Cat In A Crimson Haze

Chapter 12

... Equals Molina in Hand

"I didn't want to interrupt."

Lieutenant C.R. Molina gazed down at them from an artificially abetted height. "I spotted you two the moment I came on stage, but you seemed so . . . self-absorbed."

Temple looked down, to Molina's feet. High-heeled platform shoes.

Molina had the actual nerve--at her already intimidating height--to wear platform shoes Black suede. With straps over the toes and anchoring the heel. Clunky forties shoes, like the Andrews Sisters used to wear. Where were Molina's sisters? Wasn't this a sister act? No, Molina was apparently here solo, a spotlight hog!

''You're really wonderful," Matt was saying, his confusion instantly converted to effusion.

''We could have been listening to the radio, or a record. CD," he corrected himself quickly.

Not many CDs in the seminary, Temple would bet.

Molina allowed herself a modest smile. Gollie, Temple thought, she sure looked silly with that blue-velvet orchid perched behind her left ear. At her height, someone might mistake her for a jacaranda tree.

"You mind if I join you? I'm on a ten-minute break.''

"Of course." Matt leapt up to snag a chair from a neighboring table.

Molina sat between them, smiling from one to the other with the serenity of an unwanted maiden aunt who is quite sure that her presence is both unexpected and annoying to all parties.

Temple sourly studied the woman's outfit now that her shoes were hidden under the table--a midnight-blue silk-velvet draped frock from the forties, like all clothes of that era both no-nonsense and as subtly slinky as a snake.

"That time you came to the Convention Center," Temple said with dawning suspicion, "when the ABA killer was after me and the entire fire department showed up. You were wearing some vintage getup, too--black crepe with copper beading!" she accused.

"What a memory. You've caught me red-handed." Molina spread the hands in question to show her supposed defenselessness. ''I can't commit to a regular performance schedule here, but I come in and do a gig when I get some time off. Every cop should have a hobby."

"Hobby," Matt repeated, his tone contradicting her. ''You sing like a pro."

''Maybe." Molina's smile was the slow, slight one that's not for show, but for one's self. "Not much commercial demand for my kind of music. I'm lucky to find a place willing to put up with my hours. You really didn't notice me, did you?"

"Well ..." Matt glanced at Temple.

"We didn't even expect live music," she said quickly, irked at being so unobservant. Matt was definitely a bad influence. She hated that Lieutenant Molina might come to the same conclusion, and she would. "We've never been here before."

"You'll probably never come here again," Molina suggested silkily.

Of course they both protested, in tandem and too much. The idea of conferring about private matters against the background crooning of a homicide lieutenant was pretty off puting.

"Only the manager knows what I do for a living," Molina went on, her long fingers turning the heavy class ring she always wore. Her nails were cut almost straight across. Temple noticed, her own crimson claws drumming the padded white tablecloth, and didn't give off even a glint of clear polish.

The street-length dress had a bouquet of velvet flowers at opposing hip and shoulder; Molina wore no jewelry beyond the class ring, not even a wedding band. With her physical presence and blue eyes, even earrings would have been too much. Her only apparent makeup was a vintage shade of Bloody Murder Red lipstick so dark it looked black in the lamplight. Now those lips thinned into a Dracula's Daughter smile.

"Serenading cops are not marketable,'' Molina noted, "except on St. Patrick's Day. I'd appreciate your keeping my real occupation to yourselves."

They swore that they would, in breathless unison and much too intensely.

Molina frowned, looking exactly like an undercover cop in drag. "You two aren't up to something in the amateur crime detection department again, are you?

"Who . . . us?" Temple provided the indignant chirp. She was so good at it. "Absolutely not.

Counselors and publicists need to get away from the job, too."

''Well--" Molina stood slowly, as only a woman as long as she was could. She smiled down on them in the dramatically dim light. In this environment, in that getup, her leonine air seemed as feminine as it was languidly dangerous. "Enjoy yourselves."

The sax man huffed and puffed a bluesy intro on his gleaming instrument. Molina threaded through the tables to the small stage, moving like a leopard thinking about an appetizer.

Temple glanced anxiously at Matt. He still looked stunned. And a bit guilty. "She really is first-class." He glanced at Temple to find her frowning. "I mean, at singing. Who would have thought it?"

''I don't know. Everybody has their surprises to spring." Temple noted with intent to point fingers.

He smiled disarmingly. "What's yours?"

''I haven't decided yet. But don't expect me to break into 'Melancholy Baby.' I couldn't carry a tune in a violin case." She remembered Matt's expert organ-playing at Electra's wedding ceremony. "Can you?"

''Only in church choirs," he said, too lightly.

If Temple could have kicked herself with one of her doffed shoes she would have. She had attended a Catholic mass only once in her life, for a cousin's wedding. The priest had intoned--

sang--several parts of it. Of course Matt sang; it once was a career requirement.

Now Lieutenant Molina--or her surprising alter ego. Carmen--was singing again.

And now that they knew exactly who was providing the restaurant background music.

