Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

by Douglas, Carole Nelson

  "My given name isn't Matthew."

  "That's right. Matthias. He who replaced Judas." She nodded, satisfied, then sipped deeply again from her glass. "I suppose, being so virtuous, you wondered that I even asked."

  "I guess I did, and why."

  "Still unused to my high-handed ways, huh? I need to get the lay of the land, for professional reasons. You're right; I'd love to have Kinsella in an interrogation room downtown. I wanted to know how big a threat you might be to him."

  Matt turned his hardly touched glass in his hands, enjoying the cool condensation on his palms. It kept him alert.

  "You don't understand, Carmen. I'm no threat at all. Temple and Max were all but married before he disappeared."

  "That's a big 'but.' "

  "Not to me."

  "A priest says this?"

  "A former priest. Theirs is the primary relationship in this whole mess, and I have to honor that."

  " 'Honor.' " Molina stretched out long legs and crossed her feet at the ankles. Matt wondered if she wore a gun somewhere, maybe around an ankle. "That's a word you don't hear much nowadays, except among gang-bangers who use it as a synonym for 'macho.' If you worry too much about honor, Matthias, you ain't gonna get Cliff Effinger, and you ain't gonna get the girl."

  "How did you get so cynical?"

  "About honor, or about priests?"

  "Both."

  She shrugged. "I may be half-Anglo, but I grew up in a Hispanic culture. We don't sweat the small stuff, like sins of the flesh. A lot of the priests--most--I heard of in Mexico, and even in California, had a woman on the side sometime. It was no big deal. And it was better than boys."

  Matt shook his head at her casual acceptance. "I've never understood it. This Mediterranean and South American indulgence of priests who break their vows. I know, I know . . . Americans are descended from Puritans, and are much more straitlaced than our Continental brethren, but still, a promise is made to be kept, not broken--"

  "I'm sorry." Molina looked rueful. "I got carried away in my capture-the-crook scenario." She smiled. "It's nice to finally meet an honorable priest at least, even if he isn't a priest anymore. I guess if the good don't die young, they leave."

  "I'm not that unusual. The vast majority of priests keep their vows and believe in their vocation. The ones that don't, make headlines."

  "Listen. I'll show this sketch around to some of the patrol officers. They're on the Strip every night, so you won't have to bumble into casinos anymore."

  "I'll still look. Maybe I'll even get better at it."

  "Maybe you'll get better at other things too." She stood, finished her drink. "Go home. I've got to kiss my kid goodnight and get ready for a court appearance tomorrow. This sketch is one more nail in Cliff Effinger's empty coffin. We'll find him."

  Matt wasn't sure if the "we" was the police department, or she and he.

  "And Max Kinsella?"

  "What would you do if he were out of the picture for a good long time?"

  "What I've always done. Support what Temple decides to do."

  "And if what she decides to do ... is you?"

  Another below-the-belt question. Matt handed back his almost-full glass; Molina wouldn't want to waste it.

  "Then I'll have to see what I decide to do. You can't play me and Max Kinsella off each other.

  I don't know what evidence you have against him, but as far as Temple's told me, he's just a magician who did a disappearing act for a little too long. She apparently still has some faith in him, and that's a business I understand: faith when all the facts belie it. Now that he's back, I won't interfere. With Temple, or with him. I won't turn in Kinsella, Carmen. I'd never do that to Temple. Or Kinsella. Or myself. That would be the worst move for all of us."

  "Not for me. Remember, triangles are the most volatile configuration of relationship on the planet. Pairs are tough to break up, but trios turn on each other like cannibals. I can always crack a case with three sides."

  "Maybe we have more than a triangle here."

  "What do you mean?"

  She figured out his mathematics while he kept quiet. Her remarkable blue eyes glittered like man-made sapphires, hard and somehow counterfeit.

  "You're getting better," she told him, "but don't let it go to your head."

  Molina showed him out through the garage, turned on an exterior light and even waited in the open garage door until he had the Vampire started and drifting the driveway.

  Matt couldn't decide on the way home if Molina were a mother superior in disguise, or Typhoid Mary.

