Douglas, Nelson - Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

" Gracias, " Molina bid her at the front door, presumably after an exchange of money.

She returned to gesture Matt to an easy chair, then moved into the s quare little kitchen.

"I could use a drink. Your unexpected arrival cost me half of my usual whiskey and soda. What would you like?"

Matt was, as usual, flummoxed by trying to anticipate what she'd have available.

"What you're having will be fine."

"Fine, fine," she mocked. "You and Yolanda are two of a kind, a good Catholic kind.

Everything is fine."

"No, it often isn't," he finally answered when she brought him a drink that was the twin to the one abandoned on her dressing table.

She threw herself onto a big Naugahyde recliner and took a generous swig of her drink before the ice could dilute it. Then she took Cliff Effinger out of her pants' pocket and slapped him down face up on an end table, like someone producing the Knave of Hearts.

"You can get me an original-size copy of the sketch?

"Yup."

"Is this a good likeness?"

"Uncanny, when you consider how long it's been since I saw him face-to-face."

"You're satisfied an ordinary observer could recognize him from this?"

"Are all police officers used to asking the same question six different ways?"

"Sorry." She grinned and leaned back against the recliner headrest. "I'm not used to subjects who are quick on the uptake. Good work. Have you tried it on anybody yet?"

"Some casino employees at the Stardust. Only--"

"Only what?"

"It isn't easy, to approach strangers with no special authority, to ask questions and get answers."

"Now you appreciate the dubious talents of your Circle Ritz neighbor."

"I've always appreciated Temple."

"Watch out that you don't get used to that. Kinsella's back in town."

"You make him sound like Mack the Knife."

"Isn't he? Used to dodging them at least--knives, that is, and the police. Seen him around?"

"No."

"I'm only trying to warn you. You've never known a man like him."

"No," Matt agreed, sipping the drink and finding it strong. He was used to watered-down rectory brandy and restaurant drinks. "But I'm beginning to, I think."

You? And Kinsella?" Molina cocked a bold black eyebrow. "Saints protect us."

"Kinsella certainly has enough saints' names to do the job for him."

"Michael Aloysius Xavier. Tricky, an acronym, MAX. Michael, the warrior archangel, was the only angel with any real guts, though. The rest--and the saints and martyrs--are wishy-washy window-dressing."

"I don't think any saint is window-dressing."

"I'm just trying to warn you. About Kinsella, and not as a police officer. He knows his way around women. Do you?"

"No, but maybe that's an advantage. Besides, I'm not in a contest for Temple's regard."

"You are if Kinsella's back, whether you want to admit it or not." She sat up and leaned forward, elbows on knees, her hair falling forward on her cheeks. "Just how good a priest were you?"

"Are you asking about the quality of my vocation and my commitment? Or are you asking if I could give an articulate sermon, or sing mass on key?"

"None of that. I'm asking if you were all you were supposed to be."

His jaw almost dropped. Molina was a policewoman, yes. She was used to asking people hard, invasive questions. But why him? He wasn't a suspect for anything. Then it dawned on him. Maybe he was a candidate . Maybe Molina wanted him to be the Judas goat that drew Max Kinsella into the open, and jealousy was to be the bait.

"I was faithful to my vows, yes. Though it's none of your business."

She suddenly smiled. "It wouldn't be any fun asking rude questions if it really were my business. You need help, Matthew."

"My given name isn't Matthew."

"That's right. Matthias. He who replaced Judas." She nodded, satisfied, then sipped deeply again from her glass. "I suppose, being so virtuous, you wondered that I even asked."

"I guess I did, and why."

"Still unused to my high-handed ways, huh? I need to get the lay of the land, for professional reasons. You're right; I'd love to have Kinsella in an interrogation room downtown. I wanted to know how big a threat you might be to him."

Matt turned his hardly touched glass in his hands, enjoying the cool condensation on his palms. It kept him alert.

"You don't understand, Carmen. I'm no threat at all. Temple and Max were all but married before he disappeared."

"That's a big 'but.' "

"Not to me."

"A priest says this?"

"A former priest. Theirs is the primary relationship in this whole mess, and I have to honor that."

" 'Honor.' " Molina stretched out long legs and crossed her feet at the ankles. Matt wondered if she wore a gun somewhere, maybe around an ankle. "That's a word you don't hear much nowadays, except among gang-bangers who use it as a synonym for 'macho.' If you worry too much about honor, Matthias, you ain't gonna get Cliff Effinger, and you ain't gonna get the girl."

"How did you get so cynical?"

"About honor, or about priests?"

"Both."

She shrugged. "I may be half-Anglo, but I grew up in a Hispanic culture. We don't sweat the small stuff, like sins of the flesh. A lot of the priests--most--I heard of in Mexico, and even in California, had a woman on the side sometime. It was no big deal. And it was better than boys."

Matt shook his head at her casual acceptance. "I've never understood it. This Mediterranean and South American indulgence of priests who break their vows. I know, I know . . . Americans are descended from Puritans, and are much more straitlaced than our Continental brethren, but still, a promise is made to be kept, not broken--"

"I'm sorry." Molina looked rueful. "I got carried away in my capture-the-crook scenario." She smiled. "It's nice to finally meet an honorable priest at least, even if he isn't a priest anymore. I guess if the good don't die young, they leave."

"I'm not that unusual. The vast majority of priests keep their vows and believe in their vocation. The ones that don't, make headlines."

"Listen. I'll show this sketch around to some of the patrol officers. They're on the Strip every night, so you won't have to bumble into casinos anymore."

"I'll still look. Maybe I'll even get better at it."

"Maybe you'll get better at other things too." She stood, finished her drink. "Go home. I've got to kiss my kid goodnight and get ready for a court appearance tomorrow. This sketch is one more nail in Cliff Effinger's empty coffin. We'll find him."

Matt wasn't sure if the "we" was the police department, or she and he.

"And Max Kinsella?"

"What would you do if he were out of the picture for a good long time?"

"What I've always done. Support what Temple decides to do."

"And if what she decides to do ... is you?"

Another below-the-belt question. Matt handed back his almost-full glass; Molina wouldn't want to waste it.

"Then I'll have to see what I decide to do. You can't play me and Max Kinsella off each other.

I don't know what evidence you have against him, but as far as Temple's told me, he's just a magician who did a disappearing act for a little too long. She apparently still has some faith in him, and that's a business I understand: faith when all the facts belie it. Now that he's back, I won't interfere. With Temple, or with him. I won't turn in Kinsella, Carmen. I'd never do that to Temple. Or Kinsella. Or myself. That would be the worst move for all of us."

"Not for me. Remember, triangles are the most volatile configuration of relationship on the planet. Pairs are tough to break up, but trios turn on each other like cannibals. I can always crack a case with three sides."

"Maybe we have more than a triangle here."

"What do you mean?"