Cat on a Hyacinth Hunt

Chapter 9

Flamingo Memories

Temple only needed a liquid powder foundation by the next day to disguise what the old-time gumshoes called a "mouse."

As black eyes go, it was a fading charcoal gray; her mouth only felt like it had been to the dentist, and she was beginning to simmer in anticipation of Max's forthcoming mystery night out ... in.

And entering the Crystal Phoenix's understated entrance drive was like returning to Manderley again, sans Max de Winter.

Van von Rhine had insisted that a New Year's Day appointment would not intrude on family or business plans. In fact, she had added over the phone yesterday, the holiday was especially appropriate to the renovation project and the wonderful . . . donation that it had received.

Donation in Las Vegas? Temple wondered. Money was wagered and lost and--

occasionally--won here, but rarely was it simply given away. And never to commercial projects.

So Temple crossed the Phoenix's navy-and-camel casino carpeting Tuesday morning and barely heard the frequent chimes of slot machines as she headed to the executive offices behind the reception area.

Lines of registering guests snaked obediently through the roped-off maze in front of the long front desk. Apparently the Phoenix wasn't suffering despite lacking some of the latest gimmicks on the Strip, such as a Jurassic Park theme park or a roller coaster shaped like the Loch Ness monster. They could have a baby Nessie for the kids. Hey, not bad ideas, either of them, although a bit pricey for the Phoenix.

She kept an eye out for lurking Fontana brothers, Nicky's nine darkly handsome littermates.

They were touchingly protective of her but rather overwhelming en masse, both sartorially and for an undeniable air of Gangster cologne. Fontana Inc. was always impeccably tailored and accoutered by Cerutti and Beretta, though somewhat rough around the behavioral edges.

She spotted neither the Fontana brothers' Armani-suited silhouettes nor their less conventional post-romance-convention attire, Elvis jumpsuits. No doubt they had rung in the New Year until their fine Italian heads had also rung.

Nicky Fontana, though, sleek as a black Maserati with camel-colored leather interior, was waiting in his wife's outer office to usher Temple into the inner sanctum.

"Sorry to have played hooky over the holidays," Temple told Van, who rose from behind her glass-topped desk to join her husband in front of it.

They were living proof that opposites attract and make an attractive couple: Nicky with his sienna skin and vibrant dark eyes and hair; Van a Nordic blond with a demeanor as cool as her husband's was heated.

Nicky leaned against the thick glass and crossed his arms. "So how was New York? Did the cat take it by storm?"

"He took the advertising agency by storm, though that was all of Manhattan he saw, except for my aunt's glamorous condominium in a miniature flatiron building. Oh, and a railroad flat in a part of the Village where only the lonely live."

"Uptown, downtown," Nicky said. "That's what makes New York exciting. Sophistication and sleaze side by side."

"Thank God our hotel isn't going for the New York-New York look, then," Van put in, shuddering genteelly.

Nicky liked to scratch his discreetly manicured nails across the blackboard of her fine sensibilities. Van had been reared in the hushed, hothouse atmosphere of the European luxury hotel industry and found Las Vegas trying at times.

"So what is this surprise?" Temple asked, not feeling up to spending too much time at the Phoenix today, despite her fondness for Nicky and Van.

Van, wearing one of the exquisite Escada suits that were her trademark, stepped dramatically away from a long side table.

That's when Temple spied the cityscape -in-miniature of an architect's model.

She edged toward it, taking in a jumble of shapes and color. The thing looked like a Miro or Matisse painting in 3-D. And it was fully accoutered with . .. flamingos. Lots and lots of flamingos.

"But. . . this is Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino. Shouldn't they be phoenixes?"

"Not when Domingo himself has designed the new children's petting zoo. It will be partly a permanent installation of his recent headline-grabbing conceptual art hit with the plastic flamingos, and partly a zoo."

"I think they're both the same," Nicky muttered in Temple's ear, donning an angelic expression as Van shot him a suspicious glance.

"And Domingo is giving us the free use of his design, 'if his friend Miss Temple Barr approves.' Isn't that wonderful? You must have made quite an impression on him."

Temple shrugged modestly.

"And all he wants," Van went on, "is that we dedicate it to 'Brother John.'"

Temple let her jaw drop. And instantly regretted it.

"What's the matter?" Van looked concerned.

"Saw the dentist yesterday. She was open half the day and I'd booked the appointment before I knew Louie and I would be the toast of New York during the holidays."

