Carole Douglas - Cat in a Red Hot Rage

“What do you think of this Red Hat phenomenon?" Temple asked. People always liked to air their own opinions.

“You said it. It's a phenom. Plus it's colorful. Look at all the local TV crews around. Great for a minute-ten on the evening news. Women making spectacles of themselves is always good copy in the good old U.S. of A.”

Temple sipped, weighing that comment. It could be worldly. It could be bitter.

“These women seem to be having something we all could use."

“Cocaine?" Natalie lifted penciled eyebrows.

“I meant fun."

“Well, aren't they the same thing? Listen, Temple, you seem like a nice working girl. Wanna bet that you'll be up to something a bit more serious when you're their age?"

“Sure, it's fun and games. And that's pretty healthy for the aging population. But there's more. Read the press kit. The chapters also join marathons to raise money for breast cancer and visit nursing homes—"

“Single-handedly save the ancient profession of clown. You've obviously gone over to it above your eyebrows." She nodded at Temple's beautiful hat.

“This is to blend in, but what's wrong with it? Men are going to say older women are silly anyway. Why not enjoy the bad rap? Why not reverse it? Embrace it? Disarm the opposition?"

“Now you're talking old-style civil protest. Face it; in this day and age, the only thing that counts is what gets on the media. And that's me, baby; that's me.”

Boy, did this woman make Temple see red without even looking around. Still, she needed to pretend to be a media-savvy peer. To be someone Natalie Newman might be able to use, because that's what would keep this so-called stringer on a string.

“The Red Hat Sisterhood," Temple said, "is lucky to have the kind of national attention you can get them."

“Damn right! And they won't know how much until this convention is long past.”

A pair of bright red spots on Natalie's cheeks revealed that the Cosmopolitan was getting to her discretion. Her words implied that she had something very different in mind than what she claimed.

Temple tried to calm her anger. This group meant a lot to Electra, and now she was in serious trouble. Temple had never found Electra clownish because she sprayed her white hair fun colors or wore tropical print muumuus. Las Vegas was a place that allowed for a lot of diversity.

She didn't mind a bit when Natalie lurched up on her reptilian stilts, grabbed her bigger-than-Temple's tote bag, and swaggered away.

Chapter 15

No Longer in Service

After Natalie left, Temple stayed at the table and speed-dialed Max's number again.

She didn't really expect him to answer, Mr. Invisible now turned Mr. AWOL, but then she heard that wailing banshee yowl over the line. Temple's stomach plunged into the Pit of Despair. An unreal female voice said that she was sorry, but that this number was no longer in service.

No longer in service?

Temple had been worried about not making contact with Max. Now she was sick-anxious.

She redialed. Listened again to the impossible message. Checked the stupid little LED numbers with slashes throughzeroes that made them look like eights, so maybe somehow the wrong number had been entered on her speed-dial. Right.

No, everything was correct. She knew this number by heart. By heart.

But maybe she didn't deserve to know it anymore. Maybe that alone was the message. Max had cut her off.

“Temple?”

Kit and Aldo were standing by her table, then Kit saw Tem- ple's face and took Natalie's vacant seat, and Temple's hand. "Temple, honey, what did that tacky woman say to you?”

“Lots of stuff, but that's not it. Kit, Max's number is discon- nected.”

Kit got it. Her other hand clenched Temple's arm. "Oh, no!”

“Max," Aldo asked. "Your Max?”

Not anymore. Temple tried to swallow a sob and ended up hiccuping.

“Don't say another word," Kit told Aldo. "Just listen and let me handle this. Honey. Temple. Numbers get changed all the time."

“But it rang through the whole time. He hasn't been answering for the past three days!"

“You said yourself he's been juggling a whole lot of career obligations.”

Like saving her bacon on the last PR job? Temple thought.

Aldo had been listening to all this in affable Fontana brother mode: laid-back, but with a don't-tread-on-me air, and decorative in the extreme. Now he shot his jacket sleeves in preparation for extreme action.

“Where does he live?" he asked Temple.

“In town, but it's . . . a secret."

“Not if the number is disconnected. I'll drive you there.”

“In the Viper?"

“It's my car."

“It doesn't have room for three passengers."

“I'll drive you to this secret place. Your delicious aunt will wait here to thank me properly when we get back. You can trust my discretion, because I myself have a lot to be discreet about, right?"

“Aldo—" Temple didn't know what to say. "You are a brick." The British expression zinged right past him. "No, I'm Italian.”

Kit rolled her eyes as Aldo ordered her a second Pink Lady cocktail, kissed her hand, and murmured indecipherable promises that made the tiny hairs on Temple's neck perk up with interest, and she was not only firmly unavailable, but under severe emotional distress.

Then Aldo took Temple's arm and hustled her out the hotel entrance faster than a house detective escorting a lady of the night off the premises.

The parking valet already had the low black sports car growling at the entrance portico, so Temple had the whole ride to berate herself for being a Weepy Worried Wanda.

“You're the Fontana who owns the Viper," she finally said to make talk.

“No, this is the, er, Family car."

“How do you arrange who drives it when'?"

“Not the car, the model."

“You mean you all drive Vipers?"

“All but Nicky. He's a family man now. He drives a Land Rover." Aldo made a face that screamed "canned ravioli."

“The Fontana brothers run a fleet of Vipers? Isn't that a bit"—she hated to use this word with a Fontana, just in case it really applied—"overkill?"

“Not at all. It gives us an instantly recognizable presence in the community. Sometimes you want people to see you coming and . . . sometimes you don't. Then we drive Saturns.”

Awesome. She'd never thought of the Fontana brothers as "Enforcement R Us."

“Besides," Aldo said, the gold hinges of his designer sunglasses glinting as he turned the car onto Max's street, "the ladies like it. This the place?"

“Almost.”

Temple clutched her tote bag. Max would kill her for leadinga Fontana brother here, leading anyone here. Then again, maybe she'd get him killed by coming here now.

What made her think that, other than insane worry?

Aldo was not impressed by the surroundings. "Jeez-Luisa, this neighborhood doesn't look like it needs to be kept secret. It looks like an accountant lived here." He eyed Temple over his glasses frames. "Your accountant. Not our accountant."

“I don't have an accountant," she answered. And maybe she didn't have an ex-boyfriend either.

Aldo walked around the parked car and bent to spring Templefrom the black leather passenger seat. This was a car that would fry you alive in Las Vegas, but apparently Aldo kept the air-conditioning blasting as much as the multispeaker sound system that had been blaring Italian opera all the way. One more sorrowful aria from Pagliacci or Pavarotti and Temple would strangle the nearest tenor.

Aldo followed her clicking heels up the familiar sidewalk. "No uncollected milk bottles on the doorstep:' he mentioned. "Nobody delivers milk anymore."

“That's my point. So why is that black cat lurking in the Hollywood twist, then?" Aldo, well, pointed.