Diamond leaned back in his chair, resting his size elevens on the chipped paint of the windowsill. He sipped cheap Scotch from a heavy tumbler. The sweet sounds of Benny Goodman’s band flowed from the radio perched on the lone file cabinet. Blue smoke from his cigarette drifted up to the water-stained ceiling. The smoggy skies on the other side of the Venetian blinds were dark.
It was quiet now. The building noises had surged at five P.M. as hundreds of workers were disgorged from the twelve-story structure near the corner of Ivar and Hollywood. A couple of cleaning ladies and the arthritic night watchman would be the only ones going through the corridors.
It wasn’t the kind of building where ambitious executives worked long into the night. If they had any ambition, they wouldn’t be working for any of the companies in the Carlin Building.
Diamond had unwound after his session with the Beverly Hills psychiatrist. Seeing the shrink always keyed him up. It took a few belts of Scotch and some toots from Goodman’s clarinet to get him back in the groove.
Not that the groove was so great. Diamond had been back in the business for eight months and had barely that many cases. He’d helped a woman find her long lost sister, cleared a guy falsely accused of a robbery, helped a storeowner catch an embezzling employee. Nothing to write home to the folks about. He’d already forgotten the details of the cases. The fees had been small, when he’d been able to collect. He wasn’t good at squeezing his clients for bucks.
The phone rang. Diamond let it jangle a couple of times. Chances were it was a wrong number. He got a lot of wrong numbers. Especially when he stayed late on Saturday nights. His number was two digits away from Grauman’s Chinese Theater’s. Tourists who wanted to see if their feet were as big as Clark Gable’s often called Diamond for directions. Most times he obliged them.
He set his drink down and wearily picked up the phone. “Diamond Detective Agency,” he grumbled.
“Howdy. I’d like to chew the fat with Red Diamond.”
“There ain’t much fat. Just gristle.”
“You Red Diamond?” The voice had an exaggerated Western twang. Red tried to picture the owner. A middle-aged-salesman type, probably drove a pick-up truck and lived in Fontana.
“I’m Diamond and I’m not buying any debuggers, new holsters, skip-tracing manuals, correspondence courses, or walkie-talkies.”
“I’m not selling any, partner. My name’s Edward Evans and I’d like to hire you.”
“The Edward Evans?”
“Sure enough.”
‘Is your refrigerator running?”
“What? I guess it is.”
“Well tell it to slow down,” Diamond said, crushing out his cigarette. “I’m not in the mood for jokers.”
“Neither am I, Mr. Diamond.” The aw-shucks Texas twang was gone. It was a hard voice, used to giving commands that were obeyed. “Look out your window.”
Diamond plopped the phone down on his booze-stained blotter, got up slowly, and walked to the window. He parted the blinds. Ten stories below him a long black limo was parked at the curb.
Tourists stood off to the side, trying to peer into the windows. The street people ignored the car, knowing that the days of catching a celeb on Hollywood Boulevard were long gone. These days, the fancy cars belonged to pimps and dope dealers.
“Do you see the limousine?” Evans said when Diamond retrieved the phone.
“Yeah.”
“That’s for you. My driver will take you to the airport. My jet will fly you here and we’ll talk. This is the type of matter best handled face-to-face. At worst you’ll get a free trip to Las Vegas.”
“And at best?”
The line went dead.
The broad-shouldered chauffeur wore a dark blue uniform with a diamond-shaped yellow patch on his right arm and a matching patch on his peaked cap. When Diamond tried to question him, the driver said, “I have to concentrate on my driving,” and clammed up.
The Lear 35A was parked on the tarmac at Burbank Airport. The driver walked Diamond to the plane, where two crew members wearing uniforms similar to the chauffeur’s nodded to their passengers and climbed into the cockpit. Diamond and the driver entered the passenger compartment.
There were four seats around a diamond-shaped folding table and a divan at the rear of the cabin. The driver walked to the back, stretched out on the couch, and pulled his cap down over his eyes.
