Cat In A Flamingo Fedora

Chapter 3

Curb Service

"Show business!"

Temple let Midnight Louie's carrier thump to the Circle Ritz lobby floor.

"As in: there's no business like--?" Electra, her landlady, fed Temple the first part of the lyric as if they were on a game show.

"I would hope not. Poor Louie was kept sitting around in a carrier all day and never got a chance to go on."

"I hope he got a chance to go."

"He didn't take that opportunity, either. I better get him up to our digs--and I do mean

'digs' in this case--pronto. Although he almost never honors his box upstairs with a deposit."

"Er, what is his location of choice, then?" An alarmed expression grew in Electra's gray eyes.

"Not in the condominium, trust me. He goes outside, I guess, during his many mysterious outings."

Electra held the arriving elevator door open so Temple could drag in the carrier.

"I did meet Darren Cooke, though," Temple added in parting, as the elevator doors slashed shut between them.

Electra thrust a bangled forearm between the doors faster than Bruce Willis on a Die Hard rampage, then bumped her way through as they opened again.

"Darren Cooke! He's one of my favorites."

"Favorite whats?"

"Favorite performer, favorite comedy actor--and not a bad dramatic actor, either--favorite male, period. Is he as good-looking in person?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of! He's supposed to be a real ladies' man. What did you think?"

"He's professionally charming. If that's a ladies' man, then he's got the title. He did s how mercy on our little A La Cat commercial film crew, though. That bespeaks a gentleman, but appearances can be deceiving, especially when said gentleman is trying to impress the hooker shoes off a certain blond bimbo named Savannah."

"Temple, I wish you wouldn't act so jaded. You're much too young for that. Darren Cooke is practically a movie star, for heaven's sake."

On the second floor, Electra held the elevator doors ajar while Temple and Louie bumped through. Then she commandeered the handle of Louie's carrier and led Temple down the circular hallway.

"What does 'practically a movie star' mean?" Temple wanted to know. "He made --what?

Two movies. And one was a bomb."

"It's hard to find the right vehicle for an actor who does both comedy and drama," Electra said to defend her idol. "So what is Darren Cooke doing in Vegas and where did you see him?"

"At Gangster's, where they're supposed to be filming Louie's A La Cat commercial. At least Darren Cooke promised the crew that he'd get his show on the road tomorrow so that we could film, and gave everyone passes to his show. Poor Yvette waited so long that she . . . ah, sprinkled her carrier."

"Persians are high-strung, unlike your average alley cat. Me, I'd take a mongrel every time."

Electra waited while Temple unlocked her door, then slung the carrier to the entry-hall floor.

"But you didn't. Karma is a purebred, isn't she?"

"Karma is a Birman, but I didn't pick her; she picked me. If I'd had my druthers, I'd have picked a little mongrel."

"I think the politically correct term these days is 'random-bred.' " When Temple bent to spring Louie, he charged from the carrier, then swiftly leapt out of sight.

"He seemed entertaining," said Temple, finishing her interrupted postmortem on Darren Cooke, "but anybody who apparently had a fling with Savannah Ashleigh can't be accused of good taste."

"Savannah Ashleigh and Darren Cooke? No!" Electra plunked her muumuued form down on Temple's pale sofa, a tropical vine engulfing a mushroom. "Maybe Darren just feels sorry for Savannah now that her career is kaput."

"Pity does not appear to be a dominant shade in Mr. Cooke's psychological makeup kit, despite his mercy to the commercial crew. I wonder now if that was because Savannah's cat was involved and he wanted to look good in her eyes."

"You've become so suspicious of other people's motives ever since you got involved in a murder or two, Temple. It doesn't become you. Maybe that's why your love life is in limbo."

"What makes you think it's in limbo?"

"I haven't seen any gentlemen callers hanging around here lately."

Temple was tempted to retort that her beaus were to be heard and not seen, thinking especially of Max's surreptitious comings and goings, but pride wasn't a good enough excuse to blow his cover.

So she merely sat on the sofa and swung the empty carrier door open and shut with the toe of her shoe.

"Don't worry about me, Electra. I've got my hands full with work assignments right now. I appreciate a little peace and quiet."

"That's just it. Matt is so quiet lately. Too quiet."

"He always was."

"But he was getting better when you two were--"

"Were what?"

"Well, I don't know what, exactly. That's what's so aggravating. If you're going to be a landlady and have tenants, you should at least have the fun of prying into their private lives, but your and Matt's lives are much too private for any fun."

"How do you know, if they're that private?" Temple waggled her eyebrows significantly.

Electra stood, jerking her shapeless muumuu into place. "I guess I'd find the diary of Mr.

Midnight Louie more revealing and entertaining than I would one of yours, or Matt's or Max's."

Temple smiled. "I guess you might. Louie and Yvette seem to have a pretty hot thing going."

"If I'm reduced to feline soap opera, I might as well retire. So, anyway, if you get another show pass, I'd love to see Darren Cooke's revue at. . . where is it?"

"Gangster's. The new casino-nightclub on Paradise. And I bet I'll get more passes tomorrow.

I'm going to be on the set until it's all over."

Electra nodded, regretfully glancing around the empty apartment as if in search of hidden hunks, then left.

Temple had risen to slide home the chain lock behind her when the phone rang. She went to the wall model in the kitchen, flicking on the overhead fluorescent light.

Matt Devine's voice came over the line like a baritone Shiatsu massage. Temple kicked off her heels and leaned against the wall, letting her expanding vertebrae iron the wallpaper.

"Is this a good time to call?" he asked.

"Best time. Just got in."

