Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Crimson Haze

No matter their looks or lack of them, phones were his friends . . . almost an extension of his senses now, an artificial limb he was used to donning. No headphones here at home, though, just the naked ear against the cold, bare receiver, that beige plastic fist that reminded him of Sister Mary Monica's hearing aids.

No wonder his palms sweated. He wasn't waiting for a call to come in now, he was waiting to make one. He was working up the nerve to lie, not easy for one of his inclination and training.

Worse, he was going to have to call the diocesan office to implement his lie. Lies. One lie always begat another, like Biblical patriarchs founding lines of limitless, off spring.

Matt straightened the fresh stenographer's notebook on his tiny nightstand. He appreciated the blank page, its paper tinted green to ease eye strain, its thin blue lines designed to keep his jottings on the straight and narrow, unlike his intent.

He picked up the felt-tip pen, chosen because it would flow more smoothly over the paper than a ballpoint. He would have to pinch the cumbersome receiver between head and shoulder while he took notes and steadied the notebook with his left hand. Maybe he should get a home headset. Yes, Devine, you do plan to lie on that scale, don't you? Again and again.

Matt leaned over to stare at the massive Las Vegas phone book on the bare floor, splayed open to the white pages. He squinted and dialed simultaneously, his eyes darting back and forth from the phone book's minuscule numbers to the reassuringly large buttons.

"Diocese of Reno-Las Vegas," a crisp female voice announced.

"Hello," Matt said, sounding remarkably calm. The black pen lay diagonally across the notebook, like a miniature fencing foil waiting to be picked up for a practice session. Matt's right hand curled into the rough fabric of his pants leg. "I wonder if you can direct me to the proper person. I'm, uh, a parishioner at Our Lady of Guadalupe--"

''Oh, yes." The voice had softened, like hot apple crisp, now that he had identified himself as one of the faithful.

''We're getting together to honor Father Hernandez--" Matt's hesitancy at the falsehood sounded like mere shyness in the face of officialdom.

''I see. On the successful conclusion of the recent fund drive, you mean? How nice."

"Right." How nice. How nice and easy it was to deceive, how eager people were to think the best. 'I'm in charge of the entertainment. We're doing a 'This Is Your Life' program to surprise Father Her--"

''What a wonderful idea! How can I help?"

"We want to produce some surprise guests he hasn't seen in years, from his previous parishes."

"Oh, he will love it! And you need to know his previous assignments? How far back do you want to go?"

"To the seminary, I guess. Or . . . it'd be great to have someone from grade school too. His whole life."

A pause. Nothing holds its breath better than a dead phone line when you know somebody is on it. Had he gone too far? Should he backtrack and say that just Father Hernandez's former parishes would do?

"That might require some checking," the voice said, slow enough to sound doubtful.

"We'd really appreciate anything you can do," Matt said in a rush he instantly regretted.

"Oh, I can get all the information, but can you afford to import guests from too far away? I don't know Father Hernandez's record offhand, but I think the bulk of his service may have been way across the country."

So much the more suspicious. Matt thought. "Some of us have set up a special fund to fly in the special p-people from his past," he said with a slight stammer of enthusiasm, or,anxiety.

"We're going all out on this." Was he ever!

"How sweet. Sure, I can look that up. Or even mail a copy of his postings to you--"

"No! No mail. We don't want to alert Father Hernandez to the surprise. It's all hush-hush."

"Then I'll call you back when I look up the record, Mr ?"

"Peters," Matt said with a swift ironic twist of his mouth.

Why hadn't he invented a more believable phony name before dialing? Next time. He recognized the fandango his subconscious was performing: Peters as in Peter Burns, the parish betrayer, Peters as in Simon Peter, the first apostle and the first to deny Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. Peter as in turncoat. Turncollar.

''No, don't call here. I'm at the office,'' he added in a softer, apologetic tone, "I'm not supposed to make personal calls. But I could call you back."

''Certainly. Give me fifteen minutes."

"And I should ask for . . . ?"

"Oh, I always answer the phone here, Mr. Peters. Madeleine McCafferty."

"Thanks, Miss McCafferty." She did not demur at the form of address, so he had hit it right on the head: a maiden lady dedicated to the church. "And I'd, ah, appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone. You know how word leaks back to the parish level."

"Of course I do, and of course I'll keep . . . mum. I wouldn't want to do anything to ruin Father Hernandez's day of glory. He is such a dear man."

Matt let the phrase replay in his mind as he hung up: "such a dear man." Not the way he would describe the touchy and proud pastor of Our Lady of Guadalupe, but devout Catholics tended to crown their clergy with premature halos. No wonder they so seldom noticed any tarnish.

Chapter 9

Romancing the Drone

Phones didn't ring anymore. They yodeled.

Temple hated waking up to that piercing mechanical warble. She glanced at her beside clock--close enough, with red LED numbers big enough, to read without glasses.

Eight-thirty on a Saturday morning? What did the caller think? That she had no social life, no big Friday night out? As it happened, that assumption was humiliatingly correct, but unknown callers didn't have to rub it in.

Probably a wrong number anyway.

Should she bother stretching for the phone when all she was likely to get was the droning snub of a dial tone?

But those who live by the phone must always answer the phone. She was sure that motto was written in some profound but trendy tome, like the collected works of Kahlil Gibran.

Temple reached for the red plastic high-heeled shoe at her bedside, clamped the heel to her ear and chirped "Hello?" into its sleek toe. Too bad Agent 99 couldn't have used this up-to-date model on the old "Get Smart" spy shoe. Er, show.

"Temple?"

The basso male voice made the phone line sound defective. Who did she know with a bedroom voice besides Max Kinsella? The hair on Temple's forearms lifted with an unseasonable--and worse, unreasonable--chill as she sat up in bed,

"Yes?"

"I need your help."

"Who is this?" She hated to ask in case she got a shocking answer.

Both hands clutched the slippery shoe-phone now and her sweaty palms were developing static cling. Just like Max to show up in her life again as a disembodied voice on the phone. At least that would prove he was alive. Or . . . would it?

"Don't you know?" the man asked.

That was the problem, she didn't know and being reminded of this irritated her.

"Don't get coy, or I hang up," Temple threatened. "I've had enough of anonymous phone callers lately."

"Really?"

The deep voice sounded interested, even titillated. By now Temple knew it wasn't Max. He was never coy. Instead of being disappointed, or relieved, she was angry.

"I mean it about hanging up--"

"No, wait! God, T.B., I need a favor."

Oh. Crawford Buchanan and his matinee-idol basso. She should have known. Why on earth was he calling her?

"Try going to a party, C.B.-, if one will have you. Sometimes they dispense favors."

"Just hear me out. I'm in a pickle."

"You are in a crock, Crawford, as usual."

"I need you to write some stuff for the Gridiron."