Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

“Gotta get in the mood and the mode,” said Nicky, expertly steering her through the milling crowds, which were milling a bit less these days. “We need some extra oomph and publicity bad. With all this talk about an official mob museum, if we can move fast enough, I figure we can steal the thunder and produce heat lightning of our own.”

They had reached the Crystal Court bar, a tropical paradise of flora and fountains and bright sparkling water and crystal chandeliers.

Nicky’s light touch on Temple’s elbow escorted her through a scattering of chic cocktail table setups to a parlor palm–shadowed corner booth so low-lit she’d need a seeing-eye dog to get back there on her own.

That traitorous thought made her look around guiltily for Midnight Louise, but if the ladylike black cat had followed them to this conspiratorial corner, she’d be invisible.

Temple felt totally undercover. Even the usual tabletop glass candleholder was shrouded by a net of black widow veiling.

“Ah. Mr. Nicky Fontana and Miss Temple Barr bestow their presence. Welcome to our reunion conference.”

A dapper little man stood to greet them. From his white-banded black fedora to the red carnation in the lapel of his pinstriped gray suit, he looked the mobster-movie fashion plate.

“Nostradamus,” Nicky exclaimed, “I didn’t expect you here. I haven’t laid anything resembling a bet since I married Van.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Big Shot. A bookie seeking bets I am not. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the fabled desert gang. Old times pass, but can come back around like a favorite boomerang.”

Temple eyed the five old men seated in the semicircular leather booth. She’d heard lots of stories about them, and now, bad luck had certainly “boomeranged” them back into the bosom of the Crystal Phoenix family. Their quirky faces resembled a line of English Toby mugs, except their heights weren’t uniform like the character barware, but as jagged as the Specter Mountains around Vegas.

“I think you know our history consultants, Miss Barr.” Nicky grinned at the fivesome settled onto the booth’s leather upholstery.

“Gracious,” she said, feeling the need of a genteel expletive, “it’s the Glory Hole Gang, live and in person, every last man.”

The grins spread.

“Miss Barr,” Eightball O’Rourke acknowledged with a nod. “We’re wedged in here too tight to stand like little gentleman, thanks to our larger brethren.”

He remained wiry and cue-ball bald. She had seen the most of Eightball, so she racked her brains for the other guys’ handles, and colorful nicknames they were.

Next to O’Rourke sat another half-pint, Wild Blue Pike, the longtime flyboy. He still flashed sky blue eyes and a shock of snow white hair. Spuds Lonnigan, main cook at Three O’Clock Louie’s restaurant on Lake Mead, remained a generously built man with growing gut and thinning hair, as did Pitchblende O’Hara. Cranky Ferguson, on the other hand, was as lean and lanky as an uncooked spaghetti noodle.

Temple recited each name as it came to her, and she nodded at each man, amazed to recall them rightly. What a PR ace she was! Then she realized the Glory Hole Gang members were just too durn colorful to forget. She had to grin back at them. It was like seeing your favorite grandfather after too much time between family reunions, although it had only been a couple of years. The pace of life in Vegas and the massive number of people who came through the toddlin’ town could still amaze someone used to dealing with conventions of twenty thousand attendees and more.

“Set and chat awhile,” Eightball urged.

Nicky and Temple took the end seats. Nicky ordered beers all around, except for a white-wine spritzer for Temple. The youngest Fontana brother was the perfect host. He’d long ago noted that her “working drink” went light on alcohol.

Temple flashed him a smile of thanks and turned back to the assembled two hundred years of Vegas history seated beside her.

“What are you boys doing here?” she asked, falling into Mae West mode, although she was far from the “Dolly Parton of the Thirties.” Somehow vintage Western dialogue went with the Glory Hole Gang like neckerchiefs and dust, both the desert and gold variety.

“I thought you were running Three O’Clock Louie’s restaurant on Lake Mead,” she added, letting them tell her that it was kaput.

“The water done petered out on the restaurant at Temple Bar, Miss Barr,” Spuds said with a sad shake of his balding head. “We was high and dry as Noah’s Ark aground on global warming.”

“Ah …” Temple had read and heard of Lake Mead’s shrinking shoreline, as drought dried up its waters, but out of sight, out of mind. She’d forgotten about Three O’Clock Louie’s at her namesake Temple Bar, a longtime mark on the map, but not as long as it had been a River Thames landmark near the London Inns of Court.

“Omigosh!” She stared at Nicky as it sunk in that natural ills often caused financial ones. “That’s why the Glory Hole Gang lost the restaurant?”