Temple and Matt found themselves glued to their chairs like good little kids: hands folded, heads attentively tilted, unable to look away from the stage or say a single discouraging word to each other.

Their food finally arrived, providing a distraction they dove into with knife and fork as if the harmless stainless steel utensils were hammer and tong.

In fact, Molina's sardonic "Enjoy yourselves" had created the reverse effect.

"It's blue murder," Temple muttered after dismembering her fried catfish fillet, "to discover you know the performer you're ignoring. And even harder to ignore her once you know who she is."

"It's especially hard when you know she's a homicide lieutenant," Matt added, attacking a pair of pork chops as if they were renegade wild pigs.

By eating only half their servings and foregoing dessert, they were ready to leave in twenty minutes flat.

By then a lot of diners were paying attention to Molina and her music. She perched on a stool at center spotlight, where the over bright light faded her skin into a luminous mask. Only her Joan Crawford eyebrows and maroon mouth stood out: dark, well-defined, like the empty features in a mask of tragedy.

Carmen Molina had launched into the lengthy Cole Porter masterpiece, ''Begin the Beguine,'' so they were stuck for an-other ten minutes.

When Matt whispered to the waitress for the check, Temple piped up, ''A doggy bag, please.

For the cat."

She was soon delicately flicking fish flakes and pork into a hinged styrofoam box in time to Molina's tempestuous tango beat while the lieutenant moaned about nights of ''tropical splendor'' and a lost love "evergreen."

"It used to be one of my favorite songs," Temple hissed to Matt.

He looked sympathetic. "And this--Molina--has ruined it for you?"

"Her and somebody else." Temple watched Matt lay two twenty dollar bills on the tray bearing the bill. No credit card. Yet. Why hadn't she seen all these signs sooner? Lord, he could have been an escaped convict and she'd have never noticed.

When his change came, Temple insisted on leaving the tip. Then they left, bumbling in the way that aims at being super-quiet but makes a spectacle of itself instead. As they exited the restaurant, surrounding diners clapped enthusiastically. Molina's dark head bowed repeatedly in the spotlight, so it looked like the damn silk orchid over her ear was blowin' in the wind. Another ex-favorite song after tonight. Temple thought sourly.

Outside, the sun had blown town and the dark felt like a cool chiffon curtain. The Strip was far enough away that they could look up and see the big desert stars without any neon competition. Temple couldn't even hear the roar of the Mirage volcano.

Autumn was coming, and nights toyed with growing chill. She rubbed her hands up and down her bare forearms, feeling goose bumps. The night felt fresh. Senses sharpened now that the heat was withdrawing from the pavement beneath their feet like fever from a healing patient. Out in the desert, night life of another sort than the Strip's frenetic pace would be stirring, scuttling. Here, on the fringes, the city of Las Vegas was quiet for a change, keeping decent hours. Only nine p.m.

They walked around the free-standing building, smiling at its neon frills, to the side parking area. It wasn't easy to find Temple's low-profile Storm among a lot crammed with alien cars that had arrived since they came.

"Popular place," she commented.

Matt looked thoughtful." Maybe--"

"I know. Maybe Molina's the drawing card. But you heard her: nobody knows when she's going to show up."

"That's a terrific trait in a police officer. Maybe in a singer, too."

Temple shook her head and pulled the loose-woven shawl she carried over her shoulders.

"When you know what she does for a living, it colors the show. I thought I'd die when she launched into 'Someone to Watch Over Me.' "

Matt laughed. ''Me, too. I mean, here I am asking you how to get information out of unwilling witnesses. And, not twenty feet away, there's the city's top homicide cop in eavesdropping distance--only she's singing her lungs out."

"Well, she's 'a' homicide cop. I don't know if she's 'the top' homicide cop."

"The top homicide cop we know. And then when she sang 'The Man that Got Away'--"

Temple started laughing and couldn't stop. She laughed so hard that she nearly dropped her doggie carton. "Holy Guacamole! Louie would kill me if this stuff went 'splat.' 'The Man that Got Away,' please! Oh, God, do you suppose she . . . she . . . dedicated it to Max?"

Matt was laughing harder than she was now, leaning against the car's aqua side, his elbows on its now-cool roof. "Max?"

Temple lurched against the car's fender, crushing her straw handbag between herself and hard metal, barely able to talk. She nodded, controlled her laughter for a few instants before it came bubbling out again with her words. "Max. Molina--"A whole glissando of guffaws."--

wants to, to interrogate him--" Temple almost slid along the fender to the asphalt, she was laughing so intensely'' --in the worst way! Oh, my side ... I think I--"

''Stop it! "Matt commanded between his own sputters of hilarity. ''We could . . . could hurt ourselves laughing like this after a big dinner.''

"What big dinner?" Temple squeezed out, doubled over. Tears showered her face. "We were so shook up we could hardly eat a ... a bite.''

"Yeah, Molina really put the collar on our . . . appetites."

They both went off again, laughing uncontrollably. "Maybe," Temple sputtered. "Maybe she could sing at Weight Watchers meetings!"

