Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

“You look nice,” Angela said when she arrived to house-sit and Molina opened the door, sounding too surprised and then looking dismayed.

The twenty-something cop needed to master noncommittal demeanor. And not insulting her superiors. Not too nice, Molina hoped. So clever of Rafi to invite her to the Blue Dahlia, her sometimes singing venue. She had an image to uphold with the management there even when she wasn’t appearing as the chanteuse “Carmen.”

Mariah had finally learned about her mother’s hidden hobby and occasional gigs there. That didn’t help matters either. Molina had plenty more reason to carp at Rafi.

She slipped out of the house before his car arrived to avoid inconvenient introductions, and slid into the front passenger seat as soon as it did.

“I need to make an early evening of it,” she warned.

His cursory glance was as noncommittal as Angela’s wasn’t. “You’ve worked there; we should get fast service.”

“I’m not sure what you want.”

“Neither am I, besides the obvious.”

She didn’t want to put Mariah’s name on the table until they were seated at a dinner table masquerading as a bargaining table. Meanwhile, she should keep things pleasant.

“How’s the Oasis job going?”

“Good. The head security guy is leaving and I’m up for the slot.”

“Already? That’s a suit-coat job.” She eyed his black denim jeans and the Bob Seger screaming eagle graphic T-shirt worn under a black linen blazer.

“Yeah, like a detective,” he agreed.

“How’d you get the major hotel-casino gig, anyway?”

“A well-connected friend gave me a rave review.”

“A friend? Here in Vegas?”

“Not anymore.”

She saw his jaw tighten. Had to be a bruising backstory there. Rafi knew how not to give away emotions, but that had failed him for just a moment. Interesting.

They kept silent the rest of the way. Not delving into cherished old misunderstandings made conversation harder. Recriminations come easy, Molina mused, regretting she’d imploded when she discovered Mariah’s YouTube adventure.

She exited the car as soon as it was in Park and headed for the club’s entrance. Rafi and the jingle of his car keys being pocketed caught up with her just outside.

“Classy joint,” he commented.

“A contradiction in terms.” She stopped to take in the blue-and-magenta blossom of neon sign shining down on them and smiled. “But I’d forgotten. It is indeed a classy place.”

Rafi had reservations. Nancy, the sixtyish hostess, showed them to a fringe table with a good view of the band.

“I’ve never actually dined here,” Molina said after recovering from the shock of Rafi offhandedly holding her chair out. He was on seriously good behavior and by the time they were both seated it seemed natural.

“Then you can’t recommend anything on the menu.” He was studying it, not her.

“Nope.” She nodded and smiled at Rick, Dave, and Morris making cool jazz very hot on the small, one-step-up stage. “Eat at your own risk.” She skimmed the menu, recalling eyeing a very different bill of fare with Max Kinsella the other day. She reconsidered Rafi. Another dark-haired guy, swarthier though. She’d always been attracted to blonds, like Matt Devine, when she admitted to such impulses.

“We go dutch,” she said at the same time Rafi said, “I’ll get the check.”

The hovering waiter retreated discreetly.

“Let me play the guy, Carmen,” Rafi said.

She felt her cheeks flush, then reached for her water glass and toasted him. “You definitely are entitled.” Shock was a good negotiation tactic. “I was panicked and paranoid all those years ago and didn’t give you a fair trial. You know cops. We think we’ve seen it all, solved it all. That can foster jumping to wrong conclusions.”

“Yeah. Me too.” He nodded to the waiter, who swept back toward the table with genial efficiency.

“A white wine spritzer,” Molina said.

“A spritzer?” Rafi gave her a look. “Kahlúa on ice.” As the guy exited, he leaned in and asked, “Watered down wine? Isn’t that … girly for you? Don’t you trust yourself? Or me?”

“Actually, I upgraded. I’m usually a beer drinker.”

“Really. That’s changed. A lot’s changed.”

She let that one lie.

Rafi had taken out his smartphone and was fiddling with it. She heard the tinny buzz of a musical ring tone. Or something. Oh, no! Mariah’s silly YouTube upload. She recognized the voice. Rafi turned the phone’s bright, sharp image surface for her to view.

“Yes, I know my kid has made a fool of herself for all to see.…”

Oh. This wasn’t Mariah. This was an older girl with a not-too-bad contralto, like Lady Gaga before everyone went gaga. Molina was forced to sit on her expletives while the waiter delivered their drinks with a pleased flourish, hers pallid, his coffee dark.

She leaned across the table, hearing the accusing hiss in her voice only after she’d whispered, “That’s me !” She straightened up and swigged from her wineglass like a sailor. “Where’d you get that film?”

He smiled nostalgically at the sharp image on his smartphone. “I had old camcorder footage of when you and I were working on your act in L.A. I played around with some home computer sound and film programs and made it into an MP3 file.”

“And empty what—?”

“A music file. Mariah’s got your voice.”

“That’s a dirty trick you played on me.”

“Talent is not a ‘dirty trick,’ Carmen. It’s a gift. People with talent need to use it, grow it.”

“She’ll be ridiculed online. ‘The world is mean and man uncouth,’ Rafi, even more than in our day. Sure, she can put herself out there, but everyone with a user pseudonym and password is a critic and an insensitive critic these days. She could get bullied at school. Look at that cheesy glitter eye makeup, the stuffed toys and vampire boys posters in the background of her friend’s bedroom. She’s Miss Hello Kitty in the headlights, damn it!”

“You’re right.” He sat back. “It’s always a risk to be creative. Kids today can be Justin Bieber or Amy Winehouse, hit or sad, sad miss. That’s why you … we … need to manage this stage Mariah’s going through. It might fade away like morning dew in someplace a lot wetter than here. Or she might have shot at a career.”

“Is this why you asked me to dinner tonight? To lure me into your schemes, to get close to Mariah by turning her into a … an online product ?”

“No. I wanted to convince you to let me into Mariah’s life, not as her father, just to get to know her, to see that she knows and maybe likes or needs me. That YouTube piece showed me that Mariah does need me, as an advocate, as I was for you. That’s right, Carmen Regina, I got you out of your buttoned-down older-bastard-sister, responsible-for-everything girl pursuing some of your dreams but quashing others, in your own stepfamily. You know you’d not be singing today if it hadn’t been for me.”

She sat still, fingers twined around the cool stem of her glass, slowing her breathing to a crawl. She’d always had killer breath control. “I’m not singing today.”

“Not good, Carmen. You needed that outlet. It’s been months.”

She looked up, burning. How dare he check into her off-hours?

“I asked the management, yeah. ‘When’s that great torch singer performing again?’ I asked. The answer? We. Don’t. Know. You had a dream gig here. You could come in when you felt like it, when you had to burn off the pressure of being responsible for a kid and a house and every last civilian on the mean streets of Las Vegas. And you shut it off and shut it down. Why?”