“Fasten your seatbelts and extinguish all cigarettes during takeoff,” a voice said through the intercom.
Diamond lit a smoke and walked around the compartment as the plane took off. It was so smooth he only had to grab a chair for balance briefly.
He glanced in the diamond-studded mirror that covered the galley. A little baggy under the eyes, a little jowly under the chin, but not bad for a private eye who hadn’t had a paying client for more than a month, Red thought.
Business had been good when he’d first gotten out of jail. Because of the publicity, he even needed a secretary to fend off the wacky clients.
He’d turned down the divorce cases. Tracking pudgy businessmen to seedy hotels where they’d make their secretaries work for a bonus was not for Red Diamond. When a marriage turned sour, it was uglier than year-old cottage cheese. And Diamond had no desire for a taste.
He’d turned down the industrial-espionage cases. Who cared if Amalgamated Grommet was stealing trade secrets from United Tang? Tang got it by screwing some inventor anyway. Diamond couldn’t play the corporate kiss-ass games needed to make it with the large companies.
Bugging and debugging was a job for someone who liked feeling under toilet seats for wires. And skip-tracing usually meant collection work; finding out-of-work guys whose wives didn’t know when to stop using the charge cards.
Marlowe or Spade wouldn’t dirty their hands with those kinds of cases. Shell Scott or Chet Drum would just laugh. Race Williams or Mike Hammer would start busting heads.
Red Diamond was as good as any of them. Better. Half the cases those guys took credit for, he had solved.
The Garrett Turbofan engines roared quietly as the plane climbed to thirty thousand feet. Diamond swung open the galley door, retrieved a bottle of Chivas Regal, and took it back to one of the suede-upholstered seats.
There was a diamond design embossed into the chair. The wallpaper had a similar pattern. The six windows on either side of the plane were diamond-shaped. Through them he could see the wings of the Learjet cutting the cotton candy clouds.
Diamond took a swig of Scotch and set the bottle down on the table. There was a stack of papers on the flat surface. Whoever was running the show was too sharp an operator to leave them around carelessly. Red decided to play along and began leafing through them.
The top one was a full color brochure, the kind a travel agent would use to convince a customer that he or she couldn’t live without going somewhere. The somewhere was the Ace of Diamonds Hotel and Casino. Twenty-one hundred rooms covering a hundred acres by the Strip. Five restaurants. Four cocktail lounges. Saunas, Jacuzzis, tennis courts, waterbeds, cable TV. The two-thousand-dollar-a-night Diamond Suite, home to celebrities and moguls. A casino big enough to park a 747 in.
The slick brochure haul photos of dazzling women in bikinis lounging by the six swimming pools, and suave studs in tuxedos gaming at the four baccarat tables. Everyone looked sexy, wealthy, and content.
Red remembered his cases in Vegas. The fat men in polyester blowing their savings as they looked down the flimsy dresses of the waitresses. The junkets of blowsy blond broads and the gigolos who convinced them they were as desirable as the chorus girls who were young enough to be their daughters.
Mobster Bugsy Siegel, who should’ve been honored with a plaque that said “Our Founder,” instead was memorialized with Bugsy’s Rose Garden at the Flamingo Hotel. The joke was that associates and enemies who earned his wrath wound up as fertilizer for the roses. Real funny.
The whole town had the splendor and tackiness of a movie set. Caesar’s Palace could boast it spent $2.9 million on its swimming pool, using marble from the same quarry as Michelangelo.
Vegas was built on money and sex. Disneyland for adults. The big fantasy was that some worthless piece of desert real estate would become a multi-billion dollar boomtown based on making people winners.
Diamond took another gulp from the bottle. It seeped down his gullet like smooth fire.
Vegas was the kind of town Rocco Rico thrived in. A born corrupter. A Sicilian Fu Manchu. Responsible for more deaths than Smith and Wesson. Red could see the lights of the Strip flickering in Rocco’s cash-register eyes.
