Joan shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He’s our friend. Go bring him back.”

  So off they went, because Tom didn’t want to piss off his pregnant wife. She, Catherine, and Leo had gone to the Erato Hotel, to have a late-night snack at the world famous Sparta Room, leaving Tom and Roy to do the shit work.

  Which I’m doing. Because Joan makes all the money, and all I do is smoke pot and wake up screaming from nightmares.

  Maybe I’m not the only one that needs counselling.

  Maybe Joan and I also need marriage counselling.

  Tom left Abe a voice mail, while eyeing a drunk guy try unsuccessfully to feed cash into a slot machine. A helpful server came by with a fresh drink, then assisted with the feeding.

  After grabbing Lincoln, they were supposed to meet the crew at the Erato, then fly off to recruit Number 13 before meeting with Bert and the others in New Mexico. That wouldn’t happen for at least ten more hours, so Tom had called in an apology-strewn midnight favor.

  He closed his eyes, trying not to think about the pain in his finger.

  If Abe’s here, we’ll find him.

  If we don’t die of lung cancer first.

  Why haven’t casinos joined the rest of the world and banned smoking indoors?

  Tom’s growing headache, and encroaching paranoia, made him acutely aware he wasn’t high.

  Maybe we can hit a dispensary before we leave.

  After several eternities, Roy returned.

  “No guests named Lincoln or Wilkens,” Roy told him. Wilkens was Abe’s adopted surname. “So I went through some of his aliases. Negative on anyone named Ford, Chevy, Honda, Mercury, Kennedy, Garfield, Odie, and McKinley. But they do have a JW Booth in room 421.”

  “Nicely done, detective.”

  The cut their way through the smoke and people and noise and entered the elevator. Tom hit the 4 button.

  “You sure it’s yours?” Roy asked.

  “What? The baby?”

  Roy stared at him.

  “Of course it’s mine, Roy. Why? Did Joan tell Trish something?”

  “Course not. But everyone knows pot heads got lazy sperm. Instead of looking for an ovum, they sit their little jizz asses on the couch eating nachos and watching Hee Haw.”

  “Hee Haw is an underrated show. And Roy Clark was a genius. And I’m not a pot head.”

  “Did you hear what you just said about Roy Clark? Gotta be the weed talking.”

  “I take marijuana for medicinal reasons. Pain management.”

  “You smoke more than Harold and Kumar put together. Plus Jay and Silent Bob.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Dude, I saw Snoop Dog on Santa Monica Boulevard holding a sign that read, Need Weed, Tom Smoked It All.”

  The elevator doors opened to a standard hotel hallway. When Tom stepped out, he felt like a cop again, for the first time in a long time. He reached absentmindedly for his shoulder carry, then remembered he didn’t have a gun on him.

  Roy noticed. “I feel the same way. We should be strapped. Something feels off.”

  “It’s just Abe. He’s only dangerous if you let him near your wallet.”

  They turned a corner, found 421, and knocked.

  No one answered.

  “We did our best,” Roy said. “Time to go.”

  Tom knocked again. “Abe? It’s me. Tom Mankowski.”

  Another stretch of silence. Tom was about to agree with Roy, and tell Joan they couldn’t find him, when a familiar voice answered behind the door.

  “How do I know it’s really Tom?”

  Tom sighed. “Look through the peephole, Abe.”

  “No way. I saw that movie. I’ll be staring right into the barrel of your gun, and you shoot me through the eye.”

  Roy rubbed his eyes. “I forgot what a joy this guy is.”

  “Abe, I called you earlier, remember?”

  “Someone claiming to be Tom called me earlier.”

  “That was me. Tom.”

  “So you say.”

  “Why the hell are you acting so paranoid? You piss someone off?” Tom added, “Again?”

  “As if you don’t know. You guys have been after me for over a week.”

  Could the people who attacked Bert also be searching for Abe?

  “Who are you talking about, Abe?”

  “You know exactly who I’m talking about. Which one are you?”

  “I’m Tom.”

  “You want me to believe that? You’re feeding me some horseshit you put in an ice cream maker and want me to say it tastes like rocky road. But even if you added chocolate bits and peanuts, I’d still know it was frozen horseshit. The pieces of hay is a giveaway. Plus the horseshit flavor.”

