Fifi was standing backstage, her nervous shuffling making the spurs on her boots jingle. Murrill and another female security guard were a dozen feet away and as alert as ever.
“Where’ve you been?” Fifi demanded when she saw Diamond. “The show’s about to start.”
She was wearing the titillating cowboy outfit. Annoyed, Red snapped, I’ve been working. You’ve been at rehearsal. And I know you’ve got good protection.”
“This is my premiere. Don’t you care?”
“I’m here, ain’t I?”
“Just in time.”
“Fifi baby, there’s no point in fighting. You got butterflies in your belly. Pre-show jitters.”
“I do not,” she said petulantly. She stormed away, the security guards trailing her like respectful ladies in waiting. Red decided to let her calm down and prepare for the show.
He peered out at the audience through a crack in the diamond-studded curtain. Busboys were clearing the remains of the dinners from the booths and long tables. The frenzied activity backstage was building.
He felt he should be planning how to trap Greenberg, but all he could think about was Fifi. It hadn’t worked out the way he’d expected with her. But hell, it was a difficult time. Things would improve once Rocco and this showbiz stuff were out of the way.
The house lights dimmed and three Super Trooper spotlights hit revolving mirrored balls that hung from the high ceiling. A man walked out on stage and bathed the crowd with a white-toothed smile that was warmer than the spotlights.
“Hello you lucky people. My name is Steve Plesa and on behalf of everyone here at the Ace of Diamonds I want to welcome you to the Sparkling Showroom. For the next hour and a half some of the most talented young men and women will do nothing but entertain you. So sit back, relax, and give a big hand to,” he paused and lifted an arm, “The Diamondaires.”
The band began to play, Plesa doffed his skimmer hat, and the curtain swung open.
Center stage was taken up by a giant mirrored staircase. Bare-breasted women with feathers coming out of their heads and rumps began appearing. Men in sequined tuxedos joined them. Everybody hurried about showing off their finery in dances that seemed like choreographed running.
Between numbers the performers would run offstage and grab costumes from special racks. They’d be back in front of the audience in less than a minute while wardrobe assistants scooped up their discarded garments. Besides the quick change artists, stagehands, sound men, and electricians ran back and forth in organized chaos. Diamond had to move three times to avoid getting trampled.
The dozen dress dancers who had been through four costume changes in the first half hour got a chance to breathe when the comedian came on. Dapper in a black tuxedo, Tony Morain warmed up the crowd with jokes from across the USA.
“You know what the difference is between Vegas and yogurt?” Pause. “Yogurt has culture.”
Laughter.
“Anyone here from Los Angeles?”
Loud cheers.
“I thought I saw gold chains shining out there. But seriously, you know why El Lay is like a granola bar?” Pause. “If you take away the fruits and the nuts all that’s left are the flakes.”
More laughter.
“New York?”
A couple of loud yells.
“Don’t mug me, please. You know, in New York, trust is just a name on a bank.”
Laughter, cheers, and applause.
A well-endowed woman wearing only a G-string brought out a unicycle and four bowling pins.
Morain made a couple of jokes about her outstanding attributes, then climbed on the cycle and began juggling.
“I used to be an accountant. I started juggling books. The IRS said my work was funny. So here I am.”
Rapid fire, perfectly timed, Morain kept the crowd chuckling for fifteen minutes.
Breathing hard at the end of his routine, he said, “But you’re not here to see some good-looking guy make jokes. I know what you want. Bring on the boobs.”
He left the stage while the applause was still echoing in the showroom. The curtain opened wide and the stage was filled with a re-creation of Columbus discovering America, complete with glittering teepees, a mock galleon, and real horses. The men played the Spaniards. The loincloth-clad women played the Indians.
After the final chorus of “America,” the curtain closed and Plesa sauntered out.
“Aren’t we having a great time?” he asked, with his thousand-kilowatt smile.
The crowd cheered and clapped their hands.
“We love you,” he said. “We love you all. And as a special added attraction, because you’ve been such a wonderful audience, we now present, in her first Las Vegas engagement, the talented, the charming, the sexy Miss Fifi La Roche.”
The curtain parted and there she was, bathed in an amber spotlight and clad in her skimpy cowgirl outfit. Behind her was a backdrop of a western town. Two palomino horses pulled a buckboard out and she began singing Red River Valley.
The man on the buckboard looked at her wistfully.
As Fifi continued with the song, her voice caught twice. She nearly slipped in a pile of fresh dung after one of the horses relieved himself. But she kept her balance and went on with the show. By her final number— She Wore a Yellow Ribbon—the stage was filled with a dozen male and female acrobats, eight topless dancers, fifteen showgirls, and as many dress dancers. A monster yellow ribbon was lowered and the women tied smaller
versions around their necks as Fifi completed the song.
