cat in a crimson haze

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Now, here she was again, confronted en masse with a pack of males, trying to tell one from the other. Besides jeans, they all wore kerchiefs around their necks or foreheads, and suspenders, but some were portly, others lean. Some bald, some still hairy.

  She recalled shards of the local legends about the Glory Hole Gang, who were a PR person's dream in a golden oldie package: how these senior citizen fugitives, then mere whippersnappers, had hijacked a shipment of silver dollars before World War II and buried the loot in the desert. How they could no longer find Lost Camel Rock that marked the buried treasure. How they hid out for decades at a ghost town called Glory Hole, with Eightball's granddaughter, Jill, growing up there. How Jill learned to be a crack poker player and supported the entourage when she was old enough by playing professionally in Las Vegas. How the lost silver dollars were found by some curious tourists, but the statute of limitations had run out on the old boys' heist by then, so they went scot-free after their long exile in the desert. How they turned Glory Hole into a tourist attraction and now were rich enough to expand their empire in other directions. Such as an eatery at Temple Bar.

  All this flashed through Temple's mind in the wink of a butterfly's eye. History was fine, but her immediate problem, as with the brothers Fontana, was how to tell the Glory Hole Gang apart.

  ''You must be Spuds," she began, addressing the fellow who was still wringing her hand.

  ''Smart as a whipsnake, Jilly," he commented. "No wonder she catches all those murderers red-handed." He turned to Temple again. "I'm mighty pleased a big-time operator like you would bother with my little down-home restaurant. It's nothing fancy." '

  "That's good," Temple decreed, stepping over strewn two-by-fours to get an impression of the place's size. "It's called 'atmosphere.' "

  "Oh, we got atmosphere," another fellow said. "At our age, that's all we got, 'cept arthuritis.

  Pitchblende O'Hara, at your disposal."

  "Don't use that word. Pitchblende," put in yet another man. "Spuds plans to install a big, stainless steel maw of a disposal.

  " You don't want to go down it by accident"

  "Pitchblende," Temple said. "What a colorful nickname!"

  "Mining term, ma'am. We all used to do a bit of prospecting when we was younger." He shyly ducked his bald head. "Pitchblende is uranium ore--dark, brownish black stuff, the way my hair used to be."

  "When you used to have hair," guffawed a fourth man, whose own snow-white shock emphasized Lake Mead-blue eyes.

  ''Wild Blue Pike!" Temple guessed. At least this Glory Holer matched his name.

  ''So they've called me since Adam's apple was a pippin. I like to fly a bit when the weather's good."

  "Yeah," Spuds suggested with long-time raillery. "Pilot that table-saw a little more, brother, and the work'll get done faster."

  His words sent everybody back to their appointed tasks, which, as far as Temple could see, involved making as much noise as possible to little effect.

  Spuds stuck a gnawed yellow pencil behind his ear and escorted the two women to the front porch, away from the racket.

  "Jilly says you got your hands full at the Crystal Phoenix," he told Temple when all three were gawking politely at the lake, trying not to be distracted by the hammering, yammering, sawing and off-key whistling drifting from inside the building behind them. "But if you get inspired about any ways to promote this little enterprise of mine, I'd be much obliged. And we Glory Hole Boys pay well."

  "Nothing much is out here," Temple said, gazing at the lovely view. "Getting people to come here will be a trick. I like the name, though--not yours, the restaurant's. It's folksy but implies life after dark. How did you ever come up with it?"

  "Simple." Spud's grin showed off impeccably bright false teeth. "I did what all clever entrepreneurs do: I borrowed it."

  "Oh, dear." Temple prepared herself to explain the facts of commercial life. "Not from anything copyrighted or trade-marked, I hope."

  "Not unless you call me a copy-cat." He pointed to a corner of the deck.

  A large solid-black cat sat there, doing his nails.

  Actually it was grooming its feet, toes spread, teeth pulling at the fine hairs between the pads. Temple had seen Midnight Louie do that a dozen times, and she was seeing it now.

