Neyla proudly surveyed the Las Vegas strip as if she owned every inch of it, her champagne-colored dress shimmering like semi-liquid gold in the blazing Nevada sun.
"Admit it, Inspector," she said, "a view like this is to die for!"
"You said it!" said Carmelita, hitting a button on a small remote control. On cue, the curtains quickly but silently slid shut, brushing against Neyla's nose. Carmelita hit another button, and the curtains stopped three inches away from meeting in the middle.
Posture no longer proud and dress no longer shimmering, the tigress stared in disbelief while the vixen deposited the remote on the nearby large, oval glass table which also held her suitcase.
"From this vantage point, we'll be able to get the license plates of any vehicle that stops at the Titanic! Get the telescope ready, Constable." Carmelita continued, jabbing a thumb towards Neyla's gaudy steamer trunk. Stifling both a sneeze and a venomous remark, Neyla trudged over and unlocked the trunk. In a flurry of stray sequins and loose feather-stole fluff, its front split open down the middle and unfolded into a walk-in wardrobe stocked with a rich selection of colorful party outfits. As Neyla disappeared inside and began rummaging, Carmelita sat down on the couch by the glass table and opened her own suitcase.
Rip stepped off the cargo elevator onto the dusty Titanic lot, pausing to reward the operator for the masterfully smooth ride with a subtle nod, then entered the forest of scaffolding. The three support beams held the structure just far enough off the ground that Rip could feel the weight of the gigantic ship above him as he walked under the massively large rudder. He inadvertently looked up. Even here in the shade, the Titanic's enormous bronze propellers were visibly gleaming.
On this side of the Titanic, away from the boulevard and the crowds, the scaffolding had been expanded into a makeshift parking garage. A mess of tarpaulins in various sizes and mismatched colors served as roofing and occasional walls. Swirls of dust sparkled in the streaks of sunlight which poured in through the gaps. Rip noted with satisfaction that the admittedly flimsy structure was in fact keeping the area decently cool and sheltered despite its haphazard appearance. It would work perfectly well - just as long as the guests didn't have to see it.
Which, indeed, was what Rip was here to ensure in the first place. He looked around. In some of the more shadowy areas, extra scaffolding bars and various other supplies were stacked in irregular piles. At the far end of the parking area, below the Titanic's protruding stern, stood the weird blue van in which Tonnelier the concierge had arrived that morning. Growing irritated at the apparent absence of the crewman he had assigned to parking valet duty, Rip reluctantly filled up his lungs and called out,
"Eckhart! Look lively, Eckhart."
This, in itself, was already a bad sign. As a service worker, Eckhart should be alert enough to know within seconds that another person was present and required his attention. Rip's mood was not the least bit improved by the continued silence, a further indication that Eckhart was indeed not on his post. This was not like Eckhart. It was, in fact, not like any of Rip's crewmen. They were a scruffy crew, all right, but they were a good lot. Rip trusted them because he knew he could.
As Rip was pondering this, he gradually became aware of an uneven rattling sound approaching him from behind. He turned around just in time to see the decrepit wreck of a pickup truck heading towards him - at a moderate clip, but at least a little faster than what most people would consider advisable in such an enclosed, not to mention dusty, area. Rip jumped out of the way, and the truck swept past him and disappeared through one of the uncovered gaps in the scaffolding, between the stern and the starboard support beam. Despite the fresh helping of airborne dust, Rip could still see the truck outside the scaffolding, and kept watching as it apparently doubled back to where it must have entered the parking area in the first place.
As the truck approached him again, Rip stood directly in its path, staring it down. It slowed to a stop about an arm's length away from him. Rip walked over to the driver's-side door and yanked it open.
In the driver's seat, on a phone book, sat Eckhart. Eckhart was a surly-looking rat with an eyepatch. He wore a pristine, brand-new valet jacket over a striped sailor's shirt that looked as if it was routinely being used to mop up engine oil.
"You wanna tell me what you're doing, Eckhart?" asked Rip.
"Practice runs, sir!" said Eckhart. "Gotta get familiar with the layout. Don't wanna accidentally nudge the scaffolding with someone's Lambo, do I? Could bring the whole mess down!"
Rip remained quiet for a split-second, knowing that his crewman would recognize this as gruff agreement. "Well, the bigshots are gonna start coming in any minute now, so park this pile of trash somewhere out of sight and get to it!"
