I agree with Miss Electra. This time my Miss Temple must be kept well out of it. I retreat soundlessly, then catapult down the palm tree, rushing through the parking lot and bordering oleander bushes.
“No time to say hello-goodbye,” I tell the clowder watch-cats as I streak through the bushes and past them.
A dog might “bark out” orders, but I use a mostly silent shorthand of strangled mews and guttural low growls that amount to: “Summon the Gray Ghost scouts and the Black Ninja Brigade. Cat in peril. I have a date with a gang of murderers under a lethal lighting fixture.” (“Chandelier” is French and only the Divine Yvette, my lost love, and I know French.) “Tell Ma Barker to lead you under the mountain. She’ll know where.”
39
Gloves Off
Temple’s faithful analog watch showed she had spent forty minutes typing down ideas for the new PR campaigns. The first project was for her and Louie’s commercial future, and then—goofing off—plans for Electra’s mythical, magical new marketing potential now that she had officially inherited the Lust ‘n’ Lace land and no one with a signed deed had shown up.
Urban planning was a kick. One hot new idea that might help Maeveleen Pearl’s Thrill ‘n’ Quill bookstore…food and drink next door, as Barnes and Noble offered inside their stores. That was how the chain bookstores had “eaten up” the independents back in the day.
The Magic Muffin wasn’t close enough and had a one-note menu, though deliciously varied. Maeveleen needed a full café right next door, and Temple had just the idea that might fly. She grabbed her cell phone to run the idea past Electra. No answer.
Darn. Hot ideas demand instant broadcast and feedback. And copious praise.
Temple tapped her toes. Her feet (in their shoes) often broadcast the clickety-clack of an old-time telegrapher’s Morse code instrument. They kept her brain on simmer. If she were writing poetry, they’d be the meter that kept the words flowing. Thrill and Quill. The Mystery Menu. Café Poe. Amontillado Grill. Café Poetry. Café Coffee and Crooks. Crookery Nook. Nookery Doc. Getting out of hand. Um, Coffee Noir. Café Noir. Café Noir Bar and Amontillado Grill.
Nothing was compelling. She tried Electra’s phone again. Being invited to leave a message was not inspiring.
Temple checked her watch. Like many small businesses, Maeveleen’s shop opened at eleven a.m. and closed at nine, hours that uniquely suited the location. Las Vegas’s 24/7 operating schedule heated up in the afternoon and exploded in the evening hours. Her busy tapping feet kept the words spinning. Tempo. Tempo Bar. Temple Bar. Uh-oh, there already was one of those in Dublin. Hmph. No reason there couldn’t be another. Las Vegas had once advertised it was “like no place else”, but it had become like every place else—Venice, Egypt, Monte Carlo, Paris—why not have an Irish pub? Yeah, sure, and Max could run it.
Or, wait. A Chicago Bar, based on the hit musical, and Matt could run it.
Or…you are getting really punchy, Temple.
She shook her head free of outrageous ideas, and printed her note pages. She looked around one last time for Louie, then decided to head for the Thrill ‘n’ Quill. Louie had plenty of Free-to-Be-Feline in his bowl, Electra was out, and Maeveleen had to be on duty until nine. It was just eight thirty. Maeveleen was the perfect sounding board for Electra’s new urban village concept, since hers would be a founding shop.
Temple was truly happy and hyped. Everything was rosy. Matt’s career was back on track; so was Louie’s. She had an exciting new career opportunity herself. Electra had dodged an economic bullet, and Temple could help her build a whole new retail world from the bottom up. High time to share her ideas.
“This is wonderful!” Maeveleen said after scanning Temple’s two pages.
The shop was empty at the moment, except for two browsing women and Ingram snuggled in the window. He slept like Louie did, Temple noticed, always on duty. One ear down flat and the other perked.
“I particularly like the food places,” Maeveleen said. “Local regulations have become so strict on banning animals where food is available, I can barely sneak in fast food for my lunch. What a difference a separating wall makes.”
