Unknown - 23_Cat_In_A_Vegas_Gold_Vendetta

“WCOO Web site. You’re all over it. Ambrosia, on the other hand, is just an exotic set of dark eyes, close-up.”

“Radio personalities are usually camera-shy.”

“That’s usually because they’ve had a lifetime of designing their personalities to be heard, not seen. You’re not that type.”

“You can tell?”

“I’m not that good. I was told you were an ex-priest.”

“By Temple?”

“By Garry Randolph.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t know him,” Matt said, walking toward the club entrance. “Temple said he was a great guy, and your mentor.”

“Yes, and yes.”

They were inside, where Max was sizing up the place like a gunfighter picking the best back-to-the-wall seat. The Blue Dahlia wasn’t a family draw. Its small tables held mostly couples, or foursomes of friends, all fairly mature.

The hostess in Max-black from her flats to her leggings to her short dress and the matching menu cover eyed the room.

“The corner table all right, gentlemen? You look more like talkers than listeners.”

The spot she led them to was perfect, isolated on the side wall, with a 180-degree view of the musicians’ small riser and the tiny dance floor in front of it.

“We are here to discuss business?” Matt commented as they followed the hostess to the setup.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you, sir?” she asked Matt as both men took room-facing chairs, putting each other at right angles.

Matt was surprised. The hostess had already gone home by the time he and Ambrosia had hit the joint in the wee hours of today.

“It’s been a while,” Matt said, referring to an earlier prime-time visit. “You have a remarkable memory,” he added with a smile. She was old enough, in her fifties despite the youthful dress, to appreciate that compliment. And she reminded him of his mother.

A brooding silence at his right made Matt realize he’d just uttered a dirty word—memory.

The hostess smiled wide enough to be on a tooth-bleaching commercial. “Oh, there’s a reason I remember you. I also saw you recently on Dancing with the Celebs and recognized you, Mister Devine. Well, I almost didn’t. Those were some wild costumes the celebrities got to wear.”

“Had to wear,” Matt said, sitting and opening the menu to end the conversation.

Too late.

“Dancing with the Celebs?” Max repeated, on the verge of disbelief.

“For charity.” Matt kept his eyes on the menu, forcing the hostess to be on her way. “Complete disaster. It attracted a homicidal loony, but he’s awaiting trial.” Matt had worn his long T sleeves pushed up, so he flashed the inside of his left wrist.

Max stared at the thin, vertical, shiny pink line of the scar alongside his veins. “A suicide slash, not self-inflicted. Someone meant business. That must have bled like crazy.”

“Yup. Almost as bad as the razor slash Kathleen O’Connor carved into my side a year ago.”

“So you’re a two-time knifee. I guess radio-show hosts attract a lot of hostility these days.”

“Not usually. The dance-show stalker bore a grudge because I’d talked his abused wife into leaving him. He’d killed her just days before I was announced as a contestant.”

“Sorry,” Max said.

“And I owe the cat slash from Kitty the Cutter to her fixation on your hide, not mine.”

“Sorry again. Maybe we’d better order some food and drink for a mellow rerun before this exchange gets too dark to deal with.”

Matt kept his eyes on the menu, not really seeing it. “I guess you’ve had a lot of grief lately.”

“At least I can’t remember most of it,” Max said, lightly. “What goes with jazz?”

Matt found himself focusing. “The, uh, the sirloin tips are good. That’s what I had here. Grilled Chicken Picata.”

“Sounds like a Temple Barr preference,” Max said, of the chicken entrée.

“Actually, I was here with Lieutenant Molina. I’ll have the Salmon Fettuccini.”

“You’re a brave man.” Kinsella let his comment confuse Matt for a long moment then continued: “artichoke, purple onion, and garlic all in one go.”

“I apparently like to eat dangerously. They have a great pale ale here, even Guinness stout.”

“No beer, ale, or stout for me,” Max said. “I’m allergic now.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t look like a wine guy.”

“Not like you were.”

It took Matt a second to realize Max Kinsella had been reared Catholic and understood ex-priest almost as well as he did.

“No,” Matt said, “sacramental wine hasn’t been on my menu lately, either. Why not just skip the well-aged angst and order the hard spirits of our choice?”

Max laughed with genuine appreciation. “Gandolph didn’t tell me you were easy to underestimate, too. Scotch whisky it is for me, a double. A doughty drink. Neat,” he added, to the now-hovering waiter, whose brow furrowed. “No ice,” Max added in explanation.

“I’ll have…” Matt observed that Max had ordered the most manly drink first. “… A vodka gimlet. Ice, no sugar, and a lime wedge.”

“So she’s sweet and you’re sour,” Max commented.

“Are we talking about Kathleen O’Connor or Temple?”

Max chuckled softly again. “You’re not what I expected.”

“And you expected—?”

“Mister Nice Guy.”

“I am.”

“You won that.” He glanced at Matt’s wrist.

“Not by much.”

“Doesn’t matter by how much, trust me.”

“I can’t.”

“On that you can. Listen. I don’t like this any more than you do.”

“What’s not to like?” Matt asked. “Guys’ night out. I can … help you with a lot of those blank areas in your memory. It’s my business. Trust me.”

“I can’t.”

“You should.”

The waiter brought their drinks and waited like an expectant chipmunk for their food orders. Even food-service jobs in Vegas were hard to come by nowadays. Matt ordered his salmon and Kinsella his Caribbean Spiced Prime Rib of Pork, just to be left alone for a while.

“Talk about eating dangerously,” Matt said. “Pork with habanero-banana salsa and Diablo Sauce?

“Have to keep up with the competition.”

“Look,” Matt said. “I’m glad you’re alive, but I’m not happy about you coming back to Vegas from the dead. Temple is a true-blue soul. She’d never leave you out there, twisting in the wind with serious losses to deal with and no memory.”

“And you?”

“Me neither,” Matt heard himself almost snarl. “So you’re our pet project. I want to help you on your merry way to mental health and new places and faces, okay?”

Max took a long slug of Scotch, nodding. “Self-interest I can buy. Meanwhile, chew on this: I don’t remember much, Devine. Frankly, I don’t know much, but I do know that Temple is not my type.”

“How do you know?”

“I encountered it … her … on my escape route.”

“You’re with another woman?”

“I was.”

Matt let a lot of vodka and lime fill his throat before he answered. “That’s … crummy.”

“What? You’d want me back, whole, picking up where I’d left off?”

“No.” Matt sipped some more of his mixed vodka-sour feelings. “Temple shouldn’t be that easy to get over.”

Max lifted his amber glass. “I’ve made my point. I’m a cad without a memory. You have nothing to fear … but Kathleen O’Connor. I’m here not because of Temple or any memory or feelings I have of or for her. I’m here because we all three have a mutual enemy. And Kathleen’s like that vengeful wife abuser from your once-innocent airtime advice show. She won’t go away and stop hurting people, mainly us, until we catch her and stop her and put her away. Sláinte.”