Three hours to kill.
Oops. That phrase had an ugly echo in Sunset Park now that I’d viewed the skeletons in the ground.
I wandered around, avoiding the crime scene I’d been banned from. I bought my own hot dog and drenched it in mustard that made my mouth pucker, avoiding onions for my possible interview later. I stared at the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse across the street, meditating on Hector Nightwine and who, or what, he might be. Nice man, bogeyman, entrepreneur, thief?
At the lower end of the park, I spotted a dog run and stood watching from a distance, sawdust in my throat. I couldn’t help being drawn there, thinking of Achilles. The signs advertised obedience trials at 5:00 P.M. every day. The word “obedience” made me smile through my tears. Achilles wasn’t big on obedience but he was spot-on about everything I needed. Loyalty. Spirit. Elegance. Love.
My throat was clogging, caught in a vise. Here I was, a new woman in a new city, and my past still had me by the throat harder than any vampire.
Las Vegas SPCA the sign read. Women bustled around wire cages while I wandered among them, eavesdropping. What else is a reporter but a professional snoop? Just browsing.
“Gosh, I hope one of these guys goes soon,” a petite redhead fretted as I passed. “The city shelter will have to kill any one that comes back today.”
“Maybe we should put a sign out.” The plump, gray-haired woman sounded bitterly passionate. “‘Adopt me now or I die tomorrow.’”
“Shhh! Truth doesn’t get good homes. People can’t face that.”
I’d seen death up close and personal at the park’s other end. I couldn’t face a return encounter here. So I hunted for an Achilles look-alike. Small, white, cute.
These were all big dogs. Crossbred. Unwanted.
One in particular hunched hopelessly in a big wire crate still way too small for it. It was a shaggy gray ghost of a dog, ten times Achilles’ size, nothing cute and apartment-sized about it.
I approached the cage, then tapped the wires to see the most beautiful pale blue eyes ever, way better than my own, turn to me from a silver-and-cream furred face. A widow’s peak of darker fur over those amazing eyes made them seem almost human.
“Too big,” I heard the women whisper behind me. “What a shame.”
Am I easy? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just ambitious.
“How big?” I turned to ask.
“A hundred and fifty pounds. He’s definitely from the wolf-spitz family, but really big for the breed. Maybe a touch of Irish wolfhound or Alaskan malamute in him. The eyes are blue, but pale to gray in the right light. Random-breds are hard to tell sometimes, you know?”
No, I didn’t know, except for the hole in my heart. I scanned the organization’s single-spaced adoption papers. Eighty dollars, no other pets, a permanent address . . .
I copied Ric Montoya’s street address in the appropriate blanks.
“Really? You want this guy? He’s a monster dog. You’ll need to exercise him daily.”
“I run,” I told them. “A lot.”
So forty minutes later I walked out of the area with a huge gray dog wearing the black leather-and-steel two-inch-wide collar he came with, attached to a new limp nylon half-inch-wide leash, blue with white letters reading Nevada SPCA.
He will go where I lead, and that’s to Sunset Road coming up on 4:00 pm.
* * * *
“Okay,” I told him like he could get it. “I’m new here too. We’ve got to swing on a star and get into this place by hook or by crook. You ready?”
The pale blue eyes said yes.
We lurked outside in the juniper bushes until the pool service truck paused, then gunned past the electrically opened gate. We slipped in after the truck. I led. He followed. I held his leash. He already held my heart.
Can we really storm this castle? And, if so, who will care?
The truck chugged past the second round of gates, but I spotted the needed squawk box here. Also a camera eye. I’m attuned to recognizing cameras. I went on tiptoe to hit the lever and speak my piece into the impersonal infrared eye.
“Hi, Mister Nightwine. My name is Delilah Street. I’m a TV reporter from the heartland, and I’ve got a few questions about a dead body on a recent episode of Las Vegas CSI V.”
I heard the echo of my own words. Recorded. Dismissed. No go.
Suddenly the box squawked back at me, sounding like a televangelist. Rotund. Ponderous. With great big bad hair.
“Miss Street. My deepest apologies for keeping you and your, er, associate, waiting. My man will be down post haste.”
“Post haste,” I told my new dog.
He tilted his huge head, then whimpered and strained at his leash, showing his teeth in a big grin. My God, he had a maw the size of a grizzly bear’s! Good dog.