With that, he slammed the door shut, halfway through Eckhart's "Yes, sir." Eckhart promptly gunned the engine and, in an ever-growing cloud of dull blue exhaust and gleaming tan dust, sped away towards the end of the parking area where he performed a lightning-fast double donut maneuver, noisily slammed the pickup into reverse (prompting a spectacular backfire), and slotted it in next to Tonnelier's van with expert precision. Rip decided to just head back to the elevator, shaking his head in disbelief while silently reminding himself - not for the first time - that Eckhart was the only crewman with a valid driver's license.
Carmelita had set up her laptop and established contact with the DMV archives by the time the tigress returned, holding a compact telescope and a spindly tripod.
"Set it up next to the window." said Carmelita, barely looking up from the laptop.
"You mean over here, by this slit between the curtains that's so tiny as to barely even be there?" Neyla visibly struggled to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
"That's right." said Carmelita. "You may want to get a chair too. Make yourself comfortable. Just stay close to the gap so you can see what's going on outside the Titanic at all times."
With this remark, it truly dawned on Neyla that for all the glitz and glamor that surrounded them on all sides, her superior saw nothing more in the situation than just another day at work. She turned towards the vixen with an incredulous look.
"We're staying in Las Vegas with all expenses covered by Interpol, and you want to sit over there with your laptop all day? What are you even made of, Inspector?"
Carmelita felt her blood start boiling. "Quit your complaining, Constable! This is still day one of the investigation, and there's no better way to start it than to observe the VIP guests as they arrive! The Titanic Casino's not supposed to be open for anyone until next week, even most of the poker contestants, so anyone who's been invited today has got to be noteworthy somehow! We could learn things today that'll prove vital to cracking the case! So, you're going to man that telescope, look out for any vehicles that stop at the Titanic, and get me their license plates so I can check them against the DMV database and start the process of identifying the owners!" She gestured sharply towards the laptop.
Neyla had maintained an expertly crafted look of not-quite-boredom throughout the rant. She still maintained it now, as she quickly but conspicuously shot a glance through the gap in the curtains by moving nothing but her eyes.
The Constable's attitude did nothing to ease Carmelita's annoyance, but she decided she might as well take the bait. She got up, pulled the curtain a little aside, and found that a vehicle had pulled up in front of the Titanic Casino while she had been talking.
It was an absurdly large Winnebago, old and battered, with a chipped and faded paint job in green, white, and red - the colors of the Mexican flag. Plastered across its entire side was the name 'EL ÁGUILA' and a portrait of a proud-looking eagle in a scarlet luchador mask. As the two women watched, a figure who resembled the portrait to perfection - complete with luchador mask and a green leotard with the name 'El Águila' embroidered across the entire chest - clambered out of the vehicle, briefly assuming the exact same pose as the portrait before wincing in pain and clutching his back. He quickly grabbed a cane that had been hanging on the back of the door, and leaned heavily on it as he handed the keys over to the approaching parking valet.
"Still gonna need that license plate, Constable." said Carmelita, unmoved.
With a casual shrug, Neyla dutifully put her eye to the telescope and adjusted it to focus on the Winnebago's front bumper. Then she recoiled in surprise.
"Inspector, I promise you, I'm not actually trying this hard to be snarky." she said, sheepishly. "The guy's license plate says 'El Águila' too."
By far the tallest person in the room, Rip stood in the middle of the Titanic Casino's kitchen, surveying the bustling activity all around him. An indeterminable number of kitchen hands, unremarkable-looking rats in shining white aprons and chef's hats, were scrambling about, stacking plates, sorting cutlery, inspecting the pots and pans. One of them was wiping down the countertops, a task which Rip deemed less vital than the others because the countertops were brand new and had never been used. Here was someone who had time for a question or two. Rip tapped the man on the shoulder.
"Hey, I'm looking for Svensson. Where is he?"
"He's… dealing with the fresh meat, sir." said the crewman.
Rip paused for a second. "What fresh meat? You're all the same guys who used to work with him in the galley on the Belle!"
The crewman pointed towards the back end of the kitchen. Rip quickly thanked him, in a tone betraying a faint hint of embarrassment. Then he strode over and pushed open the door to the cooler - where, in kitchen terms, the fresh meat is traditionally kept.
"All right, fresh meat! Boot camp's over. Today's the big one! A lot of you are gonna ship out tonight. And I better not catch any of ya comin' back!"
