cat in a crimson haze

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  "That's all?"

  Matt nodded glumly.

  "Surely the man's bringing charges, if he's a victim."

  "That's just it. He's not a victim. He's a blackmailer, an embittered blackmailer who hates the church and anyone who's a part of it. He killed his elderly great-aunt to get her estate, crucified a convent cat, made obscene phone calls to an ancient, and luckily stone-deaf nun--"

  Frank Bucek winced at this litany of evil-doing. "But he won't press the molestation issue against Father Hernandez?"

  "No. He's in jail, awaiting the outcome of a sanity hearing. He seemed rather viciously sane to me when I saw him, hoping to wring the truth out of him."

  "Bitter people don't tell the truth. Matt, not even to themselves... They have too much to lose."

  The wisdom of that struck Matt like a breath of fresh menthol. He leaned closer, lowered his voice even more.

  "That's just it. This man won't admit that these charges were part of his harassment tactics against his aunt's parish. I saw him in jail, and ... I tell you, Frank ... it was like interviewing the Devil. I can't claim the church is perfect, or that any one of us in its service is without sin, but such anger and enmity, such scalding . . . despise. I know the man's half-mad. I know he's violent, and vicious. I just don't know if he's a liar in this case. And he taunted me with that uncertainty. He wants me to squirm."

  "You've told no one of this charge against Father Rafe?"

  "No. I've been . . . oh, blast it. Frank, I've been 'investigating.' I concocted this story that the parish wants to honor Father Hernandez with a 'This Is Your Life' tribute and I've been calling good, earnest Catholic ladies at diocesan offices wherever Father Rafe has been assigned, trying to find his associates and grill them without their knowing."

  Matt suddenly realized that Frank was grinning at him over the remains of his chicken sandwich.

  "I've lied, Frank. White lies, for a good cause, but I feel like a skunk. It's too easy. I had no idea I was so believable."

  "It's all that good boy training. The veneer remains even when the foundation has cracked.

  Welcome to the real world. Matt."

  "You're not shocked?"

  "Who am I to be shocked?" Frank inquired gently. "Matt, I never had a seminarian under my direction who was so sincere, so scrupulous, so promising and so damned self-deceiving. I always sensed that you would make a terrific priest, and that you had no business being one."

  ''You always knew? Then why didn't you tell me? Why let me work and muddle and sweat my way through . . . ?"

  ''You can't tell someone what to do. Not even God can do that. You have to let them find out for themselves; otherwise, they're never free. And ... J didn't know it, but my own vocation was built on sand. It will take other men, Matt, to follow in the shoes of the fisherman now. A new generation."

  "Maybe other women," Matt added, remembering the dedicated minority with no rational hope of ordination, taking theology at the seminary for themselves alone even in his day. They must number more now, and they would be demanding more equity--even Holy Orders, despite the Pope's recent, hope-smashing decree.

  Frank's hands lifted from the table, then slapped down.

  "Listen, Matt, put your overactive Catholic conscience at rest. It so happens you've come to the person who can help you out of your moral quandary. Call it a last spiritual direction from a man whose own spiritual direction has taken a radical change of course. First, I can swear--

  swear on any saint's name you care to mention:--that Father Rafael Hernandez showed no signs of pederasty when I was his assistant pastor at Holy Rosary twenty-five years ago.

  "And," he added, as Matt stirred restlessly, "I am also in a position to prove it. I can have him quietly checked out, his entire roster of parishes. If there's any taint clinging to Rafe, I'll find it.

  You see, I have an obligation, too. I knew him years before you did; I shared parish work with him. Now I have a pressing need to know, and I'm in a position to find out."

  "Why? How?" Matt felt a hosanna of relief rising in him, even as he didn't quite dare believe in such easy deliverance.

  Frank smiled. "Fear not. I'm in the FBI now, buddy."

  Then he winked.

  Father Frank Bucek, Father Furtive, ex-Father Frank, winked.

  Chapter 25

  Midnight Louie Eats Crow with Caviar

  With more fishy things occurring at the Crystal Phoenix, I am forced to eat and sleep on my old turf. I would much prefer my literally cushy spot at the Circle Ritz, but too much is afoot (including the little doll to whom I owe so much, and vice versa) at the Phoenix to leave the premises.