* * * *
When the butler appeared he was half what I dreamed him to be: natty, with an amiable, worry-corrugated forehead. A forty-something dude with a bit too much tummy and a smidge too little chin, but charming nonetheless. Not sexy, but certainly cute, especially with that pencil-thin mustache. I pictured Ric with same and was so not turned off that I banished that idea . . . post haste.
This butler guy wore a real monkey suit from a Fred Astaire movie, white tie and tails, and his skin matched the outfit to a T. It was paler than any vampire could manage on his darkest day. He was a literal symphony in living black-and-white.
“Please come in, Miss Street. And your little dog too.” He gave—whoever—a welcoming but sardonic grimace. “However, I will keep custody of his, hmmm . . . leash, I suppose. Might as well put the Minotaur on a string. Gracious, he’s ready to eat a grandmother—hopefully not mine—isn’t he?”
Dog growled and showed his teeth. My, what big teeth he has!
“It’s okay,” I told butler dude.
Dog sat and lolled his tongue sideways out of his mouth. My, what a huge tongue he has!
The butler I wanted to believe was named “Niven” led me down acres of marble and tile-paved hallways to show me into a magnificent office where a magisterial man of size, dressed all in black, bearded and mustached, awaited me.
“I will take Mister, ahem, Dog to the kitchen for a soup-bone repast,” the butler announced. “Don’t worry, Miss. He’ll be returned even fatter and happier than he left you.”
Since Dog looked lean and hungry and still somewhat sad at the moment, I hoped so.
“Fine,” I said.
“Thank you, Godfrey,” said my host. “Do keep him out of the lamb for tonight’s supper.”
Dog immediately turned and dragged Godfrey out of sight. This did not bode well for the lamb.
We were alone now, and my heart was beating like one of the drums in Rod Stewart’s “The Rhythm of My Heart.” It wasn’t reacting the erratic way Ric Montoya made it hiccup, but with the steady elevated rate I felt when I was hot after a story.
The magnificent office reminded me of Hearst Castle. I could barely absorb the details: enormously high coffered ceiling twinkling with gilt. Exquisitely carved wainscoting up to twelve feet, at least.
“Sit,” Nightwine said before I could speak further. Did this feel like a dog-training class or what?
I sat, surprising myself. The rococo wooden chair would easily hold an archbishop. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. My feet didn’t even touch the thick Turkey rug under my feet and I’m five-eight without heels.
“I must tell you, Miss . . . Street, you say?”
“I say and am.”
“I must tell you, Miss Street, that I won’t tolerate any of my copyrights being violated. Should you wish to make an issue of this, I will sue you to Kingdom Come. Which, the pundits tell us, will be sooner than we anticipate or like, given what disagreeable and unforeseen events happened at the recent Millennium. On the other hand, if you are reasonable and we can come to a civilized agreement, you will find me very amenable indeed to deal with.”
That’s when I realized that he took me for the double I saw playing the corpse on the CSI episode. That’s when I also realized I had some decent pairs to play in my poker hand, primarily a deuce of queens: me and my double.
I mustered my forces to explain my mission. “I don’t know what you think I’m here for, Mr. Nightwine—”
“A deal is a deal. You signed a contract. As you know, people clamor to play the corpses on my shows. Shopping mall auditions from here to Tokyo host hundreds and thousands of wannabe corpses. My show may pay the union minimum for a non-speaking extra, but the right corpse in the right episode can be in demand for speaking roles on other shows.”
“I just had some questions.”
“Speak to your agent. I can’t recall if you had one or not.”
I took a gamble. “No, it was just one of those mass open auditions.”
Nightwine’s bulk deflated a bit, as if he was a puffer fish relaxing.
“As you will recall from the contract, Nightwine Productions bought all rights to your likeness in this particular role.”
“Do you mean naked? Or dead?”
“Both.”
“Sort of puts some essential reins on my career.”
“Of course we would give you a . . . dispensation, if a future role was not merely exploitive of your notoriety on my show.”
“Notoriety?”
“I meant that as a compliment. It’s much more difficult to portray a corpse than most people appreciate. That glassy morning-glory stare, that graveyard pallor, all natural to you, I see. Unfortunately the obsessive fans pick up on successful corpses and there’s a black market in blue movies featuring my former players. I can’t allow that. If that’s what you’re here to discuss—”
“Blue movies! No!”
