Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alphabet Endgame

Temple’s thought must not have shown on her face.

“What did that phony environmental art huckster Santiago have to do with any of this?” Molina asked.

Matt gently removed Temple’s hand from its clutch on his sleeve. She’d been seriously unnerved by his artless confrontation with a notorious monster and his favorite jackhammer in a creepy basement. Knowing about Chuck right now would freak Temple out and would do nobody good.

The lost IRA money and guns Kathleen O’Connor and Santiago had amassed in the Americas over the years seemed as legendary an object of obsession as the seven lost cities of gold known as Cibola to the Conquistadors, unlike the post-modern Ted Binion stash.

“Santiago?” Matt asked. “Caught in the middle, maybe. Being the kind of arty showman he was, he was probably just investigating Temple’s client and his use of a genuine light-bending technique to make objects ‘invisible’. Figuring it out and using it would boost his reputation.”

Molina shook her head. “This is Las Vegas and, yes, this Cirque du Surveillance scenario you describe fits right in. There may be almost as many pretenders to the under-church vault contents as the thousands of remaining claimants to Howard Hughes’ land in Summerlin. What time is your real wedding? I’ve already helped Mariah for her solo and need to coordinate our vocals with Danny Dove.”

Molina struck a palm to her forehead. “Lord, I never thought I’d live to say such a thing.”

“Cirque du Surveillance?” Temple asked, surprised.

“No, working with Danny Dove. You two are going to have the biggest, small church wedding in Las Vegas history, a good kickoff to your new media careers, God help us.”

Molina smiled. “I do hope my opening solo during the procession fetches a five-second clip on your new show.”

“You’re coming out as Carmen.” Matt was surprised.

“This is Vegas, baby. Gotta keep up with the budding teen sensation daughter. Mariah and I will do our first duet on the recessional.”

“But you’ll be armed, just in case?” Temple asked.

“This is Vegas, baby. No one is going to mess with your precious tablecloth train while I’m in that choir loft.”

“It seems Midnight Louie handled that choir loft ‘mews-icale’ direction job pretty well during the mock rehearsal,” Temple noted.

“And every darn note off-key.”

“That being the point of a distraction.”

Molina held firm. “No armed and aurally dangerous cats invited this time without wearing white tie.”

24

Altared Circumstances

Here I sit, a Member of the Wedding, but the lowest, literally, and the last.

I again am confined in a zebra-print carrier. Out of sight behind a pot of chrysanthemums that make me sneeze. On the floor in front of the reinstated altar, only this time everything is for real.

My neck is again circled by a black collar sporting a white bow tie.

I deserve more respect. I am bearing a lot of gold and diamonds today. You would think they could spare a few diamond collar studs for the occasion, after I have saved the day, this day, in two fashions.

First, I am still fuming over sacrificing myself to be an object of ridicule by the terminally annoying Crawford Buchanan, whose piece of Yellow Journalism mocked my Ring Bearer role so successfully that a gang of nearly deaf and blind and media-moronic, heavily armed crooks got the idea to try to knock over the faux wedding rehearsal, and the church altar, and got caught.

In addition, anticipating possible criminal matters, I organized (in the literal sense of the word) an unexpected performance in the organ loft by my personally picked cat chorus, which was pitch perfect in assaulting human ears.

Granted, all persons present were equally driven a bit squirrelly by the sounds, but my friends were expecting some sort of invasion and were better prepared to press on despite the ear-piercing diversion. And hard-of-hearing thieves require a full operatic assault.

Anyway, if I were not indignant I might succumb to something worse, sentiment. My kind has to be strong enough to walk the mean streets from an early age, to prepare for a sudden sundering from family and clowder at the swipe of a speeding car or the jaws of rogue canine or capture and a long, fruitless stay in a shelter cage. The lucky ones will find a loyal and considerate human partner. I have done that, but am feeling a bit crotchety over a possible changing of the guard.

My Miss Temple’s father is not the only dude here giving away the bride.

I reserve my right to pout, and never undertake such a traumatic role again.

Something black and fluffy sideswipes the black mesh side of my container.

“Do not worry, Pop,” says Miss Midnight Louise. “I will never leave you.”

I do not know whether to be consoled, or horrified.

I hear my roommate’s voice echoing from underneath the organ loft’s projection.

“It will be fine, Mom. Electra will arrange my train after everyone is seated and then run down the side aisle to her chosen pew on the central aisle, so she can still get photos.

“And the Phoenix wedding photographer will cover the entire ceremony from every angle. Once the Fontana brothers have seated you all, Dad and I will nod to cue the wedding march and will move slowly forward.”

“You have chosen an oddly named song, Temple. ‘Love Minus Zero-No Limit.’ What does that even mean?”

“Unconditional love. You will hear it in the words during the procession. You know, by the famous Minnesotan, Bob Dylan. His words sing and the melodies are grand.”

“Not to worry, Mrs. B,” comes Danny Dove’s assuring stage director’s voice. “Every step will proceed with the precision of a cuckoo clock Maypole dance, I guarantee it.”

“But, as Mother of the Bride, I am to go first,” Karen objects. Like her daughter, she is tiny, red-headed, and stubborn.

“Not to worry,” Danny repeats as I hear his quick steps waltzing her into place. “That is why I have given you the most reliable and suave Fontana brother as an escort, Julio.”

“Oh,” Miss Mrs. Karen says with a pleased lilt in her voice. Fontana brothers tend to have that effect on females of any species, age, and state in life.” She adds, sounding relieved. “That was most thoughtful of you to keep it in the family, Danny. We are privileged to have such a Las Vegas star managing our little wedding.”

“We are all family at the Crystal Phoenix, my dear Karen. For a Mother of the Bride who looks like the bride’s sister today, I would do anything.”

Miss Mrs. Karen sighs. I cannot tell whether she is impatient or flattered.

Danny goes on. “Then the order is the Matron of Honor alone, Miss Kit. Flower Girl, Miss Crescent. The Ring Bearer will be borne to join the party at the altar.”

“So then,” I hear Miss Temple’s voice. “Last but not least, Dad and I march down the aisle and then Dad peels off my left side—”

That sounds a bit gory to my ears.

“—to sit beside you, Mom, on the first pew allocated on ‘our’ side. Alone, I mount the four shallow steps to the altar and make my Vanna White train-whipping turn. Every fold will fall into place perfectly, with Aunt Kit, my most ‘un’ matronly Matron of Honor already waiting on my right side, and Crescent joining her. Matt and his Best Man, Frank Bucek, having come from the right side of the altar, are waiting for me. Father Hernandez holds the middle ground.”