Carole Douglas - Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

Her knuckles tightened on the nubbly crystal surface of the cell holder. “Yes?”

“I hope so.” Max’s voice.

Firm. Sardonic. More welcome than she wanted to admit.

“How did things go in Ireland? Are you all right? Is Sean really alive?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’re all right or yes, Sean’s alive?”

“Both. Sort of.”

“Oh, God, Max. I don’t like ‘sort ofs’.”

“He’s a bit the worse for wear, but the most contented man I’ve ever met. He survived the pub bombing with visible wounds, and the invisible one my generation of family is becoming known for.”

Temple was confused. Then Max said, “Bomb explosion. Impact. Head wound. His memory is faulty.”

“So, like you, Sean has been blessed with the multiple lives of a cat to have survived.”

“Yeah. The IRA’s call to clear the pub before the bomb blast went awry. An IRA sympathizer on site knew about the bomb, and was finally able to get him out of there, not quite soon enough. She was injured too, but he wouldn’t leave because he was waiting for me to come back.”

“Oh, Max!”

“A kick in the gut, yes. Sean was messed up on his left side, and was foggy about who he was and where he belonged for some time, so the IRA took him in as one of theirs until he healed. When Sean did remember his home and family, he learned I’d disappeared after getting the bombers IDed and arrested. He didn’t want to go limping home after the dumbass moves we made on our own in Ireland, and by then he had an Irish wife. So he ended up working for the IRA, the peace not the terrorism. He and his wife run a bed and breakfast in County Tyrone.”

“That’s amazing. Even more amazing is the fact that Kitty the Cutter delivered. She didn’t lie this time.”

“She also didn’t expect Sean and me to let bygones be bygones. She thought we’d spout recriminations and go for each other’s throats.”

“She found you once you went to Ireland?”

“Hell, Temple, I flew her over there. I wasn’t trusting to luck with getting the likes of her out of all our lives in Vegas.”

“You were traveling with her? How did you sleep?” Temple felt a blush teasing the edges of her cheeks. She’d hadn’t meant “sleep”, but just sleep.

“Not often. I’m exhausted. Look, I’m bringing Sean back with me.”

“To Vegas?”

“Maybe, but principally to Racine, to reunite the family.”

“Oh, my God. That’ll be a three-act wrenching drama Eugene O’Neill couldn’t live up to writing even if he were still alive. I can’t imagine how shocked they’ll be, and then angry at the two of you for cutting and running into new lives without them.”

“You don’t have to imagine,” he said, “I’m hoping you’ll round up your immense people skills and come along as a referee.”

“What? No. I can’t leave Vegas now.”

“Last time I called from Ireland, you told me to come home.”

“And I am telling you to ‘go home’ to Racine now. Everything is different. Matt and I are seriously committed. I can’t leave my fiancé behind and go waltzing off to intercede between my ex and his cousin and their parents. I don’t know these people, and I’m sure they don’t want to know me.”

“It’s about what you know, not who you know.”

“What do you mean?”

Max sighed. “There are holes in my recent memories. Holes in Sean’s memory of the attack and why he decided to rebuild a life in Ireland, leaving everyone mourning when they didn’t need to be. Including me. We need an outside negotiator, and I, I need the help only you can give, Temple. I need an ombudsman. I chose to be absent too. There are a lot of robbed lives in Racine.”

“I can’t ask Matt to step aside for you showing up in our lives again.”

“Try. He’s a compassionate guy.”

“He’s not a saint, and it would take the patience of one to stand for this.”

“I’m emailing you a photo of Sean and Deirdre, his wife.”

“I am not going to be emotionally blackmailed into going AWOL from Vegas to Racine, Wisconsin, of all places.”

“Sure you will. You’re a compassionate guy, too.”

“I’m not looking at the photo if you send it. You cannot guilt me into putting Matt second again.”

“Listen. Tell Matt that helping me settle the Kelly and Kinsella family matters is the surest way to get me out of the picture.”

“Kelly and Kinsella. Sounds like a law firm.”

“Or a string of Irish B and Bs.”

“You retired? Impossible.”

“You not curious? Impossible.”

“Okay. I am curious. Where is Kitty the Cutter in all this?”

The pause was ominous. “She’s confined to Ireland at the moment. We observed her grown daughter at a distance and then toured a Magdalene asylum so she could vent her spleen on an old nun, me, and God.”

“Grown daughter? My God. You believe in living dangerously more than ever.”

“Think about it, Temple. Racine won’t be dangerous, just exhausting. The ends of stories always are. I need you.”

And then he hung up.

Well, dang and a worse word for emphasis. She didn’t need him. Not anymore. Last thing she needed. Her renegade thumb had brought up the photo. She’d expected Max Jr., but Sean Kelly’s graying mahogany-red hair and freckled face spotted with specs of what must be shrapnel startled her.

Deirdre had a long, thick bushel of curly red-gold hair and a Sean O’Casey face, naturally strong and handsome. Temple had loved to recite the Irish playwright’s dialogue in playwriting class in college. Had Temple’s red hair been a main attraction for Max? Had Max’s Irish heritage attracted her? Had both of them been drawn to unsuspected traces of their pasts, although Max’s had been bred in the bone and the blood, and hers only in the imagination?

Temple looked at the phone screen, the photo. Time to turn the page. Close the book.

She’d ask Matt to write the last chapter. He deserved it.

45

Last Acts

The day after the night he’d stormed Electra’s new building, been released by Molina to make his midnight radio show just in time, and had come home to Temple’s place for a fervent and fevered reunion after they’d had a double dose of the aphrodisiac of danger, Matt stood in a small lot near a busy, cheesy Vegas corner staring at a motley assortment of older-model cars.

He’d lived such a straight and narrow life as a priest he had mounted up few regrets. Maybe not strangling Cliff Effinger was still one of them, given how deeply the man had impacted his, and also Temple’s, life even after his nasty end.

Now he regretted sacrificing Electra’s Probe to storming her new building’s front doors. A sincere regret, but one also selfish. Now he had to buy a replacement car for undercover work, ASAP, and be discreet about it. He’d never had a father to teach him to drive or to buy a car.

There’d been nothing for it but to call the man standing next to him, a man less than ten years older. When he’d reached Rafi Nadir at the Goliath Hotel, he hadn’t known how to describe what he needed.

“Hey,” Rafi had responded jovially. “What you need, my man, is a Tote-the-Note place. What kind of credit can you come up with?”

“Solid.”

“Or better yet. Cash?”

“How much?”

“You’re the wheeler-dealer. Tell me.”

“I was a priest for many years. I saved the little I earned.”

“Priest? You’re not doing badly with the redhead for all that.” Before Matt could take offense, Rafi said, “Sorry. I’ve run into some Catholic chicks in my time. Okay. Grab a cool five grand cash in small enough bills to haggle with, and meet me where I tell you. Four p.m. I’m on night shift. I’ll pick you up.”