Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Crimson Haze

While the sun bakes down on my unprotected head, I am the target of uninvited invocations in a tongue more suitable for ancient dudes who favor miniskirts. I suspect that I am being subjected to a "blessing," but it depends upon your point of view whether this is a good or a bad thing.

For one thing, I am not Catholic. If I am any kind of Christian at all, it is a confirmed Copt.

That term has nothing to do with law enforcement, despite my history. A Copt is a modern Christian version of a follower of ancient Egyptian rites. In fact, I do not even qualify as a Copt, since the only Deity I recognize is an obscure Egyptian goddess and head benefactress of the long-gone city of Bast, which bears her name. Speaking of this little goddess-doll's head, I believe it was exceptionally handsome as well as possessed of a supremely wise expression. You can see its likeness in every creature of my ilk that you come across. I do not know if Bast also had the impressive set of whiskers that I have, but these high-up Egyptian babes were often control freaks who would don false whiskers to lend authority to their appearance. At least they knew what counts.

I do not know what Bast (may her whiskers increase!) would think to see one of her loyal adherents doused with drops of holy water in the hot sun, and muttered over In a strange tongue.

I may have to make a pilgrimage to the banks of the Nile to erase this enforced baptism of sorts. It does not appear to have done me any permanent harm, but I am tired of spending so much time at Our Lady of Guadalupe when I am not a parishioner. Frankly, the churchy ambiance leaves me cold. I prefer scenes of a seamier nature, where I can put my nose to the groundstone and sniff out larceny, greed, lust and murder. Also carp.

So when I overhear Miss Temple on the telephone scheduling a meeting at the Crystal Phoenix the next day, I figure it is time to investigate a new turf--in this case, a former venue.

True, I left my previous and cushy situation at the Crystal Phoenix because of an interloper there--a crawling, squalling, bawling bundle of babydom spawned by two people of whom I am too fond to criticize for the quality of their offspring, Mr. Nicky Fontana and his wife, Miss Van von Rhine. (Being a career woman. Miss Van von Rhine does not answer to the epithet of "Mrs.")

However, human offspring do not sport any claws worth worrying about, and their teeth are decidedly tardy in coming, not to mention dull in the extreme.

It strikes me that a return to the Crystal Phoenix might save Midnight Louie from domestic dissonance.

Besides, I always had a fondness for birds, legendary or not, as well as fish.

Chapter 5

A Temple Too Many

"This is so much more than we bargained for, Miss Barr," Van von Rhine was saying in a flabbergasted tone.

. "Temple," Temple replied with a smile that could sell broccoli to George Bush and maybe even green beans to Hillary Rodham Clinton. ''Yes, I know you were just looking for a market repositioning, but--with all the high-powered competition on the Strip--I concluded that you need something concrete to sell."

Nicky leaned over his wife's pale-suited shoulder, bracing a hand on the desk to read Temple's proposal.

"Not concrete, glass," he noted. "You went for glass.'Phoenix Under Glass.' I like it." He flashed Temple a smile whose wattage matched her own.

"But . . . the construction. The cost." Van von Rhine frowned at her husband and Temple as if suspecting a conspiracy of spendthrifts. "We put a fortune into restoring the Crystal Phoenix just a few years ago. And where--?"

"Out behind the pool," Temple said quickly. ''It's a perfect site, not too close to the hotel.

Listen, this is just a raw concept, but I doubt it would cost the moon. It would be worth hundreds of thousands in publicity value alone."

''And cost millions," Van added. "All right, describe this . , . terrarium again, with more detail."

Temple smiled again. "I don't do detail. I just come up with grand schemes. Anyway, I visualize a huge glass dome over an exotic cactus garden, with lots of neon. At night little fairy lights on the cactus light up and the place becomes an exotic setting for dinner--call it 'Al Fresco's.' "

Nicky winced.

"Something wrong?" Temple asked.

Van shook her head. "The name veers a little too close to Nicky's shadowy antecedents, that's all."

"But what's the draw for kids?" Nicky asked.

"That is the whole point of this campaign," Van reminded Temple, her blue eyes cool under arched pastel eyebrows.

Temple grinned. "First, the kids can tour the cactus garden in the daytime; it's educational.

Second, the dome also houses a petting zoo. Kids love that."

"Petting zoo?" The disbelief in Van's voice was almost comical. "What kind of petting zoo?"

"A classy one, with attendants to educate kids and care for the animals. And all of the animals will be indigenous."

"They usually are," Nicky muttered, wrinkling his nose.

"Indigenous is not a dirty word, Mr. Fontana; it just means native to Nevada. Critters who get a bad rap, like lizards and spiders and snakes--"

This time Van von Rhine made a face.

"Little boys love them," Temple said with the blithe authority of the childless. "We'll also have furry creatures like jack-rabbits, fox and coyote, maybe even a mule. Oh, and you know what would be great? A camel. The government tried camels as military mounts out here in the nineteenth century. You could give the kids rides."

''We know," Nicky and Van said in pained concert with an exchange of glances, "about the camels."

"Well, then, you can see how logical it all is. A few animals can't be too expensive to maintain."

''What about the keepers?" Van asked.

"Volunteers from local schools, supervised by a couple of experts. This is the nineties.

Ecology is in. Nobody can say that the exhibit isn't classy. I don't know what it would cost, of course, but it's worth looking into,"

Nicky's dark head was nodding. "What about it?" he asked his wife.

She shrugged elegant, Armani-clad shoulders. "An intriguing idea. I realize that the hot new hotels have raised the stakes on the Strip." She glanced at Temple. "My only problem is that I don't know how to pay you. Miss Barr. Coming up with a concept for a major attraction is more than I expected of you."

"Look into the idea. If it works out, you can worry about rewarding me later. Meanwhile, I'm still on a PR retainer. And my name is Temple,"

This time Van's smile was like hot caramel melting the almond icing of her demeanor.

"Temple. Except for the spelling, just like Temple Bar landing on Lake Mead; have you ever considered opening a theme park there in your honor?"

"Really? There's a place on Lake Mead called 'Temple Bar?' "

"Only one 'r' in the 'Barr,' alas," Van answered.

"I never knew that, although I did know about the one in England,"

"Wait a minute." Nicky's dark Italian glance was playing ping-pong between the two women.

"What are these places and why have I never heard of them?"

"The site on Lake Mead," Van said, "is off-the-beaten-path, a landing for boats. Boating is not one of your vices, Nicky dear, thank God,"

"And the one in England," Temple added, "was a gateway closing the entrance to the City of London from the Strand, near the Temple where British barristers have practiced law at the Inns of Court for centuries. That one I looked up, and it doesn't have a double ^r' in it, either.''

''Why do you suppose your parents named you that?" Van asked a bit pensively. ''A sense of humor?"

''Because," Temple answered wryly, "they were just like Nicky; they didn't know a thing about the other Temple Bars. Ignorance, not wit." When Nicky winced, she added, "Neither do most people, which is fine with me. But I never knew there was a Temple Bar around here--"