"Ah, I'm off tonight."

"So am I."

"I need your advice."

"Oh?"

"And I could use your company."

"Ah."

"But I don't have any idea of what we could do, or where we could go. The guy is supposed to be good at this."

"Not when he's talking to a crack Las Vegas PR lady. Relax. Come down to my place in half an hour and we'll leave from here."

"I hate to stick you with all the driving."

"No problem. No driving. Half an hour."

"Ah . . . what should I wear?"

"Something black would be appropriate."

Temple depressed the hook, then dialed. G-A-N-G-S-T-A. Not much dialogue was required.

"Circle Ritz. Two people." She spoke in a confidential whisper, then checked her watch.

"Seven-thirty."

That was all. Temple pushed off the wall, hoping that Gangster's lived up to its advertising, but mostly wondering what Matt's problem might be ... this time.

Twenty-five minutes later, Electra's LOVERS' KNOT WEDDING CHAPEL sign winked blue-and-pink neon on Matt and Temple as they waited in front of the Circle Ritz.

"Black didn't work out." Matt lifted a foot to show his only trace of the color--shoes.

But his navy sport coat almost looked black when the neon winked off and his light gray slacks were in the black family. And at Gangster's, family was everything.

"I don't wear much black myself," Temple admitted, "but I did dig up this."

"This" was a crinkle-cotton affair with a tiered, ankle-length (on her) skirt and a blouse with ruffled sleeves almost as big as watermelons. Spanish dancer was as close as Temple's closet could get to Mafia mama.

"Here's our ride," she announced brightly.

Matt had mastered the art of disguising surprise early, but the long, long black limousine that whispered up beside the curb nearly ruined a lifetime's worth of practice.

"Temple, we can't afford this! I just wanted a quiet place to talk."

"The back of a limo isn't quiet enough for you?"

Before he could answer, the sable-uniformed driver had come around to flourish the passenger door open.

Temple bent to walk into the dim, capacious interior; Matt could only duck and follow.

The door was shut with the expensive finality of a bank vault as Temple wiggled her ruffles deep into the cushy upholstery.

Matt was slower to settle in, from unease rather than enjoyment. He leaned forward to study the driver as they left the curb.

"He didn't even ask where we're going."

"That's because he knows where we're going. Don't worry! It's a free ride."

Matt's fretful expression deepened as sallow flashes of the Las Vegas lights bored through the dark window tint. "The only free ride you get in Las Vegas is if you're a high roller, and we sure aren't."

"You're whispering, you know. I don't think the driver can hear us unless we push this button."

Matt regarded the indicated mother-of-pearl circle with suspicion. His look turned to horror when Temple started pressing other white buttons: piped-in music began to play, and a lid flipped down to reveal a portable bar.

"This is better than a game arcade!" She poured the contents of a cocktail shaker into two waiting martini glasses. "Except the ride is a lot smoother."

"Nothing for me." Matt was looking around for more trick furnishings.

There was nothing to see beyond the tinted-glass barrier that reflected her and himself as convivial ghosts and ... a small vase near the car window on his side.

"Why a white lily?" he wondered aloud, still whispering. "Are we going to a funeral?"

"Who knows?" Temple sipped her martini. "Ooh, really different. Try one. I bet it's vintage."

"Vintage gin?" he asked in disbelief.

"No, vintage recipe. Try a sip."

Temple's aplomb required an answering ease. Matt leaned over to sip from her glass, amazed by how the silk-smooth ride made everything so easy.

"It is different."

"A gin cocktail, I think. I had a gin account once. Orange bitters and straight gin. Don't worry.

Everything's on the house . . . until we get there."

"Worrying's a basic tenet of my religion."

"Well, at least wait until we get there."

"Where is 'there'?"

Temple sighed hard enough to stir her sleeve ruffles. "I guess you didn't eyeball the license plate on this limo."

"I didn't notice the car until it was at the curb."

"It's a vanity plate: Mobmobile three."

"That's supposed to be reassuring?"

"We're being taken for a ride."

"Free. Even less reassuring."

"To Gangster's."

"Friends of yours, no doubt."

"Doubt it. They don't know me from Adam Ant, but nothing is too good for us."

"Why?"

"We're customers. Look."

Temple pointed out Matt's window. He pressed his nose to the tinted surface and squinted at the lights looming on the right.

"It's ... some kind of--"

"Joint," Temple finished happily. "Newest little gyp joint in Vegas. Gangster's. Apostrophe's all wrong, of course, but why should any attraction start getting grammatical now? Look at Caesars Palace. Back to Gangster's: casino; mob museum; theater and revue with Darren Cooke headlining; two restaurants, Speakeasy and Hush Money; and two attached shopping malls."

Matt turned back to her. "Plus a line of limos two blocks long."

"Right. Gangster's makes up for having only a small hotel with a gimmick: importing tourists from other hotels by the load. Call 'em and they'll pick you up anywhere in Las Vegas. First-class and free. Want that vintage martini now? Might be here for a while before all the other uneasy riders disembark."

Matt stretched out a hand while Temple passed the alcoholic ammunition, and talked.

"I peeked into Hush Money when I was there earlier this evening picking up poor Louie. It's really quiet. Old-fashioned telephones at each table and booth; no one speaking louder than a whisper. The waitstaff even wear Hush Puppies. Should be ideal for a civilized discussion."

"And they take us home?"

"Round-trip service . . . unless you end up in cement overshoes in Lake Mead."

Matt shook his head. "I can taste bitters in this drink, that's what is different."

"How does an ex-priest like you know about bitters?"

"Comes with the territory."