And Fifi, what about her? The town would draw her like a beautiful blond moth to a flame. He’d found her there once, during what he thought of as the “Killer Casino Case.” The dealer was equally adept at cutting a deck of cards or a P.I. like Diamond.
He was cornered and he knew it. He had the kind of face only a mother weasel could love. His predatory teeth nibbled his lower lip.
I could’ve wasted him right there. Give him the same treatment he’d given the two nuns who’d seen his last murder. He deserved to die, or my name isn’t Red Diamond.
He’d left bodies across the town. All I had to do was follow the corpses. It hadn’t been a pretty trail, but no one ever said pleasant sights went with the job of being a dick. He’d spilled enough blood to fill the pool at the Sands.
And now I had him.
“It’s time to talk,” I said, keeping the 38 in my hand lined up with his gut.
“I got nothing to say,” he whined.
I smiled and dropped the roscoe on the floor. He dove for it like an Olympic swimmer, and my gumshoe caught him right in the puss. A shiv appeared in his hand and he lunged for me.
I waltzed him around a bit. Arthur Murray would’ve been proud. The dance ended when I kissed his jaw with an uppercut.
“You feel like making with the words now?” I asked. “Like telling me where Rocco is?”
He got cute. It was almost as ugly as the last victim he’d carved up.
“What’s in it for me?” he asked.
“You don’t tell me and I give you a set of false teeth. How’s that?”
He smirked and dove for my .38.1 was getting slow. The punk got his hands on the gun. He started squeezing the trigger as I hit him. A bullet creased my arm.
I grabbed the .38 and began twisting as he kept pulling the trigger. Shots were going off like popcorn. He ate the last one.
Too bad. Life is tough. Death is tougher, unless you’re an undertaker.
That’s the way Scott Marks had written it up, Red recalled, taking another belt of the Scotch. Marks was as good with the words as Red was with his fists. He forced the memories from his mind and shuffled through the papers.
Six of them were travel brochures for other casinos, similar to the first. Lush, colorful, promising more fun than a night at El Morocco. Gambler’s Gulch. The Diamond Mine. The Lucky Cowpoke. Trail’s End. Rugged Rock. The Mother Lode.
What they had in common was the small print at the bottom of the back pages, where they read “Owned and Operated by the 4E Corp.”
Edward Evans Entertainment Enterprises.
A few sheets of typing on plain white paper gave Diamond an idea what the suckers had donated to 4E. The statements were public record, nothing that someone checking Nevada Gaming Commission and SEC records couldn’t find out.
Evans was worth more than most millionaires dared dream about. He could buy a mansion the way Diamond picked up a pack of cigarettes.
Underneath the papers was a bunch of newspaper clippings. None of them were more than six months old. There was an analysis piece from the Wall Street Journal reporting that Las Vegas business was down sixty-five percent. It blamed the economy and Atlantic City, which was wooing away East Coast gamblers. Four stories were about fires of suspicious origin, including a disaster that killed eighty-five. The rest were about classic mob hits: men found in expensive cars with bullets parked behind their ears; care that blew up like Lupe Velez; a couple found hanging with picture-wire around their necks. The victims’ names were unfamiliar.
The roar of the Turbofans changed and Red’s ears popped as the plane began descending. He peered through the diamond-shaped window. The lights of Vegas glittered in the dark desert night. The landing lights at McCarran Airport had to blink hard to stand out.
“This place has better security than Jack Benny’s vault,” Diamond said as the chauffeur led him down interminable corridors lined with motion detectors and video cameras. They were buzzed through three sets of thick security doors with monitored sallyports, and Diamond was frisked twice by unsmiling, firm-handed guards.
The driver stepped up to a panel next to a knotty oak door and pressed his thumb against a metal plate. A red-eyed video camera winked down on them, a muted electromagnet hummed, and the door swung open.
The chauffeur waited outside as Diamond entered the inner sanctum.
