Douglas, Nelson - 2Golden garland

Kit laid down the receiver and ran to get Temple.

"It's a man," she whispered like any roommate.

"What man?"

"I didn't ask, but who do you suppose? Who said he was going to call from La Vegas?"

Temple checked her watch as she rose and clomped over to the phone in deliberate contrast to Kit's hush-hush manner.

"It's only one P.M. there." She was about to point out to her aunt, who like most Easterners had a very vague idea of where time zones changed and what that meant, that Max would barely have had time to get to Las Vegas and tend to whatever was so urgent by now, much less call her. But she was at the phone, so she picked it up and said a slightly less perky than usual "Hello."

"Yes?" she repeated, as if something was wrong with the line.

"Oh!" She went on, aware that her whole tone had changed. "I didn't recognize your voice at first. Must be the long-distance lines. No, I'm not disappointed. Just. . . tired."

Kit came racing over on her even noisier scuffs, primed for eavesdropping, even if the act was fated to be one-sided. She leaned against the window ledge and concentrated so much Temple feared she could hear through long-distance lines.

Temple sat slowly on one of the tall kitchen stools, feeling bemused.

"Not too tired to talk, no. You are? This afternoon. How did everything go?

"Oh, really.

"That's. . . good. I mean, wonderful!

"Yes, I am pretty tired out." Here Temple glanced at her aunt with a significant look. "Yes. Up late. Maybe that's why I sound a little .. . 'down.'

"Well, I can't wait to hear the details.

"Yes?

"Yes?

"No!

"All right. I'll be back about noon tomorrow. No, don't meet me at the airport. Really, I mean it. It's such a hop, skip and jump home, and my luggage arrangement worked great, even with Louie the pouch potato aboard.

"Think we got the job. Pretty solid. Yeah, I'm excited. Solved the murder too.

"I'm sure you are too. And I'm glad, I'm really glad that your trip was so productive.

"Yeah. That's wonderful."

Kit had come nearer with every answer, watching Temple's face contradict her words all the more the longer the conversation continued.

"I'm so happy for you. Can hardly wait.

"Yes.

"Yes, I do."

By now Temple's face looked as empty as a deserted parking lot, but her voice had increased enough in energy and an upbeat volume with every answer to fill a Broadway house. Then suddenly that booming optimism failed. Her face crumpled.

"Bye," she whispered into the phone at last, her voice starting to shatter like a crystal metronome.

"Honey!" Kit took the phone from Temple's limp fingers, and checked for a dial tone, which there indeed was. She hung up the receiver, still warm from Temple's death grip.

"Temple, what's the matter? I've never heard such an inane half-conversation outside a post-modern play, but you look as if you'd gotten your own death notice."

Temple shook her head no, but let her aunt guide her back to the living nxnn couch.

Kit sat her down, not releasing Temple's hand until she sat beside her.

Tell me, Temple. Who was it? What was wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Temple sighed abruptly, as a dog will sometimes do for no reason. Temple had a reason. "It was Matt, calling from Chicago."

"Something must be wrong."

Temple shook her head in a dazed way. "No. His trip home was not a cakewalk, but he resolved a lot, learned a lot. Now he's ready to go back to Las Vegas and take care of a lot, including any leftover problems with his stepfather. He feels his phone-counseling job is a dead end, that he needs to find something more in keeping with his education level, even his earning level."

"That's sensible. That's great."

"Oh, yeah. Terrific. I hardly recognized his voice. It was so sure, so happy. He sounded like another ... person. He has so much to tell me. He can hardly wait. He can hardly wait--well, I don't have to go into everything. But he can hardly wait to see me again. Tomorrow. Kit. I've never heard him so up, so high, so . . . committed."

"Committed to what?"

Temple swallowed and finally looked at her aunt with truly tragic eyes. "To . . . life. To . . . love. To . . . us."

"Oh, honey."

Kit just took her hands again, and held them.

Chapter 40

Stompin' at the Algonquin

I cannot explain it. Karma is not within three thousand miles of this place, yet my conscience is bothering me. Some may think that one of my ilk cannot have a conscience, but I assure you that mine is in exquisite working order.

Much as I am pleased that the Sublime Solange is likely to partner me in a continuing series of film endeavors, I am not pleased by the shabby treatment meted out to the Divine Yvette. Sisters they may be under the skin, but the Divine Yvette was there first, both in my heart and on the television screen. I cannot let her think that I am a party to the cowardly way she has been victimized, betrayed and cast aside in a maternal condition. A certain once-royal British princess comes to mind.

So I must leave the cozy nest Miss Kit Carlson has fashioned for herself down in the Village, and travel uptown (as far as midtown, anyway) to my love's current hostelry, the Algonquin Hotel. I have heard Miss Savannah Ashleigh boasting of her address to the advertising personnel, though how one who is about as high-brow as a Barbie doll would appreciate staying at a joint famed for hosting the Mount Olympus-browed Round Table wits of the thirties is beyond my Ken.

Such puzzles of human misbehavior aside, this small jaunt uptown is sure to be no cakewalk on a catwalk. Yet I am an intrepid as well as an inventive soul, and I figure if I can do Las Vegas blindfolded, I can certainly manage Manhattan with my eyes wide open and all four sets of shivs on intruder-alert.

Frankly, I am more concerned about traffic plain and simple than such evil elements as drug traffickers, gangs, personal electronics salesmen and predatory street people (as opposed to just plain street people, who are usually in no condition to prey on so much as a stray cat, more's the pity). I decide to make my trek at dusk, when nature conspires--even in such an urban center as New York City-- to render my natural coloring an advantage.

My escape from Miss Kit Carlson's Shangri-la in the Sky will be my first challenge.

Luckily, Miss Temple and her aunt are consumed by the problem dujour: which Las Vegas swain is the more promising for Miss Temple's future happiness? Miss Temple has also grown complacent after having successfully carted me to New York and about Madison Avenue. She now views me as a furry pouch potato. Something she can tote here and there. I can see that ground transportation in this town is hell, but I am not ready to give up locomotion for life.

So I work my way to the front door, sit down facing it, and contemplate my options.

They are "poor" and "none."

I have seen neither hide nor hair of the vaunted "super" for this building, and from what I have heard of building superintendents in New York City, they definitely have both hide and hair, and probably two-inch fangs to go with them.

Such an individual would not willingly help out one of my kind.

My entry to this residence was effected by a visitor opening the front door, an easy invitation for one of my subtle tendencies to eel in, or out, unnoticed. However, this poor bloke is as dead as Christmas's hottest gift item will be in return lines next week. I am forced to reinvent the wheel, or, in this case, the hinge.

I am so discouraged that I leap to the window ledge. I often do my best thinking while reclining artistically between two potted poinsettias. By "potted" I do not mean polluted in a liquid sense, although these two could use some watering. I gaze on the building across from me. If I could only dream up some little act that would alarm a friendly, voyeuristic neighbor and send him or her rushing over to warn the ladies of an impending danger.