Cat In A Topaz Tango

The first empty table was lit by a candle flame trembling like a caught bird in a pierced metal cage, a small draped tent of faux isolation meant to make a vast space seem intimate, or at least private.

Temple set her drink down on the glass circle that topped a swagged tablecloth.

Even sitting, Molina seemed to loom in the miniature tent.

“So what’s the occasion?” Temple asked. “You surely aren’t thanking me for going along with this masquerade as Zoe Chloe.”

“No, but I suppose I should. You’re right that this isn’t my idea. Your fiancé suggested we have this chat.”

“Matt? Why?”

“To clear his conscience.”

“What can you tell me about him that he wouldn’t?”

“Such perfect trust,” Molina said, her voice brittle. “He won’t be responsible for keeping my secrets any longer. I made the mistake of confiding something in him that he won’t keep from you, no matter how disturbing it is.”

“Disturbing?”

“Shut up and sip. I can’t say this won’t hurt me more than it will you.”

Temple felt a cold chill curl around her innards.

Molina took a good swallow of scotch, and began. This was obviously both a reluctant confession and a kind of story.

“As you can see, I’m a certifiably lousy judge of men,” she said. “First there was Rafi Nadir, now Dirty Larry. Perhaps the colorful names misled me.”

Temple’s PR genes revved up. Time to soothe the anxious client. “Rafi doesn’t seem so bad now, maybe to you too. And Dirty Larry was useful in this case.”

“Useful,” Molina repeated with odd emphasis. “Yes, I suppose he is that, among other things.” She smiled. “You’re always looking for the rainbow behind the rain, Little Miss Sunshine,” Molina mused, gazing into the distance, her eyes unfocused. “I wonder if that’s what attracts them?”

“Who?”

“Men.” Molina’s eyes met Temple’s, blue as the bottle of curaçao on the shelves behind the bar.

“Which men?”

Molina ignored her. “I suppose I shared my . . . predicament with Matt because it was something we had in common.”

“Being Catholic?”

“No. Being knifed.”

Temple felt her eyes widen in a way Zoe Chloe would never allow. “So that’s what—”

“That’s what is wrong with me. It’s been six weeks, but Matt can tell you eighty-six stitches have a way of reminding you about them for a long time.”

“Eighty-six! Who? Why?”

“A moment, kiddo,” Molina said in an almost motherly voice. “I gotta brace myself a little longer.” She swallowed again. Then sighed, and sat back in her chair. “I’m actually glad this is just us girls,” she said sardonically. “Men do require keeping one’s guard up.”

“Your men, maybe,” Temple answered almost as sardonically. “Rafi is always edgy around you and Dirty Larry is half manipulative and half scared . . . ah, spineless.”

“Is he really?” Molina asked, surprised.

“Who, what?”

“Rafi is edgy?”

“From my viewpoint, he’s been coming on like gangbusters,” Temple said.

“Maybe. But it’s for Mariah, not me.”

“You going to let him escort her to the father-daughter dance?”

“She’s gone beyond gaga over the new Matt.” Molina grinned. “Even I may have. Who knew? Maybe you. If I decide to come clean on this before the fall dance, Rafi will have to overcome that.”

“She’ll just be glad that Matt isn’t a father figure. By then she’ll probably be into Los Hermanos Brothers. It’s great that Danny Dove is giving Ekaterina a personal scholarship for classes and Mariah’s ecstatic that Adam wants EK in their next video. She’s been pretty selfless about this whole thing.”

“Yeah. Surprise. Maturity peeking through. She’s actually being apologetic to me. So”—Molina took a slug of her drink—“you don’t think much of Larry.”

“Don’t know. He’s one of those guys who could be bad news. Or not. What does my opinion have to do with your slashing?”

“Too much.” Molina made a sour face as she swallowed more scotch. “It’s how I got slashed that’s the literal sticking point. It was in your ex-fiancé’s house.”

“Ex?” It took Temple a moment to identify Max as an “ex-fiancé.” And then, really out of left field, “House?”

When she did, she rejected the whole phrase: “ex-fiancé’s house.”

“Max doesn’t have a house.”

“He did. No sense to deny it. He lived somewhere and it certainly wasn’t with you at the Circle Ritz, at least not in residence.”

“Why on earth were you and Matt discussing Max and his house?”

“That’s where I got knifed.”

“Excuse me, are you trying to lay another bogus charge on Max? He’s out of Vegas, was planning to before—I don’t know where he’s gone, or why, or when. Just that he’s gone. For good.”

“I would have said that a few weeks ago myself. Gone for good. And good for you, though you didn’t want to believe it. But I’m not so sure now. That house on Mohave Way says different.”

“You were there? That must have been during the Red Hat convention.”

“No. I was there later.”

“But . . . there was nothing there later. Nothing in the house. Why would you go there?”

“I can give you reason to stop excusing Dirty Larry. I had him follow you, and one time he followed you to Max’s house at 1200 Mohave Way. That’s how I knew where to go myself. Later. Alone.”