Van nodded, still admiring the colorful model. "I don't know who Brother John is, but I'll put his name up in neon if it's adequate thanks for getting a children's park designed by an internationally renowned artist."

"Brother John," Nicky ruminated. "It must mean something. I don't have a brother Gianni, hard as that may be to believe, but I'll adopt this one gladly."

"A simple flamingo-pink plaque somewhere should be all that's needed," Temple said demurely.

"I suppose it could be a Brother, as in order of brothers," Nicky speculated. "Domingo could be Spanish."

"Or Italian," Van put in.

"Or Incan," Temple added.

"He is . . . international, isn't he?" Van asked, looking dazed. "But study this layout. It's an Alice -in-Wonderland sort of maze, a children's sculpture garden. And the animals will be displayed in this most unnatural environment quite naturally. He's even specified a Wonderland croquet vignette with the plastic flamingos as mallets."

"And the Mushroom Maze is a prairie dog town," Nicky added.

"Amazing," Temple agreed. What wonders, she wondered, would Max produce this evening to compete with a Domingo Original. "It lends itself to all sorts of tie-in products."

"Wonderful idea, Temple." Van's tranquil face glowed. "I've been so stupefied by Domingo's offer that I hadn't considered the spin-off possibilities."

"We'd have to cut Domingo in on the product profits," Temple added, "but it would be well worth it."

"Absolutely," Nicky agreed. "I'm sure we can work out a good deal. The guy was like Santa Claus with an American Express platinum card. He brought his wife and kid with him, and of course Van had to bring them up to the penthouse to see Cinnamon."

"How is the baby?"

"China's just terrific, Temple."

"She has actual hair now," Nicky put in.

"She always had hair," Van retorted. "It was just... baby-fine."

"Louie will like her a lot better with more fur," Temple said. "I can sympathize with the state of parenthood now that I've lugged him all over Manhattan in a cat knapsack."

"So how did everything go?" Van sat down behind her desk.

Temple gratefully collapsed into one of the upholstered Parsons chairs paired before it, while Nicky played on the sidelines with the moving parts of Domingo's model.

"How did it go? You could consider it an existential Christmas, I guess. Santa was dead."

"Santa .. . died?"

"At the advertising agency Christmas party, no less. Louie tried to warn us something was up, but they wouldn't listen to Lassie either."

"You're kidding!" Nicky said hopefully, from the sidelines.

"No, I'm not. Put quite a crimp into the selection process for the Allpetco spokescats and spokesperson. I don't know who will get the nod, and, right now, I don't care. I'm eager to get going again on the Phoenix project, especially now that this bonus has dropped into our laps. I think I'll go gaze on the real estate out back, try to envision Domingo's park as a part of it."

"Go. Gaze. Graze a little in the restaurants, if you like." Nicky waved her away like an Italian mama shooing schmoozers out of her kitchen. "You're always on the house at the Crystal Phoenix."

"Not a bad advertising slogan," said Temple, only recalling a moment later why the phrase sounded familiar: It's always midnight at Hamilton's.

Midnight at New York-New York on New Year's Eve would always be a miserable memory.

Trying to carry on as normal had been the worst possible move for everyone.

Temple smiled a wan good-bye to Van and Nicky and made her long, solo way to the hotel's rear courtyard, which housed the pool, some tennis courts and a lot of undeveloped Las Vegas scrub that was worth its weight in sand.

Visions of sugar plums and plum advertising contracts vanished before the bright, palm-decorated vista. Not only was the surface land waiting to be morphed into a new fantasy recreational area, but the Crystal Phoenix lay above a network of underground tunnels that could be exploited for a delightfully dark Disneylandish Jersey Joe Jackson mine ride, complete with the old coot's holographic ghost. Temple thought about Jersey Joe building the Joshua Tree Hotel here in the forties, then squirreling caches of his ill-gotten goods all over the wastes of Las Vegas and the surrounding desert. Maybe excavation would unearth more treasure, like the highjacked silver dollars discovered a few years ago. And maybe not. Today's coveted treasures were multimillion-dollar state lotteries.

She glanced up at the hotel, now transformed into the elegant Crystal Phoenix, trying to pinpoint Jersey Joe Jackson's seventh-floor ghost suite. Even if his shade didn't actually haunt the suite that had been his home in good times and bad, it would holographically prowl the underground mine ride. That was more than Howard Hughes's ghost could claim, for all that his estate still owned most of Las Vegas.

So it wasn't just expensive mania, which seemed to drive New Las Vegas these days, it was history!

