She studied the huge furry leopard-pattern pillow. "Yeah. Poor Louie. He doesn't know he's in for a major dislocation."
"It's a long time away from home."
"Not so long, ten days. I added the holidays so I could see my aunt. Louie will only be on call for business for three or four days. You'd think this could wait until after New Year's, but apparently when they're hot to trot in advertising, they don't waste a millisecond."
"You'll have a great time."
"But you're not having one now." Temple eyed the pillbox. "You sure I shouldn't invest in this piece of nostalgia? It's only eighteen dollars."
"When would you wear it?"
"I don't know. Maybe for Halloween."
She replaced it on the time-battered bald head of the mannequin bust that wore a matching stole. "I'll think about it. Maybe, if it's still here when I get back ..."
"What's next on the list?"
"Indigo Albino might be too . . . kicky for your taste. Tell you what, I'll take you to lunch at the Monte Carlo as a Christmas present, and on the way we can stop by the Salvation Army. You never know."
"Antique-hunters are eternal optimists, like detectives. I can see where you got your sleuthing instincts."
"Well, you're passing out class pictures of Cliff Effinger all over Vegas. Is it cockeyed optimism or dogged footwork? Anything turn up on that, by the way?"
"Nothing," said Matt the pessimist. "Yet," added the optimist that Temple brought out in him.
"Hey, this Effinger dude could be hanging at the Salvation Army," she suggested playfully as they returned to the car. "You did say he was dressed like a seventies midnight cowboy."
"More like a midlife-crisis cowboy. Okay, a prelunch gander at the Goodwill. I'm beginning to see that hunting anything is ninety per-cent persistence and ten percent damn foolishness."
"Damn foolishness is the best kind. You owe yourself a little."
Matt mulled the alien concept of owing himself anything but angst as they drove to the Goodwill building, a low, bland bunker of green-painted cinderblocks with a few dusty display windows near the entrance.
Inside, it was a warehouse crowded with racks of wilted clothes on twisted wire hangers, homemade shelves of abandoned dishes and household whatzits and a weary odor of must, stale cigarette smoke and dust.
Temple's pale eyebrows rose. "Never been here. I didn't know they had a rack of vintage clothes."
he was off like a racehorse interbred with a bloodhound.
Matt felt a benign, avuncular amusement as he watched her page expertly through the sorry castoffs looking for buried treasure. Men hunted furred and feathered creatures in the woods, and then killed them. Women hunted inanimate things, expressing the same instinct in a bloodless way. Men proved their virility with limp, frail legs and dead antlers on a car hood; women announced their feminity with a fake leopard-skin pelt draping a footstool.
Matt strolled the naked concrete floor through cluttered aisles, watching the people here as if they were in a casino. Many Hispanics, mostly women, a lot of children in tow. Fussing, sharp Spanish reprimands, whining. They needed these fifty-cent jars and two-dollar baby rompers. By the register, a woman was checking out. Some dirty beige acrylic gloves for the Las Vegas "winter," a few navy-blue towels in still-good shape, a child's plastic toy in Crayola colors. A small pile of children's clothes.
She had a one dollar bill on the counter, and was doling Out coins from her purse for the rest. Her face was the pinched, unlearned mask of Depression-era photographs. The poor could wax fat or lean on malnutrition, depending on their metabolisms, and this wizened mother had thinned with want.
"Twenty-five cents'" She gazed at a child's orange jacket, then counted out pennies. Meticulous. One. Two. Three. Right down to the last penny, which was coming fast.
"I guess I'll leave the rest." She said, shutting the worn wallet.
The woman at the register knew better than to argue with the face of the bottomed-out. Or to extend the too-obvious magic wand of charity. This charity cost. Not much, but enough for self-respect.
"Here" Matt extended a ten-dollar bill to the cashier. "Merry Christmas."
"Oh." The woman wanted to say no. Her eyes rested on the toy pushed away at the last moment.
The cashier rang up the abandoned goods with swift efficiency, before the woman could protest.
"Thank you." She barely looked at him. She barely spoke aloud.