  ''Louie! How did you get all the way out here?*'

  The cat looked up, revealing his trademarked green eyes. He twitched a full set of whisker-white barbs, lifted his hindquarters from the planking, then sank into a belly-down stretch.

  "How did my cat get out here?" Temple asked someone who would answer this time, namely Spuds Lonnigan.

  "That's your cat? I don't see how that could be. This animal belonged to a war buddy of mine, who gave up the fishing business in Puget Sound and retired to Fiji. He wanted a good home on American soil for his old seagoing mascot, but near water. So I was elected. This here's Three O'Clock Louie."

  ''Are you sure." Temple demanded. "He's the spitting image of my cat. Midnight Louie."

  "Old Wayne came through and handed him over not six weeks ago. Must be one of those Koppelgang situations."

  "Doppelganger," Temple corrected absently.

  The huge black cat had risen and was ambling over to inspect the visitors.

  "What does he eat?"

  "Every one of these dang goldfish they planted in the lake to entertain the tourists. I can't keep him away from 'em, not even with my best cooking. 'Course, Wayne did run a salmon trawler, so I guess this old boy's used to some pretty fancy fillets of fish."

  By now the cat in question was rubbing itself against Temple's calves as if they were old friends, purring like a motor-boat.

  "It certainly does like you," Jill noted. "I see what you mean about a resemblance to Midnight Louie, but this must be a different cat."

  "You know Louie?"

  "Sure. From the Phoenix."

  Temple squatted down to scratch the animal's chin. The green eyes slitted, just like Louie's, but close up his muzzle looked dipped in milk.

  ''No, it can't be Louie, The muzzle is grizzled."

  "Just like us," Spuds said, chuckling as he ran a palm over the pale stubble dotting his jaw.

  "Been working day and night on this barn, no time to shave."

  "Never had much time for it in the desert, either," Jill added fondly.

  "Don't have ladies calling often. Think you can do something for me and Three O'Clock Louie, Miss Temple?"

  "Sure. We can hatch some plans later, when the renovations are done. In the meantime, I think I better get back to the Crystal Phoenix, pronto."

  "Why the hurry?" Jill asked, sounding anxious. "There's plenty to discuss here."

  Temple suddenly saw through Jill like she was plate glass. This expedition to Temple Bar had been planned to distract Temple Barr herself from the ugly business at the Phoenix. But it hadn't worked; seeing Three O'Clock Louie in the flesh and fur had fixed that.

  "I've got to get back and make sure Midnight Louie is in carp heaven and all's right with the world, for one thing."

  "And for another?" Jill pressed her.

  "For another, I better defend my skit from the forces of law and order, evil and Crawford Buchanan."

  At her feet. Three O'Clock Louie seconded her announcement with a piercing meow of approval.

  Chapter 24

  The Good Father

  Matt left ConTact preoccupied, his ears ringing with the multi-voiced, remote misery of the phone lines.

  The drug overdose was all right; Matt had heard the ambulance siren wailing to a stop on the line's other end.

  The suicide was another matter. Like alcoholics, suicide prone people promised reformation, then recanted barely after the telephone was hung up. They were also addicted to sudden terminations of calls, and of counseling: volatile, tortured people craving both attention and the numbing safety of anonymity.

  How easy. Matt reflected, to deal with woe in a generic sense, to label people by their maladies. The d
istance of a counseling line worked both ways. It kept the caller from revealing too much, committing too much. It kept the counselor from feeling too much, bleeding too much.

  No matter how specific the caller's anguish, it always fit into a universal mold, seen and shaken out onto the table to study a thousand times before: the suicide; the addict; the alcoholic.

  Matt smiled wryly.

  The Shoe Freak.

  At least she fit a one-and-only mold, God-only-knew what size. Her obsessive documentation of the downfall of women's feet through the ages via the fiendish agency of high heels made for welcome comic relief. He must consult Temple about some of the Shoe Freak's complaints. Did she exaggerate, in the way of all obsessives, or was there a grain of truth, stubborn as a grain of sand rolling around inside a shoe, to her mania?

