Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

“Hey, Miss Barr, I didn’t mean to put down your religion.”

“Actually, I don’t really, you know, attend services anymore.”

“It sounds like you haven’t left the fold, though.”

“Philosophy is a little harder to leave behind than ritual,” she agreed as she gave up on the fork and Bucky Beavered a sheet of cheese free with her two front teeth. All she wanted

for Christmas was a buzz saw for this pizza.

“I guess we shouldn’t talk about religion,” he said. “It gets tense.”

“I wish talking about Simon’s murder would get a little more tense. I have no idea what motive the police are exploring, but

I don’t see how or why it happened. And Danny Dove is expecting me to come up with some explanation.”

“Can’t you let the police do it?”

“If I, a PR person by trade, can’t get to first base about the corporate climate at Maylords, how are the police going to do

it?”

Jerome stabbed his fork into the pizza crust with enough fervor to snap a piece into two parts.

“Nobody’s going to do it,” he said. “I don’t know why Simon died, and I don’t care. He was another one of those golden boys who coast through life. He had a rich boyfriend. Why was he even working at Maylords anyway?”

“I have a rich boyfriend. It doesn’t mean I don’t need or want to work for a living. Maybe that makes it even more vital that I

support myself.”

“Then I guess everybody’s a winner and nobody thinks about what the losers go through. I’m sorry I came.” Jerome stood up and

threw two crumpled bills on the table.

In moments he was weaving through the boisterous crowd and soon swallowed by it.

Temple was left to chip away at the cold, congealed cheese on her plate. It was about as cooperative as Jerome, who apparently

had some chips on his shoulders the size of the cow variety.

Well, heavens to Elsie! It seemed like he had come here more to pump her about Matt’s love-or like-life than to feed her info on the Maylords management structure.

He was also way behind the financial times. Temple scooped up the bills. A pair of fives, which were worth as much toward an Incredible Hulk pizza at Chunk-a-Cheez as they would be in a poker game. Didn’t this breast-beating loser know how much a super-sized

pizza went for these days?”

Probably not. Temple didn’t think they ordered much pizza in at a seminary. She bullied two tens from her tote bag and left them on

the table, not daring to skimp on a tip for a lady with a ring in her lip.

Chapter 32

Virgin Sacrifice

The parking lot outside was both quieter and hotter than inside the pizza joint. Summer was coming up fast on Vegas, aching to

escalate from prolonged simmer to roaring broil.

Temple started toward the Miata, wondering if red was the best car color choice for a Sunbelt state.

Something roared in her ears … not noise pollution left over from Chunk-a-Cheez but something moving.

She turned, sensing personal danger.

A rainbow coalition of Harley hogs was powering into the lot … a couple as black as your worst nightmare, others that were hot red,

green, purple, baby blue … and one Elvis number that was solid pink. Six, seven in all.

They circled Temple, cutting her off from the Miata. Their engines made the deep-throated growls of mechanical Dobermans.

What was it with sinister motorcyclists in this town? And what had she done lately to tick off a whole motorcycle club?

Their helmets, visored with smoked Plexiglas that hid features and expression, didn’t answer her unspoken question.

Those helmets were emblazoned with names:

“Peter Rabid” on a black model, “Little Drummer Boy” on the baby blue one, “Psycho Punk” on the pink, “Killer Tomato” on the red, “Hot Femalie” on neon yellow, “Marilyn Manson-Dixon Line” atop purple, and “Audrey Junior” on the lima-bean green one. For all their Technicolor exteriors, they acted as facelessly menacing as any biker gang.

Temple turned to keep each machine and rider in her sights, getting dizzy.

Her car keys bristled in her hand, but what good were they against leather-clad men at a distance? What was she going to do with them, scratch their paint jobs as the bikes circled closer and closer, the riders’ lavish cowboy boots scraping ground to keep them upright on the tight turns?

“Get out of the store, lady,” one voice yelled in eerie imitation of Beth Blanchard’s command to Temple in Maylords one morning.

BB, the Wicked Witch at Maylords, had a multifiavored motorcycle gang at her command? The Las Vegas, post-Oz version of Flying Monkeys? It all felt unreal, like a comic-book-turned-movie.

Temple wished she had a cool long black coat and could do that Matrix air-walking thing. Max might be able to manage it,

or look like he did.

She, however, remained annoyingly earthbound, not to mention short.

Still, she fished for the canister of pepper spray in her tote bag. Like it would penetrate motorcycle helmets. Temple stared at her useless self-protection device like a guy who actually needed an Internet spam offering to expand his member. This fourinch spray can of liquid red-hots wasn’t going to do a thing to repel helmeted Technicolor gay Nazi bikers!

She desperately delved in her tote bag again. She took it with her everywhere and stuffed everything into it from press kits

to the results of lightning raids on the Quik-Stop store.

Had she bought giant thumbtacks, perchance? A staple gun? A A… her hand closed on another cold canister. A really bigmetal canister. Hairspray? How would that stop the boys in Harley Hopping Mad? Although, given their bike color preferences, maybe only Lady Clairol would know for sure.

Temple let her eyes leave them long enough to inspect the fat new aerosol can in hand. Ah. Spray cooking oil in extra-virgin olive.

She didn’t think even extra virgins would distract this crew.

Still. She aimed, fired, and doused the asphalt with a skinny oil slick, rather like the trail of an inebriated snail weaving all around herself.

If at first you don’t succeed … she sprayed and turned, making herself the center of a darker ring, like a target. Oh, great.

At least the can gave off this snakelike hissssss as she sprayed. Don’t tread on me, or my blue suede shoes.

The circling motors gunned. The sinister riders tilted even more to turn more, closing Temple in a noose of heat and noise

that tightened on her with every circuit.

And then … they hit her upscale faux-Crisco moat and started skidding. Rubber screamed and smoked. Expensive leather boots (even the pink pair!) dragged on the asphalt, making sparks as metal toetips and cleats hit bottom. Bikes tilted almost horizontal to the ground.

Temple felt like a beekeeper in the center of a madly buzzing hive, wearing a protective suit of … salad dressing.

One by one the villainous-looking bikes lurched horizontally and spun out.

Temple watched with satisfaction, ready to dodge any spinning Harley heading her way. That’ll teach ‘em to mess with a

domestic goddess-in-training!

But the bikers were at bay now. They milled around beyond Temple’s enchanted olive-oil slick, engines growling and

stuttering.

“Stay out of Maylords,” a couple yelled, sounding ridiculous. They could hardly keep their bikes upright.

“Stay out of my way,” she yelled back. “Feng shui rules! You guys are not earth-friendly. Your chi is tossed salad.”

One biker, the self-announced Peter Rabid on the black number tattooed with silver decals so elaborate she couldn’t read what they said, gunned the motor until his bike reared up on its back wheels to charge.