“This is all just blue-sky speculation,” Temple said. “I haven’t run it past Electra.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not answering her cell. Must not be around the Circle Ritz.”
“No, of course not. A while back I saw her rushing past so fast she didn’t even wave. I figured she was checking out her new building.”
“When was this?
Maeveleen eyed the big clock on her wall.
“What a great cuckoo clock,” Temple exclaimed. “I never noticed it.”
“It’s not a cuckoo-bird clock,” Maeveleen said. “It’s ravens baked in a pie. They pop out in appropriate numbers.”
“Ravens? Weren’t four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie? Oh. Twenty-four hours. I get it. Ravens. Poe.”
Maeveleen’s broad smile showed her dimples. “Poe’s poem, ‘The Raven’, is a mystery classic. Mystery is about the dark side of everything.”
“Speaking of the dark side,” Temple said, “it’s getting late. Why would Electra be examining that building now? Its interior is darker than a bank vault even in daylight. I doubt any electricity is available.”
“I’m sure Electra has her own plans for the space.”
“Yes, but it helps to see the layout. Do you keep a decent flashlight here?”
“I park around the side, so no need.”
Temple looked over her shoulder to the door. The shop was so cheerily lit, especially the front window in which Ingram basked, that you forgot the time. The sun set about eight thirty. That old building would be as dim as King Tut’s tomb by now.
While Temple fretted, Maeveleen bustled away.
She returned and handed Temple something black plastic and bulky. “The Hardy Boys anniversary edition Junior Detective flashlight. I did put batteries in it so customers could try it out.”
“I’m being silly,” Temple said. “Let me call Electra again.” She did.
“Well?” Maeveleen asked as Temple tapped the cell phone screen and set one impatient toe tapping.
“No luck. ‘Leave a message.’ Electra always keeps her cell on, given the things that can come up at an apartment building.” Temple took the boxy flashlight. “I’ll check the building, in case. She could have fallen on that rickety staircase.”
Maeveleen looked dismayed. “I’d go with you, but I can’t leave until closing.”
“I’ve got a magic cell phone.” Temple waved her (yes) new zebra-pattern Austrian crystal case before returning it to her tote bag with the printouts. Vegas hotel shops sold tons of crystal-embellished phone cases in every pattern under the sun, moon, and stars. “It should only take a few minutes to check this out, and I’ll call you. I already entered your shop number in my contact list.”
“Wonderful, dear.” Maeveleen looked down. “Now don’t you trip in those high heels.”
Temple glanced down. “These are my pitons, like a cat’s claws.”
Even as she said it, she felt a small shiver of anxiety and rushed to get out the door.
The soft passage of air as it closed brought out goose bumps on her calves. That was odd, because the night air was as thick and temperate as lukewarm potato soup—maybe a baked potato with exotic toppings eatery, she envisioned—but the street was already darker than expected. Her imagined shops might show window lights or headlining neon at this hour, but once past the Thrill ‘n’ Quill only the occasional street lamp was on.
Temple phoned Matt. He wasn’t answering either, although he often used the later hours before his show to do errands, Vegas being a 24/7 town. This was starting to feel ominous.
She looked back to see Maeveleen working at her computer and lit up like a sitting duck inside. Ingram had deserted the window. He probably had been lured away by the bright, copy-reading lamp next to Maeveleen’s computer, like Louie was on her des
k. And if there were papers nearby, he’d be lying on them.
Temple looked up the dark street. Maeveleen had been right. Navigating the empty lot in heels would require a flashlight. Thank you, Hardy Boys. Luckily, she knew the terrain from daylight. She needed more than the Hardy Boys, though.
One call she knew would be answered. “Nicky! Hi. I’m worried about Electra. No. nothing concrete enough to call the police. I think she’s in the abandoned building she inherited, and the female owner of the Thrill ‘n’ Quill bookshop near the Circle Ritz is alone in her shop nearby. Got some spare brothers for Maeveleen? Discreet backup would be welcome. Thanks.”
