Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

Temple picked up her tote bag and went to the bedroom. For once the zebra-pattern coverlet had all its stripes on straight.

But Temple’s pride in housekeeping paled in comparison to the fact that the only partner in crime fighting she had tonight was … Rafi Nadir?

The tote bag hung heavier now, and it should. In it now reposed the small Colt Pocket Lite Max had bought her back in the days when he thought her salvation would be self-defense.

Silly boy. Salvation was always a lot more complicated than firearms. Trust a woman to know that.

Temple had decided that the more of a fashion victim she appeared, the more useful she would be.

She marched in the front entrance of Maylords, looking so chic and confident that the society photographer for the Las Vegas Review-Journal shot her with a blinding strobe of light.

This sudden new image was easy: she borrowed a page from Max. All black. Black boot-cut spandex jeans; black clunky, flat-footed Asian Mary Janes; black jersey top with Renaissance-fluted sleeves; black fanny pack adhered with black chains that were crying in vain for a revealed belly button. Black Colt, weeping for concealment.

Amelia Wong’s two boys in shades looked like cartoon cutouts in comparison.

What had they done to protect anyone?

Interesting question.

Tonight.

After the ceremonials.

After the Wong was over.

After all the hoopla.

And the hopes.

Meanwhile, the band played on for the 8:00-to-11:00 P.M. reception hastily assembled to celebrate Maylords new support of drunk driving issues. MADD delegates thanked the Maylords delegates for the generous donation. TV crews got their pallid sound bites and left. Hors d’oeuvres were eaten. The “wine” was ginger ale, in deference to MADD and the occasion. The celebrities left and the crowds thinned, leaving Temple little excuse for remaining.

So she called an impromptu strategy meeting in the employee lunchroom.

The banks of fluorescent fixtures highlighted the strain in everyone’s faces. Temple wondered if she looked ten years older

too.

“The police and the media have been very discreet,” she noted, “but we can’t expect that to go on forever. Give us one slow news day, and they’ll be all over the `Maylords curse.’

“What’ve you done to prevent that?’ Mark Ainsworth asked, taking the lead.

“Called in a few IOUs I’ve got with the media in this town.”

“The coverage has been pretty low-key,” Kenny admitted, but his shoulders were slumped. “Just everything’s gone wrong,

from the Las Vegas Now! deal on.”

“I don’t need this,” Amelia Wong put in. “Matt Drudge, well-named alternate media weasel, is doing a whole investigation of my ‘empire.’ Murder is the ginseng on the rice cake for him.”

“Then maybe,” Temple said, “what we need most is a solution to the crimes.”

“Yeah, right.” Ainsworth sneered. “I’ve got my crack security people right on the scene and they haven’t seen a thing.”

Temple refrained from mentioning that one of his not-socrack security men was hinting at a break in the case, and that she was hoping to be there when it broke.

“I’m thinking that we might be better off anticipating the publicity. You, Ms. Wong, could go on Las Vegas Now! to discuss the transcendental elements of these misfortunes, the power of chi, the life force, and the disharmony of evil acts in all our lives.”

“lf we have to,” Kenny said, standing. “I’d like to go ahead with the week’s events. Carry on. It’s almost over, thank God.”

He was the CEO. People nodded even if they didn’t look like they believed him. Wong and her contingent swept out. Ainsworth passed right by Temple’s chair, looking down his nose at her.

Kenny Maylord stopped in front of her, shook his head, and said, “I appreciate what you’ve done, but a PR person can’t do much about murder.”

Temple remained behind in the lonely assemblage of Formica-topped tables and plastic-upholstered chairs, Maylords’s equivalent of the servants’ kitchen and so very unchichi. No good chi here. But maybe, somewhere else in Maylords tonight. Could Rafi Nadir really be her salvation?

Temple melted down the travertine trail and into the darkest, dimmest vignette she could find to await her date with destiny. Come to think of it, Rafi Nadir was proving to be as loyal and useful as Midnight Louie his own self. Grrrrrr!

It was almost midnight before Rafi showed up.

Matt was almost on the air.

Max was … hunched over a hot computer … or halfway to Ireland in his mind … not here.

Rafi suddenly peeked out from behind the fake wall of a vignette. Nobody noticed him. Temple edged over until she stood

on the opposite side of the wall.

He glanced away. “You got the LVMPD on your hot dial?” She nodded.

“Is she on your instant dial?”

Temple nodded. “I know her number, all right, but I don’t want to use it except as a last resort.” “Ballsy little broad.”

Temple nodded. “Where and when does this all go down?”

“Out back. Midnight. You got backup?”

“Ballsy big dudes.”

“Really? Not police?’

“I don’t do police.”

“Neither do I. Anymore. Are you sure?”

“No. But the price of not being sure isn’t worth it. This one’s for Danny.”

He considered. Didn’t like it, but he considered. “For whoever you say.”

Temple nodded. “You’d be surprised.”

“Maybe I would. Let’s roll.”

*

The back of Maylords after midnight was spooky. Empty. Dark. A loading dock with nothing to load. A parking lot with nothing to park.

Temple lurked-that was the only word-behind the roll-down garage door, Rafi at her side.

She held her suspiciously heavy fanny pack in her hand. From it had come a big black beret to cover her betraying red hair. She was as black as she could be.

“What else is in there?” he asked in a whispered rasp. “Nothing. My … protection.”

“Shit. Don’t tell me, girl, that you’re not carrying anything more than condoms?”

“None of your business. And if I am, I’m qualified.”

“You have a permit for that vague ‘protection’ of yours?”

“I’ve shot it off a few times at a firing range.”

“That’s the problem.”

“The few times?”

“And shooting off at a firing range. This isn’t a firing range. There’ll be real people here. You better give me the gun.” She was silent.

“Or I bail.”

She gave him the gun. He tucked it in his suitcoat pocket like it was no more dangerous than a pack of Juicy Fruit gum.

Or Doublemint gun. Gum!

The sound of a serious engine growled like a Big Cat in the distance. Coming closer.

Rafi nodded. “Behind the Dumpster. Quick.”

Sure, she was always eager to Dumpster dive… .

Temple crouched behind the huge, dented wall of painted steel. Something on claws scurried away as she and Rafi settled behind the Dumpster.

Not even the odor of orange peels left over from the blessing ceremony could cover the conjoined reek of dead cigarettes and food.

“Everybody left,” Temple complained in a whisper after a while.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Won’t they miss you being on duty?”

“Nah. I was let go yesterday.”

“Let go!”

“Yeah. That’s why we’re here.”

“You’re not supposed to be here?”

“Are you?”

“Well, not out back here sitting on my heels inhaling dead shrimp. But you’re not supposed to be here! What good can you do?”

“You don’t wonder why Maylords would let the hired security go a day early, before the Wong to-do is over and done with?”

“Oh. They don’t want impartial witnesses.”