  What the hell is he talking about?

  “What the hell is he talking about?” Roy asked.

  “I’d call security,” Abe continued, “but I know you guys run this town.”

  “What guys?”

  “You guys. The Tony Mafia.”

  Roy whispered into Tom’s ear. “I actually heard about those guys. It’s an organized crime ring. Drugs. Gambling. Prostitution. Racketeering. All the members are named Tony.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Roy spread out his hands. “I read it on Facebook, so it’s gotta be true.”

  “Which Tony did you Tonys send to cap me?” Abe asked. “Tony the Nose? Tony Nine Fingers? Tony Glock? Tony Florida? Tony Screwdriver?”

  “Abe, it’s Tom. Remember when we first met? At your car dealership, in Nebraska?”

  “You could have tortured that information out of my good, close, best friend Tom. You Tony the Torturer? Tony Blowtorch? Switchblade Tony? Tony the Icepick. Tony Ballsander?”

  “You made that last one up,” Tom said.

  “So you’re Tony Ballsander! You aren’t turning these nuts into squared-off cubes, you ballsanding psycho!”

  “I’m not Tony Ballsander,” Tom said, not able to believe they were actually having this conversation.

  “If you are, you have to tell the truth. That’s the Rule of Tonys.”

  “The Rule of Tonys?”

  “If I guess your name, you have to admit it. It’s part of the Tony Code.”

  Roy pounded on the door. “Just open the goddamn door, you jackass.”

  “Black Tony!”

  “Really?” Roy crossed his arms. “You pulled the race card? Why can’t I be Tony the Ramrod or Tony the Enforcer?”

  “You sound Black.”

  “I am Black. That’s not the point.”

  “Tony Amish.”

  “How’d I go from Black to Amish?”

  “He’s not really Amish. He just has one of those beards without a mustache. And he likes the movie Witness.”

  “Good movie,” Tom agreed.

  “So you’re Tony Amish!”

  “I’m Tom, you pinhead. You know me. Me and Roy are trying to save your ass.”

  “Just leave me alone. I’ll pay what I owe you guys. I just need a few more days.”

  “Let’s just shoot him through the door,” Roy whispered. “We can aim for his knees. Or higher.”

  “We didn’t bring guns.”

  “I’m going to go back to the casino, play some blackjack. Text me if you get this idiot to let you in.”

  “Let’s just see how this plays out,” Tom told him.

  “Seriously?”

  “How long can it go on?”

  “This is a complete waste of time, brother. And Abe is a complete waste of carbon.”

  “This can’t continue forever.” Can it? “Just gimme a few more minutes.”

  Roy pouted. “Fine.”

  “How much do you owe, Abe?” Tom asked.

  “I knew it! Tony Numbers! You’re calculating interest right now, aren’t you, you mob accountant stooge!”

  “I’m not Tony Numbers.”

  “Tony the Thumb.”

  “No.”

  “Tony the Other Thumb.”

  “No.”

  “Little Tony.”

  “No.”

  “Big Tony.”

  “No.”

  “Fat Tony.”

  “No. And I resent the accusation.”

  “Not-So-Fat Tony.”

  “No. What’s up with the fat shaming?”

  “Average Body Mass Index Tony.”

  “No.”

  “Tony No Carbs.”

  “No.”

  “Tony Diabetes.”

  “How is he different from Fat Tony?” Roy asked.

  “He’s got Type A diabetes. Unrelated to weight.”

  Tom rested his head on the door. “We aren’t from the Tony Mafia, Abe.”

  “Tony the Liar. No-Truth Tony. Tony Tall Tales.”

  “I’m Tom. I’m with Roy.”

  “Sure you are… Tony the Nooge.”

  “No.”

  “Tony the Schmo. Tony the Elbow. Tony Cockblock.”

  “I hate that guy,” Roy said. “Worst wingman ever.”

  “Tony Broccoli.”

  “Let me guess,” Tom said. “He’s named that because he likes broccoli.”

  “Wrong. He’s got a head like broccoli. All bulbous and bumpy.”

  “That’s… unfortunate.”

  “His mother dropped him on an escalator. He bounced down the stairs for six and a half hours.”

  Tom rubbed his eyes. “I’m not Tony Broccoli.”