Temple disconnected on his agreement and found herself in an unfamiliar state. Indecisive. Should she wait here for a flock of Fontanas to surround the Thrill ‘n’ Quill and the building just down the street with their black Tesla sport cars? Go inside with Maeveleen until she was sure the storekeeper had a bodyguard? There could be nothing good about where Electra was last seen going and her not answering her cell phone. Her muumuus all had pockets.
The sound of flip-flops hitting sidewalk made Temple turn to see the newcomer, a college-age girl in a hurry. “This place still open? I need some books for my creative writing class.”
Books, plural. Good news for Maeveleen.
“Open until nine,” Temple said.
“Great.” The young woman blasted through the door, setting off the funeral bells.
She looked over her shoulder at Temple. “Cool effect. Thanks.”
Temple wasn’t so sure. Funeral bells could be an omen. She turned again to the bit of the empty lot she could glimpse ahead. Yikes. Dark came on fast in the desert and it seemed to be breaking records tonight. The Fontanas were en route. Meanwhile, anything could be happening to Electra, or nothing.
Temple saw movement near the lot, and took in a breath. Just a black cat, legs going as fast a centipede’s, silently running out of view. More of a blur than a moving body.
Louie had been out before she left the condo. Apparently he’d been en route here too.
Temple trotted after him, her heels making a racket with no one around to hear them. That she noticed.
40
You Will Find Him
Max paused before taking the stairs up into that last step into the Irish air. “Kathleen?”
“We thank you for bringing her home again.”
“You should know, she’s—”
“We know what she is. For years her female fury made her the Cause’s most profitable fundraiser.”
Liam stood waiting, almost politely, for Max to leave. Max was getting an uneasy feeling. “That sounds like a testimonial.”
Liam nodded.
“Like an obituary almost,” Max added.
“Go on, man, you’ve got what you came for.”
“She’s worse now that the money-raising is done. She burned down my house.”
“’Tis a shame, but ’tis none of your business now.”
“I might not be done with her.”
“We are not either.”
Max sighed and turned back to face the room. “That woman tried to kill me more than once, the house fire being the latest attempt, which you’d no doubt applaud. She also threatened and stalked my innocent friends and acquaintances. Because of her, more than one of her hired associates has died. She seduces men because she hates them almost as much as she hates herself. She survived abuse from a childhood in a Magdalene institution that most men in this room would not. I brought her here to find Sean and Garry Randolph and rid my life of Kathleen O’Connor.”
“Mission accomplished.” Liam remained tip-lipped.
“But, ass that I am and you know me for, I can’t abandon her to a situation that stinks to high heaven. What’s going on?”
“At least you admit your serious assery. For an Irishman you certainly talk like a Spaniard.” Liam sounded amused, rather than the expected angry.
“Spaniard?”
“Don Quixote, tilting at windmills, only something is in the wind here, you’re right. This is a kangaroo court, but it’s not for you. It’s for Kathleen O’Connor.”
Max swore. “There goes my Catholic conscience complicating my life again.”
“If you want to sit yourself and your friend there at the bar and stay a while, you can have the satisfaction of witnessing it.”
Pints were poured all around. Max couldn’t decide if being handed one was a good or a bad omen. A last glass, or a last gasp. He couldn’t drink here, and think as fast as he guessed he needed to.
Lingering in this place where every wall and table and face stirred memories of what would become his final adventure and moments with Gandolph was a kind of torture, and every man here knew and relished that. Add the smell of damp footwear and wool and yeasty beers…and he felt sick.
The men turned their heads as the door to the back room opened. Max slid the full pint glass to the back of the bar.
Kathleen came in, with the two men who’d escorted her inside. One dragged a chair from a nearby table, and took her arm to seat her at it. No beer or ale for her.
Her pale face looked even paler, eyes black with fear stared defiantly at Max, as if he were the only man in the room. Then she looked around, a bit wildly.
