Boys Just Want


to Have Fun



Once the Fontana brothers and Uncle Mario are bound (but not gagged), their captors pause to shake out shiny heads of variously colored hair like show cats flaunting themselves before a captive audience.

And the Fontana brothers start spitting out a series of feminine first names. Obviously, this is not stranger-on-stranger crime.

And, just as obviously, the boys are not one bit amused by the revelation.

“What kind of cockamamie deal is this?” Uncle Mario demands of the women and his nephews. “I do not care who knows who, nobody disarms the Fontanas. If you know these dizzy dames, boys, you better get some bridles on them before they ride you all to the branding station.”

While the women boo and hiss Uncle Mario, the guys fight their bonds, no longer respectful of the firearms and furious at being corralled by their own girls.

“We used to know them,” Ernesto says coldly. “Before we found out what crazies they were. I am not kidding. Let us loose, or you will be sorry.”

“We are sorry already,” one woman says. “You are all ready to mount up and celebrate Aldo’s getting married, but you would not consider any of us for the altar to save your lives.”

“Maybe to save our lives,” Aldo puts in. He gives his brothers and uncle a cautioning glance. “We know who still holds the firepower, and the keys to our handcuffs, and maybe our hearts.”

One of the women dangles a set of keys small enough for a jewelry box.

The brothers boo her.

“Now, guys,” Aldo says. “I can see why they are so steamed. I am getting married, but we all went off to party without them, and I have not exactly seen you buying any engagement rings and doing likewise.”

“That is no reason to take us prisoner,” Julio grumbles.

“Prisoners of love,” one girl coos.

I feel a hairball coming on.

But Aldo leaps on opportunity. “See, guys! The girls just want to prove to you that they can give you a better time than any bachelor party paid escort. It is a matter of hurt pride.”

“You think?” Ralph asks.

“They are sure not doing this because they want me or Uncle Mario in their manicured clutches, right, girls?”

Uncle Mario curses under his breath, but the girls’ cries and whispers overwhelm him.

“Girls just want to have fun,” a breathy blonde promises, stepping nearer the bound brothers.

Cocking their dark heads en masse, the Fontana brothers begin to see the light. They produce a chorus of persuasive pleas to release them so they can start having some of that “fun” the girls crave.

The women respond by sitting en masse on their laps.

I turn my head away. This scene is getting way too kinky for a street dude.

“It is just the prelude to a friendly lap-dance,” Satin tells me. “I would think that you would be relieved that your friends have been hijacked for hanky-panky rather than murder and mayhem.”

“Please, Satin! You do not mean to say you are familiar with such inappropriate intimacies?”

“I am a mother of five, however long removed from the domestic scene. This is nothing, Louie. My many mistresses do this several times a day.”

“I am busting you out of this sordid environment as soon as I free the Fontanas! You are riding in a stretch limo with me, back to the Circle Ritz.”

“Circle Ritz? Is that a rival brothel?”

“It is not! It is a quaint, classy residence off the Strip. My human roommate, the clever and tenacious Miss Temple Barr, and I share quarters there. Purely platonic, of course. She sometimes helps me with my cases. A human ally can come in handy for the foot and phone work.”

“There is a lot of foot and phone work at the Sapphire Slipper too.”

I watch in horror as the captors push their tootsies out of their black cowboy boot–style mules to rub their naked feet up the ankles of the helpless Fontana boys.

“Louie! They are merely teasing.”

In fact, the Fontanas are watching the revealed faces of their tormentors with sudden interest and smiles.

“What is going on, girls?” Aldo asks. He is the only brother not occupied by, and with, a latter-day Charlie’s Angel hussy. “This was supposed to be a stag party, and it certainly was not supposed to be held at a men’s entertainment emporium.”

“Like you mind,” one girl jeers, twining her fingertips in Ernesto’s . . . or Emilio’s or . . . who-knows-who’s shiny black hair. (I have to admit dudes like me are pretty irresistible to the feminine contingent.)

“I mind,” Aldo says simply. “I am the bridegroom-in-waiting. My bride would not appreciate this ambiance. She would kick major butt over it. Yours. Not mine.”

“He is just lonesome,” pouts another girl, running her forefinger down Rico’s or Eduardo’s or Ralph’s chest, no doubt in search of the thick black well-groomed chest hair the Fontana brothers and I share. Females of any species cannot resist that.

