Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

The circling narrow halls that led to short cul-de-sacs with “front doors” for each unit seemed the safest territory. He remembered them well now, as well as the insecure French doors leading to the balcony patios, which he had used many times.

The only things he’d brought back to this safeguarded low-profile home, formerly the property of his slain longtime mentor, were more vague ghosts.

He was sitting in this chair with healing legs because someone in Vegas had wanted to kill him, as did a bunch of ex-IRA terrorists in Ireland who had plenty of U.S. contacts, including hitmen. Or women.

And now the one person—the only person—who best knew his past and present and his inner and outer demons had skedaddled off for a glamour tour of Chicago with the man who’d replaced him in her life and was also on the cusp of a network television career.

Onetime poor-as-a-church-mouse ex-priest Matt Devine had the job, the money, the girl, and everything. Max wasn’t broke, but a sense of mission and love trump mere occupation every time.

Then the phone rang.

It wasn’t the portable in Garry Randolph’s dim living room, where a slightly sensationalized ancient archeology educational program on the big-screen HDTV was running silent and deep. Max had muted the sound, and the presentation was scholarly in the extreme.

Max cursed under his breath as his still-sore hips rolled slightly while he pried the smartphone from his back pocket. His contact list showed a creepy faceless profile, but he had no personalized photo contacts listed on his new phone except for a way-too-perky pic of Temple Barr, but he recognized the incoming number.

“Yes?”

“Home alone by the telephone?” The mocking voice was sour and low.

“If I deny that?”

“Look out your window when you click back the protective window blind.”

He hadn’t enabled all the security systems and his recovering broken legs could make him lazy and dependent on remote devices. He did not want to appear dependent with this caller. It wasn’t easy, but he could rise and check for himself. He pulled back the heavy drapes when he got there.

“I don’t see the wheels. You must have parked discreetly in front of a neighbor’s yard. You driving a Crown Vic, Lieutenant? Or the faithful old family Volvo?”

“The impetuous new family Prius,” Molina said. “Come out of your lonely lair and I’ll take you to dinner.”

“A Prius? Impetuous? Hardly. Daughter Mariah, the soon-to-be student driver, must be pretty slammed about that.”

“A Mini Cooper was not in my game plan.”

“And you wouldn’t be fitting my bum legs into that model tonight anyway.”

“I was tempted, but of course I thought of that fact and resisted. Get out here, Kinsella. I have more work for you. It’ll be good for you to exercise your broken parts anyway.”

“The legs are doing better.”

“I meant those Wizard of Oz valuables, like brain and heart.”

Ouch.

* * *

If he must be carted around in a family Prius, Max had at least hoped to be conveyed someplace quiet with exquisite food.

Alas, Molina’s mood at the moment for eateries was fat-filled and franchised. This off-Strip joint had high-impact family noise, an overbearing odor of french fries, and grease-spotted wood-grain melamine tables in cramped booths.

“I figured,” she said, watching him maneuver his long legs sideways into the seat, “this would save you a long walk through a major Strip venue, and I’m not paying valet parking as well as the tab.”

“Saving for college, probably,” he muttered. Max picked up the large, unbearably reflective menu in its coat of clear laminate.

“Exactly,” Molina said. “And you cost more than a kid-sitter.”

“When does a kid get to stay home alone these days?”

“I don’t know about these days,” she said, “but for this parent it’s when my kid doesn’t pull dumb stunts.”

Molina set about studying the menu, a given in a place like this devoted to quick frying and slow service. They’d probably bread the shrimp in the shrimp cocktail appetizer.

Max eyed the busy restaurant crammed with kids and the smell of food so fast, it had chicken wings on it. He shuddered at the incivility, then looked around and blinked. There was method in Molina’s madness. He was much safer here from unknown or undeclared enemies, which he’d apparently had a lifelong habit of acquiring, than in an upscale supper club. And anyone trying to eavesdrop or bug someone in this place would probably scream with frustration … and never be heard.

Still, he’d eaten well even on the run for his life in leg casts and without ID in Switzerland, with no aid but filched credit cards used only once and destroyed afterwards … unless the holder was a soulless corporate swine. Max smiled. Molina would have hated his survival tactics, including dragging along the sophisticated French-German shrink who might be his hostage, or hunter. Revienne had no reason to complain after the bling fling he gave her in Zurich as a parting gift.

Molina’s voice halted the trip down recent-memory lane. “Dreaming the tap water in your giant plastic glass is a single-malt whiskey in … where? Paris? London?” she asked, all too accurately.

“More like sipping Hitchcock-blonde champagne in Zurich,” he said, thinking next of his horizontal fling in the Swiss city.

“So Temple Barr winging off as arm candy with a guy headed to a dream job in Chicago is no loss to you.”

“Why should it be? I don’t remember my past life and loves, or enemies.”

“Lucky you,” Molina muttered. She rested her head on one hand as she scanned the entrées, giving him sum-up time.

Fingernails: unpolished and clipped short, but filed smooth. Unlined olive skin except for vertical tracks between her black eyebrows, which were sweeping, strong, and unplucked. The frown lines flirted with forty, a prime age for a woman. An angle of serviceable bob the color of espresso brushed her knuckles. She pushed it behind one ear. No earrings, no rings.

She tapped the menu’s hard glossy edge on the tabletop before laying it down, for good. “You ready to order?”

A veteran waitress with a patina of perky overlaying tired eyes—and probably feet—had appeared like a magician’s assistant beside the booth. The Mystifying Max had always worked solo. He made up for lost time by skipping his eyes past entrées like meatloaf and pot roast … and sides of baked potatoes that would be small and tough-skinned … and desserts like banana pudding and chocolate cake. He surrendered.

“Cajun-style blackened steak; baked potato with bacon, sour cream, and chives; the house salad to start.” He skipped the vegetable sides, which would be watery with all the color leached out. No sense in ordering meat rare or medium here. Everything was cooked to death.

Molina jumped on the chuck wagon. “The grilled fish, salad, Italian dressing on the side, and the, ah, baked beans and green beans.”

Max rolled his eyes as the waitress left. “My treat next time. I just risked death six thousand miles away. I’m not going to be killed by cuisine in my home city.”

“What makes you think there will be a next time?”

“You said you have work for me. I don’t see you as a penny-ante copper. Given the fine line of legality you’ve been walking to protect your personal issues for far too long, you’re going to need a heap of help.”

“Hired help.”

“Yes, ma’am. I was going to add ‘even from a memoryless cripple.’”

She snorted as their small salad bowls arrived with saltines on the side, tabletop. “Playing the self-pity card, eh? Spare me. Why take my offer? You don’t need the money.”