“What’s this about? Don’t I win a round of applause? I’ve brought you the traitor, haven’t I?”
Max winced, not because she’d admitted her underlying motive all along, but because it wasn’t sufficient.
“He was a rogue outlander, no doubt,” Liam said, “and plagued us mightily back in the day, but he was never pledged to our cause, as you were.”
“I’ve worked to aid the cause for almost twenty years,” she answered. “Is it my fault you all ended it with a peace treaty?”
“We do, that,” Liam said. “We do have a peace treaty. But you, my dear Kathleen, have a huge piece of the very lucrative booty pledged by all the faithful homeland exiles in South America. We’ve never seen so much as a peso of that. You yourself promised a ‘mother lode’.”
As Kathleen’s interrogator spoke, the other men rose and came to take seats or stand in a circle around her.
Max recognized he’d been reduced to a mere witness to what looked like a witch hunt. He realized the accounting that could have been taken out of his hide, had he not been forgiven…had turned, with far more patriotic fury, on Kathleen.
His throat had gone so dry, he stretched out a long arm and reclaimed the pint glass for several swallows. Kathleen had mounted a vengeful crusade against him and his associates for more than a year. Were the IRA remnants showing him how they dealt with turncoats? Did they think he deserved, or even wanted to see their kangaroo court in action?
Kathleen crossed her legs, smartly clad in the blue-green pantsuit, and tossed her long black hair. “Sure, and is this recess on the playground, the boys ganging up on the girl?”
“For years you promised us the stockpiled results of your South American operations. That money is ours, donated to us. We’ll use it for reparations for the families of soldiers who perished in our wars.”
“A noble cause still,” Kathleen said. Max noticed she had exaggerated the amount of Irish lilt in her voice. “The takings were in a…diffuse state, over time and distance. Some was left in wills to myself personally, or came from die-hards who wanted to stir the pot of resistance anew,” she said. “Some had been collected earlier and…stored until it was easier to smuggle out of the various countries.”
“And is some of it still there?”
“In South America? No.”
“Then where in bloody hell is it?”
“Over the years my main South American associate managed to smuggle bits of it into the U.S. and get it safely hidden.”
“Wonderful. Your associate can now make arrangements to get it to us.”
“He’s dead.”
“What kind of a lame excuse is this?”
“Ask him.” Her head gestured in Max’
s direction.
Every angry, disbelieving face in the room turned his way.
“Santiago,” he said to Kathleen. “He’d been smuggling in some of the loot every time he had a U.S. gig?”
“Yes.”
“Gig? Santiago, the city?” a man Max remembered as Mulroney asked.
“Santiago,” Max explained to the group, “was a noted South American architect and concept designer. He’d never be suspected of smuggling, and would have had myriad ways to conceal almost anything in his project materials.”
“‘Was’, past tense.” Liam strode to loom directly before the seated Kathleen. “Then she’s telling the truth. The man is dead.”
“Not only dead. Murdered.” Max emphasized the last word.
“Murdered. When?”
“Only weeks ago.”
“By whom?”
“Unsolved,” Max said with a sigh. “It could have been someone from the association of magicians called the Synth, which I mentioned to you on my last visit.”
He had an offbeat and very secret suspicion who might have killed the flamboyant architect-designer, but that was unrelated to IRA issues. Or…was it? Was Santiago’s death part of a political conspiracy instead of a planned sleight-of-hand treasure hunt and heist? Maybe the disgruntled magicians with their “Synth” secret society hadn’t been as ineffective as everyone thought.
Liam remained dubious. “What were these ‘projects’ this Santiago created? And what was the bloke’s surname?”
Max only now remembered that Temple had discovered Santiago’s antecedents in South America had been Irish. Nothing these guys need know. “He never used a surname. Just the one name. Like Cher or…Bono.”
“And what did he design, exactly?”
“Recreational fantasy attractions and rides, Disney for adults. His latest project presented Las Vegas’s mobster past with an underground vintage car ride and holographic gangland figures.”
Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit Page 27