“Thank you, my man. Let’s go see what Detective Silver has to say about Garth Hammerling.”

“Probably something good.”

“I like your unexpected optimism, Scott. Stay that way.”

“Sweetheart, the way I’m feeling, I could turn Detective Silver into Detective Gold.”

THE ONLY PATRONS of the motel coffee shop were two middle-aged men dressed similarly in short-sleeved white shirts, dark slacks, and loafers. The men were average build and weight, with one having slightly more hair than the other. Marge waved at the men and they waved back. Introductions were made all around.

Lonnie Silver was the bald one in blue pants. He was drinking coffee and working on a piece of apple pie. Rodney Major had a bald dome surrounded by gray, curly hair. He was in the brown pants, wolfing down a chicken sandwich with fries. As soon as Marge and Oliver sat down, a stick-thin waitress with bouffant gray hair came over and brought them menus. Marge and Oliver ordered coffee and a blueberry-bran muffin at Silver’s suggestion.

Small talk ensued.

How was the ride over? How long you here for? Gonna see any shows? Go to Delucci’s for dinner. All the chitchat allowed them time to finish the food and get down to the real reason for meeting. Silver spoke up first.

“When you called a couple of days ago and asked about Garth Hammerling, frankly, I didn’t give it much thought. Lots of people run to Vegas to reinvent themselves. Maybe your guy is here and maybe he isn’t. One thing’s for certain. It’s gonna be hard to find him. You want to hide, you come to Vegas, although if this guy is truly a bad guy, we can track him down. Problem is, you don’t know if he’s a bad guy, so it’s hard to justify resources on a maybe.”

Marge said, “That’s why we came down in person. We figured we could do some legwork. All we’re asking for is a little direction.”

“We can help you there.” Major spoke up.

“Yeah, way more than I thought,” Silver said.

“I like the sound of that,” Oliver said.

Silver said, “See, once I get a bug in me, it’s hard to let go. So I get to thinking on how to look for this guy. We obviously can’t go knocking on hotel-room doors in the big casinos. And I can’t ask them for guest rosters. We’re dealing with thousands of people and you don’t even know if this Hammerling guy actually did anything. Besides, I know all the homicides on the Strip and none of them sound like your guy.”

“What kind of homicides?” Marge asked.