Cat In An Aqua Storm

“I wish I had another pair of ears and eyes at the Goliath for the strippers’ competition. I won’t be able to get in until ten or so, and I’ve got a feeling that the show has just begun to get on the road.”

“Can you still do that job under the circumstances?”

“If they lost two PR people in a row, they’d really freak. Besides, it’s too late for anyone else to come in cold.”

“Maybe Mr. Buchanan is feeling better and can spell you.”

“Electra, I’m going to be fine. I’ll be better off with work to take my mind off things. And I wouldn’t wish Crawford Buchanan on anybody.”

Electra was banging through the cupboards in an effort to be helpful. She clattered the dishes, then handed Temple a cereal bowl. “Here’s some milk.”

“Thanks.” Temple set down the coffee mug and took the tablespoon that Electra gave her, and crunched away at a generous spoonful. “Arghgk!” She ran to the sink and spat out her mouthful.

“What is it, dear? Is your stomach too delicate from the attack to—”

“Stomach nothing. It’s my taste buds.” Temple returned to the counter, picked up the so-called cereal container and squinted closely at the fine print. Since she had expected Matt, she had left her glasses on the bedside table.

“Electra, this is Louie’s Free-to-Be-Feline, not cereal! Aiyuch! No wonder he won’t eat it.”

“Oh, sorry! It looked like some trendy new cereal. Something certifiably healthy.”

“It’s supposed to look like that,” Temple commented sourly. “That’s how they sell it to gullible humans. Cats are apparently harder to fool. Would you mind looking in the lower cupboard? I need some protein. I’m sure Louie wouldn’t object to sharing some of the water-packed, dolphin-sparing fancy albacore people-tuna that’s so bad for him with me.”

19

A Kinky Cat-tail

Paging throughmug shots was like perusing a yearbook of the terminally tough.

Temple flipped past enough slightly skewed faces, tattoos, scraggly beards, sideburns and mustaches, scars and criminally close eyes to cast the gang members in several road-show companies of West Side Story.

“It’s hard,” she told the uniformed female officer who came back to check on her progress. “They were on me so fast, and they didn’t look that unusual.”

Officer Ontiveros, a woman of impressive muscularity, nodded,  and offered a slim smile of encouragement. “The subconscious works all the time. Give yours a chance to testify.”

So Temple turned page after page, wondering what Molina expected her to find: petty muggers or big-time muscle? Were her attackers even in this massive book?

At last she indicated three men who might have attacked her. “Obviously, I’m wrong about at least one,” she said.

“That’s okay, miss. It’s a lead. The hard part will come if we dredge up any of these guys and have to go to lineup.”

Molina must have been nearby watching, though that seemed unlikely. She strolled up just as Temple was about to be released from her civic duty, sat on the desk edge—no mercy the morning after—and looked down at Temple thoughtfully.

“Officer Ontiveros tells me you had some luck.”

Temple nodded cautiously. She couldn’t guarantee anything, she’d just done her best.

“I wish I’d had as much luck as you,” Molina added.

“Oh?” Temple knew she was jumping hook, line, sinker and peach snakeskin high heels into something.

Molina rapped the manila file in her hand on the glass-topped desk. Temple didn’t know why they bothered with the glass. The desktop was scarred by ballpoint squiggles, X-Acto knife cuts, and coffee-cup rings.

“I never did unearth a photograph of Max Kinsella,” Molina said. “Not a one. Quite a mystery man to the end.”

Temple tried not to wince at that last phraseology. “The Goliath had tons of publicity shots,” she said. “Head shots and eight-by-tens by the dozen.”

“Not now, they don’t.”

“Oh, come on, Lieutenant. I saw those photos. I had ’em copied and distributed myself. Max didn’t know PR from Puerto Rico. Maybe the publicity department didn’t check the files.”

“They did, and I did. Not a photo.”

“What about the lobby placards?”

“Gone. Vanished.”

“You’re kidding! Those are collectors’ items. This town was plastered with ephemera of Max. He was a big draw. You don’t work the major hotels here unless you are.”

“He draws a blank now.” Molina managed not to sound triumphant. “And it’s not just the absence of a paper trail. He left no trail at all: no driver’s license, school records, employment. He’s a Nowhere Man from—what did you call it? Ephemera.” She almost tasted the word. “That means all the here-today, outdated-tomorrow publicity materials a show produces? The word does suit Mr. Mystifying Max. Looks like... somebody... made all those photos vanish. Presto chango.” Temple put a hand to her forehead. She was feeling punk, but had skipped her prescribed Tylenol because she had to get back to the Goliath and do her job. So not even photos remained of Max. Maybe she had dreamed him up.