  Fortunately, I can do both (eat and sleep, that is) in the same spot: under the tropical green leaves of the canna lilies that edge my own private pond. One might argue that since the funny business is being transacted within the hotel and casino, what I am doing lounging about the grounds outside?

  First, a fellow must have a retreat in which to ponder. Plus, I must keep an ear to the ground, and that is hard to do Indoors. Second, it behooves me to keep myself undercover. I am a well-known, perhaps even a notorious figure around and about the Phoenix. To flaunt my familiar profile would cast discretion to the wind. I am also in something of a quandary. Not only must I conceal myself from the nasty types committing sabotage and savagery inside the Phoenix, but I am not anxious to draw the attention of the lovely Caviar.

  She has shown a lamentable tendency to haunt the place while hunting the poor sod who sired her. Had he but known, I he would have thought twice about any hijinks with her mother, I can tell you. Since I am he, I speak with authority.

  By some happy kink of Miss Caviar's brain, she does not suspect me of being this irresponsible dude, though I match the description in every respect. My most delicate task is to keep Miss Caviar from seeing me in the company of anyone who might let slip the dogs of revelation and call me by my name. This is not easy to do around the Phoenix, where I am known and loved by all, from the owners to the chorus girls to Nicky's bevy of brothers, who are all over the place these days, up to their Armani lapels in strange doings.

  Needless to say, an ace detective who is forced to hide like a craven mouse most of the time is more than somewhat handicapped.

  So the canna lilies provide my sole reliable cover, though I sneak out every now and then to kipe a carp to keep the old hide going.

  This, however, is becoming less likely.

  For some reason as irritating as it is mysterious, little Miss Caviar has also chosen the carp pond as her favorite retreat. She does not even have the innate feline grace to slink around it, but sprawls openly on the flagstones framing the pond, tail fluffed and fanned.

  For a female who supposedly knows the ways of the back alley and the Dumpster dinette network, this is astonishingly naive behavior. I feel an unselfish urge to warn the poor sap, but restrain myself. Frankly, the young often need to be taught a harsh lesson, and Miss Caviar more so than most. Offering lip, teeth and claws to one's elders (not to mention one's forebears) is not something that should go unpunished.

  In fact, I must have been leading a pretty angelic life lately, for even as I drowse in the dirt under the canna lilies, unnoticed by all, even and especially by my unacknowledged offspring, who should come striding into the sunlight, resplendent in executive whites, but Chef Song himself.

  The sizzling Las Vegas sun glints off the broad steel rectangle of a formidable cleaver. Usually these cleavers are used for such yummy tasks as cutting meat, but, Chef Song being of Asian ancestry. It is also used extensively on vegetables as well. In fact, I spot a sliver or two of mushroom still adhering to its slick, razor-edged surface.

  If Chef Song walks softly and carries a big stick (or cleaver), many the time I have run before it with a juicy carrot in my mouth. My carrots are often orange and tasty, but wear fins and scales. No one is more devoted to the welfare of these imperial koi than Chef Song. And no one is more dedicated to extricati
ng the most tender among them from under the very eyes, nose and cleaver of Chef Song than Midnight Louie.

  So Miss Caviar has made a severe error in judgment in displaying her languid length to the oncoming chef. It is true that she considers herself too refined for raw meat, preferring the pulverized, putrid-green pellets of Bast-knows-what that pour from a Free-to-be-Feline box.

  But Chef Song does not know that. All he knows is that our kind are enemies of his plump, pampered, piscean pets. He especially knows that Midnight Louie is the master of the game. Let Chef Song see black, and he sees red.

  Even now he stops, focuses on the flagrantly visible Caviar, and hefts his cleaver with a curse.

  I cannot bear to look. Caviar is chopped liver. And kidney, and other essential organs. I would advise discriminating diners to avoid the main restaurant at the Crystal Phoenix for the next few days.

  When I hear nothing more--no frantic yowls, no ring of cleaver on flagstone, no more curses, I unsquinch one peeper.

  Miss Caviar has risen at the chef's approach and replied to his opprobrium with a plaintive mew.

