“With cash,” Bobby said as he typed into the computer. “I’ll need names for the other room, sir.”
I should have known you would, Neal thought. I wish I had a couple.
“Amber Flame and … Desire,” he said, because it was the best he could come up with.
“Just Desire?” Bobby gulped.
“Sometimes just desire is enough,” Neal answered with what he hoped was a knowing wink.
Bobby finished the paperwork and handed Neal four plastic key cards.
Now all I have to do is sneak Amber and Desire up to the room, Neal thought.
Bobby greeted the next guest, “May I help you, sir?”
“Ron Scarpelli,
Top Drawer
magazine,” the guest said as Neal’s ears spun 180 degrees and stood up. “I get the convention rate, right?”
Or I could just leap into the lava, Neal thought.
Walter Withers was out of luck.
He bombed at twenty-one—or “XXI,” as it was known in the Vesuvius Room—got burned by old VII at the dice table in the Molten Lava Pit, and was out-and-out killed by a steely-eyed gladiator holding three kings over VIII ’s in The Coliseum Poker Arena.
He did not make back Ron Scarpelli’s fifty thousand. Instead, he’d tapped his cash, maxed out both Visa and MasterCard, and been laughed at by the woman on the AmEx 800 line. She told him that not only could he not get another cash advance; he couldn’t even get a room unless she had a cashier’s check by noon.
He was on his last day in Pompeii.
He found a phone booth with a stool and perused the late games. Then he dialed Sammy Black’s number. Sammy would take his bet on account and maybe he could get well on San Diego with the points.
A recorded voice came on to tell him that the number had been disconnected.
That’s strange, he thought. I hope Sammy hasn’t been arrested.
He called the Blarney Stone and was relieved to hear Arthur’s live, familiar voice.
“Walter! How are you doing?”
It was refreshing to hear a little warm bonhomie again.
“All right, Arthur, all right. Listen, I tried to call Sammy just now, but his number has been disconnected.”
There was an uncharacteristic silence from Arthur.
“Uh, Walt, I thought you knew that,” Arthur said.
“How would I know that?”
Because you did the disconnecting, Arthur thought. But he said, “Walter, Sammy is dead, remember?”
“Dead! Good God, man, what happened?”
Arthur got it then, and he was offended. Withers was calling to make sure his alibi was intact.
“A guy walked into the bar and shot him,” Arthur said. “
And
Chick.”
Walter Withers was shocked. New York had achieved a promiscuity of violence that was simply unacceptable.
“Who would want to do a thing like that?” Withers asked.
“I don’t know,” Arthur said pointedly. “I was in the can.”
“How traumatic for you, Arthur.”
Arthur hung up thinking that Walter Withers was one cold-blooded cookie.
Walter hung up and tried Gloria again. Perhaps she had heard from Polly. If he could just get a lead on Polly, he could probably persuade Scarpelli to give him another advance on the expense money.
“Hi!” Gloria’s voice said brightly.
“Hello,” Withers said.
“I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now,” Gloria’s voice continued, “but I would love to get a message from y-o-u. So leave one at the sound of the beep.”
“Gloria, it’s Walter again. I’m wondering if you heard from your friend. Please ring me. Please.”
He hung up and wandered into the lobby to score another free drink.
He approached one of the fabulous showgirls in the revealing togas and tried not to stare at her breasts as he requested a drink.
She looked down at him suspiciously and asked, “Are you really with the convention?”
“Certainly.”
“There’s supposed to be a three ambrosia per guest maximum,” she said. Then she saw his face crumple in disappointment and added, “I can give you a virgin ambrosia; it’s just tomato juice. A lot of the Triple-X people are in the program; maybe you should try it.”
Withers looked dolefully at the vegetable concoction.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked. “Sacrifice it to the volcano?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” He sighed. “And no thank you.”
“I’m a friend of Bill’s,” she confided.
He looked unabashedly down her toga and said, “Bill must be a happy soul.”
She looked around quickly and handed him a real drink.
“You’re a kind person, Calpurnia,” Withers said.
“There’s a meeting in the Sandals Sandals room tonight,” she whispered. “You should check it out.”
“Are you and Bill going?”
“You’re a funny guy,” she said as she padded off to inflict hospitality on other guests.
“You’re a stitch,” Ron Scarpelli agreed. “Where’s my money?”