  “You sure? Guy is kinda slow. On account of all the concussions.”

  “Just open up, Abe.”

  “No way. I’m going to keep guessing until I get it.”

  Roy turned to leave, but Tom grabbed his shoulder and held him back.

  “It’s only been a few minutes.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Really?”

  “Seems like this has been going on forever.”

  “We can convince him. I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m gonna guess your names even if it takes me all night!” Abe announced.

  “He’s doing this for fun, Tom. It’s some power trip thing. Like a maître d’ making you wait for a table when you can see there are five tables available.”

  “It’s not that bad. And maybe those tables are reserved. You ever consider that?”

  Roy rubbed his face. “It feels like my life came to a dead stop. And I can’t escape. Why doesn’t life have some sort of button where you can skip ahead? Like a music player?”

  “Tony Karaoke,” Abe said.

  “Tony Karaoke?” Tom asked. “He doesn’t sound too dangerous.”

  “Hear him sing Greatest Love Of All. You’ll be begging for death’s sweet release.”

  “How about Tony! Toni! Toné!” Roy asked.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “It’s actually a trio.”

  “Tony Triplets! They sent all three of you to take me!”

  “It’s Tom and Roy,” Tom repeated. Again.

  “Siamese Twin Tony! Two Tonys sharing the same grey suit!”

  “He’s just trolling us, Tom. I’m gonna kick the door in.”

  “Tony Door Kick.”

  “Tony Ass Kick,” Roy muttered.

  “Tony the Sausage. Tony Waffles. Tony Pancakes.”

  “All part of a complete breakfast,” Tom said, remembering Roy’s earlier Trix joke.

  “He forgot Tony the Tiger,” Roy chimed in.

  “You’re Tony the Tiger! Wait, that’s that cereal cartoon guy. No one in the Tony Mafia is animated.”

  Roy leaned his back against the wall. “Can’t fool you, Abe. You’re obviously our intellectual superior.”

  “Tony Drywall. Tony Corvette. Tony Cast Iron Skillet. Tony Age Spots. Tony Grape Seed Extract.”

  “This naming system seems arbitrary.”

  “I knew it was you! Tony Arbitrary!”

  “I’m Tom. I’ll remain Tom no matter how many Tonys you mention.”

  “Tony Melanoma! No, wait. I think he’s still in the hospital.”

  Tom scratched his chin. “There has to be a point to this.”

  “A point?” Roy asked. “I’m just hoping for an end.”

  “Tony Pizza with Ham and Pineapple,” Abe guessed.

  “Can’t they just call him Hawaiian Pizza Tony?” said Roy.

  “He’s not from Hawaii. He’s from Scranton. Wait… you Tony Scranton?”

  “It’s Tom and Roy,” Tom said. “Just open the door.”

  “You’d love that, wouldn’t you… Tony Nail Fungus!”

  “No.”

  “Tony Tasmanian Globster 2.”

  “I’m gonna kick this door in and whup his presidential clone ass,” Roy said.

  “Tony Cheesedick.”

  Tom wondered if the man’s dick looked like cheese, or smelled like cheese, and which would be worse. “That’s an unfortunate name.”

  “Try being married to him. His wife cries a lot.”

  “Our patience is running out, Abe.”

  “Don’t leave. I’m keen to guess.”

  Tom gave up. “I think we’re done. Call me if you need me.”

  “Tony Cell Phone!”

  Tom looked at Roy. “You coming?”

  Roy shook his head. “Now my curiosity is piqued. Gotta run out of Tonys soon. I wanna see this thing through.”

  Tom sighed. “Fine. Abe, we’ll give you ten more guesses.”

  “Tony Big Boobs.”

  “I take it he likes big boobs.”

  “He has big boobs. Hormone imbalance. Either of you wearing a bra?”

  “Abe, we don’t have big boobs.”

  “Speak for yourself, bitch tits,” Roy said.

  “Really? Now you with the fat shaming?”

  “It’s your weed addiction, Tom. Or maybe it’s the Doritos addiction, which is caused by your weed addiction.”

  “I’m not addicted to weed. Or Doritos.”

  “Tony Doritos!”

  “Eight guesses left, Abe.”

  “You’ve put on weight, Tom. I know your hand is still messed up, but you can’t jog? Do a sit-up?”

