Brimstone Kiss

 

Working with the Snow groupies was wearing. They were so bloody single-minded.

About 8:00 p.m., I kicked off my mules and settled down with a glass of Beaujolais in the cottage parlor, brooding about Lilith. The more I chased her in the real world, the more remote she seemed. Maybe my handy-dandy magic mirror was the way to go after her. Chase her in Mirrorworld and run her down.

I checked my cell phone: no messages and Ric was not answering. His meeting at the Luxor must have run late, big time.

So I sipped and simmered, feeling both tired and wired, an unpleasant blend of emotions caused by inactivity.

When a knock came on my sturdy Hobbit door, I set down my wine glass and jumped up, ready to rake Ric over the coals for being AWOL. Then I planned to fan some intimate embers fast. I was not only getting used to physical affection, but craving it.

"Where have you been?" I demanded, sweeping open my arched door and resolving to make him wait for a more welcoming greeting... at least a minute.

"At the main house, of course," Godfrey said. "May I come in?"

I shut my mouth and nodded, standing back.

"Master Quicksilver?"

"Out on his nightly run."

"Sorry for descending on you with no notice," Godfrey said, sleeking the sides of his hair back with his palms.

Short notice or not, his formal butler's attire was impeccably as black and white and as unruffled as his demeanor. Did CinSims sleep? And, if so, did they dream of animated stuffed sheep?

The sight of Godfrey's dapper, pencil-thin mustache and wavy black hair, formal air, and usually twinkling gray eyes always filled me with fondness. Those eyes were darkly sober now. A CinSim, being a white, black and silver entity, couldn't turn pale. If one could, I would say Godfrey was as white as a ghost right now.

"What's wrong, Godfrey?" I checked the mantel clock keeping company with Achilles' dragon vase and Caressa Teagarden's ring. It was almost midnight.

"So sorry to intrude, miss, but my, er, cousin at the Inferno has managed to convey a rather alarming message."

CinSims had doubly convoluted relationships, since they were both actor and role. William Powell's delightful embodiment of Dashiell Hammett's tippling playboy detective, Nick Charles, was leased to the Inferno Bar. His definitive leading role from the 1930s screwball-comedy film, My Man Godfrey, held forth as "our man Godfrey" at Hector Nightwine's estate.

"How did you get Nicky's message, Godfrey?"

"Ah, you know. The blower. The horn."

"The telephone?"

"Righty ho."

"I thought Nick couldn't leave the bar area."

"Bars always have phones. Don't they?" Asked with innocent duplicity.

I gave up on nailing down CinSim communication modes. "What's so urgent?"

"He had a message from another CinSim, a displaced person, in fact. That poor fellow is somewhat mentally garbled from deserting his post. This... ah, errant CinSim had been contacted by yet another seriously-rogue CinSim. Now the second chap is at the Inferno Bar and desperately needs to see 'a raven-haired beauty with blazing blue eyes'."

"Nice snow job, Godfrey." CinSims from earlier eras were gallant flatterers of women, I'd discovered. I was beginning to like it, but not believe it. "And, of course, Nick Charles immediately thought of me."

"He is a rather fine judge of both female pulchritude and gin."

"Pulchritude, Godfrey?"

"An old-fashioned term, I admit. I hesitate to call a lady of my acquaintance a 'hot number' to her face, although my cousin Nick Charles never would. But then, that's the Gilbey's talking."

"So Nicky suggests I toddle out in the middle of the night to go see this fuzz-brained CinSim at the Inferno Bar."

"There is no 'middle of the night' in Las Vegas, miss. It's the town that never sleeps."

"Okay. I'm at loose ends, anyway. What's this wandering CinSims's name?"

"Oddly enough, Rick. With a 'k'."

That perked me up. "You sure it isn't the real Ric without a 'k'?"

