Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alphabet Endgame

She sat back to sip some beer. “I guess you need to know the intimate details if you’re going to help me, us, with Mariah. Are you going to do that?”

“I’m stuck,” Matt said, “but how intimate?”

“I didn’t want to get pregnant. I wanted to establish my career, despite the odds. I like odds. I especially didn’t want to leap into motherhood after years of helping to rear half siblings. Rafi was on board with that.”

“I get it. The young Catholic Latina woman used birth control, even if it was against the Church’s position.”

“Well, the woman had to do it then, didn’t she? Nothing really effective for men, no little pink pills for girls then. Men were pill-allergic until Viagra and the little blue-for-boys pill came along. Medical insurance would cover Viagra for men, but not contraception for women. They were making single mothers. How crazy is that?”

“Whatever, something didn’t work for you.”

“I doubt this is your area of expertise and way too much information for you. It will be graphic. The pill didn’t agree with my system. Diaphragm and foam, together, that was pretty effective. Then, a period didn’t come. That was shocking. Even more shocking was finding a pinprick in my diaphragm. Not a manufacturer’s flaw or the material thinning, but a big fat pinprick I could see with my naked eye under the medicine chest’s top fluorescent light.”

“You thought Rafi had—”

“To get me out of the running. He’s from a religious and ethnic tradition where women’s place is in the home, having babies.”

“And your conscience was in a bear trap,” Matt said. “Barrier contraception is one thing. Abortion is quite another.”

“He’d said he wanted kids someday. I figured it for a two-with-one-blow.”

“You’re off the career fast track on maternity leave.”

“It wasn’t even a fast track, Matt. It was survival. I had school loans only a steady job could pay off.”

“And you immediately suspected him, not some manufacturing issue?”

“We all were edgy and paranoid. And manufacturing issues aren’t perfectly round pinpricks.”

“Some malcontent in the manufacturing process could have done it as a prank.”

Molina blinked her Isle-of-Capri-blue eyes. “You? Mr. Optimism? Coming up with a sick scenario like that? Product-tampering. Could be. And if I’d been the woman I am today, I might have come up with some benefit-of-the-doubt options too. But I didn’t. I panicked. I left. I ran.”

“Like Max Kinsella did to protect Temple from his past.”

“Don’t compare me to him! I was protecting my baby’s future. I’d never let my child become a pawn, or a bone of contention.”

“You’re the woman you are today because you did that. You chose to become a single mother and have done an admirable job. But your trust issues are higher than the Eiffel Tower on the Strip.”

She swallowed. Not beer. Just the bad taste in her mouth. “I was wrong. I made a rush to judgment, as the phrase goes. I underestimated Rafi. All my own baggage buried him. I can’t explain it now myself. Only… I know, I see, disappearing so utterly without a word, was the worst thing I could have done to him. Because, and we’ve talked about this, he was innocent.

“He thought I’d been kidnapped, killed. He thought he’d been powerless as a cop and a partner, the worst thing to do to a man. He almost sank after that. Did sink. Didn’t care, drifted, lost touch with family and friends. He made the department cut him. And always, he was looking for me, maybe dead, but looking for me.”

“Gosh,” Matt said, “you two are made to order for my new talk show. Dr. Phil would kill for you.”

She half-lurched up. “You even think that…if that oily Oprah hanger-on ever got near me and mine—”

Matt started laughing. “Angst is not going to get you and Rafi past the tremendous hurdle that is Mariah, Mama Bear. Humble pie is.”

“What does that old expression even mean?”

“Forget your own regret and guilt, and play district attorney. Make the best and most honest case you and Rafi can before the judge and jury that is your daughter. Look. She’s a teen. Conflict with her mother is cool. Listen . Rafi has eased into her life and done the same mentoring he did for your singing talent. He’s won her respect all by himself. That’s what you don’t want to sabotage at any expense. You’re the villain of the piece. All you can do is repent.”

“Grovel, you mean.”

“Prepare for the shock and betrayal she’ll feel toward both of you.”

“And you’ll be…?”

“Refereeing, I hope. Rafi does know you’re planning to do this intervention?”

Molina swooped up the beer bottles and headed for the kitchen. “Yes, but not when.”

“So when’s when?”

She poked her head around the barrier wall. “He and Mariah should be back from rehearsing any minute now. I think we’ll switch to Dr Pepper.”

Matt stood. “Carmen Molina, you have got to be kidding me.”

“Pulling off scabs is best done quickly. Glass or bottle?”

“Er, bottle. Better not to have contents easily thrown.”

“How do we start?” Molina wiped her palms on her jeans.

“We put Mariah on the defensive. Have her tell me about her switch in escorts.”

“Isn’t that a bit manipulative?”

“Aren’t you trying to defend yourself against years of major lies?”

14

The Skype Hype

After she dropped Kit off at the Crystal Phoenix, Temple returned to the Circle Ritz, singing in the elevator and dancing down the hall. “I’m in love with a wonderful guy” from some musical soon morphed into “I’m in love with a wonderful dress”. Call her elated. She was just exuberant enough to commit to a bold move she’d planned to put in motion.

Waltzing from the living room into her office, she noticed Louie wasn’t in there either. He must be out and about via the neighboring bathroom’s partly open window.

Her business card lay near the desktop computer in her office It read Temple Barr, P.R., as in Public Relations. Friends, and even Matt when they’d first met, had joked she really should put “P.I.” as in Private Investigator on that card. She did have a knack for crime-solving.

Ordinarily, she worked casually around all the rooms, slouching on a chair or sofa or bed with her tablet or smart phone, but this was a delicate situation.

So she sat at her rarely used desktop, staring into the dark computer screen, sobering up fast. She was about to attempt the most dishonest, manipulative, necessary, and desperate “public relations” campaign of her career. Right now she was calling on every “knack” in her large tote bag of tricks and taking full, lavish advantage of an offer she couldn’t refuse.

Her top clients, Van and Nicky Fontana of the Crystal Phoenix hotel-casino, had called Temple into Van’s office as soon as they heard she had wedding plans waiting on Matt’s Chicago career options. Van was the executive. Nicky was the mob family white sheep who’d made a go of a “legit” enterprise in a Vegas gone (relatively) straight.

“Listen,” Nicky had said. “You’re one of our most valuable employees, even if we may lose you to Chicago. Your family wedding is our Family wedding. Tut.” He held up a well-manicured hand. Only Fontana brothers could make manicured fingernails sexy rather than an affectation. “My brothers tell me there may be flies in the ointment.” He glanced at his cool, contained blonde wife, Van von Rhyne, who nodded.

“There always are in this town,” Van said, rolling her baby-blues.

Nicky nodded. “That’s your business, Temple, and my bros’ business, yet I cannot help but think nine Fontana brothers will be useful as more than groomsmen for your nuptials if there are any bumps in the road.