Temple actually felt one warm brown bubble of optimism explode on the top of her brain.

She was perking up, quite literally. She thrived on ideas, on linking strange odds and ends, and on getting her brain bubbling until it overflowed into her demeanor and that flooded into the enthusiastic public relations pro personality.

That side of her had been dormant of late, she realized, dragged down by personal conundrums like Bachelor Number One or Bachelor Number Two. God forbid a Number Three should show up on the scene. She'd lose all momentum then.

Some of the palms would have to go. But they wouldn't be replaced with the ersatz reconstituted palms that lined the entry to the Mirage. Domingo was right: better the genuine fake than the trumped-up substitute. Neon palm trees painted metal-sculpture pink, and green-and-blue palm fountains. But not instant freeze-dried palms.

And the carp pond. Louie's beloved former hangout. That might have to be relocated....

Temple wandered in its direction, toward the thicket of canna lilies not now in bloom.

She stopped, surprised. A black cat sat in elegant relief against the broad canna lily leaves.

Of course. Midnight Louise, aka Caviar. She was the Crystal Phoenix mascot now that Midnight Louie had moved in with Temple at the Circle Ritz.

Louise sat statue-still, perhaps staring at an exotic goldfish doing a pas de deux, fins in the water. Koi in kinetic motion. Even the cat's shadow didn't stir.

And then Temple blinked the mushy contact lenses into better focus.

The cat's "shadow" wasn't a shadow, but another black cat, this one hunched on all fours, gazing fixedly into the pond.

Temple edged nearer on her dainty red-and-purple-and-pewter Manolo Blahnik snakeskin pumps.

Neither cat stirred, but they simultaneously turned their faces toward her, one gold-eyed, one green.

"Louie! Is this where you've been? I missed you last night. Well. . . this morning, really."

He blinked, as if clearing his new contact lenses. Then he stared down into the water again.

Temple felt distinctly snubbed, but she supposed that returning from New York to become, in short order (a) an assault victim, (b) an invalid and (c) a New Year's Eve gadabout did not endear her to her loyal feline friend.

Besides, she had thought that he and Midnight Louise did not get along.

Temple approached the cats until she too could see into the water.

But no fish schooled there. The pond was empty, perhaps vacated for the coldest part of the winter. Maybe the koi had gone south to winter at Phoenix, Arizona. What were the great feline hunters watching, then, water bugs?

Temple could have sworn they were brooding.

Was she in a funk! Attributing her own downcast emotions to a pair of sunning pussycats.

"Well, feel free to come home whenever you feel like it, Louie."

A party of passing tourists stared at her.

Temple talked back in her mind: Hey, some of you people talk to dice! At least cats are sentient, and sometimes a whole lot more.

These cats were mostly indifferent to her. Temple left them, feeling deserted by Louie's return to the Crystal Phoenix.

********************

She got over the perfidy of cats by the time she stopped at the optometrist's, who had opened up briefly despite the holiday just so her "emergency" client could literally "see" New Year's Day in.

"The black eye's so much better now," noted the young woman sympathetically. "With these new lenses you won't be walking into open doors anymore because your glasses slipped down your nose and you nearly dropped your groceries. You'll see so much better with the exact prescription."

Temple underwent the icky process of peeling out the old lenses and putting in the new.

"Out with the old, in with the new" reminded her of the recent disastrous holiday celebration, only her personal motto could be: "in with the old, out with the new."

But... the optometrist was right. The glittering environment of the shop, including ranks of traditional glass frames, was in much sharper focus now.

Temple fingered the narrow brochure she had picked up on her first visit. "About these colored lenses."

"Ideal for someone with your mid-range correction."

"Yes, but . . . color." She would never have speculated on rotating eye color with a male optometrist.

"Green would be the obvious choice. Or a deeper blue."

"Not. . . violet."

"Well--"

"I've always thought violet eyes would be . . . electric."

"Whatever you like. The whole idea is to play with your image, right?"

Or maybe play with your identity, maybe fool someone hunting a redhead with light blue-grey eyes.

But Temple could tell that her favorite color, violet, didn't strike the optometrist as the most flattering disguise for her rampant coloring.

Max would tell her to do what she liked. Do what thou wilt. That was the motto of some long-dead magician, she remembered from her exploration of the profession during Halloween week. Alistair Crowley, that was his name. Only he had been more than a magician, more like the leader of some decadent cult. Something metaphysical and creepy and a little silly.

She thrust the brochure back into her tote bag.

Violet eyes.

Maybe another day.