"We CinSims are as real as rain, Miss Street." I'd never heard Godfrey sound so stiff. "At any rate, should you choose to see this fellow, cousin Nicky advises-and I quote-that you 'crack out your swankiest evening gown and dancing slippers'. Apparently the muddled CinSim is quite a ladies' man and, as Nick, not Rick, said, 'A gorgeous dame might unzip his lips and his amnesia'."

"Despite the comic relief with the flattery, you think this is serious, don't you, Godfrey?"

"I have never known my detective cousin to be so urgent. He actually sounded sober."

"Good grief! I'd better zip over to the Inferno to rendezvous with this mysterious amnesiac. That happen often to CinSims?"

"Certainly not. Our minds are even sharper than our components' faculties, thanks to, er, multiple influences." His brow wrinkled. "Being jerked untimely from our environments may, however, cause some damage. What will you do?"

"Dress to the nines and drive to the Inferno to dazzle this Rick into sanity and spilling whatever beans his black-and-white-head contains."

Manny the demon actually admired my sleek flanks in midnight-blue velvet instead of Dolly's slick black Detroit metal ones when I arrived at the Inferno and left her for valet parking.

These thirties' silk velvet gowns were second skins. Talk about being panty-line prone! You didn't dare put underwear beneath them, whether you were Jean Harlow or Delilah Street. This one wrapped across the bodice and featured billowing and tucked sleeves and the usual bias-cut skirt that clung like static to the wearer's butt and thighs. In other words, it was a classic man-trap I'd usually never take out of my collection closet.

The "demned elusive" silver familiar had converted itself into a two-inch wide rhinestone belt that shone like a galaxy against the deep, dark universe of blue velvet.

I carried a silver mesh Whiting and Dave clutch from the period and did indeed wear "slippers," a blue-sequined version of the ruby red pumps Dorothy had to hang onto in Oz.

If this outfit didn't shock the CinSim known as Rick into babbling more than his full name, rank and serial number, I would lose my faith in vintage elegance.

The Seven Deadly Sins had already performed and retired from the stage, leaving the regular tourists holding the dance floor that surrounded the Inferno Bar.

I flashed on myself in the mirror behind the Tower of Babel of liquor bottles at the back of the bar. I'd accessorized my outfit with a rhinestone tiara, a popular look in the period, so I looked like the Queen of Romania.

And so Nick Charles said when I approached him.

I cut to the chase. "Where's this Ric imposter?"

Nicky sipped from his ever-present martini glass. "Better have an Albino Vampire before you approach the fellow. He's been drinking the house bourbon."

Hard bourbon just wasn't a Vegas drink. We like our vices more elaborate here.

I looked at the martini glass with its opaque white brew turning crimson at the very bottom. I decided I needed to improvise something extra, something more stimulating for a drunk and dislocated CinSim.

I told the bartender as I eyed the usual wall of liquor bottles against the back mirror, "Something new, Lou. Pour two jiggers of the Inferno Pepper Pot vodka, a jigger of DeKuyper 'Hot Damn!' Hot Cinnamon Schnapps, and two jiggers of Aliz�� Red Passion passionfruit, cognac and cranberry blend. It needs a jalapeño pepper on the rim if you use a martini glass, but leave both them out for now. Use a tall, footed glass and bring it to me down the bar in three minutes."

I took my Albino Vampire in hand and sauntered to the bar's darkest end.

Holy star power! I instantly recognized the long-faced guy in the rumpled white tropical Bogart suit. It was Bogart in his second-most-iconic film role, Rick Blaine of Casablanca fame.

Bogey had always been more rough-cut than handsome, but he looked confused and morose now. As I hitched myself up on the barstool beside him, he flashed a sullen glance from under untidy brows, eyeing the Albino Vampire.

"You drinking milk, sweetheart?"

"With a kick. Try some?"

"Nah. I don't drink booze I can't see through. Those are dames' drinks."

"You noticed." The point was, he hadn't, but now he gave me the once-over and obviously liked my vintage look.

The bartender brought over a tall, iced glass the color of a blood orange.