Sides of rib, slabs of bacon, legs of mutton and strings of sausages hung in neat rows on hooks along the ceiling. Head chef Svensson, a haughty-looking rat with an impossibly long and thin handlebar mustache, was giving them his best drill sergeant routine. Rip noticed a stepladder leaned against a nearby wall. Fortunately, he thought, Svensson wasn't tall enough for any spittle to hit the food.
"Svensson! Is everything going well?"
Not skipping a beat, Svensson spun around to face him. "Meat's in top form, sir! Gonna check on the nuts next."
Rip had never managed to figure out just how much of Svensson's eccentric behavior was actually necessary in order to run an industrial-sized kitchen smoothly while still maintaining the artistic integrity of the food. And he sure didn't have time to get hung up on it now.
But he did know that the man hadn't let him down yet.
"Uh - yeah. Sounds good, Svensson. I'll leave you to it." And with that, Rip slunk back towards the exit, narrowly avoiding a kitchen hand who was struggling to carry a large box marked 'NUTS'.
Spotting some movement outside the Titanic, Neyla got back on the telescope. "Here comes another one." she said. "An old Jeep. Looks like some army guy."
"Keep an eye out for that plate number, Constable." said Carmelita.
"Coming up." said Neyla, adjusting the focus. "Seven, seven, seven, dash, five, one. Huh, do you think he's from Area 51?"
Carmelita entered the digits into the search field. "Area 51 is one of the most secretive and security-obsessed military installations in the world. I don't think anyone there is gonna requisition a vehicle for a quick jaunt down to the Strip." She hit the Enter key. "Uh-oh." she added, as the laptop screen began emitting an ominous red glow.
"What happened?" said Neyla, joining her superior on the couch. Carmelita silently turned the laptop a little to the side for the Constable to see.
The entire screen had turned red. It flickered a few times, then a message appeared in large, black, heavily pixelated letters:
YOU HAVE ENTERED A CLASSIFIED LICENSE PLATE NUMBER. IN THE INTEREST OF NATIONAL SECURITY, THIS DEVICE WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN
[30:00:00]
Neyla cocked her head. "Do you think that's seconds, or minutes?"
The timer rapidly whirled itself down to zero. Neyla deftly ducked out of harm's way while the laptop exploded in Carmelita's face.
"Milliseconds." said Carmelita as the smoke cleared, revealing her soot-blackened face.
"Wow. I guess the guy is from Area 51." said Neyla as she got back up from the floor.
Carmelita wiped some of the soot from her eyes, picked up the cracked and blackened laptop for a second, then put it back on the table and reverently closed it.
"Looks like we're doing this the old-fashioned way, Constable." she said as she got up and walked over to the telescope. "You can just write down the plates manually, then I'll phone the DMV tomorrow morning." With that, she whipped out a battered, leather-bound notebook with a stubby pencil in a built-in holster.
Neyla briefly imagined herself clad in a ragged leopard skin bikini, awkwardly seated on a rock, using another rock to painstakingly chisel a license plate number into the surface of a third rock, while an orange Tyrannosaurus Rex with Carmelita's hair repeatedly roared in her face.
"Unless you have any better ideas?" added the vixen, noticing Neyla's downtrodden look.
The tigress immediately perked up again and swiftly ducked inside her steamer trunk, emerging a moment later brandishing a Polaroid camera.
"Well, now that you mention it," she said, "how about I go and do some recon over at the Titanic?"
Carmelita was visibly unconvinced. "You know they're not gonna give you a room, right?"
"Yeah, but I can still ask for one! I'm just some regular tourist who doesn't know any better, aren't I?"
Carmelita paused for a second. "I can't argue with that, Constable. Just promise me you won't act like a complete dolt, OK?"
"No problem!" said Neyla, confidently hefting the camera and snapping a shot of Carmelita. Carmelita staggered backwards, stumbled over the couch's armrest and fell flat onto the couch, legs in the air, launching one of her high heels towards the ceiling. Neyla took this as her cue to leave.
With Rip out of sight, Sly had decided to take the opportunity to familiarize himself with his surroundings. Presently, he was slowly turning the 'Concierge' - plaque around so Bentley could give him some pointers. Sly was beginning to regret this.
"...and that staircase at the other end of the lobby area is an exact replica of the one in the first class section of the RMS Olympic." said the turtle, via the earpiece. "No photographs exist of the famous Grand Staircase on the actual RMS Titanic, but it is generally believed to have been very much identical to the Olympic one."
