"Right." How nice. How nice and easy it was to deceive, how eager people were to think the best. 'I'm in charge of the entertainment. We're doing a 'This Is Your Life' program to surprise Father Her--"
''What a wonderful idea! How can I help?"
"We want to produce some surprise guests he hasn't seen in years, from his previous parishes."
"Oh, he will love it! And you need to know his previous assignments? How far back do you want to go?"
"To the seminary, I guess. Or . . . it'd be great to have someone from grade school too. His whole life."
A pause. Nothing holds its breath better than a dead phone line when you know somebody is on it. Had he gone too far? Should he backtrack and say that just Father Hernandez's former parishes would do?
"That might require some checking," the voice said, slow enough to sound doubtful.
"We'd really appreciate anything you can do," Matt said in a rush he instantly regretted.
"Oh, I can get all the information, but can you afford to import guests from too far away? I don't know Father Hernandez's record offhand, but I think the bulk of his service may have been way across the country."
So much the more suspicious. Matt thought. "Some of us have set up a special fund to fly in the special p-people from his past," he said with a slight stammer of enthusiasm, or,anxiety.
"We're going all out on this." Was he ever!
"How sweet. Sure, I can look that up. Or even mail a copy of his postings to you--"
"No! No mail. We don't want to alert Father Hernandez to the surprise. It's all hush-hush."
"Then I'll call you back when I look up the record, Mr ?"
"Peters," Matt said with a swift ironic twist of his mouth.
Why hadn't he invented a more believable phony name before dialing? Next time. He recognized the fandango his subconscious was performing: Peters as in Peter Burns, the parish betrayer, Peters as in Simon Peter, the first apostle and the first to deny Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. Peter as in turncoat. Turncollar.
''No, don't call here. I'm at the office,'' he added in a softer, apologetic tone, "I'm not supposed to make personal calls. But I could call you back."
''Certainly. Give me fifteen minutes."
"And I should ask for . . . ?"
"Oh, I always answer the phone here, Mr. Peters. Madeleine McCafferty."
"Thanks, Miss McCafferty." She did not demur at the form of address, so he had hit it right on the head: a maiden lady dedicated to the church. "And I'd, ah, appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone. You know how word leaks back to the parish level."
"Of course I do, and of course I'll keep . . . mum. I wouldn't want to do anything to ruin Father Hernandez's day of glory. He is such a dear man."
Matt let the phrase replay in his mind as he hung up: "such a dear man." Not the way he would describe the touchy and proud pastor of Our Lady of Guadalupe, but devout Catholics tended to crown their clergy with premature halos. No wonder they so seldom noticed any tarnish.
Chapter 9
Romancing the Drone
Phones didn't ring anymore. They yodeled.
Temple hated waking up to that piercing mechanical warble. She glanced at her beside clock--close enough, with red LED numbers big enough, to read without glasses.
Eight-thirty on a Saturday morning? What did the caller think? That she had no social life, no big Friday night out? As it happened, that assumption was humiliatingly correct, but unknown callers didn't have to rub it in.
Probably a wrong number anyway.
Should she bother stretching for the phone when all she was likely to get was the droning snub of a dial tone?
But those who live by the phone must always answer the phone. She was sure that motto was written in some profound but trendy tome, like the collected works of Kahlil Gibran.
Temple reached for the red plastic high-heeled shoe at her bedside, clamped the heel to her ear and chirped "Hello?" into its sleek toe. Too bad Agent 99 couldn't have used this up-to-date model on the old "Get Smart" spy shoe. Er, show.
"Temple?"
The basso male voice made the phone line sound defective. Who did she know with a bedroom voice besides Max Kinsella? The hair on Temple's forearms lifted with an unseasonable--and worse, unreasonable--chill as she sat up in bed,
"Yes?"
"I need your help."
"Who is this?" She hated to ask in case she got a shocking answer.
Both hands clutched the slippery shoe-phone now and her sweaty palms were developing static cling. Just like Max to show up in her life again as a disembodied voice on the phone. At least that would prove he was alive. Or . . . would it?
"Don't you know?" the man asked.
That was the problem, she didn't know and being reminded of this irritated her.
"Don't get coy, or I hang up," Temple threatened. "I've had enough of anonymous phone callers lately."
"Really?"
The deep voice sounded interested, even titillated. By now Temple knew it wasn't Max. He was never coy. Instead of being disappointed, or relieved, she was angry.
"I mean it about hanging up--"
"No, wait! God, T.B., I need a favor."
Oh. Crawford Buchanan and his matinee-idol basso. She should have known. Why on earth was he calling her?
"Try going to a party, C.B.-, if one will have you. Sometimes they dispense favors."
"Just hear me out. I'm in a pickle."
"You are in a crock, Crawford, as usual."
"I need you to write some stuff for the Gridiron."
"The Gridiron? I thought you were the whole show this year."
"The deadline's in two days, and I can't come up with enough skits. You churn out this lightweight fluff like it was pulling cotton candy."
"You were planning on mounting something heavy like Eugene O'Neill for the Gridiron?" she suggested tartly.
''You know what I mean. I need a cute, satirical touch.''
"By when?"
''Rehearsals start Monday night."
"Galloping Gridiron, Buchanan, that's damn short notice. If you hadn't have tried to hog the whole thing, you wouldn't be in a pickle in addition to your regular crock. I should let you stew in your own vinegar."
"I know, I know! I thought I could do it and then . . . my heart's been acting up."
"Putting on shows is a high-pressure gig. You should know that too."
"At least I know who to call when I'm in a jam," he put in with sly flattery and his deepest baritone.
"Who else have you put the squeeze on at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning?"
"No one," he admitted sheepishly. "Just you. I need a big closing number for the whole cast.
Something that says it all for Las Vegas this year. Danny Dove, the so-called director, says the show is cooked if we don't get the right closer."
How sweet it is. Temple thought, idly uncoiling her long red telephone cord with her long, freshly lacquered crimson fingernails. Should she leave Crawford twisting slowly in the wind--
she wound a length of cord around her forefinger, tight--or bail the dastard out?
"All right, but it's only for the good of the Gridiron. I could not care less if they opened and closed the show with a literal roast of you. I'll work up something this weekend and fax it to you Monday."
"No, no. You need to come down to my office at the Scoop to write it so we can . . . consult, if necessary. No one's in today, so there are plenty of available computers. I'll be here all day, and tomorrow too."
"You really think that I have nothing better to do than hang out with you all weekend?"
"We really need that number," he said.
"All right," she grumbled, hanging up without saying "goodbye." Unfortunately, she would be saying ''hello" to Crawford all too soon.
The Las Vegas Scoop office was about as reassuring as a floating crap game site.
Temple had driven past it often enough, never failing to wrinkle her nose when she thought of Crawford Buchanan toiling here night after night like some pale-bellied black spider with soft furry legs--no, that comparison was unfair to spiders.