He said nothing more, because it would be too little, and too much.
And he accepted the change the cashier solemnly counted into his hand. Offering it to the woman would have been insulting.
So little had been needed of the ten. Two dollars and thirty-five cents.
The woman snapped the coin section of her wallet shut, gathered up the recycled brown grocery-store bag, and left, with one more murmured "thanks" over her shoulder vaguely in Matt's direction.
"That was nice." Temple stood beside him, chastened. "I never even noticed her."
"Tis the season."
He shrugged to avoid the eyes of the clerk, as she avoided his. Face-to-face charity was always as delicately negotiated as international treaties. It did not "blesseth he that giveth and he that taketh," as Shakespeare promised that mercy would via Portia the Wise, the "Daniel come to judgment" in female guise and guile. It embarrassed them both.
Temple took his arm. "I'm sorry I took you out on this wild-goose chase. I just wanted to help you get something for that empty apartment of yours."
"Why?"
"Nest instincts. Maybe I just wanted to make sure you're staying."
"Oh, I'm stuck here--not at the Circle Ritz, per se, but in the real world. At least they tell me it's real."
"It is." Temple's eyes narrowed with the vigilance of the huntress. She skittered away toward the far wall, through a weary, grazing herd of melamine end tables and crooked lamps and dirty lamp shades.
"Oh, God!" she said.
And to his embarrassment, he paid attention and followed her.
"Will you look at that."
"That" was apparently a long, long sofa, an overstatement in curves and upholstered in red fabric that stretched perhaps eight feet along a wall.
"Real suede," Temple pronounced, stroking the surface to verify the diagnosis. "This is custom. From the fifties. Can you imagine custom-ordering an eight-foot sofa?"
"No. I can honestly say that I absolutely cannot imagine ordering an eight-foot sofa."
"How much do they want for it?" She was patting along the sinuous length, looking for tags. "Aha." She held up a card on a string from behind the back. Her voice lowered. Matt had to come closer to hear. "Only three-twenty. This thing was thousands when it was made! And it's in perfect condition. You can tell granddaddy died and they pulled it out of the den after forty years of placid use."
She squeezed behind the sofa and began trying to push it away from the wall.
"Temple."
"Heavy." Temple was not usually one to state the obvious. "Can you push out the opposite end? I want to see the backside, because of course it's made to sit in the middle of the room ... good, good-- ah, something happened here, but... you could lay something over the back. A leopard skin or something with a little kitsch. Or have just this section recovered. Look at these seams. Perfect. This is hand-sewn." Temple straightened, fire in her slate-gray eyes. "Matt. You've got to get it."
"Three hundred dollars, I don't think so."
"That's nothing! You could buy junk at the warehouse furniture stores for that amount. This is the real thing. It's a classic. Pure design, pure materials, almost unused. You'd never find this in a million years."
"Especially if I weren't looking for it."
"It's made for the Circle Ritz. Don't you get it? It's in the period and it's of an equal quality."
Temple raced over to the cashier, Matt, bemused, followed.
"That sofa over there. Yes, the big red one. When did it come in? Two months ago? A
nd where did it come from? Uh-huh. Oh, sure"
Matt heard the masterful inflection of mere curiosity in her comments as she wheedled every detail available about the huge sofa from the clerk, all the while acting as if her interest was merely . . . academic.
"Such an interesting piece," she finished up. "Too bad it's so big. I mean, where would you put it if you didn't have some huge recreation room in the basement, and so few houses here have basements ... it sure is something, though."
She ambled back to study it, Matt her obedient servant coming up behind. He understood that an entire scenario was being enacted here.
Temple grabbed his sweater sleeve as soon as they were out of earshot. "You could offer two-ninety for it. Easy. I'd hate to go lower, and lose all chance of negotiating."
"You could offer two-ninety, Temple. You're obviously in love with the piece. You should have it."
"But my place is built around that stupid hide-a-bed sofa. It's hemmed in with furniture and accessories. Your place is a blank slate. Matt, you could build a whole room around this wonderful piece. Imagine it sitting on that lovely old parquet, warming as burgundy wine. It would save you buying a love seat and two chairs and this and that. Hey, you could sleep someone over on it."
