She follows my glance to Mr. Rafi Nadir, obviously working security for Neon Nightmare. He wears all black, like Mr. Max, but it is harsh where Mr. Max’s wardrobe is smooth. He wears black denim jeans and jacket and a T-shirt with a death’s head on the front. It is probably for some rock band. They are all very depressed sorts in my observation.
“His aura,” Louise corrects me (Louise lives to correct me), “is silver.”
I admit I am taken aback. Silver is way too nice an aura for Mr. Rafi Nadir, ex–cop, ex–Carmen Molina live-in, all too not-ex father of little Mariah, who is no longer so little.
Nor am I happy to have two such dudes on different sides of the law inhabiting the same space, albeit unknown to each other. Mr. Max is unofficially a good guy, and Mr. Rafi is officially a fallen good guy.
But I am here to observe and learn and test theories, not tail sinister characters around Las Vegas. Although I have gleaned that my Miss Temple is highly upset with Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina and that it would be fun to sic Rafi Nadir on that woman’s tail just to get back at her sins against my nearest and dearest.
However, Midnight Louie is not petty.
I am here to decide whether the Phantom Mage is Mr. Max, and, if so, why. And what that means for my Miss Temple’s peace of mind.
And my hereditary claim to one-third of the bed.
Crystal Shoe Persuasion
“I thought and I thought about where to go,” Matt said, looking around the elegant dining room. “I know you’ve been through a lot lately at the New Millennium. So I decided this place might have the most resonance for you.”
Matt had insisted (he was doing a lot of that lately) on taking Temple out to celebrate when he telephoned and heard that the Czar Alexander scepter had been restored to its proper place (unlike her significant other of long standing).
Temple had swallowed that pang and passed on more happy news to Matt.
“Not only is the scepter back, but I scored a Vanity Fair piece, maybe even by Dominic Dunne, on the disappearing and reappearing scepter, the sad death of the little Chinese defector girl, and the would-be greedy Russian thieves and thugs. The exhibition deaths have made the Las Vegas papers and are going to dog the exhibition anyway, so I figured a Big Negative can equal a Positive sometimes in the publicity business. Everyone went for it. It lends, they said, ‘mystique’ to the collection.”
“Not to mention the mystique of all those dead Romanovs. Gore sells, I guess.”
“Especially if you can add some glitz. A sad reality of the media biz.”
“Enough sad reality! This Vanity Fair thing is big?”
“This is huge! The New Millennium’s paying me a bonus.”
“Then we’ll really have lots to celebrate.”
It was only after Matt hung up that Temple wondered what else they would be celebrating.
Kit was out again with Aldo that night, so much for a related buffer zone, and Temple was both angry and sad about Max’s midnight descent into hail and farewell, so she’d agreed.
This was what Max wanted, right? She’d pulled out her purple prom dress/Crossfire hood ornament dress, again dusted off her Midnight Louie shoes—even he had seemed to desert her lately—and decided to celebrate by letting herself wallow in everything about Matt she liked, which was a lot.
Now, Temple gazed around the glittering Crystal Phoenix dining room. When Matt had asked her out to dinner, she’d been too distracted by recent events to wonder why, or even where he’d take her.
“The Phoenix is sort of home base for me,” she said, “although not lately.” Lately, nothing was. “But I’ve never eaten in this restaurant before.”
“Good. I’d like to dedicate this evening to things never done before.”
Temple couldn’t stop the heat from rising to her face. There was One Big Thing neither had ever done before: Temple with Matt, Matt with anybody else in the whole wide world.
The waiter chose that perfect cue to arrive with a silver-plated champagne stand and a bottle of Perrier-Jouët.
“Perrier-Jouët! I should have worn something better than my old prom dress.”
“You look good in purple.”
“Even as a bottle blonde?”
“Even as whatever color your hair happens to be.”
Temple glanced down at the now-vintage taffeta gown with its halter top and huge, blooming skirt. She did love it. “This is my desert-dancing dress.”
She knew she evoked their most romantic moments, even as her heart twisted for other times, other places.
Matt lifted his glass of champagne in a toast. “To desert dancing then.”
Temple raised her glass, feeling suddenly bold. “To . . . moonlighting as a hood ornament on a Crossfire.”
It was his turn to color, but it was only a faint, passing flush on his fair Polish skin slightly toasted by a Las Vegas tan. Matt was getting way too hard to embarrass, Temple decided. Which was both intriguing and worrisome.
“Did you have designs on a desert ride for dessert?” she asked.
“No. All the dessert I want is right here.”
Oh. “You have something to tell me?”
“More like ask you.”
Oh.
Thank God. The waiter swooped away their salad plates and assured them their main courses would be “up” very soon.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
Oh. That. Sure. She’d taught him the name of that tune, after all.
The dance floor was a tiny peninsula of parquet off the bandstand. The band was mellow, soothing, dedicated to old standards: gonna take a Sentimental Journey into a Canadian Sunset. Corny. Safe.
Temple put her left hand on the shoulder of the brandy velvet dinner jacket she had talked Matt into buying many moons ago.
Thinking of which, the full moon hung like a Christmas tree ornament outside the sweep of windows framing the night. Pale, huge, opaque but gleaming. The full moon always looked like Bing Crosby’s crooning face to her. Ba-ba-ba-ba-boo. Boo! Was a surprise on the menu tonight?
Her right hand folded into Matt’s as they swayed together with a half dozen other couples, some silver haired, some . . . good grief! . . . with gelled hair spikes and visible tattoos.
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Who comes to Vegas, is part of Vegas.
“Frank Bucek told me about your takedown at the New Millennium,” Matt said.
“Oh. That. It was the Fontana brothers’ takedown.”
Matt nodded.
Temple felt the gesture to the bottom of her soles. Solid.
They were close, not tentative, and she liked it.
“He gave me some advice,” Matt added a minute later.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. He said ex-priests were hard on their wives.”
“Oh. Really? How?”
Matt shrugged. Temple shivered. “We’ve been little tin gods in our parishes or wherever. Catered to. By housekeepers. Soccer moms. Looked up to by kids. We can be a tad self-centered, never meaning to be.”
“All in the name of serving mankind?”
“Right. The grandiose big picture, not the intimate small picture. I wouldn’t want to be that way.”
“Of course not. What does Frank’s wife do?”
“Keeps him down to earth.”
“Sounds like . . . fun.”
“And then there’s . . . you know, sex.”
“Oh. I suppose that would be an issue for anyone who’s been celibate for a long time.”
“Right. We tend to be overly . . . intense.”
“Really?”
He nodded, which brought her cheek in contact with his cheek.
Matt led her back to their table before the heat of his hand had quite branded itself onto her taffeta-clad back.
How many years since her high school prom night? Twelve. Was it possible? Thirty-one looming? And just yesterday she’d been sweet, dumb sixteen, before high school kids had even thought of “friends with benefits.”