Emily Adcock nodded. “If it’s got a brand name, it’s probably written a book, or at least has a byline on one. Celebrity books sell, even if they’re mostly written by open or covert co-authors. I expect an unauthorized Bart Simpson bio by Kitty Kelley out any day. What’s so urgent?”
“Come into my parlor.” Temple led Emily to the office storeroom.
“Ooops.” Midnight Louie was in the act of using the litter box. He regarded their arrival over his shoulder with a glassy green glare. Temple pulled Emily around a pile of copier paper boxes. She dug in her ever-present tote bag until she produced a manila mailing envelope and tweezers.
“What on earth, Temple—?”
“Listen, this is the best I have for police lab equipment.” With the tweezers, Temple withdrew the white envelope and notepaper. “This was on my desk this morning—don’t pick it up. The police might want to dust it for prints.”
Emily read the message in an instant. “This is awful! Baker and Taylor kidnapped and potential ‘stew meat.’ Who would do such a rotten thing?”
“From the syntax, an idiot after a quick buck, but that may be done to mislead us. It’s no local operator. He’d know that Caesars Palace has no apostrophe. Ungrammatical as it is, that’s Las Vegas. You’re sure no business rival—?”
“Baker & Taylor doesn’t have any. Look. The two biggest national wholesalers are Ingram and us. Traditionally, we supplied libraries and Ingram handled the independent bookstores; you know, the local Book Nook and Cranny. Lately we’ve expanded our focus into the bookstores as well—”
“Aha!”
“But that doesn’t even border on cutthroat competition. Bottom line or not, there’s some gentility left in the book business yet.”
“Well, it’s time to call the local police. This looks like a rinky-dink operation. They don’t ask for much money—but it’s still kidnapping of a sort, and serious stuff.”
Emily clapped a well-manicured hand to her forehead; even that broad gesture didn’t completely obscure her worry wrinkles.
“Temple... no. I can’t. It was my idea to bring the cats here. I just can’t embarrass the company that way. I—we’ve got to get them back.”
“How? How are you going to get the money so fast? How are you going to deliver it with any personal safety? How can you be sure you’ll get the cats back, or that they’re not stew meat already?”
“I don’t know! Temple, help me!”
Temple thought. From the background came the rhythmic rasp of litter being pawed over the scene of the crime. How would she feel if Midnight Louie were in danger? How much would she herself do to avoid the humiliation of reporting a catnapping to someone like Lieutenant Molina? “We’ll hire a PI. Vegas is full of ’em.”
Emily moved her hand from brow to mouth, a wary expression in her eyes.
“He can deliver the ransom without risk to either of us,” Temple explained. “We can watch, maybe, and spot the crook. The big question is, how will you get the money?”
Emily shut her eyes. “My American Express Gold Card.”
“You could lose it.”
“As long as I find the bloody cats. Temple, I just couldn’t face losing those cats, professionally or personally.”
“It’s not your fault, Emily. Who’d think somebody’d bag ’em? That’s really odd—a murder and now a—”
“Well, well, well. Sorry, didn’t see a Ladies’ Room sign.” Crawford Buchanan was leaning in the doorway in an ice-cream suit, eyeing Emily Adcock with his usual predatory smirk. She was too distraught to notice.
“We’re leaving.” Temple stuffed the manila envelope back in her bag and grabbed Emily’s wrist.
The woman’s hand was cold and limp with anxiety; she numbly followed Temple into the office. Buchanan remained in the doorway, forcing them to brush by. A moment later Midnight Louie swaggered past his pant leg, leaving a swath of long black hairs on the pale fabric.
“Alley cat,” Buchanan hissed, kicking at the cat.
Louie leaped away like a heavyweight boxer avoiding a gnat.
Temple and Emily had forgotten both man and cat. “We’ve got till tomorrow. It’s Sunday, but I’ll find a PI somehow,” Temple promised quietly. “You get the money.”
“What kind?”
“Small denominations, unmarked bills, like they say on TV. If we want the cats back, we don’t want to rile the napper.”
“I don’t even know how to get marked bills. Oh, God, Temple! I hope we get those cats back.”
“They also say on TV that kidnappers are notorious for not keeping their word once they’ve got the money.”
Emily smiled wanly. “It’s a mess, but thanks, whatever happens. You’ve been superb.”
As Emily hurried away, Buchanan sidled up. “What’re you girls up to?”
Temple eyed the ream of typing paper cradled in his arm. “I didn’t know you were fetching your own paper these days, instead of using mine.”
“You’re out, for some reason.”
Temple shook her head and stalked off. Midnight Louie followed.
13
Enter Ingram
The lady said it herself; she requires a private eye.
So I leave Miss Temple Barr paging morosely through the Las Vegas Yellow Pages, which offer every service that can be sold and quite a few that should not be, and am on my way.
I exit the convention center by my secret route; I can only say that it involves air-conditioning ducts and certain adept but undignified motions on my part. It is the usual hot, bright day outside, but my tootsies flat-foot over the heat-polished parking lot asphalt as if treading black satin sheets.
I have not had an assignment of an investigative nature for some time. Such is the way of things. A fellow begins to be taken for granted when he is about the place day and night. And my past exploits around this town remain unsung, no doubt due to the lack of a good press agent.
That celestial masseur, the sun, beats hot hands on my head and back until I reach the Hilton and slip into the shade of its extensive, also expensive, landscaping. A noxious scent of cocoa butter and human sweat slaps my sensitive nostrils like a fly swatter. Tourists splash in the huge chlorinated pool and soak up ultraviolet rays and frozen margaritas. But I walk soft and I walk silent and nobody notices me unless I want to be observed.
I can move fast when necessary, and I know where I am going: to check out a reliable source of mine. If any foul play of a feline nature is abroad in this town, this gent will know about it.
Soon my hot-trotting feet have slipped the surly bonds of the Strip’s endless asphalt. I approach a small shopping center not far from downtown. Like most desert burgs, Las Vegas is laid out plain, not fancy: the long angled line of the Strip, otherwise known as Las Vegas Boulevard, shoots like a cocked elbow as crooked as Saturday night dice from McCarran International Airport to Downtown.
Otherwise, a few north-south avenues and a lot of east- west cross streets divvy up the four-square monotony of town planning. Except for the angling Strip and Highway 15 that parallels it, the street layout resembles a tic-tac- toe board, which may be why some call the old place ticky-tacky.
Once away from the Strip and Downtown, where all the high-rise neon sprouts, tourists express surprise at the city's modesty. Few buildings hit three stories; most houses are one-story bungalows with rocks on the roof. You heard me, stones are a roofing material of choice. Maybe the people who like to live here—and a lot do—have just got rocks on their heads.
In fact, were it not for the unique drawing card of legalized gambling, you might say, one would not find so much as a spitball out here. I might say more, but it does not become me to disparage the place of my birth.