No Such Creature

NINE

You would never have guessed that the man who was standing before the grill, flipping pancakes and whistling a tune from Gilbert and Sullivan, was the same man who had been quivering in his bedclothes scant hours before. But that was Max. Owen had never met anyone else who could change so completely from one mood to another, often mixing despair and sunshine in the confines of a single hour. Now he was pouring pancake batter into artful shapes-Marilyn Monroe, Mickey Mouse, a tapir (or so he claimed)-and chatting away as if he had passed a peaceful night of sweet dreams.

After breakfast, Sabrina called several hospitals until she established that William P. Bullard, hotel security agent and man of God, had been admitted to one of them with a concussion. Then Max and Owen dropped her at his neat little bungalow so that she could pack her things. The front lawn of cedar chips was surrounded by a very solid-looking white picket fence, and this was set off by a lawn jockey, also painted white, who proffered a welcoming lantern in the brilliant Nevada sun. Promising to retrieve her shortly, they went to meet Pookie and Roscoe at the Desert Inn coffee shop.

Roscoe was seated at a table for four by the window, a cup of black coffee steaming beside him. He was absorbed in a dog-eared paperback of Ripley’s Believe It or Not.

“It contains nine trillion gallons of water,” he said as they sat down. “And it’s the largest man-made lake in the world.”

“Lake Mead,” Owen said. “I read it online when we were planning the trip.”

“Lake Mead is correct,” Roscoe said. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“The lad takes after his guide and mentor,” Max said. “Last night, defending a damsel in distress, he repeatedly attacked a pious baboon.”

“Yeah? Kicked his ass, I hope.”

Owen shook his head. “He was pounding the crap out of me until Max knocked him out with a parking meter.”

“Unusual choice,” Roscoe said.

Max threw his arm around Owen. “A veritable lion, this lad. Takes after his uncle. Where is Pookie?”

Roscoe shrugged.

“It’s not like him to be late.”

The waitress came over and they ordered coffee. She was a skinny, friendly woman who asked them where they were from. It turned out that her enthusiasm for New York, Broadway in particular, was boundless, dwarfing her excitement about the weather and American Idol, which was also considerable.

“I don’t like this,” Max said when she was gone. “Pookie has many defects, but tardiness is not among them. Give him a call.”

Roscoe pulled out his prepaid cellphone and dialed. After a moment he said, “Not answering. I’ll leave a message.” Then, into the phone, “Hurry up. We’re waiting.”

The coffee came and Max explained the upcoming show to Roscoe. Roscoe asked some questions, and by the time they were finished their coffee Pookie was forty-five minutes late.

“I don’t like it,” Max said again. “If it was you, O base Hungarian, I wouldn’t give it another thought. I would assume you were playing a high-stakes game of trivia somewhere. But Pookie? Something’s wrong.”

“You want me to go check on him?” Roscoe said.

“No, no. You get on the road to Tucson. We’ll roust the errant Pookie and meet up with you there.”

Roscoe left soon after. He was travelling separately from Pookie anyway-a security precaution Max insisted on.

Owen drove them a couple of blocks up the Strip to the Disney-style castle complete with multicoloured turrets that was the Excalibur. The castle itself was tiny compared to the vast fortifications of the hotel that surrounded it, an establishment of some four thousand rooms.

“You go in first,” Max said, “and I’ll watch your back.”

“What are you being so paranoid for?”

“Pookie is behaving out of character. When a man behaves out of character, it’s a portent. We go in separately and we come out separately. I’ll meet you on the fourth floor in five minutes.”

Five minutes later they were outside room 4418, and they were in luck because the door was propped wide open by a housekeeping cart.

“I don’t like it.”

“Max, stop saying that.” Owen rapped on the door. “Pookie?”

They stepped inside, surprising an old Chinese woman in black and white housekeeping livery, who came bustling out of the bathroom. “He not here,” she said. “Nobody here. I clean.”

“Did you already make the bed?” Max asked.

“Why make bed? Nobody sleep in it. See? Chocolate still on pillow.”

“This is bad,” Max said, his bardic turn of phrase deserting him for once.

“Please,” the maid said. “Not your room, you must leave.” She made flicking gestures at them with a damp rag, and they backed out into the hall.

“We should check his car,” Owen said.

That was easier said than done in the vast parking garage. They marched round and round the dim concrete bunker looking for Pookie’s vehicle, muttering to each other over false positives and near misses.

“At least we know it’s a Taurus,” Owen said.

“Exactly. And why do we always rent Tauruses? Because they’re the commonest car on the road. Hard to notice, hard to pick out.”

“Yeah, but we know it’s got California plates and an Enterprise label.”

After another half-hour’s plodding, they found it parked in the shadow of an elevator shaft. Close inspection revealed the doors to be unlocked.

“Pookie would never leave it like that,” Owen said.

He opened the driver’s door and peered inside. There was nothing else that looked out of place. The radio was intact, CDs were splayed on the passenger seat, the Luigi’s parking stub was still on the dash. No blood or signs of struggle.

“Car looks fine,” Owen said, closing the door.

“That doesn’t.” Max pointed to the concrete floor. With the toe of his shoe he nudged the remains of a broken hypodermic.