cat in a crimson haze

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  "Your father died," Molina said softly. "I'm sorry. Sometimes my forever family drives me nuts, but at least they're there."

  "Why do you call them your forever family?"

  "They're always in your face, your life. They always know better, and there are so damn many of them. No Molina ever heard of the Pill except from the pulpit. Luckily, they're all in L.A."

  "That's why you're in L.V."

  ''Maybe. And maybe, being divorced, and being a maybe-Catholic, I want to warn you. You say you're free. I presume that means free to marry?"

  "If I would want to."

  "Were you a bad priest?"

  "No."

  "That's too . . . bad."

  "I don't think so."

  "In other words, you didn't leave because you broke any vow, or were about to."

  "No." He left it at that, and saw that she knew that's where it would stay.

  "TelI me something." she asked with sudden animation."How can they do it? The bad priests? I was reared to respect priests and nuns, and I saw a lot of good ones. Some priests liked their liquor too much, or their food, but that was an understandable failing. I . . . we, people then, never suspected that we were sheltering priests who violated their celibacy with women, and men. And children."

  "I could tell you that their unconscious needs are so great, and so garbled, that they deny the wrong in what they're doing, but you'd call that psychobabble. I think that some people who set themselves up as religious leaders suffer from a deep sense of unworthiness, of hypocrisy.

  Some of them may feel compelled to commit sin so they'll be found out for what they think they are. Look at television evangelists. The abusers probably came from abusive families. How they can stand in church on Sunday and preach, or say mass, is a form of denial I can understand intellectually, but not from the gut. I never had to make that choice.''

  "In the seminary, didn't you ever suspect? I mean, with your looks--"

  "I got a lot of curiosity, and more crushes." Matt found himself recalling those days almost with nostalgia for his fiercely ingenuous self, who had so readily dismissed the easy admiration of others. "I noticed the crushes from women and girls, of course. I was scrupulous not to encourage them. If another seminarian had tendencies ... I was too naive to notice. We hardly knew what we were and we were there to control biological urges. No, it didn't crop out much in seminary. Once out in the real world, I had developed an invincible shield against

  'temptation.' It wasn't hard; I wasn't really tempted, so it was no credit to me."

  "You'd be surprised, but I know what you mean. As a woman working in a man's field, I have to create this invisible shield around me. My actions, my clothes are neutral. I don't send any signals, and I rarely receive any. It works."

  "Too well, maybe. Your stage persona releases all that subdued femininity, but you're safe up there in the spotlight, still distant, tempting but still untempted"

  "As the priesthood was safe for you?"

  "I was safe in the priesthood. The world out here ... I don't know."

  Matt was amused to see Molina's expression grow gruffly maternal.

  "If you're the innocent I think you are, you're not free at all. Just like me. I'm divorced. That means I can't marry again, not in the church. And that means I have to answer to Mariah, whom I've sent to Catholic schools because I want her to have a good, safe education. I would have to justify myself to my family, to the whole damn neighborhood, "if I would want to marry, as you put it so well. Again. As for an affair--" She laughed bitterly. "There goes the neighborhood, and here comes the Bad Mother."

  ''There are annulments."

  ''Not everybody qualifies, as you said, or has the patience for the endless paperwork and waiting."

  "Do you want to marry?"

  Molina laughed again. "Hell, no. With this all-hours job and a child to rear? Not to mention the kind of men I come in contact with. The quandary is theoretical, Mr. Devine."

  "Call me Matt. This conversation is too personal for honorifics. Lieutenant."

  She blew out a frustrated breath. "I usually know where I'm going and how I got there, but not at the moment. Don't expect me to reciprocate by telling you to call me 'Carmen.' I hate the name."'

  "Because of the associations?"

  "Because I was a fat little kid in a Hispanic neighborhood who sang a lot and you should hear what other kids can do with a name like Carmen. I tried to go by my middle name in high school, but that was a disaster too."