Sly only realized how close he'd been to drifting off to sleep when the clatter of the cargo elevator woke him back up.
"Time for a rain check, Bentley - here comes another guest!" he said, repositioning the plaque to face straight forward as the elevator shot past the entrance hatch at full speed. Sly, recognizing this as odd because he knew there were no other stops between the hatch and the top of the scaffolding, leaped across the counter and ran over to the hatch to see what was going on. He arrived just in time to see the elevator come barreling back down, overshooting the hatch again before suddenly stopping. As Sly watched, the elevator inched upwards until the operator's nose was level with the lobby's green-carpeted floor. The operator lifted the bill of his oversized cap out of the way, revealing a pair of heavily dilated pupils with which he tried - and clearly failed - to focus on the threshold.
"I'll take it from here." said Sly, as he extended a hand towards the elevator's passenger, some kind of purple-furred tigress decked out in a champagne-colored cocktail gown and brandishing a Polaroid camera.
"Please pardon the step, ma'am." the operator said, apparently to a passing cloud, as Sly helped the tigress climb onto the lobby floor. A fresh, undeveloped photo popped out of the camera as she did so, and as she fumbled to catch it, she dropped several others.
Acting more out of curiosity than gallantry, Sly quickly glanced at each of the photos as he helped her pick them up. A few of them had clearly been taken inside BK's. The pink-and-gold color scheme was unmistakable. One showed what appeared to be some kind of specter, hair flailing wildly, its distorted face strangely obscured by pitch-black darkness despite the much-too-powerful blitz. Then, there was a street-level shot of the Titanic Casino, barely visible because the sun was right behind it. The rest showed the view of the Strip from the cargo elevator, at various heights, each partially obscured by the glare from the mirror-like facade of BK's. Sly had deliberately saved the freshest picture for last, and picked it up just in time to see it develop into a mugshot of the startled elevator operator. Nothing to learn here, thought Sly, except that the tigress should probably stick to photographing ghosts.
"Welcome to the Titanic, ma'am!" he said as he handed her the pictures. "Now, how may I help you?"
"I'm Tigerclaw, the famous rock star, and I'd like to book one of your better rooms for a week." said the tigress. "Are you the check-in guy?"
Sly had been aware of the word 'concierge' for several hours by now, and he had a distinct feeling that a proper concierge might not be happy about getting mistaken for regular staff.
"I am the Titanic's concierge." he clarified, grabbing the 'Concierge' plaque from the counter and proudly holding it up like a mugshot placard. "My name's Tonnelier." he added. It seemed appropriate.
For whatever reason, the tigress saw this as the perfect opportunity for another picture. Before Sly could react, he found himself completely disoriented, and was barely able to steady himself by grabbing the counter. He managed to set the plaque down somewhere in the vicinity of its usual spot, then quickly grabbed the guest list.
"I'm afraid I don't see your name on the reservation list, ma'am, and unfortunately we do not accept new bookings at this time." Sly actually couldn't even see the guest list itself after that faceful of blitz, but he knew there wasn't anyone named 'Tigerclaw' on it.
"Aww, that's a shame. Toodles!" the tigress chirped, presumably as she turned around to leave. Sly hesitated to answer because wasn't sure if the lilac blur in front of him was actually moving towards the exit, and he didn't want to seem too eager to get rid of her.
"Watch out for the… step, ma'am." the operator stuttered, interrupted by a yelp and a thud. With that, Sly knew the tigress was back on the elevator.
"Thanks for your visit, and have a nice day!" Sly added cheerfully as he heard the elevator start moving.
Carmelita returned from the remarkably spacious bathroom, wiping the last remnant of sooty soap-water off her face with a small towel which she then casually discarded before heading straight for the telescope. It had already been left unmanned much too long for her liking. She was just in time to see Neyla stumble off the sandy Titanic lot and onto the jagged edge of the sidewalk. The Constable stopped at the nearby crosswalk to wait for an approaching dirty white van, which rewarded her patience by swerving onto the Titanic lot without signaling or even slowing down. Neyla temporarily vanished inside the resulting dust cloud. Carmelita briefly chuckled, before realizing that she should be taking down the van's license plate number. It probably wouldn't amount to much - she could see the logo of a rental company on the rear panel - but she didn't want Neyla calling her out on missing one. The license plate was too dirty to make out clearly. Carmelita briefly checked back on Neyla. The Constable was now halfway across the boulevard, still brushing dust off her dress. Back to the van. By now, several guys in old-fashioned suits were clambering out of it, helped along by the parking valet and a rabbit-girl in a nurse outfit. Probably some veteran poker players, she thought. She jotted down the rental company's name and phone number and decided that was enough to work with.
