Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

So which Fontana brother had set up the party? Not Aldo, but someone had to be the front man. She asked Aldo to find the culprit and bring him to the Victorian Room for an interview.

She waited alone in the room’s tawdry elegance. Despite its reputation as an elegant brothel, the Sapphire Slipper was more pretension than class. Temple had used the brothel’s office laptop to survey the competition’s Web sites. (Also to snoop at how it presented itself and use any inside information she could come across.)

Reception was fine, and their cell phones were now registering signals. They had agreed, though, that further isolation would help all involved with the police when they were finally called.

Most legal Nevada brothels were located in the cactus and sagebrush of the boonies, no more than single-wide trailers offering visions of low-end furniture glory.

Compared to that, the Sapphire Slipper was an oasis of sophistication. The “courtesans”—that was the official title for the girls according to their organization site—were freelance workers who set their own prices and menu of offerings. They were rigorously certified as disease-free, and always used condoms. They didn’t languish for months or years at a particular “venue,” but traveled the country like carnies, checking into familiar stands for two to four weeks at a time.

Apparently variety was a big advantage of the brothel menu.

Temple tried not to be judgmental. She understood the argument that legalized prostitution protected both client and provider way more than streetwalking, but she couldn’t picture a life of such casual sexuality. Then she considered the angst she felt in changing lovers, from Max to Matt, with marriage always a likelihood in the equation. . . . And thought maybe that feeling less and experiencing more was not a totally insane way to go.

A gentle knock on the door startled her from her musings.

For a moment she felt like a resident expecting a client. Who would he be? Which one of the men from downstairs? That darling blond guy? Hell, no. He was taken.

This would be a tall, dark, and handsome, Fontana-style. The only mystery about this guy would be which one had been stuck setting up the party venue that had been usurped.

Temple imagined the fury uncorking at the place that the Fontana party was not at this very moment, including pathetic Quincey not being able to wriggle out of a fake cake in true bimbo form.

“Come in,” she said. “Ralph!” She gazed at the second youngest Fontana brother.

“Hi.” He shrugged. “Yeah, the church elders stuck me with setting up the village idol worshipping. I hear you want to know where we all were supposed to be right now.”

“Have a seat,” she suggested.

The only place was the other end of the Victorian love seat, which was hard of back and sitting surface, despite being upholstered in baby blue.

“Man, this is one uncomfortable mama of a couch,” Ralph said, arranging his lanky frame. “I guess it’s because they want to get right to the bed.”

Temple eyed the high-mattressed, rococo affair with ruffled canopy. “That doesn’t look any better.”

“There’s always the floor,” Ralph said with distaste, running the edge of his Italian sole over the saccharine floral-design area rug. “No, I guess not.”

Temple cleared her throat. She was not here to discuss ideal reclining spots with a Fontana brother. “Where were you all supposed to be?”

He described the place, the G-Strip Club, the plans for the evening. “It was going to be the usual bachelor party nonsense, a lot of booze, razzing the groom-to-be, a stripper bride popping out of a big cardboard cake. We didn’t have a lot of time to set it up.”

“That club is in Las Vegas proper. Or improper. When the ride there took so long, weren’t you suspicious?

“We were paesanos having a good time. The champagne and banter flowed. I just figured the driver was giving us a chance to mellow before we arrived.”

“The driver. Hah! Who was this?”

“Whoever was assigned to chauffeur us in the Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, our smoothest and creamiest limo. The silver exterior finish is so perfect it seems like warm mirror to the sight and touch. The leather inside is softer than kid, the color of champagne. The inlaid woods are Swedish blond.”

Temple was almost drooling.

“Nicky calls it the Vanmobile.”

Well! She didn’t need to know that!

“Um, Ralph. I understand the driver was a new hire.”

“Chauffeurs come and go, like headwaiters. Essential, but temperamental.”

“You remember this guy?”

“Gherken. They go by last names, like ritzy English butlers. Never saw him before, but he seemed competent. One of our regulars had called in sick and this guy just happened to be applying. He had a good rap . . . I mean, reference . . . sheet.”

“What do you mean by good?”

“Employed as a getaway driver by the Ciampi family in Chicago. Not Irish. They tend to drink while waiting.”

“But not Italian?”