  "I hate my first name too."

  "What's wrong with Matt? It's simple and the only mass association is the marshal on

  'Gunsmoke,' not some slut or a fruitcake-head with an atrocious accent."

  ''My name's 'Matt' now. It was Matthias all through school."

  "Oh, an old-fashioned saint's name. Still, that fits a priest and isn't so bad for a layman."

  Molina smiled encouragingly, as she would with a child, maybe her child.

  Matt didn't want to further explain why he had come to loath his given name. That was another room he wanted to keep private. It was bad enough that Temple knew.

  "What's your middle name?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "Regina."

  "Latin for 'queen.' Not bad either."

  "Regina Molina? You see. Nothing goes well with Molina. I hated to hang Mariah on the poor kid, but it's pretty--"

  "And it isn't a saint's name, but it's close to Mary as in 'Ave Maria'; you were walking the line between Catholic and not' Catholic even then, when your daughter was born. So Molina was your family name. Why aren't you using your married name?"

  "What are you, a detective? Or a frustrated shrink? Role reversal stinks."

  "Knowing about people used to be my job, too."

  "Why'd you leave it?"

  "Because I needed to know about myself,"

  "Why'd you call me?"

  "Because I have a confession to make."

  "Funny."

  "Not to me. Listen, Carmen." He used the name firmly, as he would have with a rebellious grade-schooler. She made a face but said nothing. "There is something you need to know about me, because it has to do with your job." Matt gathered himself. "I heard about that man who died at the Crystal Phoenix, or who was found dead there. I think that I . . . knew him."

  "Temple told you," she noted sourly, but she sat up to take literal notice of his revelation.

  "So you knew Cliff Effinger?"

  "You could say that. He was my stepfather."

  Carmen Molina's blue eyes scintillated with shock, pleased speculation and curiosity as deep as the navy-dark waters of Lake Mead.

  ''Gee whiz, Matt, I'm so glad we had this little talk. I desperately need someone reliable to identify the body."

  *****************

  Temple backed away from her bed.

  It didn't look much like a bed at the moment, being draped with every cocktail dress in her possession and bordered by endless pairs of glitzy high heels.

  Why couldn't she ever decide what to wear to a special event until it was time to get ready?

  Maybe her theatrical background was the cause. Even in civilian life she always felt like an actress who had to make her grand entrance without any idea of what part she was playing or how to dress for it.

  Then again, maybe she was just nervous because this was her first official special event with Matt Devine for her escort.

  Whatever the reason, she felt flustered and dithering and hot under whatever collar--if any--she decided to wear.

  In exasperation she had turned to the window for a calming view of the pool--so still, so placid, so well dressed in its eternal costume of chlorine-treated azure. ...

  This afternoon the view was not calming at all.

  Not with Matt Devine sitting in the shade of the lone palm tree. Not with one Lieutenant C.R. Molina sitting right there beside him.

  They looked like a bloody ice-tea ad! Prim, proper and on, oh, such jolly, pleasant terms!
/>   Temple pushed as close to the glass as she dared without being seen, wardrobe dilemmas forgotten.

  What was this tete-a-tete about? Devine and Molina? Matt and, and . . . Carmen?

  Acquaintances? Friends? Buddies? Or worse;

  Now don't get paranoid, Temple warned herself, to no avail.

  Perhaps Molina was just interrogating Matt, using him to dig into Temple's background to get to Max. Temple nodded soberly, glad she had kept pretty much mum on Max when she was with Mr. Devine.

  Matt might not mean to give away anything about her that Molina could use--and abuse.

  Still, he was pretty naive about women, even when they were cops, relationships and life in general. He might blurt out something that she would regret. A good thing that she knew how to keep the past in an airtight compartment if she had to.

  Temple watched Molina rise, smooth her stupid, bland skirt and walk to the gate. Matt accompanied her, hands in pants pockets, the afternoon sun glinting off his hair-gilded forearms.

