"Of course, Lieutenant. I'll get that info so fast it'll make your blue-eyes-brown. Any honest citizen would."
"An honest citizen would be no good at it. Food's probably ready. I'll get it."
But he got out of the car and followed her to the window, Watching as she paid for the two bags.
"That's my jalapeno deathburger," she said grabbing one. "I can tell by the round pattern of the grease spots leaking through."
"Smart investigative work." He grabbed the other bag and walked back to her car.
"Look. Lunch is over. You can take the folder and the burger and eat it in your own car.
"Eat this sloppy mess in my car? I don't think so, Lieutenant."
He grinned and hopped in her passenger seat.
Damn. She didn't want to chow down this disgustingly delicious mess with Max Kinsella looking like he'd stepped out of an Armani ad, looking on.
On the other hand, how would a man who'd just materialized out of a Town and Country magazine eat a Charley's old-fashion burger?
Watching worked both ways, she decided, as she unwrapped the high, wide, and unhealthy jalapeno deathburger. It smelled divine.
Chapter 20
Just the Way You Are
"Isn't this premature?" Matt asked, leading Leticia Brown-aka Ambrosia--into his apartment.
"The audition may have gone okay, but l haven't done a real radio show yet."
"That's the point. We need to launch you."
"I could be the Titanic."
"So modest' Remember, the Titanic was top of the line, even if it sunk. You're not gonna sink. They're gonna love you. Too" many big egos on radio already."
"But it takes a strong personality to handle all those call-ins, at least judging from the practice run you and Dwight just threw at me. Drunks and compulsive talkers and obscene callers."
"Worst-case scenarios. And you did fine."
Leticia was wearing draped red jersey pants and top, reminiscent of a theater curtain. She stopped dead when she spied the red suede couch curving through his mostly empty living room. They both equally dominated the room, one horizontal, one vertical. Immovable object meets--and coexists with--irresistible force.
"That is a work of art, my man. Where'd you get that?"
"At the Goodwill."
"Looks like a million dollars."
"Considerably cheaper. I warned you; there's not much here."
"What they call 'minimalist' in the art museums. This is a jazzy building, Matt. We should find a lot of great photo backgrounds here. That lobby is spiffy, the kitchen is a hoot, and the pool looks like something from Sunset Boulevard. Too bad it's still winter. Billboards are horizontal, you know, and l can picture you floating on that cool, blue water."
"Dead like William Holden? Not very promising for a talk show host."
"No." She sighed. "But maybe that couch. Subtle vibes of shrinkdom, you know?"
"I still don't see why you need a picture of me for a radio show." Her bittersweet-chocolate deep brown eyes made his look like weak tea. Now they darkened to jet black. "Huh! You are Ambrosia's Mystery Man, that's why. Got to tease the folks a little.
The audience sure doesn't want to see me lolling around bigger-than-life." She turned majestically, taking in the Circle Rita's odd angles.
"Love this place. Nothin' square about it, no way. Who's that?"
Matt was surprised to see her stop in mid-turn and point to the ajar hall door.
He could see no one lurking through the narrow slit, no Electra, no Temple. Then he saw that Leticia's gaze was focused on the floor.
A single black paw and leg, and a spray of white whiskers like a feline flag of surrender, pushed through.
"Neighbor's cat. Nosy old boy. Midnight Louie."
"Makes himself right to home, doesn't he?" Leticia's chuckle was as deep and rich as devil's food cake.
Matt, irritated, watched Louie trot across the floor and launch himself at the sofa. Having the black cat around his place was like having Temple eavesdropping on his every move. It brought her front and center in his thoughts, and she was never very far from that position anyway. Besides, he always wondered if Louie was roaming because he'd been displaced at home by a human interloper. Matt didn't like to know the when and where of Temple's resumed relationship with Max Kinsella.
"Don't act so glum, pardner. You see, a cat always knows exactly where he looks best and this one gives that crimson couch a big two paws up."
Leticia stepped back in her black combat boots and framed cat and couch with her outstretched hands.
"That's it: red sofa, black cat, white guy. Only thing missing is me playing; the part of the couch."
"You want Louie in the photograph?"
"It's a natural. Look at him. You should look so relaxed. But you will when l get through with you. The other Mr. Midnight there, he's got Silly Putty for bones--Mr. Midnight! Hey. l like that a hell of a lot better than Brother john. We did the right thing."
"What have I got myself into?"
"Show biz." Her laughter filled up the room, warmed its cool, white curves.
"You might have trouble using the cat. He's been filmed for some cat food commercials.
Could he a ban on using him in another kind of ad." Even as he laid down the objections, hope spread its wings in his heart. "I'd have to ask the owner about that."
"Ask away. We could even pay the owner. 'Sides, one black cat looks pretty much like another. Who's to know? You don't have any spectacular piece of furniture in your bedroom, hmmm?"
"No! That sofa is it. My one . . . statement."
"It is talking loud and clear. Better get going. Nice to meet you, Mr. Midnight."
She bowed formally to the cat, winked at Matt, and flung the door wide before she left.
Matt shut it slowly behind her. The room seemed emptier than it had before. He wondered if previous tenants had held parties here, if voices had lapped against the glassy wall of French doors like waves, rising and falling.
He could almost hear their ghosts.
Matt went to the ess-curved sofa and sat on the outer curve.
Louie had curled himself into harmony with the inner curve.
"Kicked out, boy? Or just restless? I guess we have a lot in common these days, which is why you keep showing up here.
What am I supposed to do about it? You're the one in a position to under mine the opposition. Maybe you could give him a fatal cat allergy. Cat scratch fever, that's it." Matt patted the velvety head. "Everything would he so much simpler without the real 'Mr. Midnight'
back. Is there a focus group for displaced domestic cats? Do you sit in a circle in the dark at night and yowl at the moon! You have to understand; Max Kinsella was in Temple's life long before either of us was."
The cat listened with that noblesse-oblige look the feline kind had mastered for human soliloquies. Grave, but above it all, above the pangs of exclusion and change. Yet he was voting with his feet when he deserted his home turf to consort with relative strangers.
If even a cat may look at a queen, even a cat may not like being trumped by the knave of hearts.
Matt called Temple before leaving for ConTact that evening to report Louie's defection from her apartment.
"That's all right," she said, "if you don't mind. But you're right about Louie's commercial contract. I heard from the cat food PR today."
"You did? And?"'
"Nothing much. They're going to run the commercials of Yvette and Louie that they have in the can and then decide on any new campaign. That could take months, maybe years. But I'll check to see if there's any print media exclusion in Louie's current contract. This radio thing sounds like it's getting serious."
"It got serious when they offered to pay me a thousand dollars a week."
"A thousand a week?" Matt could see her eyebrows drawing together. "Is that enough?"
"A hundred dollars an hour sounds like too much."
"But you've got travel time to and fro, and this is a performance gig. I don't know what's standard pay in radio. On the one hand.