Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Crimson Haze

''And to protect the hotel." A fourth spoke with equal ferocity.

''Where would you like to go?" a fifth asked.

"Would you prefer to be carried?" suggested the sixth.

"She is little," the seventh said. "We could put her in a chair and easily tote her to and fro."

"Is there anything you need?" The eighth cocked a helpful head in her direction, the better to display a single tasteful pewter earring in the form of a chain-saw.

"No, thank you, Ralph," Temple said, relieved to recognize one familiar face, no matter how luridly accessorized. "Except maybe . . . name tags for you guys?"

A flurry of Fontanas dispersed, leaving Temple alone with Ralph and a naked-ear clone who swiftly introduced himself.

"Giuseppe. Nicky said we was responsible for nothing going wrong with you or your work for the hotel. You can expect us to stick to you like a mudpack from now on, whenever you're on the premises."

Ah. A mudpack of Mafiosi. . . only we all know The Family doesn't exist, and besides, the Fontana brothers are not it, Temple reminded herself. Great. A high-profile escort of dubious types was likely to get Temple arrested. All she needed now to keep her from getting any kind of job done anywhere was a tail of tall lieutenant on her track.

Temple cautiously examined the glittering Crystal Phoenix lobby. No obvious police present.

Not a soul in the vicinity who looked even faintly authoritarian, except for the burgundy-uniformed security personnel with gilt phoenixes embroidered on their breast pockets.

Oops. And a pale-suited flock of returning Fontana brothers. Temple swallowed a smile as they came close enough for her to read. Each expensive lapel now bore a stick-on name label outlined in a different color. Red for Rico, green for Eduardo, blue for Aldo, lavender for Ernesto, yellow for Julio, orange for Armando, fuchsia for Emilio, and purple for Giuseppe, the brother who had stayed behind. Ralph, of course, was readily identifiable by his earring . . . and also by a new pink bordered nametag that decidedly clashed with the earring.

''Now" Ralph asked, ''where would you like to go?"

"To the Gridiron rehearsal. Didn't that move to the actual stage yesterday?"

"You are correct."

"No more dark, damp, dangerous basements," said Emilio.

"You will be safer up here," Ernesto announced.

"Uncle Mario's men are patrolling the lower regions," Julio added forbiddingly.

"And the railings are fixed ... with concrete," Rico put in modestly.

"Is there nothing we can do?" Eduardo demanded with a note of pleading. "Nicky will be mad if we don't make ourselves useful."

"Mad again ," Ralph said.

"Well ..." Temple hated useless people, too.

She eyed the brothers. Why did she get the impression that each bore a bulky something under his left arm, except for Ralph, who sported a suspicious lump under his right arm? Ralph must be a lefty. Why did Lieutenant Molina never look like she'd used a wad of wet newsprint for deodorant? Surely the police went armed in a town where a gat of gangsters packed more iron than a team of manic mangier-operators?

Temple lifted her obligatory tote bag crammed with everything essential to her working life--in other words, almost, everything portable she owned.

"Could one of you carry my bag?"

Several brothers dove for the privilege, converging on Temple, a flapping phantom of albino crows. . . .

Half an hour later, Temple was ensconced front-row center on a banquette in the Crystal Phoenixes Peacock Theater, the smaller of its two performance facilities.

Her injured foot lay elevated on the crimson velvet banquette seat as if awaiting a glass slipper. She hoped it was a Weitzman plastic and Plexiglas pump. She certainly faced no shortage of Prince Charming candidates. One had recently deposited a short-stemmed goblet of sparkling mineral water before her. Another had opened a lined notebook. Three gold-trimmed Mont Blanc pens, produced in an instant by three different Fontana brothers--did that make them "Fontana pens?"--lined up at her right hand like well-decorated soldiers at her service.

She had never been so organized, so ready for something, and so incapable of doing much of anything.

Temple began doodling in the notebook, trying to organize details about her plans for Phoenix Under Glass. On the raised stage, set construction and lighting crews were banging away while the mostly amateur actors recruited from the news business stood around in the wings, frowning at scripts and mumbling unmemorized lines to themselves.

Danny Dove darted from tech crews to the wings like a manic dragonfly with a case of schizophrenia.

"No, no, no! That's all wrong,'' he would shriek over the din. "Over there

"Yes! I adore it. Magnifique ,'' he would carol encouragement a moment later.

The crews, used to directional mood swings, kept their blase expression no matter the reaction. They were, after all, union labor.

"That's where the mob would have a handhold in Vegas today," Temple muttered. ''Nothing glamorous anymore, just grunt work at a going price higher than the loftiest baby-pink spotlight in the house."

''How're you doing?" asked a voice so unexpectedly near that Temple jumped.

She knew her visitor was not a noxiously solicitous Fontana brother before she turned to look. The voice was girlish, though underlined with a gritty touch of Western twang.

Turning, Temple confronted a tomboy version of herself: an elfin, red-haired woman wearing a plaid cotton shirt, honestly frayed blue jeans, freckles and sandblasted Western boots.

"Jill Diamond." She extended a tanned hand for a brief but firm shake, then nodded at Temple's bum foot. "You're lucky you only twisted a hock on that basement stairway. Nothing's more dangerous than backstage areas. I don't know why they have all them showgirls on their stiletto shoes charging up and down those concrete stairs all night.

"Tradition. That's why they call them hoofers; no stage: elevator service, except for inanimate props. Oh. You must be: Johnny's wife--"

"Yup." Jill tossed her rusty braids over her shoulders as she smiled. ''I'm also Eightball's granddaughter."

"Eightball O'Rourke?"

''How many 'Eightbaills' do you think there are, even in this town?" Jill grinned. "I guess you're keepin' my granddaddy out late nights again."

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't he working another case for you?"

"Not that I know of."

Jill tossed the straw Western hat in her right hand onto the: tablecloth and sat gingerly on the velvet seat. "Well, shoot. He's been out and about more than an old soldier like him should be lately."

"What made you think he was working for me?"

"He did before. And ... he said it was for someone at the: Circle Ritz. I didn't expect him to name names. Professional discretion and all, you know. It isn't you?"

Temple shook her head. "It could be my landlady, Electra: Lark. She hangs out with that crowd."

"Crowd." Jill shook her head while she watched the hullabaloo on stage. "Those old galoots think they're still in their prime. Running Glory Hole as a tourist trap isn't enough for them. My granddaddy not only has to make like a Sam Spade: on Medicare, but now Spuds Lonnigan is opening a bar and grill at Temple Bar on Lake Mead. Calls it Three O'Clock Louie's.' That Glory Hole bunch should be napping at three o'clock in the afternoon, not remodeling some late-night dive."

'' The Temple . . . Bar?"

Jill's clear eyes turned to Temple. "That's right; 'Bar' with one r. Say, with your handle, I'd think you would know about Temple Bar. It's a landing on the lake. Boats and excursions. Can't figure why Spuds didn't name his place 'Spuds'.' "

"Three O'Clock Louie' has a certain . . . seedy charm," Temple conceded, with another nocturnal Louie in mind. "Van mentioned that I had a namesake around here, or vice versa. I've also got one in London. A boat dock on Lake Mead isn't quite as toney as Queenhithe wharf on the Thames in London, is it? So your grandfather didn't say what kind of case he was working?"