  Obviously, nothing momentous had happened during the conversation. Yet the scene had reminded Temple never to underestimate Molina's bulldog nature, or the possibility that she might use Matt, and Temple's interest in him, to pursue her obsession with Max.

  No way. Lieutenant, Temple swore as she watched the woman vanish behind the closing wooden gate. Matt checked his watch, glanced up at the Circle Ritz--Temple flattened herself against the wall for a few seconds before she peeked again--and hurried into the building.

  Temple released an anxious breath. Really time to get ready now! Eyeing the bed again, with its crazy-quilt of choices, the decision seemed simple. Temple swooped up one perfect dress and one perfect pair of shoes. Humming happily, she installed both by the closet door where the poster of Max Kinsella had once hung.

  Chapter 33

  Three O'Clock Rock

  I wish I could say that this unexpected family reunion resulted in a good deal of mutual grooming and purring, but the fact of the matter is that we each face a formidable generation gap, not to mention the gender stretch.

  Still, discovering unsuspected blood ties does force a truce of sorts. We withdraw under the deck surrounding Three O'Clock Louie's to hash out our various grievances. If, from time to time, the occasional tidbit from the diners above slips through a gap In the boards, none of us can object as long as each gets a lick at the booty.

  The old man regales us with tales of his life at sea. Even the hostile Caviar finds herself hypnotized by the details of life on the Bounding Maine. (Personally, I remember the Maine being lost at Pearl Harbor, but apparently this vessel is a namesake.)

  "Does not all that heaving and sinking make you seasick?" Caviar asks Three O'Clock.

  "No, Ma'am. Not In the slightest." The old fellow tidies his whiskers as his eyes soften with a nostalgic sea-green glow. "Has a soothing effect, as when we were rocked in the cradles of our mother's bellies. They do not call it Mother Ocean for nothing. And I soon got my sea legs--

  especially when I saw all that North Pacific silver tumbling to deck. Ah, that is a sight. . .

  mountains of piscine delight, fresh and gleaming with saltwater. The captain would often offer me a nip of his best brandy after the catch was in and we were relaxing from our labors in the cabin."

  "What labors?" I ask. "You did not even have to snap a whisker in the pursuit of this prey.

  Their heads were handed to you on a platter, so to speak.

  "True, my lad, but the thrill of the chase is overrated, to my mind. At a certain age one grows wise enough to find a situation where one's meals are home-delivered. Did I not understand you to say that you had found a domestic situation at a place called the Circle Ritz?"

  I do not miss the slight sneer at the notion of "domestic."

  "I have retired to a condominium with room service," I admit, "but before that I was self-employed as a house detective at the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino, the classiest, joint on the Strip."

  "Hmm, joint." The old man lunges into the shadowy twilight of our retreat and snags a fallen piece of fried chicken.

  "That fried food is bad for one of your years," I point out. "Full of fats and salt."

  "You may be right," he says, chowing down the find without offering to share it with his long-lost descendants. "I will sacrifice myself and eat it all to spare you youngsters any health problems."

  "Spare me the blarney, Grand-daddio," Caviar puts in. "You and your boy here have all the paternal feeling of a trash compactor."

  I am still stinging from hearing my present situation described as domestic. "Miss Caviar has done well for herself," I say. "She resides just above me at the Circle RItz with Mr. Matt Devine, a most genteel fellow and a friend of my own associate, Miss Temple Barr."

  "He is a bit hard on the furniture for such a genteel person," she replies cryptically. "I have spent most of my time of late at the Crystal Phoenix. I perceive a need there for an agile, youthful, full-time house dick."

  "You cannot be a house dick," I shout.

  "And why not?" she demands in a low purr.

  I am not going to stalk nose-first into that trap. "I have not officially vacated the position.

  You will notice that I have been staking out the grounds of late. Events of a dark and sinister nature are afoot there, and I am ready to pounce at the right time."

