The Monet Murders by Terry Mort

that?”
    â€œIt’s a good-looking dame who sits at an empty gambling table to attract customers. Tony don’t like to see empty tables, so he scatters these girls around, knowing they’ll draw a crowd.”
    â€œWhat’s Tony look like?”
    â€œShort and fat with slicked-back hair. Has a diamond pinkie ring and wears ties the same color as his shirt. These wise guys all read the same fashion magazine. He’s nice and friendly to the suckers, but when he’s off duty he goes around with a ‘what’re you lookin at’ expression. You know that look.”
    â€œYeah, I’ve seen it. Do these guys all live aboard the Lucky Lady ?”
    â€œYeah. He’s got plenty of muscle at his fingertips, if he needs them. You need that in a twenty-four-hour gambling joint. The rooms are pretty nice. Especially Tony’s suite.”
    â€œYou’ve seen it?”
    â€œNo. Just heard about it. ‘Course, they all come into town every couple of days or so. You’d go stir-crazy living out there all the time.”
    â€œSo Catherine Moore has moved in.”
    â€œOr been moved in, more like it.”
    Which meant that anyone wanting to have an immediate and private word with Catherine Moore would have to do it on board the Lucky Lady . Good luck. It wasn’t my problem, though. My job had been to find her. Well, I’d found her. If Manny Stairs wanted to throw himself at her feet and riskthe wrath of Tony the Snail, that was his business. He could take Perry’s water taxi out beyond the three-mile limit and use whatever charm he possessed to talk her back to shore. Tony the Snail might not like it, but I was reasonably sure Manny could organize enough muscle to even up the odds. He didn’t need my help. Which suited me just fine.
    Besides, I had other fish to fry.
    I went back to the Garden of Allah and called Manny Stairs’s office. I didn’t expect to find him there at nearly eight o’clock, but he picked up.
    â€œThis is Bruno Feldspar,” I said. “I found Catherine Moore. She’s working on the Lucky Lady . Do you know it?”
    There was a pause.
    â€œYeah, I know it. Everyone in town knows it.”
    He sounded disappointed, as if he had been hoping that the initial story had been wrong. It’s not an easy thing to know you’ve come in second place to a tray of cigars and cigarettes.
    â€œOkay,” he said, finally. “Let me think about next steps. Send me a bill.”
    And he hung up, not giving me time to tell him about Tony Scungilli. Well, he would find out soon enough.

CHAPTER FOUR
    P romptly at nine the next morning, I presented myself at the Hanging Gardens Apartments. I was a little worried that Rita might have had second thoughts, maybe figuring there was more money to be made, since I had agreed to the hundred bucks pretty readily. That might have been a mistake. But she was waiting poolside when I pulled up, and she waved happily and came out and jumped in the Packard. She was wearing the same cream-colored shorts, but had changed her top to a skimpy T-shirt that said “Hooray for Hollywood,” written in silver sequins. I took this as an ironic comment. It was also obvious that she didn’t consider bras to be standard equipment.
    â€œNice car,” she said. “The private-dick business must be pretty good.”
    â€œI guess there’re worse ways to make a buck.”
    â€œYou’re telling me.”
    We drove to the local branch of Wells Fargo. Rita stayed in the car while I went in and cashed a check. I gave her the five crisp twenties, which she inspected carefully for a moment as though they were some exotic plant.
    Then she gave me a radiant smile.
    â€œI appreciate this,” she said. “I hope you think the package is worth it.”
    There was a double entendre there, maybe, but I left it alone. “So do I. Where to now?”
    â€œThe Greyhound bus