When the curtain closed the applause was polite, but not as enthusiastic as it had been for the comedian. Diamond was pounding his hands together long after everyone else had stopped.
Fifi came off stage and Diamond tried to embrace her.
“The costume,” she said, pushing him away. “You’ll ruin it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, but she kept him at arm’s distance.
She was panting lightly. “How was I?”
“The greatest.”
“Really? Do you think so?”
“Really. You knocked ‘em dead.”
“It didn’t sound that way.”
Tweed appeared. “You missed your cue twice and your kicks looked like you’d pulled a hamstring. But considering the time constraints and your own limitations it wasn’t as bad as it might have been.”
Diamond glared at the choreographer.
“Now go back to the dressing room and get out of that outfit before your boyfriend here spills beer on it,” Tweed said.
Fifi nodded obediently and started back to the dressing room with Diamond at her heels. He admired the view.
She hesitated at the dressing room door. “They gave me such a hard time before the show,” she said. She drew herself up and put on a haughty face before stepping into the room packed with her former peers.
“Look who’s here,” Angie said as Fifi and Diamond entered. “It’s Annie Oakley and her friend.”
Fifi strode to a vacant table and began undressing. Diamond tried looking elsewhere but he was surrounded by bare female flesh.
Angie noticed his discomfort and came over.
“Could you help me zip up big fella?” she asked, her nearly bare buttock brushing against him.
Several of the women giggled as Diamond fumbled with the fastener.
“Up to your old tricks, Angie?” Fifi said. “You still hooking on the side?”
Angie spun on her. “Aren’t we the fancy lady. You still lifting money out of purses or you just stealing wallets now?”
“She don’t need to steal. She’s a superstar,” one of the other women said sarcastically.
‘Talent will show,” Fifi said.
“I got more talent in my toenails than you got in your whole body,” the woman responded. “I don’t have a sugar daddy like you.”
Sharp words flew like darts in a British pub, maligning appearances, boyfriends, and sexual preferences. When Fifi called Angie a “flat-chested, flat-backed, two-bit bitch,” the woman threw an empty soda glass that missed Fifi and shattered one of the mirrors.
“That’s seven more years of bad luck,” Fifi said. “And you deserve every day of it.”
“Ladies, ladies,” Diamond yelled. “Calm down, you—”
“Stay out of this,” Angie said.
“Don’t tell him what to do,” Fifi said, dressed and getting up to leave.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Fifi and Angie began swinging. The crowd egged Angie on. Diamond got between the two women and tried to find a place to grab them without getting intimate.
He finally succeeded in separating them. He took Fifi’s arm and hauled her out sputtering.
“My outfit’s still in there,” she said.
Diamond went back in. Fifi’s clothes were lying on the floor, torn in several places. He glanced around. The women avoided his fiery eyes.
“Just because you’re friends with the boss you don’t got the right to truck in here any time you want,” a woman mumbled.
“I wanted to protect her,” Diamond said, throwing his head toward where Fifi waited. “She obviously needs it. From her former friends.”
“She never was our friend,” the woman said.
He picked up the costume and walked out.
After returning the garments to an annoyed wardrobe mistress, the couple went to the Diamond Suite.
“I hate them. I hate them. I hate them,” Fifi fumed.
“It’s jealousy, doll. Don’t let it get to you.”
“I don’t want to ever see them again.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want a private dressing room.”
“I’ll talk to Tex.”
“Promise me you’ll get me a private dressing room?”
“I can’t promise. I’ll talk to him.”
Unsatisfied, she stormed around the suite. “I don’t belong here anyway. I should be in Hollywood. I took a bunch of pictures once. The photographer said the camera was good to my face.”
‘Til be good to the whole package.”
“I have talent,” she said, not hearing him. “I don’t want to have to sing and dance the rest of my life. Especially here. They’ll always undercut me. Like that horse taking a crap in the middle of my number. They got trainers who make sure that doesn’t happen. I want to go where I’m appreciated. I want to go to Hollywood. I want to be in the movies.”
“Soon as I finish up here we’ll go back to Los Angeles and S66 about that.”
“I want to go tonight.”
“Dollface, you know Red Diamond always finishes his job.”
She stepped up to him and gave him a long kiss, probing his mouth with a tongue that was slow and sure.
“C’mon, Red honey. Don’t you want your little Fifi to be happy?” she asked as they came up for air.
“More than anything. But until Rocco’s out of the picture we’re gonna have problems. And I don’t know about this film stuff. I don’t want you out shooting spectaculars full-time. Who’s gonna take care of the house? And the kids?”
“What house? What kids?”
“The house we’re gonna get. Maybe in Bay City, right by the beach.”
“What kids?”
“The kids we’re gonna have,” he said, giving her derriere a tender squeeze. “Three or four little ones. A house ain’t a home without the pitter-patter of little feet.”
