Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

The men’s solo Vegas acts intermingled improvisationally, and they moved on to costarring in films, most notably the original Ocean’s Eleven. Nobody today could bundle that particular magic act of personalities and talent, so the Rat Pack, which never admitted to or liked that name, were now all dead but immortalized, despite the mob aroma that hallowed the singers. Sinatra had known Giancana too. Vegas tribute Rat Pack groups had abounded in recent years.

“It could work,” Temple told Nicky after long thought, “if we resurrect Jersey Joe Jackson. He was the real deal, a founding figure like Bugsy Siegel, but mostly forgotten. He was also a member of the original Glory Hole Gang, wasn’t he?”

“A rat,” Wild Blue Pike said, spitting into his palm to be polite in front of a lady, i.e., Temple. “He hid the money from our silver-dollar heist for his own self. Left us grubbing a living in ghost towns, hiding from the law for forty years while he built the Joshua Tree Hotel to rival Bugsy’s Flamingo and then presided over its decline.”

“The Joshua Tree couldn’t keep up with the times,” Nicky added. “Jersey Joe ended up being the last resident and dying in the abandoned hotel. You guys later helped find one of his silver-dollar stashes in the desert and turned them in.”

“It’s a great story,” Temple decreed. “The whole Glory Hole Gang saga. Rags to riches to rags. From ghost towns to gangsters to tourist mecca. Nicky and I just need to lay it out new, polish it up, and the publicity will come rolling in.”

She glanced at him. When Nicky nodded, she stood.

“Is the Ghost Suite on seven still unlocked?”

“Sure,” he said. “Every time we try to lock it we find it open again. No sense messing with a ghost.”

“I’d like to go up there and give a ghost lockjaw,” Cranky Ferguson muttered, making a fist and punching the air.

“It’s no ghost,” Wild Blue scoffed, “jest broken tumblers. I can take a look at the lock mechanism.”

“No,” Temple said. “Midnight Louie and I have no trouble coming and going up there. Maybe we can re create the suite in Gangsters Hotel. In fact,” she asked Nicky, “don’t the two hotels’ back property lines abut?”

Nicky looked abashed. “Uh, yeah. I believe they might.”

“No wonder you can do an underground linkup, for the … Chunnel of Crime,” Temple said.

“Chunnel of Crime! Yeah,” Pitchblende O’Hara said, gulping the rest of his black and tan. “Love that. We were miners. And the old-time speakeasies favored basement and even cavern locations. When might you get working on it?”

Nicky shrugged. “Already cleaning up the area and installing a few surprises. Depends on when the boss lady okays the link from the Crystal Phoenix end.”

“So you old-timers also think it’s time to ‘come clean’ about the city’s mob past?” Temple asked.

“Nicky did when he reinvented the abandoned Joshua Tree Hotel Jersey Joe built before he went bust. He was a new generation pioneer,” Spuds Lonnigan said. “He did everything on the up-and-up, but on a manageable scale, and look how well the Crystal Phoenix is doing. Now that Vegas construction is in the doldrums, labor and materials are cheaper. Time for reinvesting in the future.”

“By harking back to the past,” Temple repeated.

“You can’t move forward if you don’t look back and put the past to rest,” Eightball O’Rourke said.

Temple felt another little Ghost Suite shiver.

How could she put her past to rest if she never found out what had happened to Max?

“We’ll talk more about it,” Nicky said, rising to see Temple off. “You and me,” he added with emphasis.

Temple wondered why the Ghost Suite mention had made him uneasy. In fact, something about this meeting struck her as slightly “off.” Maybe that was her. They’d talk later, as Nicky had said. Meanwhile, she needed to refamiliarize herself with the Crystal Phoenix’s most unsung tourist attraction, a famous ghost in supposed residence.

A shiver waltzed down her spine again. Gee, the air-conditioning was frigid in these Strip hotels, even during a recession.

She wasn’t afraid of ghosts. Was she?

Spooky Suite

What had passed for a Las Vegas suite in the 1950s was not square footage in the thousands, as in high-roller-suites today.

Still, the brass numbers on the door reading 713 were shined to a spit polish, and Temple knew she’d find the interior dusted and tidy. She doubted Jersey Joe Jackson had done household chores. A Crystal Phoenix maid must pay a daily visit.

She turned the doorknob and pushed.

Yup. Walk right in. Sit right down. Wait for an apparition.

The room didn’t smell stuffy and closed, either, although the wooden-slatted blinds were drawn almost shut against the exterior glare. She walked to the elaborate gray satin drapes that framed the double window. Her fingertips found not a fleck of dust in their sculpted folds.

Her spike heels left faint pockmarks on the flat, tightly woven floral carpeting, marks that disappeared even as she watched. That was the most ghostly effect in the suite she remembered from a couple of social visits.