Cat In A Topaz Tango

“Dios,” she said. “Learning undercover makeup tricks from my teen kid; who’d have thought I’d need that at my age? How are you, Father Matt, the about-to-be-married man?”

“Don’t call me that!” he said, though no one could hear. “You need my help, you cut out the harassment.”

She made a face. “Just kidding.”

Which he knew. He was still sensitive about his ex-profession because it had been a vocation, a sincere one he’d honored to the day he left, and beyond. It was hard to explain to civilians. Maybe police work was too.

“So what’s this all about?” he asked.

“Patience. First we order. I highly recommend the enchiladas fiesta. And a pitcher of beer.”

The waitress made it to their table in three minutes, the beer in another five, and the food in ten. They’d passed the time with what passed for chitchat with Molina. Was Electra going to come out with any loot from her ex-husband? He looked a bit tired, was being a fiancé all that stressful? No, he told her, rehearsing for a charity dance contest at the Oasis was. Radio guys were always doing bizarre gigs, she said. Did Temple plan to keep taking on big conventions and meddling in murders after they were married? What kind of hombre was he, who couldn’t keep the little woman at home having niños and niñas?

He finally broke in. “I get that you think we can’t talk about anything relevant until we’ve got our food and drink and have ditched the waitress, but you don’t have to be ridiculous. So, Carmen Miranda, where did you leave your Banana Republic headdress?”

Carmen was C. R. Molina’s first name, and she saw to it that damn few people knew it. The only Latina Carmen the public knew was the long-ago goofy movie singer with the fruit basket headdress. Not a positive image. Carmen Electra was more up-to-date, but another stereotyped hot Latin honey.

“It’s confession time, Padre,” she said, drinking from a frosty mug into which she poured Dos Equis beer. “I want no witnesses, no sound recordings, and no snickering on your part.”

Matt was hammered with a bolt of curiosity. Carmen Molina was the most self-controlled person he knew. Now that his profession was radio shrink, he’d put her at the head of his most-intriguing-person-to-psychoanalyze list.

He was getting his chance in the most frantic, frenetic, screeching, and screaming environment on the planet. God surely had a sadistic sense of humor, but then He’d earned it for creating and dealing with Homo sapiens.

Matt was glad he’d ordered enchiladas, which were soft and easy to eat while asking leading questions.

“What hot topic of the month is this about?” he asked.

“The eternal enigma.”

“Max.”

“Kinsella.” She didn’t even grant the man the familiarity of a first name.

Was she about to confess what Max had confessed to Matt not too long ago? That she’d caught up with him once in a strip club parking lot and they’d decided whether he’d go with her as an arrestee with a private martial arts session? That the fight had gotten physical and heated in more ways than one? Molina had accused Max of getting sexual with her and had told Temple as well as Matt. Temple hadn’t believed it, but Max had told Matt he had . . . a little, as a diversion during the fight. Anything to get an opponent off guard. That was Maxus operandi.

A deliberately single career woman like Carmen would resent that bitterly. And, face it, Matt told himself, strong emotions could turn on a dime. The other side of antagonism between women and men could be attraction denied on one side or the other, or both. Being a celibate observer of the mating game for seventeen years gave him a certain insight.

He found it fascinating that when Molina needed a foolproof disguise, she dolled herself up like an ordinary woman out on a date, but acted like she was going undercover as a hooker.

“He’s vanished again, like before.” Matt said, getting back to Topic One and Only. “Temple’s afraid he’s dead.”

“Could be.” Molina pushed her demolished plate aside and his too, hunkering down with the beer mug. “I don’t have the manpower to prove it. I’m not concerned with where Kinsella is, or if he is, but what he was.”

Matt didn’t argue. “You finally changing your opinion on that?”

“I still like him for killing that guy at the Goliath Hotel two years ago, when he first disappeared. Still, I’m willing to consider your argument that he was acting as a counterterrorist. That doesn’t carry any weight with the police. Killing is killing. It might mean shadowy Homeland Security figures would want to bail his butt out. That’s speculation, of course, now.”

“Now? What’s happened now?”

“I found his secret Las Vegas lair. God! That sounds like a line from a hokey old movie serial. I found where he’s been living in Las Vegas while eluding me and balling your new fiancée.”

“You don’t have to be vulgar to get my attention, Carmen. Apparently, he was pretty good at it. Fine by me. Temple’s happiness is my greatest pleasure.”

He knew his security would eat like acid into her new insecurity.