He eyed the slow but definite curves. "If they had scoliosis. How would we get it moved out of here anyway?"
"Electra's a landlady. She must know dozens of reliable outfits that move stuff. Couldn't cost more than . . . fifty bucks."
"I'm on the third floor--"
Temple shook her head impatiently. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime find, trust me. You need to put something in your living room. With this as an anchor, the job's three-quarters done. You have to get this, or you're absolutely crazy!"
"I'm absolutely crazy," he said deadpan.
Her face fell, but even in defeat a new argument was marshaling in the back of her mind. He saved her the trouble.
"But I'm going to get it, okay? Sold by the lady in the leopard-skin pillbox hat. Almost."
"You know, maybe we should swing by afterward and get that--"
He took her elbow and hustled her to the checkout table.
"I'll take the sofa. The one the size of Godzilla's grandmother, but first I have to see about arranging to have it picked up."
The clerk was in seventh heaven. "We have a list. Check, credit card or cash?"
"How about half now and half on pickup?" He pulled out his new Discover card.
The clerk snapped it up like a gator grabbing a guppy.
Beside him, Temple writhed in swallowed agony. "Matt, you didn't deal," she whispered when the clerk was absorbed by punching in numbers.
"It's already a good deal, so you swore. Besides, it's almost Christmas. Consider it a donation."
"Donations are donations. Dealing is dealing. You could have always sent them the donation later. Paying sticker price like a rube ruins it for everyone else."
"I'm getting it, right? Aren't you happy?"
She took a deep breath. "I'm ecstatic. It really is... wonderful. It deserves a good home. I'm so glad you got it."
"It's not a living thing, Temple. It doesn't know it'll be the star of the Circle Ritz."
"Yes it does," she answered fiercely. "Yes it does."
Chapter 3
Escape from New York - Please!
Temple sat in her aisle airline seat, as queasy as Midnight Louie probably was feeling right now.
Louie was invisible. All Temple could see was his new airline -approved Kit-Karrier, tucked under the seat ahead. Temple herself was all too visible in the getup she decided was necessary for this hasty jaunt to New York. Looking down in disenchantment, she saw clunky, well-padded high-top tennis shoes. Black leggings. (She expected to be doing a lot of bending over to tend to Louie. And black wouldn't show cat hair. Much.) A loose, almost knee-length sweater over a heavy turtleneck. All black, so as not to show Midnight Louie hair.
Her usual tote bag was stowed overhead. Her valuables--wallet, ID, credit cards and the directions to Kit's place on Cornelia Street, plus sundries--were crammed into a weensy boxy patent-leather purse, also black, that made Temple feel like an eight-year-old showing off her new Easter bag. She loathed impractical purses almost as much as she despised practical shoes. Inconsistency, she believed, is the hallmark of a discriminating mind.
But . . . anything for Louie.
At least he was being quiet. Ominously quiet. Too-angry-to-spit quiet. Wait until he saw the new CatAboard Seat Temple had purchased at the pet store before they left. It even came with one of those despised diamond-shaped yellow signs first used to announce "Baby on Board," now adapted for anything portable, including "Cat on Board." Temple had tried to peel it off, but the glue proved too tough and too disfiguring. She had considered covering the noxious sign with a real "Baby on Board" badge. She figured she might get more respect in transit, but doubted it. Especially when she shoved the carrier under the seat. Pride of portage didn't count for anything anymore. Not even "My Cat is an Honor Student."
"How about 'My Cat is a Star'?" she bent down to ask Louie in a whisper.
The businessman in the adjoining seat flashed a look that was half annoyance and half alarm. He had arrived after she and Louie were installed, and had whipped out a laptop computer as soon as the pilot announced passengers could get plugged in and turned on.
Everybody talked to their under seat luggage, Temple told herself with a haughty shrug. Mr. Laptop was clucking away on the small keyboard, grim and concentrated.