  Chapter 27

  Temple Starts Cookin'

  Temple had Louie home and toweled off from his heroic rescue--all caught on telephoto lens and videotape--by 9 p.m.

  His coat was the feline equivalent of a buzz-cut: short, nappy and quick to dry.

  "Two days off, Louie," she told him, ferociously toweling his tail. "I could use a break.

  Spending all my time with Domingo and his minions, Savannah Ashleigh and assorted female consorts of the late Darren Cooke is taxing. At least I won't have to see the Wrath of Rodeo Drive for a while. Did you watch Savannah light into that director for unsafe conditions?

  Threatening to sue everybody from the Mirage to the cat-food company to the cameramen for recording your feat rather than going to Yvette's rescue?"

  Louie, sitting on the area rug washing his already- soaking feet, sneezed.

  "You better not catch something from this! I hope Yvette's okay too. Savannah Ashleigh would sue us all, every one, if anything happened to that cat."

  Louie, head bent to lick, seemed to be nodding strong agreement.

  "You would think her precious cat came into this world spun-dry and was meant to stay that way. Yvette is not above sprinkling in her carrier, you know Hey! Don't growl. Am I hurting you?

  Well, stalk off, then."

  Temple absently dabbed the damp towel against her own sopping suit-front. Her shoes, J.

  Renee snakeskin pumps, lay soaked at her bare feet. She had rescued the rescuer, after all.

  Not that Savannah Ashleigh had been at all grateful as she stood shrieking in the key of F-sharp on the lagoon bank. She had snatched the dripping Yvette from Temple's overburdened arms, then carried her Precious at arm's length to the carrier. Once incarcerated, the sopping cat had begun to caterwaul. That was when Savannah had announced that Yvette required at least two days' paid medical leave to recover.

  To Temple, this was a welcome break. She was still curious about Darren Cooke's daughter, wishing she had copies of her letters. Even the police didn't have that. Molina had called to confirm their continued absence, only a trace of smugness in her voice.

  "Did you look in the hotel safe?" Temple had asked.

  "Before you even brought the letters up."

  "What about Michelle? Did she say where she found my card?"

  "She says it was in the usual place for such fond mementos, under the mattress."

  "And your guys missed it. Did you look--?"

  "The mattress was lifted off the springs. Nothing there other than some blanket fuzz. You realize that we have only the widow's word on where she found it."

  "But why would she lie--?"

  "You're the detective," Molina had said smartly, hanging up.

  Temple sometimes wondered if the worthy lieutenant didn't use her as a stalking dog to sniff out new directions in such cases. Certainly Molina only fed her enough information to tickle her curiosity bone, which in Temple's case happened to be every bone in her body, plus the calcium supplements she consumed to strengthen her petite frame.

  "I don't know what you're going to do on your days off, Louie, but I'm going to find out who has hung around Darren Cooke only recently. Too bad I can't take you along, but this is woman's work."

  Louie lay there, licking the coat she had dried, ignoring her every word.

  Today, Friday morning, Domingo and his minions would be busy stringing flamingos with fairy lights fo
r a lavish installation around the Luxor Sphinx and grounds.

  Although Christmas wasn't that far off, Temple really wasn't in a light-stringing mood. So, leaving Louie to enjoy the quiet comforts of home, she headed for Gangster's. But first she made a telephone call.

  **********************

  By day, the Gangster's layout--like most Las Vegas attractions-- looked faded and forlorn.

  Call it the carnival-funhouse effect. The parking lot was only half full, but Gangster's unique customer pickup-and-delivery system wouldn't produce a lot full of parked cars. She was pleased to note that a raven Viper lay in wait among the idle black limos parked in an imposing row.

  When the Fontana Brother popped up like a chic jack-in-the-box as Temple entered the lobby, she didn't have to guess which one it was. She had spoken to Aldo on the phone.

  "Hey, Miss Temple! Hear your pussycat went swimming at the Mirage."

  "How'd you hear that so fast?"

  "No problem. We are Fontana Communications, Inc." Aldo grinned and produced something from behind his back. The latest issue of the Sun, featuring a photo of the crew pulling Louie and Yvette from the lagoon. Nobody, human or feline, resembled themselves in the least . . . except photogenic Savannah Ashleigh, who appeared to be directing the rescue operation, and was so identified.

