Unknown - 19_Cat_In_A_Red_Hot_Rage

You want to look for the truth in a case of murder, you’re bound to annoy somebody much more threatening than Detective Su.

Chapter 24

Bad Boy, Bad Boy, Whatcha Gonna Do?

Temple returned to the field of battle, i.e., her most stable job assignment, to find TV vans and crews crowding the Crystal Phoenix Hotel’s porte cochere, filming away like paparazzi at a Paris Hilton or a Tom “Crazy” Cruise sighting.

Neither of those publicity-worthy figures honored Las Ve-gas at the moment. Temple guessed with a sinking feeling in her gut that the Red Hat Sisterhood was somehow in the news again. Another murder? If so, the death of someone unrelated to Electra would be nice… .

Then she saw something poking above the lofted mikes and cameras. A cluster of black hats, not red or purple ones. Hmmm. Natalie Newman! Miss Snaky Shoes was cruising among the local media in the general film-at-six and -ten feeding frenzy.

Sometimes even three-inch-high heels could not make a five-foot-zero woman tall enough to see what she desperately needed to view in the performance of her job.

“Here,” a baritone voice said behind her. Waist-encompassing hands lofted Temple two feet off the ground for the bird’s-eye view available from a ballerina lift.

For a moment, to Temple’s gut and heart it felt like Max was back, taking charge.

Then she glanced over her shoulder and down on a dark-haired male head, and it was all too plain to her.

She patted her dancing partner’s shoulder—nice padding!

Was it muscle or tailoring? Only her auntie knew for sure. Aldo Fontana lowered her back to ground zero again. But she’d seen enough.

The hats that had become the center of attention in a sea of Red Hat Sisterhood ladies were black, masculine, and surmounted by protest signs.

WHAT FILM STARRED PRINCE? PURPLE HAGS! read one. RHS: RAGING HORMONE SISSYHOOD read another. MEN JUST WANTA HAVE FUN. GET THE GUN!

That one was outright threatening.

Temple had been thinking that her pert pink hat was giving her a headache. Her forehead wasn’t used to being bounded by a hatband. Now she knew that those black hats would give her an even bigger headache. As would the lunkheads under them.

“Everything okay?” Aldo asked.

“Nothing’s okay. Can you plow a path through that mob?”

“My dear lady, I am the mob.”

He put his hand into his left front suit coat, like a squat little-Caesar type Corsican named Napoleon, only Aldo was a tall Las Vegan. He then shouldered forward, earning a lot of turned heads, nasty looks, and suddenly pale faces as they spotted his hand on heart (or holster) posture.

Temple trotted in his wake, ducking all the mikes and cameras, until she and Aldo had a front row seat.

If there was an opposite number to a Red Hat Sisterhood woman, several of them were picketing the Crystal Phoenix. The men all wore black and blue: blue jeans and blue work shirts and black cowboy hats, belts, and boots. And huge tin belt buckles bearing the initials BHB.

Their signs announced them as the Black Hat Brotherhood and said they were for men’s rights. Temple the PR maven didn’t think that a black-and-blue color scheme was a really wise choice for men asserting rights over women.

No matter. They were all middle-aged and mostly shy on hair, except the facial sort, and big on beer guts. Or beer-nut guts.

They didn’t offer the glamour of the Red Hat Sisterhood. No dye jobs, tummy tucks, or false eyelashes here. But their cowboy boots had high heels and they broadcast a certain down-to-earth malcontent swagger as they marched back and forth. And they made dynamite copy and great sound bites. Those black cowboy hats made for instant visuals.

Natalie Newman had cornered their apparent leader and was eagerly asking questions. Several TV station videographers were capturing his answers over her shoulder.

From the quality of her questions, she was clearly way more tuned into the Black Hat Brotherhood than the average local reporter.

“Is this your first public protest?” she asked.

“Right. We’re the Men Left Behind. We been run-around-on, run-out-on, and just plain rundown. What’s so special about a bunch of women dressing up like freaks and having a high old time while their husbands and kids are untended at home?”

“You’re not at home,” Temple pointed out, raising her voice to a far higher profile than her frame could ever attain.

The cameras zoomed in on her for an instant, then fixed back on the spokesman.

“Well, now, that’s a good point, little pink lady. We’re just here in Las Vegas to have fun, like those Ragin’ Hormone Sisters. Sounds like some New Age vocal group to me. Anyway, we men are here in Las Vegas to gamble, smoke cigars, and watch naked young women who’re worth the view.”

Boos and hisses from gathering Red Hat Sisterhood women answered that statement.

Natalie Newman raised her voice so the looming multistation mikes could capture it.

“When and why did the Black Hat Brotherhood form?”

“ ‘When’ was at the previous Ragin’ Hormones hooha last year in St. Louis. ‘Why’ was because we men are tired of being used, abused, and put out to pasture when the women get their change of life.”

“Don’t men undergo a change of life?” Temple asked. “Only because the women go crazy then, Hot Pink. You better come on over to our side. We can use a pretty little blond filly like you, instead of these old gray mares most of us are stuck with.” Like all protesters, they meant to inflame.

The Red Hat Sisterhood started up their own chant: “Two, four, six, eight, you old guys discriminate.”

The Black Hat Brotherhood retaliated in kind: “Two, four, six, eight, you old dames are full of hate.”

It was a PR person’s nightmare. The Crystal Phoenix mar-quee would star in the local news on every station tonight. Temple had to do something.

She used her high heels to stomp her way through the crowding media reporters and videographers. With a trail of ows in her wake, she seized the media attention from Natalie Newman by projecting her voice.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Temple declaimed. “In this corner we have the Black Hat Brotherhood.” She pointed like a carnival barker. “In this corner we have the Red Hat Sisterhood.” She pointed again. “I propose a no-holds-barred debate on these issues tomorrow at 2:00 P.M. right here.”

Her bold proposal had hushed the contending factions. Tern-ple racked her brains. Who would make a media-friendly moderator?

“The debate will be moderated by … Mr. Midnight himself, Matt Devine, syndicated host of Las Vegas’s own WCOO-AM radio’s ‘Midnight Hour.’ “

A series of ooohs among the assembled media and onlookers told Temple she’d hit publicity gold.

She just hoped she didn’t lose a fiancé over it.

Chapter 25

Hot Water and Cool Tequila

Or a major client.

Temple was called onto the carpet in Van von Rhine’s office, only it was all bleached wood floors and no carpet.

Nicky was there, with his brother, Aldo, as a witness.

Van was tapping one sleek Italian designer pump on her high-end wood floor, very audibly. Temple was thinking that Van could wear a bath towel to work if it was Italian-made and be just as happy in it, as she was with her easygoing husband, on whom Temple was banking with every instinct in her.

“Pardon me, Temple:’ Van said, maintaining her natural blond cool. Or ice. “I don’t see how transferring a distasteful media brawl from the Crystal Phoenix’s front porte cochere to our meeting rooms inside is an improvement. But you’re the public relations expert.”