Chapter 6

We go to this Mexican diner up the street, highly recommended by a friend of Maurice’s and have these breakfast burritos smothered in green chile while he offers me his philosophy of life.

“What is is,” he says, “and what isn’t isn’t. You know what I mean?”

I tell him, sure, I know what he means, I think about it all the time. Not true, although I do think about it every once in a while, maybe not in those exact terms, but yeah.

“It’s in the book, Bobby. I’ll give you a copy when we get back. On me.”

On a hunch and because I know he’s been around Las Vegas playing poker for years, I ask him if he knows Eleanor Tamblyn.

“Sure I know her,” he says. “Not like we’re the best of friends or anything. Don’t see her at the resorts much, she keeps to herself mostly. I played golf with her at the Las Vegas Country Club – it was a group of us, poker pros and a couple of casino CEO’s.”

“What did she talk about?”

“She didn’t say much, is what I recall. Quiet, good looking, takes care of herself. Pretty good golf game is what I remember.”

“Quiet, huh?”

“Kind of cold, I’d say, but maybe she wasn’t digging this playing with a bunch of gamblers like us. Depends on us for profits but doesn’t care for our style. Something like that. Puts up with us, displays of gratitude now and then, no real involvement.”

“These are good burritos, Maurice.”

“They are, aren’t they?”

“Know anything about her family?”

“The usual. Grandpa was mafia. Mom started out mafia then became Mistress Corporate. Now, she’s non-mafia if that’s possible and one hundred percent corporate. Lawyers, accountants, public relations. The whole fucking deal. Supposed to be clean as a whistle these days but who knows really?”

“I’m looking for her daughter.”

“Private eye stuff again?”

“You might say.:

“Claudia works at Vesuvio, it’s just down the block. Bartending, she doesn’t need the dough, I know that.”

“Seems odd.”

“Well, things have changed a bit with Claudia.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”

And with that we finish the food, walk back to the bookstore, say our goodbyes but not before Maurice autographs a copy of his book and hands it to me. I say thanks and that I’d catch up with him in Las Vegas and then I head down to this bar where Claudia was said to be working.

I walk in and ask if she is around and one of the bartenders says, “She just left, you missed her. I think she works tomorrow.”

“Same time?”

“Yeah, I think. Who are you?”

“I know her from school and I’m just up here visiting for a day or 2, thought I’d look her up, say hi. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Uh- huh. Whatever,” says the bartender.

Back at the hotel, I pour myself a glass of delicious tap water and fumble with the remote like a good American to see if I could find a decent crime movie. I’ve been thinking about Ms. Tamblyn and her daughter, Claudia, and the thing didn’t make sense, really. She was almost too easy to find, why hire a former private eye when all you need to do is make a few phone calls and check with a few people who might actually know where she is. Something about it seemed odd – more than odd, more along the lines of “I wonder what’s really up with this.” You want things to make sense and when they don’t, the wonder kicks in.

So, I watch a movie, have dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, walk over to Fisherman’s Wharf, enjoy the lack of dryness in the air and the presence of coolness and then walk back, hit the sack and sleep.

The next morning after oatmeal and coffee, I walk over to City Lights and read books (none of them about poker) until 11 and that’s when I make my way to Vesuvius to see if I could find out what the hell was up with this peculiar assignment. The place is open, customers are just beginning to show up and I go in, ask the door person if I could just sit and eat lunch at the bar and she says sure, hands me a menu and points to the bar seats.

A young woman who – I have to say – looks a lot like a man comes over from behind the bar and says, “What can I get you?”

“A cup of coffee and a glass of water. Let me look at the menu.”

“Of course.

She walks away and I study the lunch offerings: expensive.

“What’ll it be?” she says, placing the cup and the glass on the table mat in front of me.

“Well, I’m not all that hungry yet. I think I’ll just go for this Caesar’s salad and eat slowly.”

“Sounds good.”

“By the way, I’m looking for Claudia...is she working today?

The young woman looks at me and I can tell – it’s the poker training – that my presence was being gauged, quickly and carefully.

“There is no Claudia. My name is Claud. I changed my name when I changed my gender. Let me get that Caesar’s salad for you.”

Aha.

When she returns – wait a minute, I need to start calling her him – when he returns in a few minutes with the salad, he sets it down and looks at me.

“What are you looking for me for?”

“Your mother is looking for you. She’s worried you may have been kidnapped. It doesn’t exactly look like you’ve been kidnapped. She hired me to find you.”

He laughs. Claud seems pretty relaxed, considering. You would think a guy showing up out of nowhere, looking for your old differently-gendered self might be disturbing or stressful or something, but he does not seem all that phased about it.

“My mother,” is all he says and he looks out the window and sighs. Or maybe it’s a soft laugh. Maybe both, I don’t know him well enough to be able to tell.

“Do you want me to tell her?”

“Tell her what? That I’m male now? Sure.”

“You’re sure?”

Claude looks at me for more than just a few moments.

“Yes. Tell her I said hello.”