Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

“It was more something that was done to you.”

“You’re talking in riddles,” he said sharply. “What would lose a man his whole family?”

“A boy. You were just seventeen then. I’ve been your family ever since. It was . . . your choice. The situation was dreadful, but you chose another path than falling back into the old life and trying to forget.”

“What path did I choose?”

“Justice.”

The word made him draw back. It was a weighty responsibility he wasn’t quite ready for. “And justice involved my climbing mountains?”

“You really don’t remember . . . anything?”

“Oh, I know where Switzerland is, and that it’s famous for chocolate.” He tossed the thick bar onto the thin white bedspread, even though it looked good to his medication-dry mouth. “I know what mountains are, and pain. I know I need to be careful. But with who, old man? And why?”

“Not with me. Trust me on that. I’ve been your friend for a long time.”

“Not ‘Michael’ Randolph’s friend?”

“No. You’re right. That’s my last name. You’ve been almost a son to me, this old bachelor.”

He saw the man’s eyes fighting moisture at not being recognized. At having to state their relationship, give it a context. This man wasn’t a psychiatrist. He wasn’t wearing an expensive French suit.

He, “Mad Mike,” may not know who he was, but he recognized genuine emotion.

He clasped the man’s hand, hard. “I’m better than they think,” he whispered. “Physically, if not mentally. We’ve gotten out of tight corners before?”

Garry Randolph nodded, once.

“We’ll do it again.”

The old man embraced him. Whispered something for his ears only.

“We will, Max. But you didn’t hear that name from me.” Max.

It was strong, that name. Short for what? Maximilian? Germanic. Teutonic. A European name. Not quite . . . right. But he had a name and this man knew it. This man trusted him with it.

No one else could know this. Tight corners. But a real name was something he’d needed to know. It felt right. Max. He was Max. In time, he would remember all that Max had been. And known. Including what kind of justice he had fallen off a mountain hunting.

Bridesmaids Revisited

By now the parlor scene has settled down.

The Fontana brothers and Uncle Mario have been stripped of all the heavy metal on their persons, which I see includes a few switchblades. These weapons and primo examples of the watchmaker’s art are piled on the big round table with a fringed cloth. They are guarded by a single sylph in black spandex bearing a single Uzi.

A whole lot of tall, rangy Fontana brothers are hunched unhappily on the various blue velvet Victorian settees intended to be draped by skimpily-clad ladies of the night. And day, here in Las Vegas.

Macho Mario Fontana is established in a low-slung Victorian chair, attended by the madam herself.

The resident “girls” are arrayed along the walls, eyeing the Uzis at the archways to the bar and the foyer with edgy respect.

Only us felines are cool. Like the kidnappers. Wait! How can you “kidnap” a roster of fully adult brothers? An interesting question.

I send Satin to the kitchen to eavesdrop on the other distaff kidnappers and remain to see how the men of the party are reacting.

“This is ridiculous,” Macho Mario blusters. “We have a lot of outside firepower to call on.”

“If you could call,” a guard in masked spandex purrs, pointing to the pile of RAZR cell phones on the table. “Take a gun, a watch, and a cell phone from a tough Las Vegas wiseguy, and he is limp linguini.”

Yup. This dame purrs. Like the lead femme fatale on a soap opera.

A lot of Fontana fingers twitch at that taunt. They not only are not trigger fingers, or itchy cell phone fingers, but well-buffed champagne bottle fingers. I must admit it makes the hair on my hackles rise to see so many dudes cowed by a bunch of distaff desperados. Desperadas.

Then out from the kitchens via the empty barroom strides the full posse again: I count seven altogether. They are all either anorexic muscle boys, or women.

I notice the Fontanas notice the same thing, and breathe out mutual sighs of relief.

Premature.

“We can cuff you if you need it,” a woman’s voice says. “There are plenty of cuffs around here.”

“Even gentle baby blue-dyed, rabbit fur-lined cuffs,” another lady desperado lisps, flaunting a few pair. “We like live rabbits.”

A few Uzis focus rather unnervingly on both the Fontana boys and the brothel girls.

“Faux fur!” the madam shouts, like a team coach crying “Foul.” “No rabbits were injured in constructing our erotic handcuffs! I have a paper that guarantees that.”

“What about the girls in those handcuffs?” one black-clad figure asks, twirling the silly artifact in question.