Since her feet seldom reached any floor, Temple usually propped them on her underseat bag. But the lightweight Kit-Karrier was too flimsy to support a pair of massive high-tops. She
wrestled her paperback book from under the carrier strap and sighed. This was a four-hour flight, with nothing to munch on but an air-swollen bag or two of pretzels as dry and appetizing as matchsticks.
She opened the guide to New York City and began reading.
More than three droning hours later, Laptop Man had absconded to the rear restrooms. Temple shook her wristwatch, moved the dial ahead three hours and wriggled her legs. Landing soon. She lifted the middle armrest in the tandem seats, then cozied up to the window and railed the shade Laptop Man had kept drawn tight all through the flight. It was sixish in Manhattan, winter twilight time when the sun takes its own sweet time in letting. The whole visible world basked in a bruised burnt-orange afterglow.
She caught her breath. Below the plane was the East River, a glitter of beaten copper ripples in the dying light. Manhattan landmarks, strove to stab the pale sky in the twilight's last gleaming. The Statue of Liberty, a tiny dot in the black water, flashed the slow-moving plane overhead, the lit torch flaming like a match head. Temple could just make out the wakes of tiny boats wrinkling the water like irons gone amok.
The World Trade Center's twin towers, wrapped in glass, reflected the sunset in a plaid of windows lit from within and without. Dozens of other modern building-block towers also resembled glitter-wrapped packages under some cosmic Christmas tree. Accidental autumn warmth sparkled everywhere like gold foil. The sun's tangerine lightning galvanized the Empire State Building's familiar spire. The Chrysler Building's graceful fluted cap shone as silver leaf turned gold. From up here, the Chrysler Building was undeniably much lower than the Empire State Building. Temple had pictured them as non-identical twins, matched in size if not style. Now she saw that the Chrysler Building was a squirt. An illusion about New York City shattered already, and she hadn't even landed!
The plane, an ocean liner of the air, dropped altitude at a dignified rate.
"Excuse me."
She looked up to find Laptop Man standing beside her empty seat, managing to look both impassive and annoyed. Oops.
Temple scrambled back to her seat and out into the narrow aisle to let him enter.
He replaced the retracted armrest as if reinstalling a security system, glanced out the window at the shimmering scene, then snap
ped down the shade. Under the reading light's singularly narrow, yellow stare, he jotted figures onto a notepad.
Temple preferred a taciturn traveling partner. With landing imminent, she felt like a marathoner about to enter a race. Mentally, she ran the rush to retrieve her bags and the dash for the terminal, then the rapid, long walk to the baggage area, with a ladies' room stop for her (and Louie too). Then she would have to wrestle her huge bag off the luggage return and get out to the cab area without being waylaid by a gypsy cab driver. Kit had warned her against those con men. Then would come a traffic-choked entry into downtown Manhattan during rush hour. Lord, she hoped she got one of the few cab drivers who still spoke English so she could tell him where to go.
After that came seeing Kit, meeting all the ad agency people and the pet-food company executives . . .
Temple leaned her head against the seat, concentrating for a moment on what she had left behind instead of speculating on what lay ahead.
She'd told Electra Lark, her landlady, first. Gone for ten days over Christmas. Back by New Year's. Left Kit's address and phone/fax number. Asked Electra to make sure that Matt Devine wasn't alone for Christmas ... Then she had called good neighbor Matt, who still seemed stunned that she would fly off like this, on such short notice. He had promised to keep an eye on her place. She had debated calling Max Kinsella, but he was prone to drop in on her without warning, and she didn't want him to think she'd been kidnapped by the thugs who were after him for mysterious reasons he refused to explain. She'd left a message on his answering machine, which still answered in the dead Gandolph the Great's voice, wondering where he'd gone. Max the magician was like that: there and not there at the same time.
Then she'd told Van von Rhine and Nicky Fontana at the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino, the closest thing she had to a regular employer. They thought the reason for the trip was a blast and told her to have a good time.
I will, Temple told herself.
Temple's seat back was hit from behind, suddenly.
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