Trillium, appearing a litle distracted, had decided to go back to the room and get some sleep, so she took the Camaro, and Doc joined Tito and Adolfo in the limo.
“
You know a place called the Nine of Diamonds, out on Boulder Highway?
”
Doc said.
“
Sure,
”
Tito said.
“
You mind if I come inside with you, just wander around a little, maybe hit the buffets, catch some of the show?
”
“
Sound a li
’
l eager there, Tito.
”
“
Yeah, you
’
re supposed to be kicking,
”
Adolfo put in.
“
Homeopathic doses, you guys,
”
Tito protested.
According to Bigfoot Bjornsen, for whom this piece of western trivia
had won him many a bar bet, the nine of diamonds had been the fifth card in Wild Bill Hickok
’
s last poker hand, along with the black aces and eights. The parking lot was full of pickups with contractors
’
racks
on them and Ford Rancheros with hay debris in the bed, ancient T-Birds and Chevy Nomads with the chrome strips long torn away, leaving only
lines of rusty streaks and weld spots. The lighted marquee out front, a
Jetsons
-
styl
e
polygon, mentioned an appearance tonight by a band called
Carmine & the Cal-Zones.
The customers inside didn
’
t seem to be from too far out of town, so the action was less compromised by the unthinking pursuit of
“
fun
”
as defined over on the Strip. Players here tended to play for the money, going about their business hopeful or desperate, loaded or on the natch,
scientifically or gripped in superstitions so exotic they couldn
’
t be readily
explained, and somewhere out of the light the landlord, the finance com
pany, the loan-shark community sat invisible and unspeaking, tapping feet in expensive shoes, weighing options for punishment, leniency— even, rarely, mercy.
Carmine was a longhaired lounge tenor with a Les Paul model Gibson that he may have had a few lessons on but tended to use more as a prop, often including tommy-gun gestures, while the other Cal-Zones assumed standard rock-quartet parts. A pair of cupcakes in red vinyl minidresses, black fishnet hose, and lacquered hair sang backup while doing white-chick time steps. As Doc made his way onto the casino floor, the group were performing their latest release,
JUST THE LASAGNA
(semi-bossa nova)
Izzit some U, FO?
(No, no-no!)
Maybe it
’
s—wait, I know! it
’
s
Just the Lasa-gna!
[
Rhythm-guitarfill
]
Just the La-sa-hah-gna ...
(Just-the-La-sa-gna),
Out of the blue, it came,
(Blue, it came)
Nobody knew,
its
name, just
“
The Lasagna
”
...
Just—
“
The La-sagna,
”
(Just
“
Th
’
La—
”
)
Oh, wo, Lo-
Zon-yaaah!
Who could ever get be
-
-
yond ya,
Ya just sit there goin
’
“
Nyah, nyah!
”
Whoo! Lasagna, shame
On ya! Dog-
Gone ya!
How come
you’re
ask-in me,
(Ask-in me)
—Hey,
Ain
’
t no big mys-tery, it
’
s
Just th
’
La-sagna—
Or so they say ... (oh,
Wo wo-oh wo)
I
’
m uh-under your spell, L-A-S-A,
G-N-A!
Doc spent a while chatting up change girls, bartenders, dealers and
pit bosses, ladies of the evening and ladies of the later shifts, including a young woman in a wine-colored velvet minidress, who finally informed
him,
“
Everybody knows that Puck used to work for Mickey. Nobody here
’
s
going to rat him out, especially not to a stranger, nothing personal.
”
A house comic, working the audience, pilot lights of malice flickering
in his eyes, approached.
“
Evening, Zirconia, see you made bail again, who
’
s
this? Having a good time, sir? He
’
s going,
‘
What planet is this? Where
’
d I leave the UFO?
’
Nah, seriously, pal, you
’
re okay, the hair—I just adore it,
it
’
s stunning. See me in the garage later, you can buff my car....
”
The quipster, along with Zirconia, moved on, nearly colliding with
Tito, who arrived in some agitation.
“
Doc! Doc! You gotta watch this guy
work, he
’
s a true genius. Come on, have a look.
”
He led Doc in a com
plicated path through the casino, toward the deeper regions slotplayers
avoid in the belief that machines closer to the street pay off better, till they finally rounded a corner into a remote corridor of slots and Tito said,
“
There.
”
From Tito
’s
mental state, the least Doc had expected was an acid-trip
glow surrounding the machine, but all he saw really was one more old-time unit with a faded and scuffed image from the fifties of a smiling cowgirl, presentable after the fashion of those times—oversize tits for example, plus short permed hair and bright lipstick. A long line of half-dollars went disappearing down a chute of yellowing plastic, the
milling around the edges of the coins acting like gear teeth, causing each
of the dozens of shining John F. Kennedy heads to rotate slowly as they jittered away down the shallow incline, to be gobbled one after another
into the indifferent maw of Las Vegas. The player at the machine had his
face turned away, and Doc at first noticed only the fine careful attention to how he was pulling the lever, another customer intent not so much on Fun as paying down a grocery tab somewhere in the neighborhood, until, quickly scanning the other slots
nearby, Doc recognized the swas
tikaed head of Puck Beaverton, who was busy pretending to play a nickel
machine. That would make the
“
genius
”
working the other machine Puck
’s
running mate Einar.