“Little feet? What about stretch marks? I’ve got a career to think of. Let’s take the money you’ve made and go to Hollywood.”
“The money stays under the mattress until I finish this case,” he said firmly.
“I need to get to the studios. I know I can make it.”
After a few minutes of talking, but not communicating, Fifi threw herself down on the couch. “I’m beat.”
“We’ve got to celebrate your performance,” he said.
“How?”
He joined her on the couch and pressed his lips to hers. She twisted away.
“Not now,” she said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“It’s the best way to take your mind off your troubles.”
His hands wandered over her lush terrain, enjoying the hills, the plains, and the valleys. His mouth bore down again and she didn’t resist. Her clothes disappeared faster than a honeymooning couple. He put on his matching birthday suit and they got down to business.
Fifi moaned. Diamond grunted. The doorbell rang.
He got up quickly, grabbing his .38 from the table. He pulled his pants on and went to the door. Through the peephole he saw a forest of flowers. He cracked the door open. The delivery boy’s smile wilted when he saw Diamond’s .38.
“Flowers for Miss Fifi,” he said, handing the foliage to Diamond and taking off without waiting for a tip.
The P.I. shut the door and brought the bouquet to where Fifi lay.
She read the card that was attached. I enjoyed your performance. You’d enjoy mine. Joe. Room 439, it read.
Fifi giggled and Diamond tore the card up.
“The nerve of that bum,” he said, waving the .38. “I ought to go down there and show him my performance. Hell need new teeth.”
“Awww. You’re jealous,” Fifi said, stroking Diamond’s brow. “That’s sweet. Don’t worry, I’m yours. And you’re going to take your little Fifi away from here. Right?”
Her hand moved from his face down to his fly and she undid him. Within seconds they were back in position. It was sweeter than honeysuckle wine, more intoxicating than a fifth of bourbon.
“Ohhh, Red, you’re the—”
The doorbell rang, Diamond grabbed his gun and his pants, and stormed to the door. He saw a bunch of roses through the peephole.
He yanked the portal open, seized the bouquet from the startled delivery boy, and slammed the door.
“I admired you from afar. Id like to admire you up close,” the note read. It was signed Fred. Room 732.
Fifi sniffed the roses while Diamond tore up the card. The pieces fluttered to the floor like busted dreams.
“Isn’t it wonderful? All these fans,” she said.
Tans? They’re a bunch of dirty old men.”
“How do you know they’re old?” she said teasingly. “That’s why you have to take me to Hollywood. It’d be different.”
“I’m gonna have them put a guard by the elevator and stop this right now.”
“Please don’t. I get a kick out of it.”
“You get a kick out of it? Getting dirty notes from creeps?”
“Not the notes. The flowers. It means they felt something.”
“I know what they felt,” Diamond said, slamming his fist into his palm. I’m gonna let them feel something else, sending that kind of stuff to Red Diamond’s girl.”
“They don’t know I’m yours,” she said. “But I do.”
He returned to her embrace. His pants were around his ankles when the bell rang again.
Muttering under his breath, he pulled his pants up and marched back to the door.
He opened it and reached for the flowers. A fist caught his jaw and sent him flying back.
Babe came in with a bunch of flowers in one hand and a .45 in the other. He dropped the bouquet. Red would’ve preferred him dropping the roscoe. It wouldn’t have mattered much. Flip was right behind Babe with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. The gun had little charm but a lot of persuasive power.
“Hubba, hubba, what have we got here?” Flip chirped, leering at the naked Fifi. “The boss sure knows how to pick his meat.”
Diamond took a step toward Flip and Babe laid a paw on the P.I.’s chest. “Don’t get no ideas.”
Fifi sat up, trying to cover her body with her hands. It only made her look more vulnerable.
“We got orders to take you back to Moe’s place,” Flip said in his distinctive falsetto. “But I don’t think the boss would mind if we was a few minutes late.” He flicked his tongue across his lips.
Diamond charged and Babe knocked him down with a swing of the .45.
“We got orders to bring you back alive, shamus,” Flip said. “But don’t push your luck.”
Diamond’s .38 was lying near Fifi but she was oblivious to the weapon. She was impaled by Flip’s stare.
The P.I. got up and rushed Babe. It was like banging heads with a statue.
Diamond let one of Babe’s punches carry him backward until he was a few feet from his gal and his gat.
The gunmen moved toward them.
“I always wanted to try you out,” Flip said to Fifi. “But you wouldn’t give me a tumble. You were gonna tell Moe. Now he don’t care what happens to you.”
Babe chortled sadistically. The thugs’ eyes were on Fifi, who was trying to cower into the couch. Their guns were pointed at Diamond in a lackluster way.
“Get ready for a rough ride, bitch,” Flip said, lowering his shotgun and reaching for his zipper.
Diamond braced himself to jump for his gun. Babe saw the movement and lined his .45 up with the P.I.’s chest. Red knew he couldn’t make it but he’d have to try.
