“A touch over the mark, lad. Spectacle over substance.”
“I’m over the mark? We could have been out of there twice as fast if you hadn’t got lost in dreamland.”
“Rubbish. I was sharp as a laser.”
“Max, it looked like you forgot where you were.”
“Bollocks. I engineered another exceptional show-worthy of the Pontiff himself.”
They took off their evening wear and changed into more casual clothes. Their dinner jackets went onto hangers and into dry cleaning plastic. Max was a stickler for keeping kit in good shape, particularly wigs. The black curls and the ginger rug went onto Styrofoam heads and then into boxes. Max’s cover, should he be required to produce one, was wig salesman and distributor, and he’d already visited several customers. San Francisco was home to some of his biggest accounts: theatre troupes, gay cabarets and college drama classes.
“If the Pontiff’s so damn brilliant,” Owen said, hanging up his white T-shirt, “how come he’s in prison and we’re out here on the road?”
“He’s not in prison anymore. I told you, they’ve put him in hospital, where he’s probably going to die.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why did he end up in the brig? Very simple. An ill-chosen associate made a colossal blunder. Gun goes off, and a security guard ends up dead. Not John-Paul’s fault. But what a string of successes the man had! Wells Fargo, Chemical Bank, Lufthansa-no one can touch him. And character! The Pontiff is your quintessential gentleman of the road. No friend of his ever went hungry while he had a dime in his pocket. Looked after families when his brothers went up to Oxford. A great soul, that man, a great soul.”
Owen combed his hair, naturally brown, and inspected his face for any remaining traces of spirit gum. “I don’t know about you, but I was ready for dinner about an hour ago.”
Max turned to him from the mirror, tweed jacket, khaki pants, polo shirt. “How do I look?” he said. “Old money?”
“Old perv is more like it.”
“Nonsense. I’m a splendid specimen of manhood.” He slapped his belly. “Not bad for sixty-four.”
“Sixty-four!”
“Doubting your loving uncle yet again. Tsk, tsk. Suspicion is the habit of a guilty mind. Causes ulcers, cancer, all manner of plague and carbuncle. A healthy mind is free and open, willing to be informed.”
“Max?”
“What, boy?”
“Can we please go eat?”
THREE
“It’s Four o’clock,” the Elvis clock said, “and I’m all shook up.” It was a passable imitation of the King’s voice, but it still gave Zig Zigler the creeps. Apparently his partner Clem didn’t like it either, because he threw his apple core at it and cursed when he missed.
Their acquaintance Melvin Togg was into Elvis in a big way. He had vinyl copies of all the King’s albums on a beautiful shelving unit built around his stereo. The shelves and the stereo were the only things in this grunge pit of an apartment that didn’t make you want to hang yourself. First off, it was a basement joint, hardly any light squeezing through its two windows. Second off, it was in one of the noisiest neighbourhoods in Las Vegas, jet planes blasting overhead every five minutes. Third off, the ceiling was low, meaning that if you actually employed the hot plate for any cooking you’d be inhaling your curry or whatever for the next month. Not to mention bathroom smells.
“Melvin,” Zig said, “how can you live in a pathetic little hole like this? Don’t you got any self-esteem?”
“It isn’t that bad, man. Rent’s real low.”
“Vegas ain’t New York, pal. You could do a lot better.”
“I got room for all my stuff. I know one day I’ll need a bigger place, but this fulfills my needs right now.”
“That would be your need for Elvis crap?” Clem said, picking up an Elvis mug from the row that lined one shelf.
Zig looked around at the Elvis calendar stuck to the fridge, surrounded by a halo of Elvis magnets, and the life-size Elvis doll, if that was the right word, that stood in the place of honour under the window. “Say, what do they make these out of, anyway?” Zig asked, tapping the doll with a knuckle.
“I don’t know. Zig, could you take the tape off me now? I don’t like this.”
“I’ve never actually seen one before. I mean, I’ve seen one, it just wasn’t an Elvis. It was a Bogart.”
“Yeah, I seen them too. But, you know, I prefer Elvis.”
“No shit,” Clem said.
“Tell me something, Melvin,” Zig said. “You still pulling that fake investigator shit?”
“Not just investigator. Food inspector. Water department. I got a bunch of ’em.”
“That’s something might interest me. You could possibly purchase some of my goodwill with one of those.”
“Blanks are in the top drawer. You gotta put in the proper-size photo and get it laminated and stamped.”
“Where do I do that?” Zig said, taking a couple of blanks.
“Ben Ditmar. He’s got all sorts of seals: city, state, you name it.”
“Ben Ditmar?” Clem said. “He’s okay. I beat the shit out of him once.”
“What’s this here?” Zig said.
“Autograph letter.”
Zig peered closely at the item on the wall. Actually, it was two items. A nice picture of Elvis-not one of the ones you see everywhere-looking thoughtful and relaxed, sitting on a couch with an old beat-up guitar. Beside it was a letter on Elvis letterhead, not Graceland, typewritten to somebody named “Mr. Schmelling,” thanking him for his help resolving a real estate issue. It was signed, “Sincerely, Elvis Presley.”
“This looks real,” Zig said. “I mean, to my untrained eye and all.”
“Zig, could you take this tape off me now?” Melvin said. “It’s totally not necessary.”
“I may take this home with me,” Zig said. “Depending.”
“Sure, man, you can take it. It’s worth a few hundred at least. But let’s untape my hands now, huh? This ain’t the way to discuss business.”
“Melvin, there’s only one question you have to answer: where is the take from the Discount Diamond job? Just tell me that and you’re free as a bird.”
“I told you, man. I didn’t have nothing to do with that.”
Zig didn’t answer. He opened up a pocket in his shoulder bag. It was hard to get a grip on the little zipper, wearing the latex gloves, but finally he managed to pull out a clear plastic bag that had a drawstring. It had actually taken a couple of days to come up with exactly the kind of bag he was looking for, and he’d finally found it at a shoe store. The salesman was happy to give him a couple of extras. Just the thing for when you’re packing a suitcase, the guy had said.
Zig fitted the bag over Melvin’s head, not pulling the drawstring.
“Aw, no, Zig, take it off, man. No joke, man, take it off.” Melvin’s voice was muffled by the bag. “Fuck this, man, get it off me.”
“Take your time there, Melvin. Think it over. Simple question, simple answer.”
“I ain’t got nothing to do with no Discount Diamond job.”
“Don’t lie to us,” Clem said. “Honesty’s your best policy here.”
“I ain’t got nothing to do with it. Fuck, man. Take this thing off me. Please, man.”
“You know,” Zig said, “I can actually read your mind right now? I can actually hear what you’re thinking, Mel. You’re thinking, if I tell this asshole where the stuff is at, Conrad Moss is gonna kill me in some extremely painful fashion, so what’s to gain?”
Melvin shook his head vehemently. Zig wasn’t sure if that was in denial or in desperation to shake the bag off. You could hardly make out his features behind the condensation. In any case, what Zig said was perfectly true. If Conrad Moss was indeed the guy behind the Discount Diamond job, he would certainly kill Melvin for talking about it.
“I’m not going to ask again,” Zig said. “Last chance.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you. Take the bag off, man, please.”