No time like the present. Doc, shifting into a word-with-you-my-man
mode, was just about to step forward when several kinds of hell broke loose. To a military fanfare heavy on the bass horns, plus train whistles, fire sirens, and canned athletic-stadium cheering, a quantity of JFK half-dollars began to vomit out of the machine in a huge parabolic torrent, falling onto the carpeting in a growing heap. Einar nodded and stepped away and—had Doc blinked or something?—just like that disappeared. Puck gave one last yank to the handle on his nickel machine and got up and headed over to claim the jackpot, when suddenly the laws of chance, deciding on a classic fuck-you, instructed Puck
’
s nickel machine
also
to hit, with even more noise than the first, and there stood Puck, paralyzed between the two winning machines, and here on the run came a delegation of casino perso
nnel to confirm and certify the
two happy jackpot winners, already one short. At which point Puck, as if allergic to dilemmas, broke for the nearest exit, screaming.
With nobody else around any more plausible than Doc and Tito to step in, it took them only a tenth of a second to agree that Tito should have the jackpot from the half-dollar machine, and Doc, not being greedy, would claim what looked by now to be several cubic feet of nickels.
Adolfo took charge of Titos, or actually Einar
’
s, winnings, and they all drove back to Ghostflower Court, where Doc found Trillium asleep on one of the water beds. He headed for the other one and must have made it.
Next thing he knew it seemed to be early afternoon and Trillium
wasn
’
t there. He looked out the window and saw that the Camaro wasn
’
t
either. He wandered out through the desert breeze to a little store down the highway and bought smokes and several containers of coffee and
some Ding Dongs for breakfast. When he got back, he flipped on the TV
and watched
Monkees
reruns till the local news came on. The guest today
was a visiting Marxist economist from one of the Warsaw Pact nations,
who appeared to be in the middle of a nervous breakdown.
“
Las Vegas,
”
he tried to explain,
“
it sits out here in middle of desert, produces no tan
gible goods, money flows in, money flows out, nothing is produced. This
place should not, according to theory, even exist, let alone prosper as it
does. I feel my whole life has been based on illusory premises. I have lost reality. Can you tell me, please, where is reality?
”
The interviewer looked
uncomfortable and tried to change the subject to Elvis Presley.
As it was getting dark, Trillium finally showed up.
“
Please don
’
t get
angry.
”
“
Haven
’
t been angry since what
’
s-his-name missed that foul shot.
”
He searched his memory.
“
Name escapes me, right off hand
...
Oh well. Where
’
ve you been?
”
From the look on her face and the way she
’
d walked in—the self-conscious gait of a punk on an exercise yard—he had an idea.
“
I know I should have told you, but I
wanted to see him first. I had
his phone number all the time—sorry—and just kept calling and calling
till finally he answered.
”
She had showed up close to dawn at the address
Puck gave her, an apartment over a garage in North Las Vegas, next to a
vacant lot full of brittlebush. The boys were drinking beer and as usual discussing their machismo rankings, not to mention who
’
d sing melody
and who harmony on
“
Wunderbar,
”
from
Kiss Me, Kate.
Trillium either grew a little dim on the details or wasn
’
t into reminiscing, though Doc gathered that the reunion had gone on for some while, with Einar considerately stepping out at some point to make a beer run down the boulevard.
“
You didn
’
t happen to mention to Puck I
’
m looking for a quick word,
nothing
like
’
at?
”
“
In fact, I had to go through a lengthy routine to convince him you weren
’
t a hit man.
”
“
We can meet wherever he feels safe.
”
“
He suggested a casino in North Las Vegas called the Kismet Lounge.
He and Einar don
’
t like to show up till after midnight.
”
“
You gonna be there, or
...
”
“
Easier if I could take the car, actually. Run a few errands?
”
Doc found a joint and lit it and called up Tito, who was just about to go to work.
“
You got time to run me up to North Vegas later tonight?
”
“
No prob-limo, as we say in the business—Inez likes to stay through the last show anyway. She can
’
t get enough of that Jonathan Frid.
”
“
What,
”
Doc blinking,
“
Barnabas? the vampire guy on
Dark Shadows
’
!
”
“
He
’
s got a lounge act right here on the Strip, Doc. Everybody in the
business loves him—Frank, Dean, Sammy—at least one of them
’
s in the
audience every night.
”
“
Ain
’
t just Inez,
”
Adolfo put in on the extension,
“
your kids carry lunch boxes with that guy
’
s face on em, too.
”
“
Gee, what kind of material
’
s he sing?
”
Doc wondered.
“
Seems partial to Dietz & Schwartz,
”
Tito said.
“
His closing number is always
‘
Haunted Heart.
’”
“
He also does Elvis,
”
added Adolfo,
“
singing Viva Las Vegas.
’”
“
I gave him a ride once or twice, he tips good.
”
Trillium sprang for dinner at one of the casino buffets over on the
Strip—her idea of diplomacy, though she was clearly not in a mood to
discuss anything with Doc, especially not Puck.
“
You look totally gaga,
”
he told her anyway. She smiled vaguely and
gestured silently for a minute and a half with a giant shrimp as if she
were conducting a chamber orchestra. Doc cupped his hand next to his
ear.
“
Do I hear ... wedding bells?
”
“
I
’
ll be back.
”
She slipped out of the booth and headed for the ladies
’
lounge, where Doc recalled there were at least as many pay phones as toi
lets. She was back within the hour. Doc had basically been eating.
“
Ever
notice,
”
she said to nobody in particular,
“
how there
’
s something erotic
about pay phones?
”
“
Why don
’
t you drop me off at the motel, maybe I
’
ll catch you later
in North Vegas.
”
Or maybe not.