"Good morning, you've reached the check-in counter at the Titanic Casino, Las Vegas. I am Tonnelier the concierge, how may I help you?" Sly had thought the ornate, old-fashioned telephone at the far end of the check-in counter was just there for decoration, until it suddenly started ringing.
"This is Rip." The voice was easily recognizable despite the crackle. "We didn't start out that great, but now's your chance to impress me."
"I'm listening." said Sly.
"It's that eagle fella. The wrestler. Me and the baggage handlers are having trouble with his luggage. Now, don't you dare think my crew's gonna start wimping out at the sight of every suitcase that's bigger than normal-"
"Wouldn't dream of it." Sly interjected - just as the cargo elevator approached. Sly could still hear Rip talking, but had no idea what he was saying. Sly also wasn't sure if Rip had heard, or understood, his remark over the noise.
Presently, the elevator arrived at the entrance hatch. The noise stopped. Sly took the opportunity to ask, "What?"
"You saying you think we're wimps, Tonnelier?" Rip was sounding genuinely angry now.
"No!" Sly all but shouted, as a small swarm of unremarkable-looking rats in bellhop uniforms stomped into the lobby carrying an unreasonably large double-bass case.
"Good." said Rip, in a low, intimidating tone. "But, we all gotta draw the line somewhere. And here at the Titanic, it turns out we're gonna have to draw it at a Winnebago loaded up with vintage weight lifting equipment packed in shipping crates marked 'Fragile'. Now, El Àguila has requested two personal assistants, to work with him for as long as he's staying with us. You're a concierge. A good concierge has connections. Do you know anyone at all who needs a job and can be here tomorrow?"
"I can get you some guys," said Sly, "but if your own crew can't move those crates, I-"
"Look. My guys can't open the crates and haul the equipment in smaller quantities. Hotel staff don't do that. It's rude. But someone who works directly for the guest-"
Sly perked up. "Oh, I see. Smart! Don't worry, Rip, I'll have that whole situation taken care of tomorrow morning!"
"Sounds good, Tonnelier." said Rip. "Now get off the phone, there are more guests coming!"
Then he hung up.
Carmelita found herself watching a bizarre vehicle trundling down the boulevard. She silently hoped it wouldn't pull up in front of the Titanic.
But it did.
The thing had to be a hundred years old. Its paintwork was a sickly, toxic green. Its narrow, white-tired wheels looked as if they belonged on a motorcycle. Two large headlamps of gleaming brass hung in front an engine cover shaped like a coal scuttle, flanked by a pair of black tar-cloth mudguards which flapped like batwings as the contraption lurched onto the Titanic lot.
The vehicle was noticeably longer than most other cars on the road, but only selected portions of the frame had been put to use. Precariously mounted on the tail end was an enclosed cab resembling half a stagecoach. A small mountain of assorted old-fashioned leather luggage was secured with ropes to its wrought-iron roof rack, adding to the overall absurd look of the unevenly distributed bodywork.
The gap between the cab and the engine was occupied only by a simple bench seat, completely exposed. Here sat two figures in gray, slightly military-looking chauffeur uniforms and, oddly enough, gas masks. One was operating the right-hand steering wheel, while the other seemed to be taking orders from a speaking-tube connected to the cab's interior.
The pile of luggage shifted alarmingly as the vehicle awkwardly slowed to a halt. Carmelita sighed as she jotted down the (of course) unusually long license plate number. She could have been hot on Cooper's trail right now, not holed up in some Vegas hotel with a wrecked laptop, making preparations for a painfully awkward phone call where she'd have to somehow describe this haunted mansion on wheels to the DMV. All of it just to obtain a name to put in her eventual report that nobody would ever read. Nothing that couldn't be done just as well by any random rookie straight out of-
Suddenly, Carmelita heard the door unlock behind her. Neyla was back.
Perfect!
Carmelita put on her best professional face, then spun around and gestured at the telescope.
"Constable! You're just in time. Let's see what you can tell me about this car."
"Right back to the grind, eh?" Neyla closed the door and headed over to the window.
"Think of it as a homework assignment." said Carmelita. "I want you to identify the make and model, and get me the name of the owner." Suddenly, she didn't feel repulsed or weirded out by the lumbering road-relic any more. A goose-chase like this could keep the rookie out of her hair for days!