“I am not,” Aldo spits out. “This is supposed to be my party. You and my cappuccino-foam-headed brothers owe me an explanation for ruining it.”

“That is telling them, Aldo,” Macho Mario spits out even louder.

He also is unharassed, but, unlike Aldo, is looking none too happy about it.

Meanwhile, the ladies of the establishment pout along the walls in an unhappy clot, watching outsiders usurp their usual role.

Manx! Two whole sets of rival women for one large litter of dudes. For all the protestations of innocence, this could get ugly! And the Fontana boys are the territory that will be fought over.

Hey. I kind of like the role reversal. I usually have to fight all comers for the feline fatale of my choice. Might be nice to have the ladies tussle over me for a change . . .

“Forget it, Louie,” Satin says softly, sounding way too much like Midnight Louise. “This is a very odd situation. Nothing good can come of it.”

“You are serious?”

“I have changed my mind. I want the Sapphire Slipper back to the sleazy, raucous, venal, boozy place I know and love. This sexy stuff here is not the paid-for kind. It is really dangerous.”

What can I say? I am speechless, like the Fontana brothers. Of course even I know that the safe, state-regulated brothels are not a substitute for love and marriage. What can Satin be talking about? She has been corrupted by the sex trade. Imagine, finding her after all this time? A fallen feline!

“So,” Eduardo says slowly to his personal lap attachment. “What is the point? You wanted us off all to yourselves?”

“Right,” she says back. “In front of an altar like your gutsy older brother here.”

“Exactly,” another one tells her hog-tied man. “We are tired of always being bridesmaids and never brides.”

“Hey,” says Rico or maybe Ernesto. “We asked you to the wedding.”

He gets a (luckily) playful slap on the jaw.

“Yeah, you get to wear these color-coordinated fancy gauzy dresses. You girls like that,” Ralph says.

“We would like gauzy white dresses even better.”

“It is not like you, um, qualify.”

Another slap.

“You guys do not qualify for wearing tails like an English butler, either, but you will do so for Aldo’s wedding. Why not for your own?”

“Aldo is older. He . . . flipped over some visiting foreign female.”

“We know all about it. She is a mature woman. This Kit Carlson has never been married. We do not want to live to be old enough to be our own mothers and say we have never been married. If Aldo can do it, so can his younger, dumber brothers.”

Brother! This is a fine kettle of koi! My sleek Italian posse is being hustled into servitude most unfeline. It is okay if Aldo wishes to give up his life as a street dude. He is about to get gray around the whiskers anyway. But the whole litter should not be forced into domesticity.

I stare hard at Macho Mario Fontana, who has been as macho on this scene tonight as a limp eel. He is the paterfamilias. Time to dredge up some pater and slap these slaphappy, upstart girls down the way they have been disciplining his nephews.

This whole scene is on the edge of turning from a prank into something prosecutable.

Satin rubs against me. “We have got to do something, Louie. Those bridesmaids are getting bitter. At least they are not in jeopardy of being left with a litter to support.”

I cringe a bit at the reminder. You can never tell when a dame is rubbing it in or really on the warpath. I sympathize with the Fontana boys.

Miss Kitty, the madam, chooses that moment to appear from the kitchens behind the bar with the biggest bottle of champagne I have ever seen.

Behind her comes a blue lady bearing a silver tray with a gadzillion champagne glasses. It all looks very festive, even, er, bridal.

Satin chirps with satisfaction beside me. “Our housemother always knows when to calm a crowd. Usually it is the men she has to sedate, but in this case the women are getting a bit rowdy.”

“I hate to tell you, but I have seen a lot in Vegas, and women in general are as capable of getting as rowdy as anyone, properly motivated by spite, jealousy, and hurt feelings.”

“They are silly! It is as clear as the fangs in your face that your compadres are enjoying the idea of a night in a bordello with their girlfriends. Except for Mr. Macho and the one called Aldo who is spoken for.”

Before I can correct her several erroneous assumptions, Miss Kitty steps up to the girls in black. “I need a pair of male hands free to liberate our champagne. And you might tell me your names while we are at it. I won’t remember them all, but it will be a bit more civil for drinking partners.”

“Champagne! All right!” says a redhead who’s about a foot taller than my Miss Temple.