  "Plastic surgery can really get you through those difficult moments," Temple murmured cattily.

  "I thought you would like a copy," Aldo announced happily.

  Considering that Temple's photo-image looked like a freeze-dried and shrunken mummy, she was not duly appreciative. But she folded the paper into her miscellaneous file cabinet --her tote bag.

  "Thanks. What about Darren Cooke's co-workers? Did you round some up?"

  "Sure thing. They're all sweating like hell to brush up the show with Cooke's replacement."

  "They've replaced him so fast?"

  "Listen, my Uncle Mario was on the phone to Hollywood, calling in a few markers, first thing Monday a.m. The Fontana family does not mess around in a crisis."

  "I have seen that." Temple nodded sagely. "So who did Uncle Mario dig up?" Oops, she had phrased that badly.

  Aldo folded impeccably manicured hands in front of his rigidly pinstriped navy suit and donned a Cheshire-cat smile.

  "I'd ask you to guess, but I figure you've had a pretty trying night."

  "You figure right."

  "Steve Martin fell through, so I'll just say: Sid Caesar."

  "Really?" Temple couldn't help being impressed. "He'll be perfect in the part. Is he here yet?"

  "Naw. He has some things to tidy up. We got a stand-in for now, but Sid's been sent a script so he'll be ready to go."

  "Well, Sid Caesar certainly wasn't in Darren Cooke's vicinity lately, so I can't think up any excuse for talking to him ..."

  Aldo took Temple's tote bag from her shoulder and then took her free elbow in hand too.

  "I've arranged for the director to have a talk with you during the break."

  He escorted her past the discreet chime of slot machines and into Hush Money.

  "Thanks, Aldo." Temple resisted his polite but firm custody. "I prefer to snoop around on my own on the stage. Ask the stage crew things. You know."

  "Miss Temple." Aldo's voice was gently chiding. "Of course I realize that you wish to do your sleuthing yourself. I thought it might help to start with an overview. Additionally, once the director has spoken to you, he will not question your presence on the set, and will let you go about your business."

  "I see. Very diplomatic of you, Aldo."

  "We Fontanas are nothing if we are not diplomatic. Now, have a seat and I will get the director-dude."

  Seating her with the courtliness of a papal legate, Aldo proceeded to ruin the effect by absently patting his jacket as he left. He was not searching for something like a Cuban cigar, but more like an Italian automatic.

  Temple hoped the director was not being coerced into seeing her. Reluctant witnesses were the worst kind.

  She ordered the Lady in Red Clamato juice, it being a bit too early for lunch, and recalled coming here with Matt. That, naturally (or not so naturally) got her wondering why she hadn't heard from Max lately. He was probably burrowed away in the Welles/Kinsella/Randolph house burning the literary lamp as he toiled to complete The Great Gandolph's nonfiction expose of the seance game. Max an author! Really! She supposed he might need some organizational help, but wasn't about to volunteer. After all, she was apparently in high demand lately, so let Max wait and wonder and stew. Except she didn't think he was doing any of those things, drat.

  Aldo returned in ten minutes, tenderly escorting a sixtyish man whose gray hair was cut close, in a Roman-emperor style, to hide a receding hairline. Nothing he could do would hide his receding chin. His bony features didn't profit from the severe haircut, nor did his chin benefit from a Benetton cashmere turtleneck in a shade of green that too closely made one think of a ...

  well, a turtle.

  Temple braced herself. She'd seen this theatrical type before and knew that he compensated for behind-the-curtain looks with high-theatah mannerisms and energy, energy, energy.

  He descended like a pine-green tornado, that being the color he had chosen to set off what was left of his silver locks. He came shaking a finger at her.

  "You can't keep your shabby little secrets from me anymore. I wondered what you were doing coming in and out of the theater, and now I know."

  Temple swallowed a gulp of Lady in Red.

  "But, Miss Barr, you look so young to be a producer!"

  He pumped her hand and sat opposite her at the table for two.