  Oh, please! This innocent act will get her nowhere. Chef Song narrows his eyes and looks Miss Caviar up and down. I cannot blame him. She is a trim piece of pussycat.

  "Skinny," he pronounces.

  I prefer them plump myself.

  Eyes . . . gold. Not green."

  Not my fault.

  Miss Caviar sits again, neatly, with her feet and tail all tucked together like she wouldn't mash a mayfly.

  Chef Song edges to the pond and does a quick fin count. The greedy-guts in the fish suits do a mass schooling at the pond rim, all expecting a fistful of their favorite snack, an unwholesome pellet available for a quarter from a dispensing machine installed there for the hotel guests.

  Chef Song, being the boss, knows a way to get the machine to hand over without feeding it a quarter He dribbles these unappetizing nuggets over the bubble-blowing fish-faces in the water.

  A few fall to the flagstones and roll away.

  Miss Caviar gives a dear little cry and bounds to retrieve one, crouching beside it to chomp away.

  Chef Song straightens in wonder. "You strange kitty. You do not want fish, you want fish food?"

  She looks up with her big carp-gold eyes and gives a miniature meow.

  "Nice kitty." He is patting her satiny little head, which is as I black and sin-smudged as her larcenous soul, with the hand that does not hold the cleaver.

  She sniffs delicately at the lingering odor on his fingers and licks one.

  My stomach turns. So does Chef Song. He is retreating rapidly back into the hotel, as would any self-respecting person confronted with such an unnatural feline.

  Still, the minx's fish-hating act has probably saved her I skin. I can give the devil her due.

  She does not rest on her laurels, or sneak a spare carp I and get out of there, as I would. No. She sits facing the door through which Chef Song has vanished as if bereft. Cut the act, kiddo; you've lost your audience, except for me, and I am not impressed by such a turn tail to the feline creed.

  In fact, she has outstayed her luck, for the door springs open and once again Chef Song advances on the carp pond.

  I wince. If he suspects that she has hanging-around tendencies, he will make even shorter work of her.

  I do not see the cleaver, but perhaps he will resort to a trap of sorts to remove her to the animal pound.

  Even as I think this, he is bending low before her. For an odious moment, it almost looks as if he is worshiping her. In fact, he has left an offering; two in fact. I spot rice bowls of blue-and-white porcelain.

  Miss Caviar digs into one urged on by untranslatable coos from Chef Song.

  Poison. It is worse than I thought. I rise, ready to do my duty, however odious, and warn the little skunk away.

  Chef Song straightens, uncrosses his arms, and reveals the cleaver at the ready.

  What can I do? Risk an extremity? These are vital to my work and leisure activities. I recall needing an antidote to poison in an earlier case of mine involving some unsavory characters from the fringes, coyotes by name. So I know a noxious plant that will make the victim throw up the tainted food. It is unpleasant to down, and even more unpleasant to upchuck, but Miss Caviar obviously needs a lesson.

  As soon as Chef Song skedaddles, I will point out her error and play the hero by leading her to the nearest stand of Desert Tobacco, which is guaranteed to make the heartiest eater repel any toxic substance.

  The chef, nodding and grinning like a homicidal puppet, leaves the scene at last.

  I am about to do as planned, when Miss Caviar rises and trots after him. After performing some nauseating leg-rubs in the doorway, she is invited in.

  Will travesties never cease? I always had to break or sneak my way in to the Crystal Phoenix.

  That is the way it should be done. That is the way it was always done.

  I stalk over to the abandoned bowls. Ugh. Free-to-Be-Feline salting a well chopped mixture of white chicken meat, shrimp and . . . caviar. The other bowl holds clear liquid. I sniff it, expecting to inhale turpentine or some other deadly libation. Water. Just water. Smelling faintly of minerals and other healthful natural additives. Bottled water! What kind of decadent dishes are these? Not poison, but bribes. What is happening to the species?

  I stalk to the pond edge and gaze into a dozen fish eyes as glassy as marbles, all those carp pushing eagerly to the pond's edge as if dying to leap into my grasp.

  Unfortunately, I have lost my appetite.

  Chapter 26

  Old King Coil

  The cursor on Temple's laptop screen blinked faster than a racing pulse.