“Ron!” Withers exclaimed.
“Call me Mr. Scarpelli,” Ron growled. He was dressed for business: a three-piece white suit, black silk shirt open at the neck, gold chain, and white loafers, with no socks.
Ms. Haber, in a white tube top and white pantaloons, stood over his shoulder like an erotic backdrop.
“What are you doing here?” Withers asked.
“What am
I
doing here?” Ron shouted. “What are you doing here! You’re supposed to be out getting me Polly Paget!”
A few heads in the lobby turned at the name. Ms. Haber steered the two men to a banquette behind an enormous palm tree.
This gave Withers a few seconds to think. There was only one thing to do: Lie.
“That is precisely what I am doing,” he said quietly. He leaned closer to Scarpelli. “She’s here.”
“In Vegas?”
And keep lying.
“Right here in this hotel.”
“Is that why you called?”
Is that why I called? … Is that why I called? … Did I call?
“Yes,” Withers said.
Scarpelli leaned closer. The smell of Brut was overpowering.
“Why’d you hang up on me?” he asked.
“I was about to lose her,” Withers said. “Had to go. I’ve been on the trail ever since, so I couldn’t call back. That’s why I look so …”
“Shitty?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re making this up,” Scarpelli accused.
“Certainly not,” Withers answered.
“Ron,” Ms. Haber said, “if she’s in this hotel, is it possible she’s signing with the film people?”
Scarpelli looked genuinely alarmed.
“Hard-core?” he asked. “That’d be a terrible mistake. We’d pay her more for one spread than she’d make in a dozen movies!”
“All the major magazines are here, too,” Ms. Haber warned.
“Shit,” Scarpelli said. “Walt, we gotta make our move. Where is she?”
Where is she? … Where is she? … Let me think now.… Where is she?
Polly Paget knelt in the front seat of the Laredo and applied the last touches of makeup to Candy Landis.
She inspected her handiwork and said, “Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
Candy looked into the rearview mirror.
“If she did, she’d have a heart attack,” Candy said. “I look like a whore.”
“Better,” Polly said.
Polly, on the other hand, looked like a young gym teacher with her newly shorn hair and unadorned face, over a University of Nevada/Reno sweatshirt, sweatpants, and tennis shoes.
Neal knocked on the window and Karen opened the door.
“Okay,” Neal said. “You and I are married.”
“Neal, we’re going to check into a hotel pretending we’re married? How cute.”
“Who am I supposed to be?” Candy asked.
Neal looked at the cohost of “The Jack and Candy Family Hour” for several moments before he found the nerve to answer, “Desire.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A pornographic film actress,” Neal said. “You, too, Polly.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“A pornographic film actress!” Candy repeated, her eyes wide. “Neal, I don’t know if I can …”
“It’s just for the paperwork,” he assured her.
“But aren’t I a little old?”
“Ah, you’re only as old as you feel,” Polly said. “What’s my name?”
“Amber Flame.”
“
Amber Flame?
”
“Shut up.”
Neal started to haul baggage out of the back of the Laredo.
“Polly,” he said, “lose the sunglasses. People take a second look at someone wearing sunglasses indoors, and we don’t want second looks. We’re just going to walk in, get in an elevator, and walk to our rooms. Don’t try to be sneaky; don’t try to be inconspicuous. Questions?”
Polly asked, “Why can’t I be Desire and she can be Amber Flame?”
“Is her hair red?”
“It can be,” Polly said.
“It’s not going to be,” said Candy. “They’re naked in these shows, aren’t they?”
“No, they keep their shoes on,” Polly said.
“You’ve seen them!” Candy shrieked.
“Sure, haven’t you?”
“No!”
“Someone want to take a bag?” Neal asked. “Mrs. Heskins? Amber? Desire?”
“Where have you seen these movies?” Candy asked as she walked toward the elevator.
“If you really want to know, Jack used to have me rent the videos. He wouldn’t go himself because he was afraid he’d be recognized,” Polly answered.
“Weren’t you embarrassed?”
“Watching or renting?” Polly asked.
“Renting.”
“No.”
“Watching?” Candy asked.
“Uhhhh … no.”
Candy reverted to her talk-show voice, “Did you find them stimulating?”
Polly thought about it for a while.
“I liked the clothes,” she said.
