Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

He shook his head.

Like Temple, he had been cursed with curls, and seldom was taken seriously because of that. Curls were youthful and

frivolous. Or at least had that frustrating reputation.

“Simon was not one to whine,” Danny said. “He tried to give every situation its most generous interpretation. I suppose you would call him an optimist.”

“I would call him a person of substance in a shallow world.”

“Exactly. I had noticed signs, but I put them down to opening night nerves. God knows I’ve had bouts of that all my life. I should have read between the lines, Temple. I should have seen that all was not calm, all was not bright in Simon’s new position.”

“It looked so benign, Danny. I researched the whole thing: Maylords, Amelia Wong. Both ideals of American entrepreneurship. Wong has had death threats, a lot of them. I wonder how much the events at Maylords had to do with her.”

“Simon would not be mistaken for Amelia Wong.”

“But his death, and Beth Blanchard’s death, spoiled the Wong special appearance. Turned it into front-page news, and made her a footnote.”

“You’re saying Simon was murdered as a distraction? That would be brutal to accept.”

“I don’t know. Not yet. I need expert consultation.”

“Mine? Dear heart, there is no dancing involved. Except to a funeral march.”

“But there is a gay element, and I admit I’m at a loss there.”

“You’ve never been at a loss with me.”

“I’m talking about a whole, semisecret culture, not a person from it.”

“What do you mean?”

Temple sensed a withdrawal in Danny, an Us-versus-Them realization.

She was a PR person. A communicator. Somehow she would have to communicate across the unspoken. She would, like the Murano, have to be a new animal, a crossover vehicle. Did that have something to do with Simon’s death? Was he a “crossover vehicle” somehow? Is that why he had been killed?

She decided, like a trial attorney, to sum up, even if it was premature.

“Here is what I’ve learned about Maylords. It’s a mass of contradictions. It’s supposed to be a classy, artsy operation, but it raids competitors for employees.

“It’s supposed to offer high-end furniture and service and it gives lip service to hiring the best employees in town and spending mucho money on training them for the opening… but on the other hand it tells them that they are all expendable. Management starts culling out employees from the full-pay orientation period on.

“It has,” Temple said nervously, “an all-gay management structure, which looks way enlightened and realistic, given the environment.

“But the management sexually harasses straight men, and some gay employees.” “Simon?”

“I think so, but he was handling it.”

“He never said anything.”

“Women don’t say much either. And when they do, their initial silence is pointed out as a sign of lying. Who wants to admit to that kind of pressure? I wouldn’t. I’d be embarrassed. I’d think that people would believe I’d ‘asked for it’ somehow. I’d decide I had to handle it myself. It’s a male patriarchalworld. Who’s going to believe women … or gays and lesbians? That’s how they cow us, isn’t it?”

Danny stood. Wiped his forehead as if to erase wrinkles. “If it was that bad, Simon would have told me.”

“Why? I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have told anyone. Stiff upper lip. Don’t cave. Running for help is the worst sign of weakness in an environment like that. How do you think I got to be Pepper-Spray Girl? I’m so afraid someone will take me for one-a girl-and take advantage of that vulnerability. Amazing how a whole gender is so worth denying. Not so amazing that gender preferences are worth denying too.”

“But you said the management was gay friendly.”

“I said it was gay dominated. Have you ever heard of a cat-fight? You must know Clare Booth Luce’s ’30s play, The Women, and the film? Being downtrodden doesn’t automatically mean you have empathy. Sometimes it means you have issues. Matt-you know this-used to be a priest. And he once told me, in view of all the instances of pedophile priests and he wasn’t one, believe me-but he once said, trying to explain this utter betrayal of his religion and his profession, that three things contribute to sexual abuse: privilege and secrecy.”

“That’s two.”

“The third was patriarchy. But you could interpret that as merely power. Management. It struck me. Gay life has secrecy, it has privilege among the initiated, and, in the case of Maylords, it has management. Power.”

Danny shook his head. “We’re a minority.”

“Are minorities incapable of abuse of power? Or are they even more ready to do it when they finally get some?” “You’re talking human nature, not sexual preference.”

“Exactly. Say the Maylords management was all African-American. Or Hispanic. Or all women. It would be an exclusive club, not possible most other places. The management `team’ would be grateful, and loyal. It would have privileges, and with that power comes the opportunity to abuse it.”

“There are always hierarchies, Temple darling. And you’re right. There is often some underground sexual component.”

“Power equals potential for abuse, and sexual abuse is the most demeaning. I’m not saying it was obvious, or even

rampant. But it was a nasty little undercurrent.”

“And nasty undercurrents escalate to murder?”

Temple sipped the last of the delicate martini. “There’s the rub. I don’t think so. I think nasty undercurrents usually stay at that level, roiling around making people’s lives miserable. But that’s the point. It’s more fun to torment the living. Why kill anyone?”

“Then you have no idea why Simon was killed, or even this annoying Blanchard woman?”

“No proof, certainly. Danny, have you ever heard of a gay motorcycle gang?”

His face puckered with confusion, then he burst out laughing. “No, but it’s a heck of a concept. Mind you, the ultrabutch has always been a gay-lesbian icon. Look at the Village People singing group and ‘Macho Man.’ “

“Straight people love that song too.”

“It’s a great song.” Danny frowned. “But a real street biker gang? No. Why?”

“They tried to cream me outside of a Chunk-a-Cheez restaurant.” “Tried?”

“I greased their skids with the extra-virgin olive oil cooking spray in my tote bag.”

Danny regarded the bag bunched at Temple’s ankles like a lapdog. “Awesome.”

“So you’ve never heard of such an outfit?”

“How did you know they were gay?”

“I went by outright stereotype: pink and baby blue motorcycles, outrageous rider names on their helmets. It just seemed

over the top.”

“Gays don’t own that in Las Vegas.”

“I know. So maybe somebody’s trying to give them a bad name.”

“That’s redundant, kiddo.” Danny stared into the empty bottom of his vintage cocktail glass. “I’d hate to think Simon died because of stupid sexual politics. A hate crime.”

“Well, I’ll just have to prove the motive was something else,then. You wanted me to investigate. You should get an outcome you like.”

“When have I ever?”

Temple didn’t like the bleak tone in Danny’s voice.

“The truth is out there,” she said, parroting the catch phrase created by The X-Files TV show, now itself dead and gone.

“Far out there,” he assured her. “Too far for most of us to catch up with it.”

“Hey,” Temple said, sticking her size fives into his downcast range of vision. “Most of us don’t wear Timothy Hitsman running shoes.”

Since Timothy Hitsman produced some of the most fashion-futuristic high heels on the block, that was a contradiction in terms.