“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.