Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

A Heist Hoisted

“Déjà Vu,” Max said. Glumly.

“Double-jointed assistant at the Treasure Island,” Gandolph said, nodding, “worked under that name in the nineties I remember her well. Indian. Eastern, not Western. Best little sawed-in-half lady in the business. Great stage name: Déjà Vu. Those were the days.”

“Never knew her. I was speaking generally.”

They sat cloistered in the daylight darkness of Gandolph’s former home, now Max’s digs. The darkness came from metal security shutters at each window and door. The place was a fortress.

“Max. I know it’s a pain to be upstaged by a corpse.”

“It’s not a pain. In my case, it’s a habit.”

“We just have to wait until things settle down again.”

“Which will be in what century?”

“Sooner than you think and sooner than the media and the police will like. This Russian show is way bigger than a worker’s unfortunate . . . accident.”

“You think?”

“Or suicide.”

“Or murder.”

“See. So many to choose from. It’ll confuse the authorities.”

“You never used to be callous.”

Gandolph sighed. “I never used to be so close to mortality myself. You understand it’s crucial that you steal the Alexander Scepter. This is one lost life. What you can do inside the Synth could save dozens.”

“Somehow quantifying tragedy doesn’t do it for me anymore, Garry. At least the IRA has officially pulled its own teeth, though it can’t guarantee the shadow factions. But the rest of the world is running willy-nilly toward the same ugly, blind, political stewpot of tit for tat at any price. And who pays? Not the old, cold warriors. It’s the troops and the civilians. The casualties. The numbers, not the names.”

“You want to bow out?”

Max twirled a tall glass of tomato juice on the kitchen island’s stainless-steel top. It resembled a bloody carousel.

“I want to see some good results. We’re chasing phantoms here in hopes of catching a vague mastermind, or the money behind the madness.”

Gandolph pulled a computer printout from his always-concealed pockets. This unassuming man in black had always seemed made of hidden resources.

“Your ladyfriend is thorough, I’ll say that for her. I like her Table of Unresolved Events.”

“Did she call it that? Really?” Max tried to see, having forgotten the details.

Gandolph wrested the paper away. Teasing. Tempting.

“Yes, she did. It’s all laid out right here. The sad history of unsolved murders and related conundrums in Las Vegas since you and she hit town a couple years ago.” Gandolph’s plump middle-aged face wrinkled with mock consternation. “You two have not been lucky charms for this old town.”

“Tell me something I don’t know! ‘This old town’ hasn’t exactly showered us with roses and rice.”

“Tsk. I see my cover as a corpse is not blown.” Gandolph put the paper down so Max could read it, which he eagerly did, although he’d seen it before. Still, a refresher course was always welcome in Life 912B.

“ ‘Roses and rice,’ ” Gandolph echoed his worlds. “Max, you’re thinking of the normal life you could have had, if you hadn’t been what you were forced to be, and if we hadn’t done what we did, and had the times not called for us to do it again.”

“Damn it, Garry. You’re the closest thing to a father I’ve had since high school. You know I want to get out. You know I need to give Temple something better to do than make tables of unsolved deaths and lists of my possible prosecutable delinquencies.”

“Just this one last game.”

“ ‘Last’ is the operative word.” Max crumpled the paper. “I’m losing her.”

He was this close to saying no more games, no matter how noble the objective. This close to saying, “I deserve a life, and so does Temple.” Hadn’t she adapted to every suicide curve on his undercover trajectory? Wasn’t she as true blue as her eyes? What did he think he was saving, the whole world? And losing the most important person, to him, in it?

Garry nodded, poured himself a bit more of a superior Beaujolais. Filled Max’s glass, which was only down a sip or two.

“I have no family,” Garry said. “No lost lovers. Just you, my boy. I truly do think that if we expose this Las Vegas connection to international terrorism and thievery, we will disarm a significant force in today’s miserable world.”

Max sighed. Sipped. Raised his eyebrows in tribute to the vintage. “So now we have to get back inside the New Millennium with half the LVMPD homicide department crawling all over the site.”

“You mean . . . with the lady lieutenant alerted to the signature of a Max Kinsella Production.”

“Woman. She’s no lady. And politically correct on top of it. Molina is not to be underestimated. At this point, the burr under her saddle to get me will warp even her professional judgment.”

“Warped professional judgment might work very well for us.”

“For you.” Max pursed his lips.

He had certain advantages. The Cloaked Conjuror relied on him. Shangri-La hated him and was looking for his signature on the scene. Expectations were more often blinding than forewarning.

Same with Molina.

Only thing, it might best suit their plans to make him look damn guilty, even to Temple. He hated the idea of deceiving her. When he had been forced out of town by the hitmen at the Goliath two years earlier, he’d deceived her by omission because he didn’t dare contact her until his trail was months cold and no one could follow it back to her and the Circle Ritz. But this time, the deception would be deliberate. How many times could Temple’s loyalty defy the odds of how things looked on his behalf?

Funny. Everyone . . . Gandolph, the Synth, Molina . . . thought Max Kinsella was the major player, the center, the man to get, one way or another. And he knew the key to himself was and had always been Temple, because she was pure of heart. And far from simple.

Max pushed the glass of fine wine back toward Gandolph and sipped the tart tomato juice. What he really cared about had become nobody’s concern but his. But this world wouldn’t be fit or free for anyone to live in, including Temple, if he didn’t follow his fate card to the final shuffling of the deck. If he wanted Temple, free and clear of any past shackles, his or hers, he’d have to finish this final charade.

He’d need his wits, and his iron wrists, and his ever-calculating nerve and his indomitable Irish soul on this job before it was over.