Unknown - 19_Cat_In_A_Red_Hot_Rage

Temple told her, listening to the faint scratch of pencil on paper.

“Good thinking,” the reporter said. “People are dying to see what he looks like off the syndicated airwaves, given that dreamy voice. Probably bald and three hundred pounds, like your usual radio personality.”

“Decidedly not,” Temple promised.

“Okay, we’ll send someone. Oh. The tipster was someone who hadn’t worked for us in a long time.”

Temple crossed her fingers.

“Natalie Newman, Mark says. She goes back with us to before she got married and was Natalie Markowitz. She used to be a lot savvier than to call us out on a silly story like this.”

No, Temple thought. She was still savvy. And a lot of other things.

Temple thanked the woman, then cut the connection to listen to the lullaby of the dial tone.

Natalie Newman clearly had a double agenda at the convention. Her two cameras proved that. But maybe she had a triple one, and maybe Oleta Lark’s murder proved that.

Proving that would be a tough assignment for Temple, but she suspected it involved something in the past, something she wasn’t seeing yet. She’d keep her eyes and ears on the alert and on Natalie Newman.

Maybe by the time she was through, the local media would think she was Santa Claus, offering the gift of exposing a murderer.

Chapter 26

Mr. Midnight Sings the Blues

Matt showed up for his usual midnight talk radio gig half an hour early, whistling.

He felt this boundless energy nowadays.

Love was a many-splendored thing and way more than an ex-priest like him was equipped to deal with. He understood that his euphoria and repressed upbringing would soon have to slug it out, but for now, now that he was reassured that all was right with their world in bed and out. It was all gravy with truffles.

“Matt, my man!”

Leticia greeted him during the two precious minutes she was off-mike. “You’re lookin’ fine, honey. Happy and oh-sohot. Tell Auntie Ambrosia all about it.”

She did resemble an aunt: Aunt Jemima crossed with Queen Latifah, both comfy and glamorous. Ambrosia was her on-air name and it fit what she dished out over the late-night airwaves. She did a heartfelt oldies and goodies show, full of the songs that made people forget old wounds and work their way through new ones. She coaxed the callers into expressing deep feelings as they recalled some person lost or found, emotions old or new, painful or joyful. Ambrosia cooed the introductions to the songs she picked, always exactly right whether they targeted angst or euphoria. Matt was the station’s midnight shrink. Ambrosia was its pre-midnight guardian angel.

Now she grinned at him. “Matt, my bro, you are acting way too happy for the Evening Emperor of Angst. Don’t tell me Mr. Midnight is losing his melancholy, baby!”

“Sorry.” Matt smiled and sat on the desk’s edge. “I just won the personal stakes lottery.”

“O-o-o-oh?”

There was nothing about an engagement for a man to flaunt but his happiness. “I asked. She accepted.”

“Why shouldn’t she, honey, whoever she is?”

“I don’t know, because she has free will?”

“Aw, all that Cat-lick stuff. That isn’t exciting, man. That isn’t entertainment.”

“I asked her to marry me.”

“Now, that’s entertainment. And—?”

Matt shrugged. “She accepted the ring.”

“Now, that’s just entrepreneurial. The girl want the ring, or you?”

“Me. I think.”

“Whatcha doin’ thinkin’ at such a time? Hey. Wait. Gotta get back on the air. Here’s a song, just for you, Jude dude.”

The Beatles’ “Hey, Jude” hit the airwaves with the press of Ambrosia’s long, false fingernail painted tangerine.

Matt listened to the classic lyrics, finding them new and, now, personally significant. He was remembering to let her into his heart so he could start to make it better. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He knew he was made to go out and get her under his skin. And she was. And he didn’t have to carry the world on his shoulders alone anymore. Well, not entirely.

“She had a good guy,” he couldn’t help saying as the song ended. “Before.”

“But he wasn’t somebody like you, Mr. Midnight Heartthrob. You think you get all those lovesick females callin’ in ‘cause you talk pretty? Station didn’t put out all those billboards of you lounging on that red suede sofa to bring in the blind, baby.”

Matt still felt squirmy about that ad campaign.

“Her former guy was somebody: rich, good-looking, dazzling performer, smart, and really a decent guy.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t feel free to give away his name.”

“Now let me see, Matthew.”

“Matthias.”

“Whatever. Handsome. Humph. I get that you got that. Rich? I know what your new two-year contract was, honey boy, so don’t jive me there. A dazzling performer. And just what do you think we both do night after night on the airwaves? Smart? Yeah. A decent guy. You are a way more than decent, guy.”

“And he was a lot more experienced than I am.”

Letitia blinked her Oprah-size double set of false eyelashes at him.

“You know what I mean:’ Matt said. She did. He’d confided in her over the months like an emotion-blitzed call-in. “With women.”

“Are you getting better, honey chile?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Hmmm. In that case that new fiancée of yours had better watch out. Ambrosia might be on her tail, or yours.”

Matt knew that Ambrosia’s worldly bluster was another insulator, like the three hundred pounds her body wore, from the aftermath of childhood sexual abuse.

He’d just been celibate by choice, trying to hide unhappiness behind a vocation. She’d been molested.

He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Any gal or guy’d be lucky to call you girlfriend.”

“Well.” She beamed at his tribute. “That’s what I’m here for, baby, to soothe the troubled soul. When’s the wedding?”

“We haven’t decided yet. We don’t know whether to go for a Vegas quickie or drag the relatives up north into it. Or both.”

“Me, I’d want that white dress and long, long train, and everybody lookin’ on.”

“I suppose most women would.”

“Your girl?”

“She’d say no, but probably. Besides, I might like to see her like that myself.”

“Every woman wants to be someone’s angel for a few hours, honey. Hey! Enough jiving. You gotta go on in fifty seconds.”

Letitia scooted out of the literally hot seat to let Matt take her place. He just had time to put on the foam-padded headset, pull his notebook and pen to center spot, and watch the director through the glass window, counting down.

His intro echoed in his ears.

“It’s the Midnight Hour with Las Vegas’s leading man of mellow advice, the divine Mr. D, Matt Devine.”

Chapter 27

The Scene of the Climb

Getting into any nightclub is a snap for those blessed with the ebony coloring and effacing stature of Midnight Louise and myself.

Getting into a nightclub that has reflective black Lucite floors and walls is almost too easy to be ethical.

So the kit and I do the Neon Nightmare Slink and are soon among the merrymakers crowding the bar and the dance floor. If we can avoid some clumsy human foot doing the salsa stomp on our tippy toes or rear members, we will soon melt into these shiny black walls like licorice ghosts.

Well, that comparison leaves something to be desired (mainly that we are not edible like licorice, unless there is a pit bull in the building). Anyway, we do our patented pussyfoot past all the carousing humans to a place that Miss Midnight Louise has earmarked as a “secret entrance.”