“Welcome to my spread,” a voice boomed. “The name’s Ed Evans, but my buddies call me Tex.” A giant figure unlimbered itself from behind an equally massive desk and thrust forward a hand that wasn’t as big as a catcher’s mitt. Evans was easily six feet six inches. He had a lean body and a leathery face under a beige Stetson. He wore a Ralph Lauren cowboy shirt, with a cowboy lassoing a calf embroidered on the yoke. He had a leather vest and chaps on. His dungarees were held up by a broad belt with a plate-sized silver buckle. There were six-shooters on both hips. Diamond didn’t need to look at Evan’s feet to guess the kind of boots he was wearing.
“I see why they call you Tex,” the P.I. said.
“Just a brand they hung on me out on the range,” Evans said. There was a boyishly happy look on his weathered features. “Hope you enjoyed your flight in.”
They pumped hands. Evans’s grip was as strong and dry as a Santa Ana wind. Red decided he liked the oversized billionaire.
Tex moved back behind his desk and sat on the saddle—mounted on a wooden block—that served as his chair. ‘Take a load off your feet,” he said, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk.
Diamond removed his fedora and sat.
The walls were covered with Western memorabilia: branding irons, spurs, barbed wire, Winchesters and Colts. There were original prints by Frederic Remington and Charles Russell.
While Diamond took in the scene, Evans got out a can of Bull Durham tobacco and some rolling paper. He nimbly tucked and twisted until two cigarettes were produced.
“Effie used to do that for Spade,” Diamond said as Evans handed him one.
“They call them quirlys where I come from,” Evans responded.
Diamond lit both of their smokes and the two men sat back and puffed contentedly.
“I figured this was some sort of joke when you first called,” Diamond said. “It looks like the real thing, but I still don’t understand. You’ve got a small army of guards. I bet there’s no shortage of shamuses who’d jump through hoops for a retainer from you. And I don’t believe you just picked my name out of the Yellow Pages.”
“You’re right about the Yellow Pages, but it was the name that did it,” Tex said with a grin. “I got a thing about diamonds. I won my first cow in a poker game. A diamond flush, king high. Since then, I’ve played my cards right. And relied on diamonds whenever possible. Do you know there are eight detectives in the U.S. named Diamond.”
“I know a Richard Diamond,” Red responded. “Ex-New York cop, had an office in Hollywood.”
“I don’t recall his name from my list.”
“Makes sense. I heard he retired a few years back. Married his secretary. A doll named Sam with thoroughbred legs.”
“Whatever. The other investigators were unacceptable for a variety of reasons. And I liked your background.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some people seem to think you’re crazy. Living in a dream world.”
Diamond felt himself tightening up.
‘It don’t bother me none. Lots of folks think I’m plumb loco. But I’m rich enough so they got to call me eccentric. When I insisted on buying two thousand acres by Blue Diamond mountain and setting up the Diamond Bar ranch, my financial advisors did everything but have me committed. So I fired them.
“Anyway, Mr. Diamond, I’ve got more money than Tom Mix had hats. I can hire anyone I want. And I want you.”
‘I guess your problem’s got something to do with those papers you left for me to read on the plane.”
Evans nodded. “Red, the mob is trying to take over Las Vegas,” the millionaire said solemnly.
Diamond couldn’t suppress a smirk. “That’s like saying the Commies are trying to take over Russia.”
Evans tongue darted around his mouth searching for a piece of tobacco that had gotten caught in his teeth. He juggled it on the tip of his tongue for a second, then spit it out to his left. It landed dead center in a diamond-studded brass spittoon.
“This town was built up by some outlaws that would’ve made Wyatt Earp break leather. Bugsy and Meyer and the Ma-fie-ah turned it into a boomtown and then tried to rob it blind. But we cleaned it up pretty good.”
Diamond snorted and dropped his hat back on his head.
Evans flicked his cigarette into the spittoon. It made a sizzling noise.