The door crashed open.
“Police! Freeze!” Saint shouted, framed in the doorway in a classic combat firing stance.
Babe swung his .45 and Saint’s gun cracked. Diamond dove for his weapon as Flip lifted the shotgun. Babe’s fingers jerked spasmodically on the trigger and sent a few rounds flying. Flip had the shotgun pointed in Saint’s general direction. It would’ve been enough to retire the cop on the spot but Diamond’s .38 turned the killer into a killee.
The score stood at Good Guys-2, Hoods-O. Fifi began to scream, a loud piercing wail that didn’t stop even when Red took her in his arms.
Saint called the station. While they were waiting, the cop explained he had been coming by to warn Diamond about a tip he had gotten from an informant. Greenberg had acted quicker than Saint expected and when the cop heard Flip’s voice, he came in with gun blazing.
“I appreciate that,” Diamond said.
“You’re not going to appreciate what I say next. I’m putting you and the girl under house arrest.”
“What?”
“I’ll hold you as material witnesses or whatever I have to do if you don’t cooperate. Maybe acting as an investigator without a Nevada license. We got too many homicides in this town. We don’t need more trouble. And if you go after Greenberg, you’re going to wind up dead.”
“You’re all heart.”
There was a knock at the door and Saint admitted the troop that spends their time looking at dead bodies.
It didn’t take the deputy medical examiner long to decide that Babe and Flip had pulled their final shakedown. The police photographer, fingerprint man, and a couple of other technicians preserved the scene.
Since Saint had been a witness to the shootout, the fuss was just routine. Although Saint was not popular with his brothers in blue, the idea of anyone taking a shot at a cop outweighed other considerations.
The bodies were carted out, with chalk lines left where they had been. The guns were sealed in plastic, marked for identification, and laid out on a counter.
Tex came up with the house doctor, who gave Fifi a sedative and put her to bed.
“Can you get a few of Rosie’s Raiders to baby-sit Fifi?” Diamond asked Evans when he got him off to one side.
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Evans said. “Where you going?”
“To get some fresh air. But keep it under your hat.”
Tex agreed and Diamond drifted casually through the crowd to where the guns lay. When no one was watching, he picked up his gun and hid it under his jacket. He covertly got a box of bullets out of a drawer, grabbed his hat, and walked briskly out of the room.
He nodded confidently at the cop posted in the hall and took the elevator to the garage.
Five bucks slipped to the attendant and Diamond knew which car the killers had come in. The key was in the ignition. When the valet went to move another auto, the P.I. got behind the wheel of the hoods’ car and took off.
He felt good. His exit had been smooth. There were two less punks in the world. The tires rubbed the road and moved him onward. He was on his way to a showdown with Rocco.
There could be no doubt that Rocco was behind the summons. Greenberg was a flunky front man. It was time to go one-on-one with the master killer himself, a man for whom murder was as difficult as flossing his teeth…
I could see only the back of the big chair behind the desk. It was blood red leather, deeper in color than the stream that dribbled from the corner of my mouth.
Two hoods held my arms. I felt like I’d been Joe Louis’s punching bag. There were parts of me that weren’t sore but I didn’t know where they were.
Rocco’s goons had taken their time. With blackjacks, fists, feet, and rubber hoses. I hadn’t cracked. They didn’t know where I’d stashed Fifi..
So the Lord High Executioner himself wanted to see me. I was honored. I was too much for the hired help.
The chair spun slowly and there he was. The man who Al Capone called “Sir.” Who Dillinger gave half his take to. A guy with the warmth of Genghis Khan, without the charm.
“You don’t look so hot, peeper,” Rocco said. He puffed on a cigar that wasn’t as thick as a baseball bat.
I spat blood onto his desk. “I think I’m comin’ down with a cold.”
Rocco’s thin lips parted in a grimace that was supposed to be a smile.
“A real tough guy. You know what I do to tough guys? I stuff’em,” Rocco said. He gestured with his cigar to the head of an unlucky deer that was mounted on the far wall, along with a couple of moose, a lion, and a bear.
“Thanks, but I ate already.”
The hoods jerked my arms and gave me a new definition of pain.
“I think you need a lesson,” Rocco said.
Savoring every moment, he waddled toward me, an evil ugly animal about to play with its prey.
I slumped. As the hoods struggled to lift me, I spat blood in their faces. They let go and I began flailing with the energy I’d kept on hold.
My punches were sloppy but they did their job. I got my hand on the heavy glass ashtray from Rocco’s desk and sent the goons to forty winks-land.
Rocco grabbed for the gun in his desk drawer….
Marks had done a nice job preserving that moment, Red thought. But the reverie had to end. He was getting near Greenberg’s place and he didn’t have a plan. All he knew was that Rocco was there, and he had to get him.