A group of men sat at one of the big tables up front, right by the stage lip and overhead lights and sunken fans aimed to blow up hair and skirts--what there was of them.
Temple was shocked to recognize one of the men.
"Eightball?" She was even more shocked by how her voice rang out in the uncommon stillness.
"Eightball!" Electra roared with affection, descending on the slight old guy like a Hesketh Vampire, all silver and blue and raucous and revv ed up.
"How you been?" Electra asked, embracing him heartily.
"Hey, Wild Blue how goes the cloud chase?"
Another old gent nodded, and from where she hung back, Temple could still see how he got his nickname. Somehow he'd stolen Paul Newman's eves, and maybe even Paul wasn't the gritty youngster he used to be in old movies.
The introductions were a fl urry that left Temple aware of tan, seamed faces, of thin or absent-without-leave hair, of ears even bigger than Ross Perot's, of shy smiles and gnarled hands that gripped hers with surprising strength.
The names rolled by li ke a vaudeville cast: Eightball O'Rourke. Wild Blue Pike. Spuds Lonnigan-----really! Pitchblende O'Hara, Cranky Ferguson. Another name came up. The Glory Hole Gang.
"Yeah," said Wild Blue, sitti ng, as they all did, after drag ging chairs over for Temple, Electra and Lindy. Gentlemen of the Old School. "We run that ghost town out on Ninety-five, Glory Hole. We're the Glory Hole Gang ."
"You were a private detective," Temple accused Eightball O 'Rourke.
"Still am," he said. "And we still are a Glory Hole Gang.
See, we accidentally made off with some old silver dollars a fter W.W. Two, and then we lost 'em--it's a long story. Someone found 'em a couple years ago. We ended up ex onerated--a big word for a bunch of old guys--and our ghost town turned out to be a lucrative tourist attraction. We had a little jingle in our pockets to invest, and Lord knows, we spent enough lonely decades in the desert to appreciate an oh-ay -sis of civilization like this."
Here they all chuckled in concert, while Temple tried to fi gure out what a "consortiu m" of battered and fiercely inde pendent strippers had in common with a band of outlaws elderly enough to be their grandfathers. Maybe it was no e arthly use for each other, and in that absence of malice laid safety and a well of regrets lost beyond retrieving.
"You," Temple said suddenly. "I've seen you before."
She was not addressing private-eye Eightball O'Rourke, whom she certainly had met--and employed--during the ABA murder and cat-snatching escapade.
The small man of fi fty-something slid his straw fedora with the snappy madras-plaid hatband across the tabletop as if it were a shell in a street game before 'fessing up. "It wasn't here at Kitty City, where all these old guys play Walter Mitty."
"I kno w where it wasn't," Temple said, "but where was it? The Circle Ritz! You were feeding Midnight Louie pas trami!"
"Sure, I've been known to feed the kitty, at poker tables all over this city."
"Don't play coy with me. You're the one who brought news of Crawford Buchanan's heart attack. He's not one of the silent partners, is he?"
"W hat's with silence? Crawford wanted in. I just told him confl ict of interest's a sin."
Temple eased back in her cha ir. "I'm glad somebody's willing to point out the straight and narrow to Buchanan. The club columnist for the Las Vegas Scoop has no business having a fi nancial interest in any club." She eyed the man with a last suspicion. "Aren't you Crawford's bookie, and isn't your name Cosanostra or something?"
"Bookie I am, and that's no slam. But pardon me, Ma'arn, it's Nostradamus ," he answered with a small bow, "Glad to meet again the famous Circle Ritz's unsung shamus."
"You mean Midnight Louie, no doubt. After all, he's already got one 'sh rine' in his honor."
"To the contrary, my dear Miss Barr, Louie's not half the sleuth you are."
"Charming, " Electra directed a high-beam smile at the courtly bookie.
A motion behind the gla ss walls of the dj's booth indi cated that the blessed silence was about to be cursed with cacophony again. Temple slapped her hands on the table.
"Nice meeting you all, but l must head back to the famous Ci rcle Ritz." She eyed Electra. "I 've got to call a woman about a cat show. Coming?"
"You toddle on without me, dear." Electra's silver-starred nails made like c omets as they waved her away. "I 'll, uh, stick around with the guys for a while."
"But I'm taking the car ."
"That's okay. I'll hitch a ride with the boys. You must have some sort of wheels, right?" Her glance interrogated the circle of oldsters, who nodded as if they'd never heard of restricted licenses.
"I can always take yo u for a spin in my biplane," W ild Blue offered with a grin, "Out to Lost Camel rock."
This last reference caused everyone to laugh, leaving Tem ple in the dark, Must be a notorious Lover's Lane for the over-sixty set she thought. Probably they all parked out there and played Lawrence Welk tapes on their car audio systems and picked their false teeth in four-four time. On the other hand, given the way age stereotypes were collapsing nowadays, who could say what the zesty set was up to? Probably a lot more than she was these days.
The sound system kicked in with brass, spit and no polish. Temple back ed away from the companionable table-----folk s looking at each other instead of the stage, imagine that--waved good-bye to Lindy, and made fast tracks for the door. This was one time she couldn't hear the committed clip of her high heels.