saloon. Here, I can’t get out of her sight.”

“You vanished long enough today to get to police headquarters,” Trace said.

“Oh, you heard. Well, I just wanted to look around and see how they work. Nice fellow, that Rosado.” He looked at Trace for a moment as if measuring his reaction. “Don’t think he’s much of a detective, though.”

“Why not?” Trace asked.

“Not mean enough. He’s got the look of the kind of person who trusts people.”

“Yeah, Sarge, that old demon trust. It’ll get you in trouble every time.”

“It will if you’re a detective,” the old man said. “I never trusted anybody. Not partners, not superiors, not suspects, lawyers, prosecutors, anybody. Twenty-five years and I was never indicted.”

Trace thought to himself that not having been indicted was a pretty small merit badge to wear for twenty-five years of policework.

But instead, Trace said, “Listen. Suppose I got Mom a lover. What would you think about that? Some dancer or something. Maybe an acrobat.”

“Well, for a couple of days I think it’d be wonderful. Get her off my back. I’d have to kill him, of course, before I left town.”

“Hell, I don’t think I can get anybody to do it if he knows he has to die,” Trace said.

“Try,” his father urged, then looked glum again. “No. Never mind. I’m just doomed. Thanks for thinking of me.”

“Your father’s drinking too much,” Chico said.

“Funny. I’m the one who’s going to be forty and he’s the one who’s got the midlife crisis.”

“That’s now. Wait until Thursday when the big four-oh comes. I’ll tell you how it’ll be. First, you won’t be able to get out of bed. What for? Another dismal day like all the rest? So you’ll stay in bed. Your body will ache and you’ll think of a cup of tea. With lemon. And honey. I’ll parade through the room naked, but I won’t get any response because you know if you use it all up right away, it’ll be another week before you can do it again. You’ll start riding buses, instead of walking, and you’ll think about answering ads in the sex columns. ‘Beautiful horny young woman looking for generous elderly bachelor. Please write Lulu LaTour. Send photo. All letters answered.’ I tell you, Trace, I don’t envy you. Your pop’s all right. He’s just depressed, but he’ll get better when he gets home. For you, it’s the end of the line.”

“The only thing that keeps me going is knowing that you’ll be there with me in my sunset years,” Trace said.

“Hah. All these years you’ve been abusing me?” Chico said. “Now it’s my turn. From now on I flaunt my lovers in front of you. Eighteen-year-old bellhops. Valet parking attendants. Carry-out boys from the supermarket.”

“You don’t go to a supermarket,” he said.

“I’m going to start. I’m going to all the supermarkets. A different one each day. And I’m going to have them all deliver. You can lie in bed rusting and hear the squeals of pleasure from the living room. We’ll be on the rug.”

“It’s nylon. I hope it scratches your butt and he gets knee burns. If he turns his back, I’ll club him with my cane.”

Chico didn’t answer. She was looking from the doorway toward the sofa where Trace’s father sat, still looking at his drink. Mrs. Tracy was next to him, her jaw moving continuously. “Your father’s quite a man to have let her live,” Chico said.

“I know. I wish there was some way to bail him out. You know, that’s what my marriage was turning into?” He stopped as Bob Swenson came into the room, holding two glasses. He saw Chico and Trace, gave the bartender the glasses to fill, and walked over.

“How’s it going?” Trace asked.

“I’ve got her now. I’ve got her convinced that she’s Ingrid Bergman, Pola Negri, and Lillian Gish all rolled up into one.”

“Even better than them.” Trace said. “She does an animal act.”

“That was in the past. A youthful indiscretion,” Swenson said. “From here on in, it’s only serious acting. She and I are discussing her career plans right now. She needs an older, wiser man to rely on. A mentor. I shall be her mentor.”

“You’re really a disgusting vulture,” Chico said with a smile.

“You’ve driven me to it,” Swenson said, “by rejecting me all these years.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, got to go back before someone tries to make a move on her.”

As he walked away, Chico said, “I love him. I really love him. He’s the quintessential male animal. You never have to wonder where he’s coming from ’cause he’s always coming from the same place. Love letters straight from the groin.”

Trace saw his father nod his head and stand up alongside his wife, and he thought they should take a picture of his parents and post it in every marriage-license bureau in America and force every applicant to look at it and initial it first. The marriage rate would drop 50 percent. You wanted zero population growth? That picture’d give you a minus expectation.

Sarge and his wife met them near the door.

“Well, it’s about that time,” Trace’s father said with a sigh. “Hilda’s getting tired.”

“What’s on the schedule for tomorrow?” Trace asked.

His mother answered. “I think we ought to keep trying those slot machines near the door. After all, you promised.”

“And probably Circus Circus,” Sarge said wearily.

“Not tomorrow,” Trace said suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“I need your help, Sarge,” he said. “I’ve got this case and there’s just too much legwork for me to do alone. I need you to help me. I know it’s imposing on you, you being on vacation and all—”

“It certainly is,” Trace’s mother said.

“Quiet, woman,” Sarge snapped. “What are you dealing with, son?”

“A murder and a million-dollar jewel heist. I think I’m in over my head. Can you help?”

His father stroked his square jaw. “Well, I hate to miss Circus Circus. I think they’re changing their trapeze act tomorrow. But, well, you’re my kid. What else could I do?”

“Thanks, Sarge. I appreciate it,” Trace said.

“And what will I do?” his mother whined.

Trace and his father looked at each other. Both had a good answer and neither wanted to say it, so they smiled.

“You’ll think of something,” Trace said. “Sarge, come on up to my place in the morning, maybe tennish, and we’ll go over what I’ve got so far.”

“I’ll be there. Come on, Hildie. I’ve got to get some sleep. If I’m going to be sharp tomorrow, I can’t party all night. ’Night, son. ’Night, Chico.”

“Good night, Sarge. Good night, Mrs. Tracy,” Chico said.

Mrs. Tracy sniffed and her husband pulled her through the door. After they were gone, Chico said, “Trace, I love you.”

“Aaaah, you’re just saying that to torment my aging body.”

“No. Really. Love you. You’re such an asshole most of the time and then you can do something like that. It’s the only reason I hang out with you, why I’ve turned down fame, fortune, and young men with good bodies. Just because, once in a while, you can do something really nice.”

“I guess I’m just my mother’s son, after all,” Trace said.

Trace and Chico were in bed and she said, “I’m extending your option for another month.” In the dimly lit bedroom, she lit a cigarette and handed it to him. “Here. A reward. For services rendered.”

“Oh, God, have I come to this? Tricking for cigarettes?”

“Quiet, I’m thinking.”

Trace smoked silently, blowing large billows of barely visible smoke up toward the ceiling. The ceiling of the room had started out like the walls, white, three years before, but a four-packs-a-day habit, only now being corrected, had coated the entire apartment with a thin, sticky yellow film. He was only aware of it when Chico took down a painting and he could see how white the wall was underneath it. It was one of the nice things about her. She didn’t smoke, but she didn’t squawk either. If she complained about his smoking, it was not because of its effect on the walls, ceiling, or furniture. Only about what it might be doing to his lungs.