  Nothing is more aggravating to a writer than a blank mind to match that blank screen, all while an agitated cursor itches to be off and running down the invisible pixels, spitting out letters.

  She had meant to dream up a Three O'Clock Louie campaign. Every new exposure generated a flurry of new ideas. Now the flurry had flitted to the back of her brain. What dominated her mental foreground was the Jersey Joe Jackson connection to the Glory Hole Gang and the Joshua Tree, the hotel that became the Crystal Phoenix. The Ghost Suite had been his; some said it still was.

  Disconnected ideas were running around her unconscious like gerbils in an exercise wheel.

  The Phoenix and ghosts, ghost towns and the old days, digging for gold and silver dollars, theme parks. Nothing coalesced.

  When the phone beside her rang, she snatched the receiver off the cradle, eager for distraction.

  "Temple?"

  Oh, no, this wasn't distraction, it was penance.

  "Yes, Crawford."

  "Glad to catch you at home.''

  "I'm glad one of us is."

  "Stay there. We don't need you nosing about the show anymore. Besides, it's dangerous."

  "Danny Dove invited me to drop in on rehearsals, and he's the director, not you."

  "Well, I'm uninviting you. In fact, I'm warning you."

  "Warning? Is this a threat?"

  "You bet. If you set one bum foot in the theater, I'll file the suit I've been considering."

  "I thought all your sweat-stained suits were at the cleaners."

  "Just jibe away. I'll up the numbers. I'm serious here. I've had chest pains ever since your UFO went AWOL and nearly flattened me and half the cast."

  "It's not 'my' UFO, it's a stage prop. How can you blame me for a set piece that came loose because your hysterical shove forced me to jerk one of its anchoring ropes?"

  "I can blame anybody, but I will sue those who have the bucks to be worth it--the Crystal Phoenix, Van von Rhine and Nicky Fontana. And Danny Dove. For negligence."

  "Get real. The police think the 'accident' was arranged."

  "Doesn't matter how it happened, only that it did. I figure about six mill ought to cover it."

  "Crawford! Don't be an ass. Sorry. It's impossible for you not to be one. But don't be dumb, too. You'l
l sink the Gridiron and all your wonderful skits."

  "No, I won't..Danny Dove is tossing them out right and left, anyway, and what he's keeping he's mauling into mindless mush. That little twerp is acting like Hitler in high heels, stomping all over my best lines, my best pieces. He claims they 'won't play.' What does a toad dancer know about good writing?"

  "Danny Dove does jazz and tap mostly nowadays, plus he's designed and mounted several of the Strip hotel's most successful shows."

  ''Sure, defend him. If you're the best attorney he can get, he'll be easy pickings in this suit."

  "So that's why you called ... to threaten me?"

  "No, I called to tell you to stay away from the Gridiron. If you call that a threat, that's your privilege."

  "Crawford, you dragged me into it against my better judgment in the first place."

  "Yeah, but then I thought I could dump your skit and that would be that. I had no idea Dove would jump on it like a frog on a lilypad."

  "You . . . planned to dump my skit? Why?"

  "Because this is my show. I was gonna write all of it."

  "Then why ask me, beg me, to go over to the Las Vegas Scoop on a Saturday and write my fingernails to the bone all day?"

  The phone line was suddenly, tellingly silent.

  "Maybe I just wanted to see you," Crawford said in a sullen tone at last.

  "See me what?"

  "Sweat," he admitted. "There you were, hogging the Gridiron's big opening and closing numbers year after year. This time you were gonna show up for the big night and find it was a big bust. Only that damn wrist-waving Danny Dove wouldn't go along--"

  ''What a dirty trick, but then, why am I surprised? I guess I doubted even you were that rancorous."

  ''Listen." Crawford's voice had gone deeper and softer, so it hummed like bass static over the wires. "Maybe I was planning on playing the jerk, but it's not so funny now. Some big muscle around town isn't happy about what's in your skit. They've been sending plenty of messages--to me, like I'm responsible or something. I've got some of those messages on my answering machine. Anonymous. They want your skit out of the show. Maybe they want you out of the picture. I'm telling you to stay away from the Crystal Phoenix and the Gridiron. If you don't, and it's curtains, don't say I didn't warn you, which is more than you did for me when the E.T. special was crashing down on my head."