Neyla started by pulling the curtain aside for a quick peek. Her eyes instantly widened with shock. "Is that..." She practically jumped behind the telescope, and began furiously adjusting the focus. Apparently satisfied, she turned to face Carmelita. Her eyes were practically gleaming.
"It's a 1912 Renault CB coupe de ville!" she exclaimed, jubilantly.
Carmelita's jaw hit the floor with a cartoonish thud. Despite this, she somehow managed to breathlessly stammer out, "H-how…?"
"That's the kind of car they used in the Titanic movie from 1997! I love that movie." the tigress explained. Then, she got back on the telescope. "As for the owner, I think we're looking at Black Viper, renowned toxicologist and owner of Viper Cosmetics and Colognes. She's the only person who currently uses a 1912 CB on a daily basis. She's also massively wealthy and obsessed with the early twentieth century, so she'd be a natural choice for a VIP invite to a place like the Titanic Casino."
The Inspector remained silent.
The sky above Las Vegas turned a muted red and the desert heat was mellowed by growing shadows as the sun approached the horizon.
His shift over, Sly entered his little bedroom and locked the door behind him. On the back of the door was a coathanger on a brass hook. Sly grabbed one of his spare shirts from the bed, hung it on the coathanger with the back facing the room, and smoothened out the shiny white fabric as best he could. Then he fumbled around inside his tuxedo jacket until he found his binoc-u-com. He switched it on and placed it on the nightstand. It began projecting a faint pink light onto the shirt on the door. Sly adjusted the focus until the test image of Murray's posterior became nauseatingly clear. Then he scooted his suitcase aside and took a seat on the bed.
"Come in, Bentley." he said, tapping his earpiece. "I've got all the VIP guests checked in. Did you get any intel for me?"
"I certainly did, Sly!" the turtle replied, as the binoc-u-com image switched to a portrait of an eagle wearing a scarlet luchador mask with black-rimmed aviator goggles. "You're looking at El Águila, once a champion wrestler who faded into obscurity after his chiropractor told him he needed to take it easy. He later developed a severe gambling problem. He was never defeated in the ring, so he still wears his mask wherever he goes. His real identity remains a mystery. Rumor has it, he even wears that mask in the photo on his driver's license. Not exactly someone you'd expect to see at an invitational high-stakes poker event."
"Someone here must like him," said Sly, "there was a note on the guest list saying I'm authorized to get him whatever he wants, on the house. Apparently he needs two personal assistants, so I'm thinking about you guys. He's set up in one of the second-class suites. You should have plenty of living space."
"Good thinking, Sly! That should give us plenty of excuses to snoop around."
With that, Bentley changed the projected image to a portrait of a smiling bulldog in the dapper uniform of a high-ranking military officer.
"Next up, Major-General Morgan George Kelso. He is supposed to be stationed at the nearby Area 51, but spends most of his time on the Strip. He's one of the highest high-rollers in town and, in Vegas, that's saying something."
"He's a character, all right." said Sly. "Kept calling me 'Rookie'."
"Suck it up, Sly. Stay on his good side. We could finally get a lead on Area 51!"
Sly couldn't argue with that. He knew Bentley was interested in Area 51, and Sly didn't blame him a bit. That place was the Fort Knox of the UFO geek world – and even though Sly himself wasn't buying any of that alien malarkey, the potential jackpot was sure to be something way more interesting than just a load of boring old gold bars.
Bentley changed the image again. Sly was now looking at a white flash, which almost completely obscured a pale figure brandishing a Polarioid camera. Bentley and the rock star had managed to snap their photos at the exact same moment. The result looked like a white version of the bizarre black specter photographed by the tigress herself.
"OK, this one didn't turn out too good." the turtle admitted. "Do we have any idea who it even is?"
"Not really, but that's not gonna be a problem." said Sly. "She's not on the guest list, she's just some tourist who showed up and tried to get a room. I told her we were closed, and that was it. We probably won't even see her again. Don't worry about it."
"OK, I guess that's settled." said Bentley. "Anyway, you should be more worried about this next bunch."
The binoc-u-com now showed a bunny girl in a nurse's uniform at least two sizes too small for her. She was flanked by four ancient and decrepit-looking bloodhounds, who appeared to have been shoveled into their immaculately pressed pinstripe suits. Towering in the background was the oversized double-bass case from before.
