As a PR person, Temple had met all kinds of people. As a sometime amateur detective she’d met plenty of the crass, greedy and crooked, and Tony Valentine passed her character test.
“Late-night talk-show shoes,” he commented as she and Matt sat down, “but with class.”
Correction: Tony passed with an A-plus. “Thanks. I’m so excited to hear what you’ve got to say. Matt is wonderful with people and on talk radio and on The Amanda Show. I may be prejudiced, but the network is going to be blown away.”
While Matt looked properly abashed by her gushing, Temple noticed that Tony Valentine was growing more and more amused.
“Temple,” Matt warned. “You’re overdoing my virtues.”
“No, I’m not. Guys can’t have sissy things like ‘virtues’, they just have strong points.”
Tony leaned back in his cushy leather chair. Behind him, through a billboard-size window-wall, the sunlit Vegas Strip glittered like a river with lane-to-lane lines of hot metal melted into liquid mercury.
“Yes, I’ve heard from the network,” Tony agreed, “but Matt’s future isn’t the reason I called you here today.” He tapped long tapered fingertips together.
While Tony enjoyed a dramatic silence, Temple exchanged a bewildered glance with Matt, who leaned forward.
“I know,” Matt said, “I’ve maybe been a little indecisive with the network. Some personal issues have been a distraction. I wouldn’t blame them for backing off.”
Tony let his reclining seat snap upright. “You two aren’t calling off the wedding?”
“There’s nothing formally decided, like a date, if it would interfere,” Temple explained, wondering whether the network had concluded it would prefer an eligible Matt.
“It’s on, more than ever,” Matt said, taking Temple’s hand.
“Glad to hear it.” Tony beamed like a presiding clergyman, ready to direct them to exchange vows and rings. “Actually, I have an unexpected offer from a client of the network’s. It’s a bit awkward, since I don’t represent either of the entities in the deal.”
“You mean you don’t rep the network’s client?” Temple said, puzzled. Agents represented individuals usually. If not Matt, who…?
“It’s a big advertiser.”
“Talk-show hosts don’t do ads,” Temple said.
“Usually not, no.”
Temple eyed Matt again. Why was Tony acting so coy?
The agent cast a mock-rebuking glance at Matt. “You didn’t tell me you were cohabiting with a TV personality.”
Squeaky-clean Matt, ex-priest, had to set the record straight. “Temple worked for a couple years as a TV reporter in the Twin Cities, but that was her first job. Nothing anybody would remember.”
“Thanks a lot,” Temple said.
“Of course she was tops at her job,” Matt told Tony, “but who would want…I mean, TV reporters don’t usually move to the entertainment side of the camera.”
“Neither do radio counselors,” Temple said.
Tony jumped in fast. “The wedding may very well be off if you continue speaking, Matt,” Tony said. “So I’ll get to the punch line. The ‘TV personality’ I’m referring to is your cat, Miss Barr.”
“Midnight Louie?”
“I believe that is the name. Why so incredulous? He has a certain rep in this town.” Tony grinned. “A rap sheet? Or should I say a track record.”
Temple leaned back in her chair. “So that’s it. À La Cat pet food is back with an empty bowl, begging for Louie’s services again. He was so much more personable than that yellow tabby they were using before, that Maurice.”
Temple gave the French name, “Mau-reece”, the British pronunciation, Morris.
“I swear that camera hog my roomie replaced tried to kill Louie when he was strutting down a long staircase wearing a flamingo pink fedora.” She turned to Matt. “I swear Louie wanted to kill me for allowing them to fasten that headgear on him. He looked so dashing in vintage fifties black and pink, though.”
“I’d want to kill you if you tried to fasten a flamingo-pink fedora on me,” Matt told her.
“Well, the Fontana brothers wore fedoras matched with pastel zoot suits for that commercial and looked terrific.”
“We can’t all be Fontana brothers, thank God,” Matt answered.
“Agreed,” Temple said. “I’m a one-of-a-kind girl myself.”
They smiled at each other like there was no tomorrow.
“Hello, young lovers,” Tony interrupted. “I’m not through talking the deal.” He rapped his knuckles on the glass desktop. “Apparently the network execs like what they saw of Miss Barr when you two had dinner with them. À La Cat wants to do a series of ‘story’ TV ads, which is a big deal.”
“Oh,” Temple was rapturous. “Like those Taster’s Choice coffee ads back before I was born, with the cute courting couple.”
“Before you were born.” Tony sighed. “Depressing fact. Early eighties phenomenon. I remember them like they ran yesterday. How do you know about them?”
“Communications major. We had classes in advertising and TV. Besides, they’re on YouTube. Louie’s first round of commercials did a bit of that, using the Persian cat, Yvette. And Fancy Feast has used a smashing Yvette-type cat for years, and did a kitten/couple story segment recently. Oh,” Temple said, her voice turning sour.
“What?” Matt asked. “If you don’t want Louie doing commercials again, we can just say no.”
Tony frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“I hope they’re not going to use Yvette again. I just remembered Yvette’s owner is that unbearably overbearing B-movie actress, Savannah Ashleigh.”
“‘Oh’ is right,” Matt said. “I’ve met and dealt with her. She definitely is Ego à la mode.”
“Well,” Temple went on in her usual spritely tone. “She’s more to be pitied than despised. Maybe they won’t be using Yvette. That’s an old approach.”
“One thing I’m sure they’ll be using, Miss Barr,” Tony said. “And that’s you.”
“Me?”
“You. Their idea is all cat’s-eye view. Well, your shoes and legs, and possibly your voice, if it passes muster. Mr. Midnight will be given an off-camera voice as well.”
Temple turned to Matt. “That’s a radical new approach. Too bad Humphrey Bogart died. He’d be perfect for Louie’s voice.”
“A voice actor can suggest anything,” Tony said. “There’d also be podcasts and social media. For all of which you and Louie would be reimbursed. It could add up to a fat sum, and I’d stipulate that you’d get all the footwear you wore for the commercials gratis.”
“Paid in Prada. Oh, my. That’s worth clicking your heels together and having to relocate to Kansas.”
“Temple.” Matt was shaking his head. “Slow down. They may want to portray an ordinary woman with ordinary shoes.”
“No woman wants to see ordinary shoes on TV. Well, maybe marathon runners and such do.”
Tony responded to Temple’s enthusiasm with a broad smile. “À la Cat is the producer, of course, but they’ve committed major funds to this campaign and want a top-notch creative director, so it’ll be a slick project. In fact, they mentioned that ‘fedora’ commercial with the Fontana brothers chorus line of zoot suits, and wanted something similar, this time with Louie in a zoot suit.”
“What’s a zoot suit?” Matt asked, “as compared to a monkey suit?”
Temple and Tony exchanged glances. He was old enough to know, and Temple was hip enough to know, but no way would a Gen X Midwestern ex-seminarian and parish priest know.
She tried to explain. “A zoot suit can be a monkey suit, but it can’t be the other way around.”
“A monkey suit, my dear boy,” Tony told Matt, “is something you’ll be wearing at your upcoming wedding, unless your lovely fiancée gives you a pass. Usually it’s formal white tie and tails getup, but it could be a dinner jacket ensemble. With side-satin-striped black trousers. On the other hand, a zoot suit—” Tony deferred to Temple with a glance.