Cat In A Topaz Tango

“Mr. Raphael d’Arc, my manager and occasional personal security agent.”

“Hmm.” The officious fellow looked Rafi over and decided he looked both secure and personable. “Not the usual mindless muscle in hip-hop bling. Quite refreshing, Miss Ozone.”

“I aim to refresh,” Temple said. “So tell me what’s all happenin’ so I can jive with the jukebox in perfect one-and-ah-two-and-ah-three-and-ah-bam git-down, tank-up, thank you, ladies and gentlemen time.”

“She is a pistol, isn’t she, man?” the guy asked Rafi as if they were secret frat brothers, with a wink and a would-be jab in the ribs.

Rafi easily evaded any contact and drew his black denim jacket back to reveal a tan leather holster. “This is a pistol, man. Who are you and why are you accosting Miss Ozone?”

“Hey, chill, dude! I’m the DJ for breaks on this show. Gotta keep the live audience mellow yellow between segments. I’m just a fan of Miss Ozone. She is one scintillating little mama.”

“You’re on the set the day before the actual broadcasts?”

“Yes, sir!” The DJ was getting very Private Gomer Pyle after seeing the iron Rafi was pumping. “I need to watch the rehearsals, get the rhythm and the routines down. Just like Miss Ozone here. That’s why you’re here early, isn’t it? A real hip little pro. Always a 110 percent for the gig. These teen pop tarts are all energy and nerve and flash edges, even if they burn out fast.”

Temple thought that was pretty true, but coming from this oil-slick guy it made her sick to the stomach.

Rafi had the same reaction and he had a wanna-be pop tart daughter who was still as naïve as cornflakes. “Maybe. But Miss Ozone is only paid to perform on stage. You keep your distance and do your job, and your lame little soul patch will not be torn right off your chinny-chin-chin.”

Temple shivered as the guy shimmied away like a bowlful of lard. “That was mean.”

“He’s a creep. This is what Mariah wants to run deadhead into. Today’s entertainment industry is run by gangsters and creeps on the make and slimy celebrity ‘judges’ who make dough from ridiculing people, some of them pathetically hungry for approval, on live TV.”

“Wasn’t it always that way?”

“No. Talent used to matter and bullying wasn’t entertainment.”

Temple blinked.

Rafi shrugged. “You discover you have a kid you never knew about, you start to worry about the world. It’s nuts, I know.”

“I think it’s kinda sweet.”

Rafi’s fist took a mock swing at her upper arm. “Cut out that kinda talk. You don’t mess with my rep as the Big Bad Wolf That Ate L. A., Red.”

“I’m closer to a lively strawberry blond these days.”

“And a tasty little fruit tart you’re playing. But don’t underestimate the fruit flies.”

Temple nodded. She was liking Rafi Nadir more and more.

Would that frost Molina.

Maybe she did have a guardian angel, Mr. Raphael d’Arc, even though Max was gone. Temple wondered where his wings were in residence now, and hoped it wasn’t heaven.

Reinvention Waltz

Fiery leg aches sent shooting pains through his entire frame, but for the first time since his escape, sitting in the elegant Hummerbar drinking an aquavit, he felt he lived up to his real name, “Max.”

Maximilian Fleming was registered at the Hotel St. Gotthard on Zurich’s main shopping, eating, banking street—the Bahnhofstrasse.

Five new stolen credit cards reposed in the eel skin vertical wallet in the breast pocket of his new leather blazer. His magician’s fingers were still matchless at the Misdemeanor Waltz. The five cards had been extracted from obvious American tourists, all the better to remain undiscovered for longer. Tourists moved on fast these days, and, in patchwork Europe, could scoot two countries over in a day.

His slacks and silk turtleneck were Ralph Lauren, his shoes Bruno Magli. He’d also bought an electric razor that would beat back his black beard (with a slight gray sheen—when had that happened? Or was it new? Just how old was he?) to a disguising, yet film-star-hip smudge of three days’ growth. The way the bristles had annoyed him on the road, he figured he’d been smooth-shaven previously. His hair had been expensively barbered into the miserable spiky male coxcomb in vogue nowadays that made guys look like the village idiot, or worse, Clay Aiken. Everything elegant and costly was available within walking distance on the Bahnhofstrasse, despite the current economic swoon, a key advantage. Conspicuous consumption never died.

He figured bold was the best disguise. A rich Irishman would not be out of place here. The once-impoverished island nation where his forebears had starved for want of potatoes was having an Irish Spring of high-tech industrialization.

Yes, he’d donned a faint mist of brogue. It came as easy to him as German, even the Swiss variation. As had the facts of recent Irish economic upswing before the recent global recession. That he knew these geopolitical facts and other languages made Garry Randolph’s story about their being partners in counterterrorism for years ring ominously true.