Кэрол Дуглас: Cat In An Aqua Storm

“Don’t take that risk. He’ll only escalate. Don’t—Sister Sue, are you there? Answer me!”

“...I gotta go now. Baby’s crying. Baby’s always crying. Maybe baby will cry until Saturday, sweet Saturday. Bye, Brother John. God bless.”

“Wait—don’t hang up. Wait...”

4

Crawford Sees Red

Temple hatedMondays.Her normally creative brain always marked time until past noon. It had been true on the job, and it was equally true when she was her own boss, working at home. She made a face at her personal computer screen, then got up from the glass-topped desk in the spare bedroom and wandered to the row of French doors in the living room, cosseting a condensation-dewed glass of Crystal Light clad in a terry-cloth sleeve.

Opening a door, she stepped barefoot onto the warm stones of the tricorn-shaped patio, keeping under the shade of the generous eaves.

The sole palm tree on Electra’s property scrubbed the cloudless sky a brighter blue with its weathered green fronds. Oleanders hoarded a lingering bright red bloom among their spiky leaves. The pool’s lucid blue looked cooler than an ad for Aquavit.

Something moved below, vague enough to make Temple clutch her glass and agitate the last floating islands of ice. A white shadow shifted in the ground-level shade two floors below.

Her breath eased out when a smooth blond poll blazed as a figure stepped into full sunlight: Matt Devine, night-shift man, up at high noon and ready to exploit his off-hours.

She watched him with idle detachment, through a frozen, lazy pool of thought and emotion. He wore the white, loose-fitting martial-arts outfit she always thought of as pajamas. Barefoot, barehanded, bareheaded, he began pantomiming the graceful motions of some Eastern discipline. Tai chi maybe, or preliminary warm-ups for something more lethal, judo or tae kwon do.

Matt melted from one subtle movement into another, a butterscotch-topped Dairy Queen in motion, a small, remote figure on a painted parchment backdrop of cool blue water and hot white concrete edged with softly swaying green. God, he was good-looking, in an impersonal, artless way, she mused. Or was she only moonstruck by him?

Temple turned from contemplation, leaving Matt Devine to his more arduous ritual, and ambled back into her apartment. Her own bare feet polished the walnut parquet, scratching her insteps on the occasional raised cracks.

In the black-and-white kitchen, Louie’s banana split bowl overflowed with brown-green pellets. Free-to-Be-Feline was costing a pretty penny as fodder for the garbage disposal.

The cat was off on errands of his own, no doubt scrounging garbage cans for unhealthy but toothsome grub. Temple perused the open refrigerator while mulling a snappy lead for a press release on the Button Collectors of West Las Vegas. Yogurt would be smooth and chill, but she craved something sweeter. Maybe green grapes. She opened the fruit drawer. She had no green grapes. She had only a half-wilted fan of romaine lettuce, ruffled edges curled like ostrich plumes. And a deformed grapefruit. Grapefruit was not grapes.

And her press-release lead wasn’t coming. She should take an invigorating walk. All right, a hot, drying walk. She should exercise, like Matt, who even now might be stroking smoothly through the aquavit water. Join him. Eeek . Did she want to be seen in last year’s neon tank suit? The sun planted instant freckles on her shoulders. Definitely not sexy. What to eat?

A knock at the door saved her from freezing in the refrigerated air while making up her mind. She glanced quickly at her knit shorts and top while hurrying to answer it. Uninspired but neat. Maybe Matt—

“Oh, hi, Electra. What’s up?”

“Not the rent, don’t worry,” the landlady answered with a grin. “I come bearing what the paperboy dumped in the azaleas this noon. The whole building’s supply ended up as lizard carpet. Thought you might have missed it.”

“I didn’t,” Temple admitted. “Been fighting the button collectors all morning. While you were out beating the bushes for news, did you happen to spot Midnight Louie?”

“No. That scamp gone AWOL again?”

Temple nodded as she took the Las Vegas Review-Journal Electra offered. She stepped back to reveal the pyramid of untouched Free-to-Be-Feline. “He’s not eating his low-ash, low-fat, low-magnesium, high-fiber, high-protein food fresh from the vet’s.”

“I don’t know as I blame him.” Electra frowned at the brown pellets in the banana split dish, then turned to the expression on Temple’s face. “You look kind of peaked, dear. Are you sure you’re eating right?”

“I’d eat everything in sight if I’d let myself. You want some Crystal Light?”

“No, but a beer would be nice.”

Temple explored her refrigerator and discovered one lone Coors Light necklaced in plastic trailing an empty string of five matching rings, probably dating to the last days of Max.

“Does beer spoil?” she asked, wrenching the cold can free of its plastic collar.

“Only if it’s open.” Electra accepted the beer and headed for the French door Temple had left ajar. “Maybe your rogue tomcat is basking on the patio.”

“No, I looked—” Temple began, too late to head off Electra’s singled-minded course.

When Temple caught up with her outside, Electra was by the retaining wall smacking her lips and enjoying the scenery. “I forgot your unit had a pool view. Matt has added a lot to the Circle Ritz’s ambience since he came.”

“Really?” Temple sat on the cushioned lounge chair.

Electra plunked down on the matching ottoman. “Really. How are things going between you two?”

“What things? You make us sound like an item.”

“Well, you did go out with him a time or two after the ABA hullabaloo.”

“He was just being nice.”

“Hmm . He’s good at that.”

“He is. He’s the most genuinely nice man I’ve ever met.”

“Why do you sound so disappointed then?”

“I don’t know.” Temple sipped her poisonously sweet low-calorie drink. “Nice is great if it’s an opening curtain. If it’s the whole show—”

“No spice.” Electra nodded sagely. “Like my second husband. Perfectly nice, kind to widows and wackos. Boring.

“Matt’s not boring, just reserved.”

“You’re just spoiled by the ex-Max.”

“What’s spoiling about someone who can walk out on you without a word?”

“It’s not boring.”

Temple sat back, remembered Max. “No.”

Electra leaned forward to pat her knee, her armful of silver bracelets jingling like the spurs of song and story. “Don’t fret, dear. Men are always more interesting at a distance, or when they’ve just come or just gone. It’s a trait of the breed. Take my ex-husbands, but then I really couldn’t wish them on anyone.”

Temple laughed. “Thanks for the paper, Electra. And the pep talk. I think.”

The landlady winked, rose with her beer and let herself out.

Temple remained in the lounge chair, listening to the faint, rhythmic plash of water as Matt swam laps below. She sighed and unfolded the newspaper.

“No kidding!” She seldom spoke to herself, but had been doing it more since Louie’s arrival disguised it as pet talk.

Her eyes whipped back and forth along the short lines of front-page type like a Singer sewing machine set on zigzag. Words leaped out: fraud... dead... Goliath... stripper... suspected murder.

Temple leaped up in unholy shock. “Good grief, a thief! Murder at the strippers’ convention. And it’s in Awful Crawford’s own damn lap! I can’t believe it.” Below her, the water stilled. Matt was standing in the shallow end, a shading hand to his eyes, looking up at her balcony.