  “My finger was practically ripped off.”

  “You need your finger to get on a Stairmaster?”

  “Tony Stairmaster! I knew it! You’re always one step ahead.”

  Roy chuckled. “That one was actually funny.”

  “We’re not the Tony Mafia, Abe. Just look through the peephole.”

  “Tony Confusion.”

  “No.” But Tom wondered if he should have said yes, just to confuse him.

  “Tony Antidisestablishmentarianism.”

  “No.”

  “Tony Fellatio.”

  Roy elbowed Tom and grinned. “That guy sucks.”

  “I was going to say he blows,” Tom countered.

  “Tony the Squirrel. Tony Bookcase. Tony Shitpants.”

  “No, no, and definitely no.”

  “I knew you weren’t Tony Shitpants. I would have smelled you through the door. Personally, I don’t believe shitting your pants deserves the stigma and shame the public ascribes to it.”

  “You have one guess left. But it doesn’t matter, because whatever you guess is going to be wrong.”

  “Wrong as a bong,” Roy added.

  “Wait… are you guys the rhyming Tonys?”

  Roy nudged Tom in the ribs. “This should be good.”

  Tom considered stopping the nonsense, but he was also curious about the rhyming Tonys.

  “Who are the rhyming Tonys, Abe?”

  “Tony Spumoni. Tony Rigatoni. Tony Baloney. Tony Macaroni. Tony Alimony. Tony the Phony. Tony Calzone. Tony Pepperoni. Pony Tony. Tony the Crony. Tony Negroni. Tony Zabaglione.”

  Abe paused.

  “That all of them?” Tom asked.

  “Tony Aminophenazone.”

  “What the hell is that?” Roy asked.

  “It’s an anti-fever medicine first synthesized in 1897.”

  “This rhyming thing is really stretching itself thin,” Tom said. “You done yet?”

  “Tony That Sings Mony Mony.”

  “That has to be the last one.”

  “Tony That Sings Boney Maronie.”

  “I get those two songs confused all the time,” Roy admitted.

  “A-ha!” accused Abe. “You’re Tony That Confuses Mony Mony With Boney Maronie!”

  “I’m positive you’re making these up,” Tom declared.

  “Would I ever tell I lie?”

  “You lie all the time. Every third word out of your mouth is a lie.”

  “I never lie. Except for that. And that. And that.”

  “Is there a rhyming Tony named Tony Zamboni?” Roy asked.

  “Naw. He got iced.”

  Roy shook his head. “I walked into that one.”

  “You’re Blind Tony Who Walks Into Things!”

  “I’m not a Tony.”

  “I got it! You’re Tony Who Won’t Admit He’s A Tony!”

  “Doesn’t that break the Tony Rules?” Roy asked.

  “Tony Rule-Breaker! You rule-breaking son of a bitch!”

  “Abe, for the sake of getting this over with, is there anything we can do to prove we aren’t the Tony Mafia?”

  “You should have led with that question instead of wasting all my time.”

  Tom squeezed his eyes shut and spoke slowly. “What is it we can do, Abe?”

  “Meet me on the top of the SkyTower. Outside deck. They have metal detectors, so you can’t bring your guns.”

  “We don’t have guns.”

  “Just as I thought! You’re Tony With A Concealed Weapon That Lies About It!”

  “We’ll meet you there in ten minutes,” Tom told him.

  He turned to leave and Roy caught Tom’s elbow. “How about we just wait here, grab him when he comes out of his room? This shit is getting crazy convoluted.”

  “If we wait here we’re going to wind up playing Name That Tony until he goes through the entire dictionary. Let’s just meet him where he wants. At least we’ll end this nonsense.”

  They walked to the elevator, and Tom tugged his phone from his front pocket. No messages.

  So he flipped to the app Zombie Sugar Jackers 5: Bombie Booger Quackers, and checked to see if his Chocolate Bomb Packs regenerated.

  Because wasting time on pointless distractions is the key to a good life.

  “Tommy, get your nose outta your damn phone.”

  “I got a recharge on my Pretty Princess Zapper.”

  “Stick your Pretty Princess back in your pants. Two o’clock. Four guys in matching Sopranos suits.”

  Tom glanced to his right, and spotted the men Roy pointed out through a grey film of smoke.