The women’s variously colored heads confer. In a clot they much resemble a litter of calicos. Almost all are showgirl tall, I notice. No wonder the Fontana brothers treat my Miss Temple like a litter of adolescent Dobermans escorting a Yorkshire terrier.

The women quit buzzing and straighten up. “Aldo. He is the man among you. He is getting married.”

Aldo offers his wrists to be freed from the gaudy bracelets with an air of relief.

As he rises to address the champagne bottle the way a golf pro would contemplate the lie of a ball, I notice he skims a look at the parlor table bearing all the Fontanas’ looted hardware.

I can see what he is thinking. Shake the bottle a little while working on uncorking it, then spray the female felons in charge and reclaim the upper hand, bearing a Beretta.

“Come on, girls.” Miss Kitty gestures to her crew in blue. “We will all relax with a glass of champagne, and then we can take the ladies upstairs to select the room of their choice for their later entertainment. After all, they paid for it.”

“When do we get a glass of champagne?” Ernesto asks.

The invaders like the madam’s idea. Several grin. “If you are good, you will get yours upstairs. After we pick out just the right . . . setup for you.”

That sounds like a threat and a promise. The Fontanas are still hot to play along, as this is definitely an amorous dude’s bonus.

Aldo has concluded the same thing, because he uncorks the bottle with the signature pop known the world over. Only a tiny bit foams over the bottle lip. I am thinking Aldo wants Charlie’s Angels and their sisters-under-the-silicone tipsy and off guard.

And from the way his eyes flit around the parlor and adjoining bar, he has not forgotten for a minute that his youngest brother, Nicky, and Mr. Matt Devine are not present, cuffed, or anticipating horizontal romps.

“I am sorry,” says the pouting brunette bearing the turquoise fur handcuffs. “You did a great job with the champagne cork, but we really cannot leave you alone down here unsecured.”

Aldo sighs, extends his arms, and shoots his impeccable suit coat sleeves and shirt cuffs. And then he is. Cuffed. Again. Sure does ruin the line of his tailoring, especially across the shoulders.

Meanwhile, seven gals in concealing black and thirteen in revealing blue trip up the stairs, the same stairs I herded Mr. Matt up an hour ago.

Their combined boot heels and stiletto heels sound like a herd of rhinos on the rampage as they clatter up. I know Mr. Nicky must be a past master at hiding out, but what about Mr. Matt? He is such a direct and honest sort. Surely even an expriest will figure out some surefire place to hide from invading hordes of women being girly.

“This is outrageous,” Macho Mario complains to the madam, who has remained behind. “We would be the laughingstock of Vegas if this got out. A bunch of chorus girls tying up Fontana Inc. Boys, I am putting this on your heads. If you could control your women we wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” Ralph says with a goofy grin.

Upstairs, a lot of stomping and giggling commences.

“It sounds like a sorority house up there,” Aldo grumbles.

Miss Kitty smiles. “Just girls having fun, playing dress up. My staff usually doesn’t get to cut loose on a work night.” She eyes her parlor full of handsome but reluctant clients. “I should not wonder if my team would join in on the room parties. There are plenty to go around.”

A serious silence ensues. Fontana eyes consult Fontana eyes. These dudes have never needed to hire female company, that is for sure. The idea of their girlfriends being coached, even abetted, by pros is both . . . insulting . . . and inciting.

“Males!” Miss Satin hisses beside me.

“What can it hurt?” Emilio asks. “They are not serious kidnappers. It will all be over by this time tomorrow night. Aldo’s virtue is safe, and his chick is bunking at Miss Temple’s place. It should make for some very mellow bridesmaids in the wedding party. Girls just want to have fun.”

“Idiot!” Satin spits beside me. “They are dead serious. They want their own ownership rings.”

“Uh, that is wedlock rings. I mean, wedding.”

“Our kind does not go in for ceremony, other than the usual mating dance, and we have no choice whatever about that. ‘Wedlock’ is right. Human females never joke about craving marital yokes.”

Satin is right. Humans have to tie everything up with red tape and paperwork. No wonder the Fontana boys are enjoying relinquishing the reins to their girlfriends for a boys’ night out.

Myself, I never give the female of the species, any species, an inch.

They have too many good reasons to take revenge on the male.

I listen to the latest stutter of high heels above, and shrieks of laughter.

I think of Mr. Matt, hidden and penned like a hunted tiger, in that room-to-room rampage for just the right lustful setting.

And shudder.

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