  Temple gave Aldo a poisonous look, but he merely rocked back and forth on his slick Italian heels and soles, like a boa constrictor that had swallowed a whole flock of canaries.

  "Miss Barr, this is Manny Kurtz, the stage, screen and television director who is mounting the Gangster's revue."

  What kind of producer was she supposed to be? Temple asked herself--and Aldo--

  internally. She smiled, pumping up her energy to match Manny Kurtz. Wilt before all those kilowatts, and you were lost before you started.

  "Oh, Mr. Kurtz. You know what they say: kids are running everything these days. Even the studios."

  He raised a dramatic eyebrow, a gesture the Mystifying Max put to much better effect.

  "Even the TV studios, they tell me. I think it's wonderful that 60 Minutes is doing a retrospective on poor Darren! Feel free to tromp all over my set to find your interview subjects--I myself have several theories on poor Darren's... er, death. Who will do the actual on-camera stuff? Morey?

  Ed?"

  "Umm, maybe ... even Ted."

  Kurtz frowned.

  Temple rushed on. Aldo was apparently taking lessons from her Aunt Kit Carlson in the telling of Really Big Lies. The last time Temple had been introduced as a 60 Minutes field producer, she'd had to carry out the impersonation for a massively egotistical over muscled cover hunk, the male equivalent of a blond bimbo. Kurtz was full of himself, but he was several million brain cells ahead of Fabrizio.

  "It'll be as much a surprise to me as to you who will front the story," she replied quite truthfully. "This is just a background expedition, to see if there's story enough here. I'm looking for people who knew Mr. Cooke for a long time, and some who just knew him recently. We hope to get a three-dimensional take on his life and times that way."

  "Three dimensional." He nodded, enraptured. "Very good idea! You know, of course, that nobody really knew Darren well, over a long period of time. He was a comic. He required a fresh audience for his same old jokes. He moved on."

  "Especially with women." Temple hoped she had managed a confidential leer. "Darren Cooke was the last of the great Hollywood lovers, after all. I've seen his widow, Michelle, of course," she reported with haughty honesty, "who was well aware of his . . . special relationship with the opposite sex. She accepted his inclinations and even gave me permission to expl
ore the real Darren Cooke."

  "What a remarkable woman! French, I believe. Trust Frenchwomen to be broad-minded."

  "Apparently her late husband was also."

  "Broad-minded, you mean?" Kurtz withdrew an antique silver cigarette case from the inner pocket of his cream linen blazer and tapped out a nasty little cylinder that Temple seriously suspected of being a Gauloise, a French brand.

  "Darren made no bones about it," he went on after lighting the st unted little thing with a sterling-silver Zippo. He flashed Temple a sharp look from behind his screen of serpentine smoke. She doubted he inhaled, which ought to do his lungs some good.

  He was already tapping nonexistent ash from the cigarette end. The entire ritual was a prop with him, providing enough stagy business to keep him in the spotlight anywhere he went.

  "Darren and dames." An uproarious laugh. "We're so soaked in the gangster atmosphere for the revue that sometimes we talk like them. He liked his women young, so I was surprised when he actually married and she was over thirty."

  "Michelle is an international beauty, of course."

  "Quite a catch for Darren, if he were going to be caught. And I know he adored his daughter.

  Cutest little kid! Don't care for rug rats much myself, or anything that crawls on four legs." His thin frame shuddered.

  Temple was glad Midnight Louie was no longer on the stage set, or present to hear this.

  "Of course, it's easy enough to get in touch with his official associates. Yourself, for example. His wife and daughter. The less public liaisons are no less integral to the man's life and work, but far harder to ferret out."

  "Oh, indeed!" Kurtz turned his unfortunate profile to her while he blew out a huff of smoke in an ostentatiously sideways direction.

  Temple waited.

  Kurtz leaned in, confidential. His raucous baritone voice lowered to Crawford Buchanan-level. "Actually, my dear, poor Darren had one of his exes on the set last week. Slinky number with the IQ of an onion but a plastic surgeon from heaven. Although she is over his age limit now, I was betting on them reviving the embers. So you might want to talk to Savannah Ashleigh."