Everything they said, everything they thought, seemed hysterically funny. They laughed until it hurt, and until they couldn't stop even though it hurt. They still laughed when they had run out of words. Just an assessing glance, to see if the other had sobered up, so to speak, sent the assessor off to Ha-Ha Land again.

Temple finally shook her head, wiping away tears with her bare hands. Matt pulled himself upright, away from the car, like a man trying to shake off a drunk. He offered her a plain white linen handkerchief. Who carried handkerchiefs nowadays, she wondered--except maybe funeral directors? And priests.

"Nothing we said was really that funny," Matt pointed out.

Temple nodded agreement, wiping her face with die harsh linen, clutching her shawl, her purse, her carton. The occasional trill of laughter still broke free without warning, like a hiccup.

"I guess you had to have been there." she said, "and unfortunately--we were!"

They laughed again, an exhausted emotional eddy of self-circling sounds that faded into breathy coughing, some disciplinary lip-biting and finally rueful smiles.

Matt shook his head. "It's not my night."

"Nor mine. Listen, Matt." Temple tried real hard to get serious, because what she had to say was serious. "What you were asking me in there is important. I hate to preach at you, but if you take on the task of finding out something other people don't know, of pumping people who may not want to tell you something, or who don't know what you're really after, you've got to have a

... an ethic."

He nodded. Ethics he understood instantly.

"I may seem simply nosy to you, but I used to work as a TV news reporter. Maybe this isn't news to you, but all our institutions--governmental bureaucracy, corporate leaders, the church--" she added pointedly "--they all operate on a 'need-to-know' basis, just like the spy guys at the CIA, or something. They figure that we--the citizen, the consumer, the client, the public--don't need to know the inside scoop, the motive, opportunity and the real reasons.

They want to keep us ignorant for our own good.' "

"A major failing of the church, as the hierarchy is finding out now to its eternal regret."

''Regret?" Temple asked sharply. "Or chagrin that it can't keep washing its own dirty laundry in private?"

Matt shrugged, waiting for her point.

"So. There you are. Or I am. We think we are pretty decent human beings with pretty decent motives, and we think that knowing the truth is better than not. We have what journalists call 'a right to know.' That's in direct opposition to the 'need to know' everybody running things wants us to have. So we have to be clever instead of confrontational. We have to ask the right questions of the right people, pull back all the wrong curtains and peek. And guess what?"

''If we pay attention to the man behind the curtain--"

Temple nodded, "Sometimes we find out he's got his hand in the till, or in the wrong underwear or in messing up the future of the country."

"Sometimes we find out it's a her," Matt put in.

Temple nodded again. "And sometimes, we find out. . . he's only pissing."

That set him laughing again,

"That may be vulgar, but I couldn't resist," she said.

Matt sobered faster than she did. "Truth usually is vulgar," he said. 'That's your message.

You can't clean a window to see through it without smearing some of the dirt around first. Isn't it hard now, to be on the other side?"

"You mean doing pubhc relations?" Temple leaned against the fender again, setting her purse and carton on the hood, pulling her shawl closer. 'That's the beauty of freelance. I work for myself, not Them." She sighed. 'That's how I got involved in the murders; I couldn't just let the victims be swept under the rug, especially those poor strippers' lives, which were so rotten already anyway. I guess my only rough time in PR was at the Guthrie, when I collected a salary to protect an Institution."

"Sounds like a vocation."

She grimaced. "Even an organization as benign as an arts group can harbor its secrets: an actor who's temperamental, or drunk and disorderly on the set, or a druggie; money shenanigans. Not that Guthrie confronted me with anything like that, but the world-renowned children's ballet had a ghastly PR problem years back, if you can call it such a trivial thing. The founder and director was a pederast." She glanced at Matt. "When it all came out, they discovered he'd had one youthful molestation arrest, and he'd been in the seminary briefly--"

"Shit!" Matt said, shocking her. "Sorry. I don't usually .. . it's like having been in a war, and then finding out half your comrades have been fighting for the enemy."

"Some poor woman was PR director for the children's ballet when that broke." Temple shuddered, though the night was not that cool. "I'm glad I've never had to smother that kind of fire. I'm glad I don't work for anyone anymore that I can't walk away from at any time. I'm even glad that Max Kinsella pried me loose from my 'position,' then left me high and dry and a freelancer in Las Vegas." Her smile grew crooked. "Sometimes I think the ethics curve is higher here, believe it or not. They've had enough decades of honest greed, lust and fun to be forthright about it."

"What about the mob influence?"

"Virtually dead, from what everybody says."

"So you believe everybody?"

''Never. But in this case I believe the mob's been bought out by the corporate mafia of international consortiums. Listen to us: ethics and the mob and rogue ballet directors. So you have to lie a little--play dumb--to learn what you need to know. What's it about?" '

Matt took Louie's carton from her, and smiled. 'I'm still working on my right to find out. Let's say I'm just looking for the man behind the curtain. And I haven't the foggiest idea what he's doing yet. Shall I drive, or you?"

''Me." Temple fished out her keys and jingled them like spurs for a mechanical steed. "I like to know where I'm going."