  "Oh, please," Caviar beseeches me in weary tones. "The stray dog population is up and what have you done to address it? Nothing. Next thing we know, coyotes will be venturing up to the Dumpsters for a nighttime snack."

  "I am not worried about a few coyotes when there is bigger game to hunt."

  "Such as?"

  "I cannot answer, as the case has not entirely come together."

  "In other words, you have not got a clue." She turns to the old man. "Do you perform any other function out here, besides adding to the atmosphere?"

  He sticks his neck out from under the deck to snag an errant shrimp.

  "Drenched in butter," Caviar sniffs. "The cholesterol count must be astronomical."

  The old man is not about to be dissuaded from any seafood surprises. I watch him munch away, my stomach growling in sympathy.

  "Hush!" Caviar snarls. She stretches up on her lithe little legs to press her ear to the planking above us. "I heard someone mention the Crystal Phoenix. I am on eavesdropping duty now."

  Three O'Clock rolls his eyes but does not desist smacking his lips.

  I sit up and take notice. I am always interested in the odd conversation, especially when I recognize one of the voices.

  "Never mind asking why," Crawford Buchanan is hissing to someone seated directly above us. "All the poker chips in Las Vegas would not get me anywhere near the Crystal Phoenix tonight."

  "But you are show chairman," a female voice objects.

  This voice I have never heard before, but under the downtrodden quality I read a dogged weariness as it goes on "I do not understand you, Crawford. This Gridiron show was so important to you. You were hardly ever home for two months, yet this last week you act as if the entire event were poison."

  "Everything he touches is poison," puts in a third voice-- young, bored, bitter and female.

  "Quincey!" the older woman reproves.

  The man's voice lowers. Above me a deck chair frame creaks as he leans forward. "This show is poison. Those so-called rehearsal mishaps are no accidents. That stupid PR woman has really cooked her goose and her gizzard this time."

  "You mean that Miss Barr who visited you in the hospital when you had your heart attack?

  She seemed real nice."

  "Nice is not enough in a town like this. Merle, you should know that by now. Temple Barr will be lucky to see the sun come up tomorrow. The signs have been there all through rehearsals and neither Temple nor that high-handed Danny Dove have glimpsed the writing on the wind.

  Somebody Very Big is mucho upset about this show, and about Temple's closing skit in particular. Buchanan predic
ts that when the curtain falls tonight, it is going to take a few people with it, including that uppity pair. That is why you will not find me near the Crystal Phoenix tonight. Not on my life!"

  A warm drop of bloody water drenches my forehead as Crawford bites into whatever live bait he favors. I hope that it is dog, rare, but restrain a shudder of distaste and keep an ear cocked despite the bio-hazardous material dribbling down.

  Caviar has minced back from the mess, but her own ears remain fanned like furred satellite dishes to catch every syllable. She does show some investigative promise, were her attitude not such a handicap.

  "Should you not warn them?" the woman asks.

  "What, and risk my neck? I am not going within spitting distance of that sitting tinderbox.

  Besides, who would believe me? They do not even respect my scripts."

  "Crawford, if you are irked about your show and neglect to warn somebody--"

  "Forget it. I am only guessing, but I am dead serious. Something major is going down at the Crystal Phoenix tonight, and all I want to know about it is what I read in tomorrow's Review Journal. "

  "You mean that you do not want to scoop the competition?" the younger female jibes.

  "I mean, Quincey, that I do not want to be scooped up in a spoon. Now shut up about this.

  You never know who is listening."

  Enlightenment has come too late for Crawford Buchanan.

  With swift lashes of my rear member, I herd the others away from our inadvertent listening post. Caviar is more than ready to move on, but Three O'Clock seems inclined to remain reclined and suck up any descending goodies. I tap him politely on the shoulder and nudge him along.

  In seconds we are twenty feet down the decking and able to have our own discussion without fear of eavesdroppers.

  Caviar is all fired up. "We have got to get back to the Crystal Phoenix pronto."