“By the early 1960s I was worth a half-billion greenbacks,” Evans said, “give or take a few. I been a gambler all my life. Oil wells, cattle ranches, real estate, and, of course, diamond mines.”
Diamond yawned and ground out his cigarette in an ashtray in the shape of, and nearly the size of, Texas.
“I became interested in Nevada. I wanted a state where I could expand, where the government bureaucrats wouldn’t be buzzing around like flies on a fresh cow flop. I saw the quote from Governor Sawyer about things being relaxed, tolerant, and mindful about folks going their way unmolested with a minimum of irritation. So I began moving my business out here.
“There was all kinds of varmints, men bad enough to make a preacher cuss. The local law was as crooked as a sidewinder with a bellyache. So I got the Kennedy brothers to put the squeeze on. At the same time I was offering the boys in silk suits good money to sell out. They did.
“It took more’n a dozen years but we pretty much cleaned up this town,” Evans continued. “Got some honest cops, judges that couldn’t be bought too cheap. Even a couple of legislators who could be trusted not to clean out the till at the orphan’s home.”
Evans paused and fingered the brim of his Stetson. “So what do the lowdown cusses do but open up Atlantic City.”
Diamond tilted back his fedora in a reciprocal gesture. “Tex, it sounds to me like you’re beating around the sagebrush. What kind of job do you have in mind?
You want me to blow up Atlantic City or start bringing tour groups to this town?”
“Red, I don’t mind the competition. There’s no way they can hurt Las Vegas legitimately. We’re still known around the world as the best gambling town. You want to get gussied up like in some high falutin’ European casino, we got the place for you. If you’re just a regular cowhand and want to let off a little steam, you can do that too. Or if you want to go up against the one-armed bandits, we can make you happy. And our weather’s great.”
“I read the travel brochures, Tex. I’m impressed. Vegas is like a hooker. She’ll take your money and screw you good no matter who you are.”
Evans didn’t appreciate the humor. “You know about the problems we’ve been having. The fires, the murders. That’s just part of it. There’s more street crime, more hotel burglaries, more cheating at the tables.”
“Times are tough all over,” Diamond said. “Go to any big city and you’ll find more cockroaches crawling out of the woodwork.”
“But this is organized,” Tex said. “What I want you to do is find out who’s behind it. Who had two of my key employees killed and ran off a half-dozen others? Who’s bringing in the low-class hookers, the burglars, stick-up men, card cheats, con men, car thieves?”
“Vegas is just the kind of sweetheart of a town to attract them,” Diamond said. “You got a large transient population and cops as used to getting taken care of as a baby at its mother’s teat.”
“No!” Evans shouted, slamming a ham-sized fist down on his desktop. “This is different. It’s a conspiracy.”
I spent enough time trying to talk this guy out of hiring me, Red thought. It wouldn’t hurt to nose around Vegas a couple of days at Evans’s expense. He could afford it. And the millionaire might have a point.
“If it’s a conspiracy, there’s only one man who could pull it off,” Diamond said slowly.
Evans leaned forward. “Who?”
“Rocco Rico.”
“I read in your file about him. Do you really think he exists?”
“As sure as Jesse James robbed banks.”
Evans leaned back. “So you snoop around and see if you find him here? I’m asking for your help, Red.”
“You got it.”
“Whooie,” Tex yelled, jumping up. He took out both six-guns, twirled them, and then let off a couple of shots into the ceiling.
Diamond looked up, expecting to hear the sound of bodies falling. The ceiling was pocked with bullet holes.
“Don’t worry partner,” Tex said. “It’s my way of letting off a little steam. The office is soundproofed and the ceiling is lined with batting like they use at target ranges.”
“Glad you’re happy,” Diamond said, trying to remain nonchalant.
Evans glanced at the diamond-encrusted Rolex on his wrist. “I’ve arranged for you to stay overnight in our Diamond Suite. The staff thinks you’re a high roller from back East. Only me and Norris know who you are.”