"Try this instead of that straight rotgut," I urged.

"I can't quite see through it."

"You can't quite see through my gown but you still like it."

He eyed the bloody cocktail. "What's this called?"

What name would appeal to a tough guy like Bogey? "A... Brimstone Kiss."

"Sounds like something you'd sip on all night long and I'd knock back in couple slugs."

There were two ways to take that line so I sat pat and kept quiet.

He took the glass and a long swallow, then smacked his lips and nodded. "Volcanic. What's a classy dame like you doing in a gin joint like this?"

Good. He thought he was in his own Casablanca bar. "The same thing you are. Trying to forget."

"No, I'm trying to remember." He took another bolt of Brimstone Kiss and made a face at the heat, which warmed his unfocused gaze as he took another look at me. "Black hair, blue eyes. Somebody told me about a dame like you, before I fixed it with the Nazis and the corrupt Frenchy and got out of town."

"Out of Casablanca?" I'd always wondered what had happened to Rick after he saw Ilsa off in that plane the midgets were readying for take-off. A famous fact about the movie was that the plane was a model so small the producers hired midgets to be shown working on it in the background. They may have been the ex-Lollipop Leaguers from The Wizard of Oz.

Maybe Ilsa and Victor Lazlo were going to Oz to escape the Nazis.

"Yeah," Rick said now, frowning as his CinSim programming took over again. "I wasn't supposed to leave Casablanca, ever, but that weasel Ugarte showed up again and said I had to find a dame. Black hair, blue eyes, easy on the peepers. You fit the bill on all counts, sweetheart."

"Thanks." I sipped the Albino Vampire, buying time to calm down. "Ugarte" had been played by Peter Lorre, whom I'd just seen during my dangerous expedition to the Karnak.

Nicky, the high society private dick, was right. This CinSim Bogart had an urgent message for me and it was coming through a fellow CinSim with a double "real/reel" life link to him. And a connection to the truly creepy crew at the Karnak!

I felt a pinch on my blue velvet butt that indicated the Invisible Man was here, and goading me on. That cinched it. Claude Rains, a.k.a. the Invisible Man, had played the corrupt French inspector in Casablanca. Apparently, Claude was joining Nicky and Godfrey in urging me to give Bogey my prime attention.

I didn't know their motivations, but my own interior warning system was on red alert now too. Something huge must have happened to have the CinSims uniting to overcome their bondage and get to me.

"How is Ugarte?" I asked carefully, not wanting to spook the displaced CinSim.

"Not good, but then the greasy little con man doesn't deserve 'good'. God, this booze is worse than the stuff I serve in my own place in Casablanca. I've been burned to the core by a classy dame before or I'd take you and your big blue eyes home with me."

"Where is that now?"

"Uh...dive called the Noir Caf�� Parisienne. Downstairs, I think. Say, what is this place?" He hunkered over his lowball glass of bourbon, brooding again and tuning me out.

I nodded Nicky over for consultation. "He's an Inferno house CinSim?" I whispered.

"Quite right," Nicky confirmed. "From one of the signature theme clubs. There's a place for every taste in the lower depths. I heard him mention that miserable lowlife, Ugarte. He's from Casablanca, but that CinSim isn't on Christophe's payroll."

"Then how would Rick get a message from him?"

Nicky cleared his throat and downed some gin and vermouth mouthwash. "Sometimes we CinSims have vague memories of the other characters in our 'set'. Sometimes we don't. I remember Nora and Asta, of course," he mused nostalgically. "They would look swell hanging out on a barstool here."

"Does the hotel allow pets in?"

"Asta is not a pet," Nicky said indignantly, quashing a hiccup.

I agreed. The lively wire-haired terrier had been a child substitute for the sophisticated sleuthing couple...until the movies had put a real baby into the fourth sequel. The series was killed with the fifth. Hollywood, and now cable and broadcast TV, was always killing series that way.

