Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alphabet Endgame

“I lead an interesting life,” Temple said, more to herself. “Why must No one Know You’re in Town? If Kitty the Cutter is declawed and content to stay in Ireland now that she can’t hold the fate of your cousin Sean over you…. She is declawed?”

“Decidedly,” Max said.

“So you’ve come to discuss your crazy plan to import me to Wisconsin to negotiate the Kinsella and—”

“—and the Kelly clans’ reunion with their prodigal sons. Yes. Kelly is Sean’s surname.”

Temple shuddered delicately. “Just saying that reminds me of leaping hip-deep into emotional quicksand.”

“But that intervention can wait.” Max tented his long fingers in a sage-like manner.

Temple raised her eyebrows. She’d thought Max bringing his presumed dead cousin home would be Job One. Magicians always adore producing unbelievable effects, and resurrecting the dead was certainly a major one.

Max leaned back on the fragile chair. Its creak brought Midnight Louie over to investigate. Or intimidate. He sniffed Max’s shoe, then sat to gaze intently up at him.

It was impossible to ruffle Max.

He smiled down at Louie and said, “Now that I hear you were broken into while I was gone, I’m even more convinced that until we find the bloody booty Kathleen and her dead cohort Santiago hid somewhere in Vegas, nobody in our cozy little treasure hunting club will be safe.”

“That would be, you, Matt and me.”

“And innocent bystanders.”

“I doubt Matt is up to collaborating with you on anything at the moment.” She eyed the clock. “You picked a dicey time to climb my balcony, ex-Romeo, when Matt is still tied up at the radio station for another hour or so.”

“I said the fewer people who know I’m in town, the better. You have the best puzzle-solving talents of us three. You know Vegas inside out, even more than I do. This needs to be a two-man operation.”

When Temple remained silent, he added, “Has it occurred to you someone or some entity in Vegas also knows about the hoard of IRA donations Kathleen gathered over the years in North and South America from Irish loyalists and wants it at any cost? What if the inept burglar was after the Effinger drawing of the man fighting a giant serpent you and Devine brought back from Chicago? That representation of the Ophiuchus constellation ties into the magicians’ cabal who owned the Neon Nightmare. They’re dead or scattered, but what if someone found your ingenious sketch of the main Ophiuchus stars overlaid on the Las Vegas Strip?”

“I’m losing faith in this quest,” Temple said. “Why are some bearer bonds—granted they’re highly portable and international currency—and old weapons that are probably not half as lethal or expensive as the average assault rifle you can open carry in some states, worth that much?”

“Because, my fine red-feathered friend,” Max said, his eyes sparkling with the anticipation of revelation, “of one thing I learned from Kathleen in Ireland. The bearer bonds are only a mere ten percent of the trove. The money came in a dozen currencies, and was converted to more easily smuggled forms.”

“Gold coins?”

“Yo, ho, ho. Like pirates of old, matey?” Max cackled.

“So Effinger’s slow death by drowning in a pirate ship attraction fits the booty? He must have known the location and refused to tell. Nasty.”

“Still, coins are traceable.”

“Gold bars!” Temple said.

“Heavy, but Santiago’s international media entertainment installations would mean shipping heavy machinery, and gold bars would be easily concealable then. Still, something even smaller would have been better, and South America is known for exporting…?”

“Bananas!”

“I wasn’t asking for an opinion. Yes, bananas number one, but something more valuable, besides oil and exotic lumber.”

“And gemstones!” Temple realized. “Then…our assumption that the hoard was destined for a paramilitary group and heavy on weapons, may be wrong. We’re not looking for a huge underground safe like the empty one found in the tunnels between Gangsters and the Crystal Phoenix hotels. And the Ophiuchus constellation’s significant stars may not be dispersed on a landscape scale but on….”

“A much smaller, more human one,” Max said.

“Oh.” Temple’s mind was reeling with possibilities. “The map and sketches are in Matt’s unit. We have to bring him in on it.”

“I can extract them.”

“From his safe?”

“What’s an honest ex-priest and media sensation doing with a private safe?”

“Danny Dove installed it when he did over Matt’s monk cave into a hip bachelor pad. And added a TV that rises up from the foot of the bed.”

She caught a gleam in the dark as Max rolled his eyes. “I could say so many politically incorrect things about that but I’ll leave it to your imagination.”

Temple was glad the room was dark. She felt herself blushing.

“Okay, Max. One last time around the merry-go-round.”

He nodded quickly.

“And you can forget the idea of me going to Wisconsin to help you handle the Kinsella and Kelly generational two-step intervention.”

His next nod was not so quick.

“Matt can do that for you, Max. If he’s feeling generous, and if he doesn’t find out I’m collaborating with the enemy.”

“At least you’re not cohabitating with the enemy anymore,” Max quipped. “When’s the happy day?”

“Unset, but soon. I’ve got the e-vite guest list. We’ll marry the minute the issue of Matt’s moving to a TV talk show in Chicago is resolved. He’s…been distracted from pushing hard on that.”

“Maybe he knows you can take the girl out of Las Vegas, but you can’t take Las Vegas out of the girl. Your Crystal Phoenix PR position plays to all your creative strengths. I saw you during that Black & White band reunion debut. You’re part diplomat, producer, on-site shrink, and detective.”

Temple was really blushing now. She could have turned an eggnog glass into hot milk by pressing it to one of her cheeks at the moment, flushed from praise. Recognition. Max was a master impresario. She thought back to their early days, imagining her joining his act as the magician’s assistant in glitter hose and satin bustier. She was petite and limber enough.

But Max worked alone, except for droves of doves for the finale, and she was not willing to be an accessory. Nor did she want to doll herself up like the dated Playboy Bunny. Even Playboy was out of the Bunny business, now that much racier fare was wallpapering the Internet. At ninety, Hugh Hefner was living on until death in the pre-sold notorious Mansion in L.A.

“You need to add ‘talent agent’ to my résumé,” she said.

She didn’t often confound Max, and explained. “Mariah Molina is an aspiring pop diva. She’s joined the backup group for Black & White lead singer French Vanilla on weekends.”

“Quite a big gig for a little tween girl like Molina Junior.”

“Not so little, Max. She’s been taller than me for a while now.”

“Looking after her in the rock ‘n’ roll business should keep Mama Molina distracted from our quest. Too bad Mama never had a show biz break like that.”

“She almost did, I’ve learned. That’s why French Vanilla gave Mariah that to-die-for weekend spot.”

“Hmmph.” Max shook his head. “I’ve been on the run too long. Kids grow up, friends die, My best girl moves on. It must not seem that long to you since we moved into this place, probably with a whacky expectation of fair winds and sunny weather.”

Temple could have harked back to those few months they’d lived like newlyweds before his past forced him to perform the ultimate magical illusion and disappear without notice. But, no she couldn’t. Not anymore.