“Delighted to find you the lady—” he caressed the word with a tongue that tied itself into a sensual knot of over-precise diction “—your appearance on my dissecting table indicated you were.”
“Your dissecting table?”
“I oversee almost every autopsy on my shows. Attention to details is what has made them the most popular franchise in the world. We have more spin-off units than McDonalds.”
Yuck!
“It’s possible that I might find a use for you on a future show. Perhaps even a one-line part, if you wore a wig and contact lenses. Perhaps green.”
“I hate green.”
“Aqua? That would be a suitable compromise. I see you have added a creature to your entourage.”
“An entourage of one.”
“Well, I approve, although he is somewhat large and galumphing.”
He could have been describing himself. I watched his beady dark eyes shift left and right. This was a man preparing to lie, or preparing to scam.
“My dear lady. I realize the compassion that spurred you to adopt such a beast—”
“You do? How?”
He shrugged great rounded shoulders as black and looming as mountains in a Chinese print. “Forgive me. My operations must be kept secret or I’d be ripped off. I have an extensive security camera system. I couldn’t help seeing you in the park.”
Voyeur! Did this creep see me dowsing with Ric? My pulse went stratospheric. I felt again the tempestuous emotions of the quick and the soon dead under the ground at my feet. And Ric’s iron arms around me, his iron . . . never mind.
Nightwine nattered on. “The beast is huge and ungoverned yet might not be an impractical acquisition. However, where will you find rented quarters that will take him? Even apartments are supersonically priced around Las Vegas, and I’m afraid very few will accept dogs, especially a dog of size like yours. Believe me, I do feel for him. Perhaps I can help you.”
“Why are you being so . . . hospitable?”
“You need a place to live where you can keep the dog.”
“That’s my problem.”
“Yes, of course, but I do have a guesthouse on the premises. Completely separate entrance and egress, very charming, hot-and-cold running servants, laundry service, pool service.”
“You propose that I rent from you?”
“You’ll find me a very amiable landlord.”
“No. I’ll find my own quarters, thank you. I prefer my independence.”
“Then our discussion is over, I fear.”
“I don’t know why you agreed to see me if you had so little to say.”
“It’s possible we could do business in future.” Nightwine pursed his ruby lips. They were small and bee-stung and totally creepy. “Perhaps you may reconsider. In time. My door is always open.”
“Are you kidding? You have one of the most air-tight security systems I’ve ever seen.”
“Flattery is also always welcome.” His large, cerebral brow frowned. “I do advise you to accept my offer.”
Was I detecting a faint, sweaty blossom of guilt on that Olympian brow? But why?
“I don’t need charity. Why would you offer it?”
Nightwine’s stern face softened into a beaming smile.
“It was simply such a pleasure to see you again, my dear, even on my black-and-white security camera. And in the flesh, in living color, well, you are a symphony of pale peach and sky blue and with that very dramatic black hair. I was out of the country during your dissection and didn’t view your segment until the show aired, and your . . . portrayal was quite, quite breathtakingly lovely.”He leaned forward to gaze at my bare legs as if they were basted with a golden almond-butterball glaze for Thanksgiving.
Ghoul!
* * * *
Godfrey gave an Old World bow as he returned my new dog’s scrawny temporary leash to my custody at the door when I left.
“Your associate was quite satisfied with the menu of our kitchens during your absence, Miss, but you’d do well to pause at an establishment dedicated to the canine palette and fashion wardrobe after you leave us. Might I recommend a stronger leash? Forged steel, perhaps. Twelve gauge. There is a Pet Palace about two miles from here.”
I eyed the dog, who licked his chops, i.e., his huge white teeth, with his washcloth-sized tongue, much as Hector Nightwine had done while discussing my double’s cameo appearance on an autopsy table.
“Thanks for the suggestion. Godfrey, is it?”
“Yes, Miss.”
I gave him a high five that shocked the bejeesus out of him. “Thanks, my man. We’ll be in touch again.”
He shook his stinging white-gloved palm. “I sincerely hope not, but you are always welcome otherwise.”
I doubted it. Hector had handed me the long goodbye, aka the brush-off.
But Godfrey was right. The new owner of a mondo big dog needed a mondo big grooming and containing set.