“High time,” I hear Miss Louise mutter.
“I guess she was past her prime,” Snow Off-white admits. “Gimpy is our last young ‘un. His littermates were caught and probably ended up domesticated, but he wiggled away.”
“Straight into the metal mangler of a car,” Louise notes.
No one can say anything to that, so we trudge around broken glass and discarded sharp-tipped needles that are poisoned on top of being sharp, and those strange deflated balloons that humans do unthinkable acts with, and keep mum.
This territory is occupied by homeless humans as well, and they are nicer to our kind than many of the housed ones are. But some of the humans who come here are scum preying on the bad luck and ill health of their own kind.
I cannot imagine in what shape Ma Barker is if she is being kept in a MASH unit. Until now I thought a MASH was a speeding car.
Not long ago I had to pull Louise back from the brink of a near-death experience. I do not relish trying the same trick with a
tough but pretty elderly broad.
A racoon. Not your usual urban evildoer. Nobody is ready to go up against a rogue racoon. It might even have a form of “distemper” the humans call “rabies” to come this close to civilization. If that is the case and the beast has bitten Ma Barker, she is roadkill.
I rue the day I ever told Miss Louise about her maybe-grandmother. Dames always take relationships way too seriously. It is a built-in flaw in the species. On the other mitt, without dames, we would have no species, flawed or otherwise.
Chapter 20
Orange Bowl Special
Temple awoke to the insistent chirping of her cell phone. It was worse than sparrows in the chimney, which was not a current problem because the Circle Ritz didn’t have chimneys.
Her left calf was numb from Louie lying on it.
She shook a leg, quite literally, and leaped out of bed, limping across the parquet floor to her tote bag. It leaned drunkenly against a wall, which reminded Temple of her 90-proof bedtime toddy with Matt the night before last, which reminded her of …
well, never mind.
“Yes?” Temple answered the phone. Max! At last! She needed to see him, touch him, but hearing him would do for now.
“It’s Pritchard Merriweather.”
“Oh. Yes?”
“How fast can you move?”
Temple eyed her left leg twitching with tingles as she leaned against the wall. “Not fast at the moment. My leg’s gone asleep.”
“I meant on publicity.”
“Like canned lightning.”
“Good. Ms. Wong is doing an orange-peel blessing at Maylords at 4:00 P.M. today. Since Sunday’s a slow news day, it should be worth some coverage on the nightly news, maybe even national. Can you swing the locals?”
“Can you fax me the particulars on an orange-peel blessing in ten minutes?”
“Two.”
“Done.”
“See you there.”
Temple’s ear was slightly warmed from the brain-killing press of her cell phone. Louie had deigned to rise and had come over to rub against her numb leg.
Maybe he was apologizing … or, on the other hand, being a cat, just rubbing it in.
Temple sighed heavily, feeling her spine flatten against the wall. Her regular phone rang, and it was time to hobble to the office on the other side of the living room and peel the fax sheets off her machine.
Maybe that was the “peel” in an orange-peel blessing, but Temple doubted that she would ever be so lucky.
Forty minutes later she had a snappy press release ready to fax to the local TV stations. She decided to hit the radio stations too. This was a very funky event, according to the gospel straight from Wong Inc.
She checked her watch and saw it was almost 9:00 A.M. Okay to phone one floor above.
She pressed a quick-dial button on her phone and sat down, tapping her fully circulating left foot.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” she asked when the ringing stopped.
“Just barely,” came Matt’s voice. Matt’s bedroom voice, come to think of it. Only in her dreams. Just what had she dreamed last night anyway? Max had the bedroom voice, and the personal history to back it up.
“Listen. There’s a very trendy spiritual event happening at Maylords this afternoon. I thought you might want to be there.”
“Spiritual? At Maylords?”
“It’s an orange-peel blessing with Amelia Wong presiding. I was rounding up some media and thought, hey, Matt is media.
Maybe there will be some fodder for a future Midnight Hour discussion.”
“Uh, orange-peel blessing?”
“I know. It sounds blasphemous to a mainstream religion guy, but I’m told it will ‘cleanse and bless’ Maylords and its
inhabitants in the wake of the other night’s ‘evil assault,’ the Friday from hell. It will erase a multitude of negative influences and will correct and compensate for known and unknown feng shui problems, providing a fresh start after even the most unfortunate circumstances. It is also appropriate to bless a home or office upon moving in, and can ensure an auspicious grand opening for a new business.”
“Sounds like ‘Reverend’ Wong should have performed this rite before the gala opening night.”
“Better late than never,” Temple said.
“You were reading that off a press release, I hope.”
“My personal press release. PR is magic: transforming disaster into advantage.”
“So that’s what you and Kinsella have in common.”
“Ah, do you mean magic … or disaster?”
“I’ll let you answer that one. So, okay. If you want me there, I’ll come.”
O000h. Temple bit her tongue to avoid an inciting answer to that innocent double entendre. Ow. “I have to run. Actually, I have to run off at the mouth and follow up my faxes with personal calls. I’ll have a cauliflower ear by noon. The ceremony’s at four P.M.”
“See you there,” Matt signed off.
Temple listened to the dial tone drone for a while to help her heart rate slow down.
A bit after three, Temple eased her Miata into a parking space all by its lonesome near the street, so no one would park in adjacent slots and chip her paint.
She surveyed the array of media vans pulled up in front of Maylords with satisfaction. They represented every major local station, as well as the networks.
The fa�ade of Maylords was pretty jam-packed too. Workmen moved between the room settings and the great outdoors, replacing huge sheets of glass.
Temple hustled inside on her white patent leather clogs, a patriotic symphony in a red-and-blue knit suit. The floor, she was relieved to see, was pristine, and all of Friday night’s shattered glass had melted like icicles in the Las Vegas heat. If it weren’t for the workmen reinstalling the plate glass windows, one would never know… .
A wandering TV reporter with videographer in tow started to intercept Temple, but was diverted by the sight of a Day-glo orange Gangsters limo as long as Shamu trick-or-treating as a pumpkin. It was pulling up to the entrance.
In the manner of a clown car the back door opened to unleash the entire Amelia Wong contingent.
Temple nodded like a hostess with a spring in her neck as they passed her on the way in. Then she sidled up to the chauffeur clad in an orange zoot suit.
“What model is this?” she asked.
“The O.J. It comes with Bruno Magli footrests and a lemonade concession.”
“Isn’t that a bit tasteless, even for Gangsters?”
“Hey, taste is in the mouth of the beholder.”
Another voice intervened from behind her. “Speaking of tasteless, your wardrobe isn’t in tune with the big blessing ceremony.”
Before she could turn to confront that oily and unfortunately familiar baritone, he added her initials as a coda to his comment. “Is it, T.B.?”
Temple finished turning. “If it isn’t C.B., as I live and regret it.”
T h e r e h e s t o o d , Buchanan, a l l the fsleaziest i v flack e - in f Vegas, o o resplendent t - f iin van orange terry jogging suit. It went well with his gelled black hair that erupted in a foam of curls at his nape. All in all a preHalloween look.