“Um, thanks,” Temple said. “You don’t think this outfit is too … garish?”
“Since when did ‘garish’ bother you or me or Vegas, Temple honey?”
Electra’s halo of white hair was zebra-striped today, with black glitter. Her capacious muumuu was leopard print, and her lipstick was orangutan orange. She was a zoo gone amok.
“Silly of me to worry,” Temple said. “I’ve got to run.”
“Oh?” Nosy landlady was a cliché Electra took pride in living up to.
“I’ve got a quick pickup at McCarran. Kit’s back,” she semi-lied. “Can’t wait. I’m late, I’m late.”
And she clattered out the door, her spike heels echoing in the high, empty space.
The sun-softened parking lot asphalt forced her to dig in those heels at a sober pace and don her sunglasses before she reached her red Miata. She decided to leave the top up. Some vague notion about not messing her hairdo, or maybe about not being seen going to pick up Max.
You’re supposed to know me.
The voice repeated pitch-perfect in her mind. Every word of that one-way conversation was etched on her memory. No amnesia on this end, unfortunately.
You’re supposed to know me.
That works two ways, dude, Temple thought, starting the Miata. If he didn’t recognize her, that might be the best solution.
Forty minutes later she was in Terminal D, wandering among the famous desert-wildlife cast-concrete sculptures crouched on the shiny terrazzo floor. All five sand-colored critters were larger-than-life enough to dwarf kids and most adults. Temple couldn’t decide which one to station herself beside.
The sluggish bulk of the desert tortoise really wasn’t her speed. The black-tailed jackrabbit hunched into his awesomely long rear legs was the only furry one and reminded Temple that she presently felt like Alice plunging down a dark and mysterious hole.
The scorpion’s upraised stone stinger looked too hostile, as did the low, long Mojave rattlesnake.
The horny toad was spined and spiked like a punk rocker, so ugly it was cute, but had an unfortunate name under the circumstances. Luckily, there were no nameplates on the critters, and the horny toad’s foreleg was just the right size for Tiny Alice to sit upon, so Temple did.
Her watch told her she was twenty minutes early for the first passengers exiting Max’s flight to get through the security checkpoints for arrivals from foreign countries. She began scanning the people pouring from the terminals toward the baggage-claim area anyway, mentally phrasing how she’d explain this to Matt, in person, when he arrived on his flight from Chicago in three days.
He was stranded in Ireland without a memory, but with the IRA after him again. Or somebody. His traveling companion was dead. No, I don’t know “Why me?” Someone must have told him about me. I couldn’t just … leave him out there. Christian charity.
“Only redhead sitting on a toadstool. You must be Temple,” said a voice behind her.
She jumped up and spun around at the same time. “How’d you get through so fast, and past me?”
“I’m told I was a magician.”
They stared at each other, strangers.
“You look…” she began.
“Ghastly?”
She almost retorted, Ghostly.
His skin was washed out, not just pale, despite the deliberate smudge of a three-day beard. His expensive wrinkle-shedding clothes weren’t the invariable black, but a designer shade of ultradark moss green. He seemed even taller, maybe because he was even thinner. A huge duffel bag crouched like a giant desert lizard at his feet, and he was leaning on a cane like Dr. House of House, the TV show.
“You look … not like yourself,” Temple finally answered.
“Good,” he said.
Max wore sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his blue eyes, but she sensed him looking her up and down, too. Someone needed to say something next; it might as well be her.
“I, ah, wanted to make sure you couldn’t fail to spot me.”
“Your eye-catching ensemble does remind me of a Christmas ornament that’s gone terribly wrong … but this is the first time I’ve smiled in four days. Your hair color alone would have done the recognition job, Red.”
“You never called me that.”
“What did I call you?”
Your paprika girl.
“Temple. Doesn’t allow for nicknames. And you’ve never seen my hair this color.”
“What color was it?”
“The natural, really red.”
“You needed a new look?”
“I needed a disguise. Long story.”
“At least you have one. What are you going to do with me?”
Good question. Luckily, she had an answer. “I thought you’d want to see if the Strip rang any bells, and at least eat something other than travel food.”
He nodded as they joined the crowds flowing around them. Temple was used to keeping up with taller people, but she found herself slowing her pace.
I’ve got two recently broken legs that will ache in this blasted damp weather for the rest of my life if I stay in the damned country.…
“I’m in the parking lot,” Temple said, “but I drive a … Miata.”
She saw the fine lines at the outer edges of his eyes wince.
“You own a Maxima,” she reassured him.
He winced again. “Am I that egotistical, or do I just have a corny sense of humor?”
“A bit of both.” She smiled. “The car is black, like what you always wear.”
“I had a feeling I was drawn to the color too much for my own safety.”
“I’m … taking you to dinner. An orientation exercise.”
“I suppose I owe you whatever explanation I can remember. Will that restaurant have a bar? This could be a ‘bumpy night.’”
She smiled again, this time at the famous Bette Davis line. He remembered some things just fine.
“You’ve had a long flight,” she said. “I planned on stopping for an early dinner so you can stretch your legs. Or would that be too much right now?”
“I’ve been alone for four days. I could use some apparently familiar company.”
“Aside from the awkwardness,” Temple confessed, “I’m dying of curiosity.”
“Me too,” Max said.
*
“Why are you doing this, curiosity aside?” Max asked ten minutes later. He’d folded himself like an origami napkin into the Miata’s front seat after jamming his crushable duffel bag into what passed as a trunk.
“I’m supposed to know you.” Temple paused in unfastening the convertible top.
He didn’t recognize the near-quote as his. She got out of the car to fold down the top. As she’d anticipated, not enough headroom for Max. He’d never ridden in her Miata, although she’d been a frequent passenger in his cars.
His head turned to follow her around the small car. “You’re ‘supposed to know me,’ but now you don’t, I see. I don’t even know ‘me.’”
“Do you … remember … know … me at all?”
He shook his head. “Oh, wait.”
Temple’s breath caught in her chest as she stood still.
“I know you’re a generous woman to do this,” he said.
Letdown.
“Girl Scout,” she agreed.
They were back to banalities, which was a relief, Temple thought, as she returned to the driver’s seat.
McCarran Airport was on Wayne Newton Boulevard, and you could see the multinational panorama of the major Strip hotels on the flat desert landscape. Temple drove up the Strip, passing the landmarks: the Luxor, the MGM Grand, the Goliath, the Crystal Phoenix, Caesars Palace, the Bellagio, the Paris, the Wynn, and the Venetian. She turned around and cruised down the Strip’s other side. Max’s sunglasses gazed at the exotic views on both sides, but his mind seemed a continent away.
“I made dinner reservations at a steak house,” Temple said at last. “I know it was an ungodly long flight. I can cancel.”
Her words seem to jolt Max out of his spell. “Yes, but no. Long flight, don’t cancel. A prime, rare American steak is just the medicine I need.”