Douglas, Nelson - Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

The girl who had put the word "screwed" on the table was slim, earnest, and also bespectacled, though hers were the fashionable small round metal ones Temple abhorred. She looked and sounded like a woman scorned. If so, no wonder Domingo had dumped her; the wonder was that he had been interested in her in the first place. Or had he been? Young infatuations often steamroller older cautionary urges.

"Don't you guys like Domingo?" she asked as innocently as a thirty-year-old among twenty-somethings can manage.

The freckled woman sighed. "He's okay. A little full of himself, but that's his job."

"Self-appointed job," the lanky guy put in.

When he got up, the others also rose. Temple saw her prey slipping away, so she finished her ... ugh, had she really been eating a tongue sandwich? Luckily, her question-and-answer session had distracted her from such essentials as . . . taste and texture. Yuck.

"What about you?" The slender girl in round glasses stood before her, dusty arms crossed.

"What about me?"

"Are you this big fan of Domingo's, or just a hired hand, or a soon-to-be mistress or what?"

"Since none of the specifics above apply, I guess I'm just an 'or what.' "

The girl's tennis shoe kicked rock-hard sand. "Better watch out what you ask around here.

Domingo always picks a 'project girl' He hasn't had one for this flamingo thing yet."

"No doubt the elegant Verina--"

A frown, deep enough to bury BBs in, wrinkled her brown brow. "He's never shown up with some la-di-da female like that before."

"Yes, it's so unfair with these foreign females coming in all fresh and dolled up when you installers are filthy and tired and hot," Temple said demurely.

"You mean we might be jealous? Well, some of us, maybe. And especially the guys who had an eye on the girl Domingo picks."

"Does this 'project girl' always go along with her new status?"

"Oh, no. Then there's hell to pay. Domingo gets in a bummer mood. And some of the girls are actually miffed to be considered second choices. Can you believe that?"

Gazing into the defensive eyes, Temple definitely could.

The girl bit her lip and looked around. The others had dispersed back to their forest of pink legs and necks. She spoke again, more softly.

"We have this pool going, the group. On who will be Domingo's Clingo for the project. You know, his squeeze. Some of the guys are pissed that nobody's emerged as a clear favorite yet.

That's why they were asking about you."

"I'm a candidate? I am honored. But Verina has a headlock on him for now, alas."

"Don't be too sure. He really likes younger women, and you're much closer to us than she is."

"I am a younger woman? Bless you, my child!"

"Well, like ... you can't be more than . .. twenty-five, right?"

Temple took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I can. Try . . . thirty."

The girl's sunburned nose wrinkled. "Gross! Then our pool still has a ghost of a chance. I'll tell the others."

Off she hustled, as fast as her clumsy hiking shoes would take her, to report far and wide that Temple was thirty.

Temple remained seated on the warm fender, kicking the tire with her rubber-soled shoes and thinking.

Successful middle-aged men tended toward two prime hobbies: golf and girls. Was Domingo just an artistic CEO on the rampage? Did being an artist instill no respect for other persons, for the human soul, for restraint from sexual games?

Apparently not. Remember Picasso. Temple jumped down, automatically flexing her knees to disperse the shock. Every small hop down was a giant step for one of her height, or lack of it, rather.

She dusted her palms off as she considered who looked like the biggest gambler in the group. No contest: the shrimpy chain-smoking guy who had boldly accessorized his baggy gray shorts with a Hawaiian shirt. Shades of Max, quite literally.

"Hi."

He looked up from planting a spike-footed flamingo in the sand. A soggy unfiltered cigarette clung to the saliva slick on his bottom lip.

"Yeah?"

"Say I want to join the project-girl pool?"

"Can't. You're in the running."

"Suppose I told you that the girl in glasses running around to everybody is telling them that she found out I'm thirty."

He glanced around. "Amanda." Sweat trickled past the rolled bandanna on his forehead.

"Hey, babe, you don't look that bad to me."

"I'm too tall for you," Temple said, her voice even steelier than her eyes, which no one could see because of the dark glasses. Pity. This was a Molina-class look.

"Yeah?" He glanced up, then thrust another flamingo into the ground. "I guess you're right."

"So . . . uh--"

"Jeff."

"So, Jeff, who are the leading contenders?"

"Amanda for one."

"But didn't she--?"

"Don't let her disgusted act fool you. She's disgusted that she might not make it. This is her third year on safari with the Great White Hunter. She's out of grad school next spring and out of the running."

"And?"

He nodded to the blonde, naturally. "Steph would be the guys' lead choice, but Domingo doesn't like blondes."

"Doesn't like blondes? What kind of kinky cradle-robber is he?"

"Doesn't like blondes, and hasn't had a redhead for a while. That's why we put an outsider into our pool. Then there's that Ice Age ice-chick, Verina. Who would have thought he'd show up with that Vampira babe?"

"Maybe he's outgrowing the Lost Boys and Girls."

"Naw." Another flamingo bit the dust. "So you wanna toss five bucks in the pot? Pick your front-runner. You could even bet on yourself. The competition does get, shall I say, hot?" He eyed her as if having produced a terribly suave come-on.

"I'd have to know more about the full field of candidates. Maybe later."

"Later it'll all be over but the celebrating. Domingo doesn't usually wait this long." Jeff looked up at her again. "Speaking of long, I kinda go for tall women."

"Do I know a great one, and I bet she'd really go for you!" With handcuffs and an unlawful-gaming charge, Temple added to herself.

Temple departed with a friendly, but not too friendly, wave.

So Domingo was a Dirty Old Ma n. She felt vaguely disappointed, but didn't let that stop her active mind from churning.

Why, then, was Domingo breaking tradition? Why was he snubbing the panting project girls, making the jealous project boys nervous, putting Temple in the running for a race she didn't want to enter? Temple had assumed that a woman like Verina was the typical Famous Artist's accessory, but she was decidedly past forty. Poor thing! Why was she here, and why had Domingo broken a long, proud tradition of girl-chasing? Didn't he know his natives would be getting restless at his uncharacteristic hesitation?

Didn't he care?

And, if so, why not?

The man himself was currently the center of a squall of flamingos on the move, so Temple went over to rubberneck.

Some local-news cameras also homed in on the flutter. Temple saw why Domingo was always making like a traffic cop with his arms. He was always being photographed on-site, by still and motion cameras.

Either way, he came off as a central figure in his white hero's shirt, full of energy and command.

She seemed to be his designated right-hand woman today. Perhaps it was only because he approved of the safari outfit, or because she made him look bigger since she was so (sigh) small, or... Temple didn't want to think about the deep discussions of Sunday afternoon, but it was all too clear that, like many powerful men, Domingo had eyes for any available female, including her, as the crew had speculated.

She was not the only one ruminating in that direction it turned out. As the day wore on, the flamingos propagated like a rash and even the young gung ho groupies wore out.