"Yeah, Bentley, you bet I am." said Sly. "The guest list just says 'Nurse Bunnie, with associates'. Those look like some associates."
"You can say that again, Sly. I had to do some real digging to be sure. I still almost can't believe it, but those guys are Tony the Fist, Max the Ear, Vito the Mouth, and Benny the Other Fist! They were the inner circle of a mob outfit that spanned the entire West coast back in the seventies! Nobody's heard from any of them since 1977 when their leader, Lorenzo the Brain, was killed in an unsolved drive-by shooting. Whatever else we get up to here at the Titanic Casino, we should do our best to figure out why they've decided to crawl back out of the woodwork today, of all days."
"And we're not even at the really freaky part yet." said Sly.
With that, the image of Nurse Bunnie and her associates was replaced with a chilling portrait of a snake woman with a dead, milky-white eye. Her remaining eye was a deep emerald green, nearly indistinguishable from the mass of gleaming black scales which surrounded it. Sly had somehow managed to remain calm while the creature checked in, even as he felt the hairs bristling all the way down his spine.
"Black Viper herself." said Bentley, with a slight tremble in his voice.
"Yup." Sly affirmed.
"The deadliest poisoner on the planet. Immune to every toxin known to science - and at least two more."
Sly shuddered. "Is it true that she can recognize any poison by taste, like a master wine taster?"
"Yeah!" Bentley exclaimed. "Alcohol and tobacco do nothing for her, so she drinks scorpion venom cocktails and smokes special custom cigarillos made from coca leaves soaked in roofing tar! Her assistants have to light them with a blowtorch."
"Oh yeah. Her assistants." Sly couldn't help letting out a brief chuckle. "Sure, we have a washed-up luchador, a half-baked army bigwig, some leftover mobsters from the disco era, and the world's reigning poisoning champion, but let's not forget about the two skunk girls in high-tech gas masks and pre- World War One chauffeur uniforms!"
"That'll be the DeKaye sisters, Sly! Luna and Lucretia. They're identical twins. Viper recruited them from a mental institution. One of them was a nurse and the other was an inmate, but nobody seems to know which was which. There was a rumor about them taking turns."
"The reservation was in the name of 'Lucretia DeKaye'. I thought it was gonna be a punk band or something." said Sly, in a plain, conversational tone. Then he gave a brief, enthusiastic laugh. "And here I was afraid this gig was gonna be boring!"
"Just like you to go in hoping for foul play, Sly."
"Hey, this was already looking more like a Chip chaser convention than a poker tournament even before Viper showed up - and she's almost as infamous for her Titanic Chip obsession as for her poisons and perfumes! I think you've done it, buddy - this has got to be the best lead on the Titanic Chip since 1912!"
The turtle hesitated. "Yeah... let's just hope we're not in over our heads here! We may well have wandered into a bigger mess than anything we've ever even heard of before! Sly, I need you to promise me that you'll keep the lowest profile you possibly can."
"You got it, Bentley. I'll have all-day access to an endless buffet of intel just by doing my best at this concierge gig. And with you guys acting as personal assistants to one of the VIPs, nothing that goes on here is gonna escape us for long! I agree one hundred percent, man - there's no need to start rocking the boat any time soon."
"Well, this was fun. If a bit unproductive." said Neyla, discreetly leaning over to hit the 'open'-button on the curtain remote while Carmelita placed the telescope in the corner next to the couch. The room brightened up as the curtains slid apart.
"Even if we won't know for sure until I've talked to the DMV, I will admit that there doesn't seem to be anything immediately suspicious about the Titanic's VIP clientele." said Carmelita. "However, we can always focus on the staff. Speaking of which, Constable - how did your little expedition go?"
"Well, I was able to briefly meet the Titanic Casino's concierge." said Neyla, producing the polaroid mugshot. Against the odds, it had turned out decently. "One… mr. Tonnelier." she added. To her mild surprise, the Inspector eagerly snatched it.
"Well done!" exclaimed Carmelita. "A concierge is not a concierge unless he knows everything there is to know about his place of employment - so the closer we can get to this Tonnelier person, the closer we get to the identity of the Captain!" She handed the mugshot back to the tigress. "Forget about the DMV. Fax that picture to Interpol HQ, and have them check it against every database on the planet." Her facial expression morphed into a menacing grin. "If this Tonnelier fellow has ever so much as picked his nose inappropriately, I want to know about it!"