  Only the sound of his footsteps interrupted the faint night music, the sawing-wing-work of cicadas and the gliding passage of unseen cars a block or two away.

  But . . . Matt's shoes had rubber soles, he shouldn't be hearing the faint, gritty scrape of leather soles on sidewalk.

  He mentally shrugged off his reverie, reflecting that he would rather be trailed by a stranger in a car than a stranger on a street.

  The man in a car was visibly dependent on the accoutrements of civilization--tires and car keys, gas pumps and street lights. The man on foot seemed a more sinister figure, a throwback: the stalker, the hunter, convinced he needed nothing against the night but himself, and what he could carry. What would he carry?

  Yet . . . someone as innocent as Matt could also be out: walking. At three-fifteen a.m?

  Matt thrust his hands into his pants pockets--to imply he: carried something else in them beside his fists and some small change, and turned.

  A man scuffed along the street fifty feet behind him, moving purposefully, a man in a suit, oddly formal apparel for this deserted shopping area at this time of night. Lauds.

  Still, a suit was better than more Gothic garb, say a cowled monk's robe.

  Matt grimaced at his religion-ridden imagination and turned, unwilling to have a stranger gaining on him along this lonely street, loath to challenge or to flee.

  Instead, he drifted closer to the dark storefronts, until he reached an expanse of plate glass that was bathed in a reflected streetlight.

  Now Matt himself was the Gothic figure, with the strong overhead light washing his features in skeletal shadows.

  In the makeshift mirror of a dry cleaning establishment Matt watched the figure appear in the window's far corner, move within ten feet, and stop.

  Oh, Lord. Matt turned to look, suspicious but not unduly alarmed . . . yet. The suit could be a decade old, and the man could be a homeless panhandler. He certainly wasn't a gang member.

  "You're pretty hard to track down," the man said.

  The particular vocal timbre plucked a long-unused string of Mattes memory.

  "Not really," Matt said carefully. ''I just work late."

  "Luckily, so do I. Sometimes."

  Matt could have sworn that a smile touched the voice, but the man was all shadow, and still a stranger.

  "Why are you tracking me down?" Matt asked.

  "You wanted me to."

  Matt shook his head in annoyance. This conversation was going nowhere. "Who . . . ?"

  ''How soon they forget." The man stepped into the brighter light near the window, nearer to Matt than he liked.

  Matt studied a lean, fit figure, one not to mess with, but an older man, he sensed. Was this was an associate of his late stepfather's, who had heard Matt was looking for Cliff Effinger and wanted to know why now that the man was dead? Maybe this person thought that Matt had something to do with that death. . . .

  "Hey," the man prodded, ''I can't decide if you're too trusting, or too wary. Which is it?"

  "Unless you want to find out, don't come any closer until you identify yourself."

  "Ah, Matthias, and I was supposed to be such a permanent influence on your life . . ."

  Stupefaction froze Matt just when he should be most alert.

  The voice, the use of his full given name evoked a mental snapshot of a bland office, of cluttered bookshelves, of a tree dotted campus outside the single window, quite beautiful really.

  "It's Bucek," the man said abruptly, ending Mattes misery in racking his memory.

  "My God, Father, I forgot! I left a message at St. Vincent, but they were so unforthcoming, I didn't expect to hear from you."

  "You wouldn't have, except business brought me to Las Vegas, of all places, and your message had been forwarded. Why don't we keep on walking; the Circle Ritz isn't getting any closer."

  ''You know where I'm going?"

  ''You left your address."

  "My home address, yes, but not ConTact's. How did---"

  "I travel a lot, so I check things out rather thoroughly. For my job."

  Matt fell into step with the slightly taller man, his mind flashing between similar walks on that bucolic Indiana campus and this shadow stroll some ... ten years later.

  Despite the other seminarians' edgy discomfort at Father Bucek's acerbic manner and stern intellect, Matt had always admired him. Until ...

  "You left," Matt said. Accused.

  "So did you," Bucek shot back. "I must say I was surprised, Matthias. Surprised and sad."

  "It's Matt now, and save the guilt trips for somebody with a ticket to ride."

