Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alphabet Endgame

Maybe poor Louie was feeling that way too.

“Please, Louie,” she entreated him. “Hang in there. Everything will be wonderful soon.”

32

Gilt Trip

Speaking of the Guthrie Theater, my performance is, of course, a major Thespian moment.

Instilling guilt in humans is a delicate, but remarkably easy process.

I have been practicing for this role since a fuzz-bottom. That is how we train these people to perform.

First, one must cultivate a certain Continental ennui.

You suppose yourself French, and world-weary. Your eyelids can barely remain open, your gaze can barely reach for the ceiling, were even a menacing wasp circling.

You think yourself as heavy as you can be, the opposite of what a sane human would do, and your right front mitt and vibrissae, a.k.a. whiskers, may twitch minutely.

Humans sigh, but our breed yawns. Long and deeply. Life is all too empty, cheerless, woeful and not worth living without X-Tasy Bits-brand liver and kidney and a nice Chianti.

What? Your human victim wants to play kissy-face—whisker-crumpling, muzzle-smooching kissy-face? Ugh .

How off-putting. You twist your neck until avoiding all contact makes it plain you are barely managing to put up with this sadly enabling creature who wants only to make you safe, warm, dry, and overweight. And inside.

I hate to do this, but I realize that my journey with my Miss Temple will not be over until we both understand we have our parts to play and our peace to make and will always be together, come rain or shine or bloody murder.

For now, I let her put me down (thank Bast!). What is this obsession with picking up? I came with four on the floor, fully equipped from the factory, and will be leaving the Daily Planet obit pages the same way, many years from hence. I hope.

Meanwhile, as Miss Temple sets me back down with copious sniffles and tears, I plot how to get her where I want her, where it will do me and her the most good.

Mostly her.

Unlike Sam Spade, I am willing to play the sap for a dame.

If it suits me.

But only for so long.

33

A Peak Experience

When Temple returned from the work in progress at the Circle Ritz to her and Matt’s lovely suite at the Crystal Phoenix, she sat and thought, and shuffled pieces of paper on the handsome desk meant usually for show.

The suite had a real safe, built into a wall, not the cheesy metal boxes on hotel closet shelves, and she’d brought out the maps of the Strip and its attractions.

She got up and went to the window-wall. Her twelfth-floor suite was at an ideal height. From up here she could still see the canyons of streets and highways between the towering buildings. The darkening mountains were notched against a cloudless sunset sky on her right and the Strip lights were gaining on the coming dark on her left.

She paced. Thought. Sighed. The delicious week in San Diego had soothed away tensions from the previous whirlwind sequence of two weddings, an armed robbery attempt, a fraught multi-family reunion, and a current renovation of home, sweet, home.

Temple’s brain was now rested and revving up, getting ideas.

She still had Max on speed-dial. She felt a bit guilty for using it.

“Here comes the bride,” he announced as he answered. “What a beautiful wedding, Temple.”

“How do you know? You were invited, but you didn’t accept.”

“I was invited, but I didn’t have the bad taste to show up at the actual ceremony and general reception and have to be explained.”

“Always mystifying.”

“Always practical.”

“The doves were a nice final touch, but the Fontana boys got the credit.”

“And they’ve earned it. Besides, I had to brace myself for my command performance at your so very delicate and emotional production of A Family for All Seasons . You will be magnificent on a talk show venturing into current issues. I have never been so masterfully manipulated to be honest.”

“You know everyone in your families needed to reconcile the past.”

“Yes, yes. Very sensitive, but back to what an absolute beauty of a bride you made. I may not have recovered my memories of me, of you, of us, but I confess I felt very sorry for the poor sod who missed out on you, whether you were coming down the aisle or managing a hell of a tricky family reconciliation.”

“Catholic Confession is now called the Sacrament of Reconciliation, I’m told,” Temple said demurely. “I may not be Catholic, but I’m pro reconciliation.”

“Good for you. I may not have been apparent at the actual wedding, but that doesn’t mean I missed most of the main event at the church.”

“ Not. I knew you couldn’t resist being the ghost at the banquet. Did you like my train?”

“Train? Oh, yes…killer.”

“Liar. You don’t give a whit about trains. I thought so. You were concealed up in the choir loft. You crashed my wedding too, like that skunk, Crawford Buchanan. And you were invited.”

“I appreciated that, but the best view in any theater is always from the balcony.”

“True,” Temple said, looking out at the Las Vegas view.

“We haven’t talked since the family intervention.”

“I know. It may seem crazy to call, but I’ve had a brainstorm about the puzzle of the late Effinger’s drawing and the Ophiuchus constellation.”

“As a practical man, I assume the Mister is hanging over your shoulder.”

“He should be, but the TV show producers decided they wanted copies of the pro-shot wedding tapes. The producers are here on other business, so Matt’s at the Bellagio, in their faces, discussing the limits of our public versus private lives. Get that established now or lose all control. Tony is with him.”

“Such problems,” Max teased. “Therefore you’re home alone?”

“Yes, darn it. I really need to show you what I’ve found.”

“You’re in the mood for a scandal? So soon after the wedding cake?”

“I was hoping the Mystifying Max could still disappear and reappear without a soul knowing about it.”

“Ah. A chance to use my rusty cat burglar skills. Excellent. Do unlock the balcony doors, I’ve had an emotionally fatiguing week because of an auld acquaintance not forgot. Sean and I flew to Racine before he and Deirdre flew back to Northern Ireland.”

“Their B and B sounds like a great honeymoon locale.”

Temple laughed at herself. She was planning on how she could be wicked and hook up Max and Molina. Seemed to be a bit of rivalry-attraction there.

Look at me ! Temple thought. Married barely a week and already a matchmaker. Max and Molina…two tough, single, probably lonely people…what if? Then she imagined them walking down an aisle together, knew it would be at swords’ point, and laughed at herself.

Max must have lurked in the choir loft, though. Which meant that wedding singer Molina must have been a tad complicit. At the least, she hadn’t ratted him out, which would have ruined the dove bit.

Fifteen minutes later came a rapping, gently tapping on her glass balcony doors. ’Twas the raven-haired Max, and nothing more. Thank goodness.

“You climbed twelve stories?” Temple asked. “Impressive.”

“Not really. I took the elevator to the eleventh floor and managed one story. Tell me,” Max said as he closed the balcony doors behind him. “Your beloved will be understanding if he should find out about this?”