Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

“If the kidnappers are only a bunch of annoyed girlfriends, we just have to tell them what happened and that the lark is off and we need to call the police.”

Nicky was pacing now, not caring if anyone downstairs heard him.

“Not exactly, pal. What police? Where are we? Who has jurisdiction? And you’ve just found a dead woman in a bordello. She’s been killed in a way that screams ‘sex crime.’ You are a semi-celebrity in this town, a radio personality. An ex-priest. Someone might hear the whole scenario and think that you flipped out and went psycho-religious at being exposed to the sleazy side of Vegas.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Not. Plus, we have Uncle Macho Mario bound downstairs. He was a major mob figure in his salad days. Sure, he’s only minced parsley today, but some cops, and some robbers, would really like to see him brought down.

“And then there’s me.”

“You? You have nothing to do with it.”

“I, like you, got away from the girl kidnapping ring. I hid out up here. Alone. Like you. I have a good rep as a businessman in this community, but my name is Fontana. The police always like to hassle a Fontana. We have no alibis, Matt. We call the police, the least we get is humiliation and suspicion and rotten publicity. The worst we get is a murder rap.”

Matt got it. The whole picture. Not blacked out at all.

“Molina—”

“Yeah, she’d probably give us the benefit of the doubt, but the weirdness of us all being here, and now, this murder . . . front page, instant online podcast, paparazzi up the wazoo, no wedding, no reputations, no way out.”

Matt felt his head spinning and it was champagne-free. “What’ll we do?”

“You have my cell phone.”

“I’ve tried using it. We’re out of range.”

“It can be rough out in the desert where these chicken ranches operate.”

“Chicken ranches?”

“An old term. Legal Nevada brothels are way more sophisticated now. Have Web pages. Sell certified once-worn thong panties. Give me my cell phone. We need to ditch the murder scene. I’ll see if I can find a spot where the signal will work.”

Matt did as Nicky said, following him into the empty hall. The other man had his cell phone on and was watching the small screen as they walked.

“This area is a dead spot. If we can find an outside wall—”

Nicky led Matt to a closed door that opened into shelves heaped with pillows and bed linens and lots of strange toiletry items. He ducked inside, up against the back wall, and hit the cell phone buttons again.

“Got a signal. One bar. Here goes nothing.” Nicky squeezed himself against the wall, and then walked his back down it, watching the cell phone screen all the time.

He listened intently. “Van? Van, baby? Can you hear me?” He pushed down until he was sitting on the floor. “Can you hear me now? Great. I’ve barely got a signal. Now listen hard and fast. It’s a matter of life and death and it’s all up to you now.”

Rescue Party

“It’s Nicky,” Van said, giggling. “I guess he just can’t stand being away from me for even one night.”

Temple smiled indulgently.

They were all smiling indulgently. They were all rosy-nosey high. Tipsy. Happy. Girly.

Kit took advantage of the interruption to rise and refill all their champagne glasses. As her left hand hesitated over the Lalique crystal flutes her ring sparkled like the light blazing out from the top of the Luxor pyramid, a light that could be seen in outer space.

“I bet those Fontana boys are getting rowdy,” Electra said. “That many brothers have got to be a handful.”

“I have four older brothers, and they are,” Temple said. “Total teases. It’s nice to be on my own here and not be overprotected and underrespected.”

“The Fontana boys are all darling with you,” Kit said. “Like the world’s sexiest big brothers.”

“I would never,” Temple said with the kind of slow solemnity several ounces of champagne produces, “flirt with a Fontana brother. We have a special relationship. They respect me, and I respect them. You will be marrying into all those brothers, Kit.”

“I can use some brothers-in-law, especially if they treat me the way they do you.”

“They’re pretty . . . nice,” Temple said. “I don’t know why some lucky girls never got their claws into them . . . I mean, converted them to matrimony.”

“Overrated,” said Electra, the much-married, and divorced, woman. She was frowning at Van. “That girl is getting sober. Fast.”

“Van’s always so dignified,” Temple said. “It’s nice to see her loosen up.”

“Van’s never as white as a Halloween sheet,” Electra said, her fingers patting the air to quiet Temple and Kit. “Something’s going on.”

Van was making writing motions with her right hand and looking way not tipsy. Or happy.

“The Sapphire Slipper. I’ve heard of it, but—”

Kit ravaged a distant desk for pen and paper. Temple pulled a two-inch-thick Vanity Fair magazine off the coffee table to offer it as a writing surface. In a few seconds, Van was jotting down frantic phrases.

They were all listening hard now, memorizing the words Van repeated as she made huge, sloppy, slanting notes.