Hotline to Murder

women? Tony leaned toward Shahla and read pieces of some of the poems. The figures of speech in the poems, such as “a fire inside that makes me scream” must be the metaphors Shahla was talking about. They were not specific as to where the pain originated.
    “I’m feeling better,” Paul said finally. “The pain is going away. Maybe I won’t be able to write poetry anymore.” He smiled.
    “Has something good happened to you?” Shahla asked.
    “I have a new girlfriend.”
    “You should have brought her with you.”
    “She’s working today.”
    “When was the last time you were in Los Angeles?” Tony asked, hoping to speed things up. They didn’t seem to be accomplishing anything and he was getting bored.
    Paul hesitated and then said, “I’ve never been to Los Angeles.”
    “Never?” Tony said, not believing him. Everybody who lived in the West had been to Los Angeles.
    “My parents don’t like big cities, and I just never got there on my own.”
    Shahla had finished going through the book. She glanced at Tony and imperceptibly shrugged her shoulders. What now? It was time for direct action. Tony reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a copy of the spaghetti strap poem. It was folded and wrinkled.
    He smoothed it out and said, “I’m not much of a poet, but I found one poem that I kind of like. He pushed it across the table and watched Paul’s eyes as he read it, hoping to see a spark of something. He didn’t detect anything.
    When he finished reading it, Paul said, “It sounds like it was written by a teenage boy with raging hormones, but very few teenage boys can write poems like this.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Because it takes a lot of practice and a certain amount of ability to achieve that use of meter, rhyme and organization.”
    “So who do you think wrote it, then?” Shahla asked.
    Paul pushed his glasses up on his nose. He did that frequently. He said, “It was probably written by an older man who wishes he were still a teenager.”
    After some further discussion about the poem, Paul excused himself to use the restroom.
    Tony said, “Well, do you think he wrote it?”
    “Definitely not,” Shahla said.
    “Then we have no more use for him. Let’s get rid of him.”
    “Tony. You know as well as I do that our callers have fragile psyches. We can’t just dismiss him.”
    “Well, what do you suggest then?”
    “I read about an art exhibition at one of the hotels. We could invite him to accompany us to see that.”
    Was she falling for this geek, just because he was tall and wrote pretty words? Tony caught himself before he said anything he would regret. “Great idea.”
    When Paul came back, Shahla brought up the subject of the exhibition.
    Paul said, “I’d…really like to, but I’m meeting my girlfriend after she gets off work. If fact, I should be leaving now. It was really nice to meet both of you.”
    He picked up his notebook. Tony shook his hand. Shahla gave him a hug, which apparently surprised him. He turned and almost ran to the door of the coffee shop. As he went through the doorway, he turned and looked back at them, giving a tentative wave. Then he was gone.

    CHAPTER 19
    “There’s the Sahara. The Riviera. Oh look, Circus Circus.” Shahla excitedly craned her neck and read the names of the hotels as they crawled past them, stuck in the Saturday afternoon traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard. “Can we go inside just one?”
    “You know you have to be twenty-one to gamble,” Tony said. He had put the top of the Porsche down to enjoy the sun. It was easier to cruise slowly along in the car than to face the hassle of parking and walking in the heat.
    “What are they going to do, card me? It didn’t look as if they were watching too closely at the Tortoise Club.”
    “But we didn’t do any gambling there.”
    “I can look older. I brought a dress with me. It’s in the trunk, er, the front.”
    “We’re stuck in traffic, and there’s no place to change.”
    “I can handle it. Open it up so I can get my bag.”
    Shahla started getting out of the car.
    “Shahla. What are you doing?” When he saw she wasn’t going to stop, he said, “Stick your fingers under the hood to release it. And when you shut it use two hands.” And do it gently.
    Shahla went around to the front of the Porsche, oblivious to the stares of the other motorists stuck in traffic. Tony had no choice but to unlatch the hood. Shahla grabbed her small traveling bag and brought