“Norris?”
“My driver and Man Friday.”
“Ordinarily I’d say you should hire me through your attorney. That way I’m acting as his agent and get the benefit of the attorney-client privilege. But if the scam involves Rocco, I don’t know if there’s a lawyer you can trust.”
“I trust them as far as I can throw a Brahma bull. You got as many honest lawyers here as you got clocks in casinos. Let’s keep it just between ourselves. This is a gossipy town. You’ll be amazed at how many people know all about you before too long. Or at least about this high roller you’re going to be. You got a moniker you want to use?”
“How about John Dalmas. My friend Marlowe used that name a couple of times and it seemed to work.”
“Dalmas it is then. Norris will take you to your room and give you any background you need.”
“Yeah. He was bending my ear all the way from Los Angeles.”
“He had orders not to talk,” Evans said. “Now that you’re on board, you’ll find he’s a straight shooter. He’s my eyes and ears. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to celebrate. Do you want to join me? I’ve got a Cisco Kid film set to unwind in the screening room.”
“I’ll pass. One last thing. I’ll be wanting a thousand a day plus expenses.” Diamond waited. The figure was five times his usual rate. But Evans was worth five thousand times as much as any previous client.
“Norris will arrange payment. I don’t bother with petty cash.”
“Sure. I feel the same way,” Diamond said.
Evans pressed a concealed button on his desk and the driver entered.
“This is John Dalmas,” Evans said. “Take him to the Diamond Suite. And give him full cooperation.”
Norris nodded.
“Adios, amigo,” Evans said.
“Hasty banana,” Diamond answered as he walked out with the driver.
The guards’ scrutiny was lighter as they left Evans’s quarters.
“Do these guys know who I am?” Diamond asked, waving a thumb as they passed the final checkpoint.
“They know you’re a valued customer who wanted to speak with Mr. Evans about extending your one-million-dollar credit line.”
“Did he?”
“Of course, for a high roller like you,” Norris said without any mirth.
“Not bad for a guy who can’t play strip poker without winding up a nudist.”
Norris didn’t respond.
“Okay chuckles, tell me, who are the movers and shakers in this burg?”
“There’s only a few casino owners who really have juice in this town,” Norris said. “Eddie Mars owns a couple of places. Dave Palermo, Adam Dawson, and Mega Corporation own a bunch of others. But they’re running scared. The only other real power is Moe Greenberg.”
Norris said the name like a priest forced to utter a four-letter word.
“What about him?”
“He owns the Lion’s Den, the Trojan Horse, the Ramses, the Sheik, and the Tahiti. The last two are downtown. Very lower class. Just like him.”
“You don’t like the guy?”
“I used to work for him. I despise him. He’s a ruthless conniving ex-bookie who’d slit a blind beggar’s throat for bus fare.”
“No wonder he’s a success. Tex said you could arrange things for me. I need a local contact. Is there a cop I can trust?”
“I believe so. I’ll check.”
“Also I don’t have a piece with me.”
“We frown on prostitution in the hotel, but I suppose something could be arranged.”
“Not that kind of piece. A roscoe. A thirty-eight and some ammo.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
It seemed like they’d been walking for a week when they finally reached the private elevator that lifted them soundlessly to the penthouse.
“There’s only one other guest on this floor,” Norris said as the elevator doors opened. “A Mr. Vincent Van Houton. From South Africa. His family is almost as important in diamonds as DeBeers.”
“His mother must be proud.”
Norris took out a diamond-shaped key and opened the door to the suite at the right end of the corridor. “The suite is completely stocked. Everything you need should be there. If not, just ring double zero and I’ll arrange it.”
The door to Van Houton’s room opened and two gaudily dressed women stepped out, laughing as they counted a sheaf of $100 bills.
There was no reaction on Norris’s face.
“I see you run a real respectable joint,” Diamond said. “Good night, Norris.”
“Good night, Mr. Dalmas.”