  "Humph. Back there just now. I couldn't decide if you were up to facing off a possibly dangerous stranger, or just a nice Catholic boy about to get creamed."

  "I can take care of myself. No one's ever bothered me on my walks home. Before."

  "Martial arts. You were a veteran even in seminary. What was it? I didn't pay much attention then. Tae Kwon Do? Karate?"

  "Whatever feels right at the moment, and I don't mean just that I've had martial arts training. I had that then. I mean I can take care of myself now." Bucek nodded.

  Father Bucek, Matt's mind kept insisting. You expect certain things to stand: the parish church you grew up near; the Pope in Rome; the priest who was your spiritual director in seminary. You might fail, might deny like Peter, might end your oath at the ironic age of thirty-three, but these things stood. Bucek the sometimes terrifying, the always-wise, with his intellect so acute he seemed to see through excuses. Father Furtive, who knew what every seminarian was afraid to confess.

  "There's a Burger King a couple blocks down," Bucek said now. "Want a cup of coffee?"

  'I don't drink caffeine this late at night."

  "There's a bar three blocks down."

  ''You do check things out, but I don't want a drink.'*

  "The Burger King then. It's a more wholesome arena for a couple of ex-priests than a bar, anyway."

  The fast-food joint was also more brightly lit than a bar.

  Matt almost cringed under the interrogation-level lighting, but he stood in line with Bucek like a good prisoner, collected his tray, and ordered the usual burger and fries.

  Bucek had a chicken sandwich, which he liberally sprinkled with pepper and smothered in mustard.

  They sat at the sleek table and seats, designed to slide people in and slide people out in endless rotation.

  Around them customers chatted and chewed, clattered and came and went. Want privacy?

  Go slow where everybody's in a hurry.

  "You look good. Matt." Bucek had immediately adopted Matt's preferred civilian form of Matthias, as if glad to inter one more reminder of their former relationship. He slowly masticated his chicken sandwich, his forehead corrugated, not with worry, but by his upward glance and perhaps by curiosity.

  ''It seems ... sacrilegious to call you Frank."

  "Do it. We spent all those hours dissecting theology, vocation, holiness, ethics ... I guess I never knew you very well, did I?"

  "Nor I you." Matt dragged a limp French fry through a puddle of ketchup he had squeezed out of several small plastic pouches, like coagulated bl
ood. "When did you leave? Are you . . .

  married?"

  Frank's mouth twisted as if he had just bitten down on a chicken bone. "Oh, shortly after you left seminary. I'm a veteran ex.' Yup, married. Eight years now."

  "Is she--"

  "Catholic? Yes. A high school music teacher. Widow. Three teenaged sons." Bucek laughed, as Matt had seldom seen him do in seminary, loudly and at himself. "I'm still a spiritual director, Matthias--Matt. I guess."

  "You have no children of your own?"

  "No." He spoke abruptly, subject closed.

  Can't? Matt wondered. Or won't? None of his business, no >more than the ins and outs of his own life--and soul--were Frank Bucek's business anymore. They both had graduated.

  "And you?" Frank sucked on the straw spearing his plastic- topped paper cup of Diet 7-Up.

  "I left within the year. The phone counseling job is the first thing I qualified for. I've been at it for six months. I like it. It's not so different from confession, especially the way it was done in the old days, in darkened booths with veiled shutters. I hope I'm doing some good. What kind of job did you end up doing? We're puzzlers for employment agencies, we ex-priests, you know.

  Over-educated and under-experienced."

  "I managed something," Frank said gruffly. "But tell me what you wanted to talk to me about."

  "It's . . . ah--" Matt shoved his brown plastic food tray aside, leaned his elbows on the slick, Formica tabletop. "Private. It's none of my business, really, except my conscience is kicking up.

  It's about Father Rafael Hernandez."

  "Good man. Pretty good priest."

  "Glad to hear it. Unfortunately, I had to hear something else about him, from a compromised source, but still. . . the charge of child molestation has been made."

  "Publicly?"

  "No. That's my problem. Father Hernandez obviously knows about it. And the man who made it does. And I do.''