This is wonderful, Neal thought. I’ve got a desk clerk who’s a big fan of movies that don’t exist, a skin-magazine mogul whose cash I’m using to hide the woman he’s paying to find, and the woman herself, who watches porn films for fashion tips.
“Desire and Amber Flame,” Karen said, enjoying herself immensely. “How can a simple mountain woman like me ever understand what goes on in the mind of the man who shares my bed?”
“I had to think of something on the spot,” Neal said.
“So they came from your unconscious. Interesting.”
“Shut up.”
“Do you have an actual plan or are you pretty much making this up as you go along?”
“I have a plan,” Neal answered.
Which I’m pretty much making up as I go along, he added to himself.
“She’s in a room under an assumed name,” Withers said.
“What room? What name?” Ron Scarpelli asked quickly. He sounded like an overcaffeinated chipmunk.
Withers watched three muscle-bound gladiators pass by. He waited for them to get way out of earshot. He would have waited for them to leave town if he could have gotten away with it, but Scarpelli was actually chewing on his gold chain.
“I have a call set up with my snitch,” he said. “She’ll have the room and the name.”
“Who’s the snitch?” asked Ron.
Withers looked at the charm dangling from the chain in Scarpelli’s mouth. It looked like a little spoon.
Withers answered, “I can’t reveal a source.”
“You can if you’re paying this source with my money.”
“What if you were captured?” Withers asked. “Then what?”
“Captured! What are you, drunk or something?”
“This is a virgin ambrosia,” he told him. “I’m undercover, you know.”
Ms. Haber rescued him by gliding onto the banquette and whispering urgently, “The buzz in the lobby is that Tommy Heskins is here with some kind of big deal. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Who the fuck is Tommy Heskins?” Ron asked.
“The Swapper series, Ron?” Ms. Haber prompted. She hadn’t heard of the Swapper series until three minutes ago, but everyone was talking about it, and it was her job to keep current.
“Shit,” Ron answered. He’d never heard of Heskins or his Swapper movies, but he didn’t want to appear unhip in front of her. “He has juice.”
This confused Withers, who thought it was Bill who had the juice.
“Megajuice,” Ms. Haber agreed.
“And tomato juice,” Withers added, wanting to contribute.
“Walt, get on the phone to your snitch,” Ron ordered, remembering even in this moment of crisis to speak with authority. “We need the name and room now! And Haber, find out where Heskins is staying so we can keep an eye on him!”
Ms. Haber rushed off to charm a desk clerk.
Withers sat on the banquette to finish his drink.
“What are you waiting for?” Ron asked.
I’m not really sure, Withers thought, but I’m probably waiting for Gloria to stagger back into her apartment for a Saturday matinee in the company of some man she picked up in a bar.
The room had lava lamps, of course—big ones—and thick shiny red curtains and a red cover on a big round bed. The carpet was stone gray flecked with red and the wallpaper was black with red and gray splotches on it.
The bathroom was black, with a black sink, black sunken bathtub-Jacuzzi and black shower stall. The plumbing fixtures were fake gold.
“I think the theme suggests that impending death by molten lava is an aphrodisiac,” Karen said. “Does it do anything for you?
“No,” Neal answered.
“Me, neither.”
There was a knock on the adjoining wall.
“Come in!” Karen yelled.
“Our room is beautiful!” Polly warbled. “It’s just like yours!
Candy made a face behind her back.
“Okay,” Neal said, “here are the rules. Basically, you are prisoners here, ladies. You don’t answer the phone; you don’t answer the door. You don’t make any phone calls.”
He looked pointedly at Polly, who looked innocently back at him.
Neal continued: “All meals will be through room service. Karen or I will call them in and have them delivered to this room. When the maids clean your room, you will be in our room. When the maids clean our room, we will be with you. Any unexpected knocks on the door, you will repair to the bathroom. Any questions?”
“When do we get to gamble?” Polly asked.
“I don’t think I’m making myself clear,” Neal said. “You can’t leave these rooms.”
“For how long?” Polly asked.
“Forever,” Neal said. “You will be here until the day you die.”
Or until we’re caught, whichever comes first. In a town where they know who draws to eighteen down, in which hotel security is tighter than on an Israeli airliner, and where both the mob and the feds have permanent staffs watching the airport, someone is going to make us. But hopefully not before we can cut a deal.