I frowned like Bogart as I thought aloud. "So a CinSim can't even move from one venue in the same hotel to another?"

"Not without breaking its lease conditions and that does something to the old bean." He tapped his forehead. "Maybe they have us microchipped. That Ugarte must have broken his house rules too. And violently. Most unusual, and disturbing. Then Rick here started muttering about blue-eyed, black-haired dames into his bourbon-vile stuff!"

"I get that you think I'm the only black-and-blue woman in the world, but how did you get to Godfrey about it if you CinSims aren't supposed to cross venues to contact each other? You two 'cousins' collaborated before when I was kidnapped by the Cicereau werewolf mob. Not that I'm not grateful, but what's that about?"

"Nightwine and Christophe keep lighter leashes on their CinSims."

"Why?"

"They got a heart?"

I rolled my eyes. "Please."

"They have an interest in the bigger picture in Vegas and they find us useful beyond being mere cosmetic curiosities."

"Hector and Snow are secret allies?"

"Nah, just brothers in individual enterprise. They don't like mobs moving in and taking over."

"Isn't that a little late for Vegas?"

"The Strip reinvents itself every day, Miss Street. Look at you. Hmm, don't mind if I do again. Nora would look splendid in that gown. What's wrong with our friend Rick there? I thought some female company would unlock his lips."

"I haven't really tried yet," I whispered, spinning back to my dour drinking partner. "Hey there, Mr. Blue."

He glanced up, weary and worn and unreachable. Casablanca had revealed that the cynical Rick had a sentimental, even a self-sacrificing streak. Better play the queen of hearts.

"Mr. Blaine," I said, all breathless, taking on pleading (ick) Mary Astor tones from The Maltese Falcon. Some of those thirties supposed femme fatales were manipulative wimps. "I've got to get out of Casablanca. The Nazis think I'm a spy. You know what they'll do to me. Mr. Ugarte said you had some letters of transit. I can pay whatever you want." I put a fake little catch in my voice that Sam Spade called Bridget O'Shaughnessy on in Maltese Falcon, widely available on DVD. "Whatever you want."

Rick Blaine's unfocused eyes raked me. "Yeah, I got the documents and you seem to have all the right accessories too."

Holy shit! Irma intruded. You've done your vamp act a bit too well. Let me handle this poor bastard for you. All of us girls have a bit of groupie in us. Except for you, Iron Virgin.

I tuned her out and concentrated on redirecting my source.

"I've got to get away to save my husband." Mention of a spouse usually put off the rogue womanizer and Rick had been forced to come to terms with Ilsa's marriage in the movie.

I saw some of that cinematic pain speed through Rick's glance. Then he reached into his suit pocket. For a precious visa I didn't really need?

He pulled out... a tiny case.

Rick frowned at the object. "This thing isn't what Ugarte left with me for safe-keeping. It's in the same pocket, though. I must be drunk."

I stared at what lay in his hand. It was wildly out of period with Casablanca, but not contemporary Las Vegas. It was my Lip Venom case, which I must have lost during the leap through the Egyptian goddess's moon-mirror headdress.

I'd been too woozy from crossing physical barriers to even notice it was gone.

"Ugarte said this was just what you needed," Rick droned on. "He said it was a matter of life and death that I get it to you. I feel like death, but I have. Mission accomplished, sweetheart. Now get out of my joint. I want to drown my sorrows in all that gin myself."

I edged off the bar stool and backed away, surprised and amazed and scared.

Peter Lorre-and somehow I thought the actor and not the CinSim had successfully struggled to escape his role to accomplish all this-had violated every physical law governing CinSims to get this to me, and had shaken Humphrey Bogart loose from his distant Inferno station to do it.

I wondered what the Invisible Man and his cohorts Sherlock Holmes and Ricardo Montalban would think of such a feat and what it could mean for a future CinSim insurrection.

Mostly I wondered whose life and death depended on my getting the message that Rick Blaine had brought me tonight.