Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

Temple eyed Van. “Did Nicky just tell us to ‘be nice ladies’?”

“If so,” Van answered, “it isn’t going to happen.”

By then Nicky had stepped to the office door and swept it open as if pulling back a curtain.

For another stupefied moment a tall dark-haired man in a white tropical suit stood poised on the threshold, looking, at first blush—a very bold blush—like the eleventh Fontana brother.

“I present,” Nicky said, “our multimedia artiste, Señor Santiago, direct from Rio de Janeiro.”

By then Temple had taken in the glitzy silver stripes in the newcomer’s corona of long, gel-spiked hair and the black silk shirt under the pale suit, accessorized by a flamingo pink tie.

“No ‘Señor,’ ” the vision announced. “I am simply … Santiago.”

“And who exactly is ‘Simply Santiago’?” Van demanded of her exuberant spouse.

Before Nicky could answer, Santiago stepped inside, producing from under his right arm a slim white ostrich-skin portfolio that matched his white ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

“A master of many media and slave of nothing commonplace,” he announced. “My curriculum vitae, madam.”

Temple watched Van nervously, remembering the last one-named “conceptual artist” to hit Las Vegas. The unlamented “Domingo” had smothered the Strip landmarks in pink plastic flamingos. Not the Crystal Phoenix, however.

The first and foremost temporary environmental art creator, internationally famous Christo of the wrapped South Pacific island and planted umbrella park in Japan, had a lot of cheap imitators to answer for. But, frankly, many of Las Vegas’s “new” hotel upgrades and attractions turned out to be temporary, just like the dismantled Jackson Action Attraction several floors below.

Van held up the one slender sheet of paper encased by the luxury portfolio.

“Web site addresses,” Santiago declaimed. He didn’t seem to speak, but to pronounce. “All relevant information today must be seen, not read. Print is kaput.”

“You had to print out this page,” Van pointed out.

“Only to show you, madam, what you have at your fingertips, downloaded to your computer screen.”

Van turned to view her twenty-four-inch flat screen, blossoming with lavish architectural images of futuristic Brasilia, the first Third World city of the future, dwarfed nowadays by the wonders of Dubai and the Far East.

“You’re an architect,” Van said, still trying to file her visitor in a logical category.

“I? Santiago? No! Not simply. Architecture is a plebeian art, easily outmoded, hopelessly physical. I created the image collage in three-D, had you the means to view it.”

Nicky finally contributed an explanation. “Santiago is a multimedia entrepreneur. What he creates is light years beyond even the two-thousand-four-upgraded Freemont Street Experience downtown in Glitter Gulch.”

Van was still clutching the bottom line. “That was a seventeen-million-dollar upgrade, Nicky. We can’t begin to compete with that, and especially not during this economic downturn.”

“That’s just it,” he answered. “We need to create only a limited chunk of light and animation for this hotel. It’ll be perfect for the Chunnel of Crime underground link I’m planning between the spiffed-up Gangsters and the CP.”

“CP?” Santiago inquired politely.

“Where we are now,” Temple put in. “The Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino.”

“Ah. This is reason for the neon Big Bird on the roof,” said Santiago. “I can redesign that funky chicken into a swan, a bird of paradise to outdazzle the huge neighboring hotels, and I do mean neighborrring. Santiago and the Santiago Consortium have come to this amusing oasis of entertainment to make fireworks out of these dated light and liquid-animation shows.”

“Do you do flamingos?”

Temple asked sweetly. “And you are … ?” Santiago asked.

Santiago had not allowed time for introductions, but Nicky recognized sarcasm when he heard it, so he swiftly stepped in as Temple stood to shake hands.

“This is our public-relations whiz, Miss Temple Barr.”

“Miss Barr,” Santiago repeated, with a bow of his zebra-striped mane. He turned to Van, who was no longer stupefied and who had stood to exchange the omitted courtesies. “Señora Fontana.”

“I am Van von Rhine,” Van responded, retrieving her hand.

“Von Rhine. A German name, surely. Spelled as in … rhinestone?” he inquired.

Nicky answered. “Spelled as in b-o-s-s. Jefe in your native tongue.”

“Chieftain,” Santiago said, with a sage nod.

Van just lifted her eyebrows, which were a flaxen blonde, so it was a subtle gesture of polite interest. Boyz might fret about titles; she was interested in authority.

“How did Nicky find you, Mr. Santiago?”

“No, no. Simply Santiago. I am accessible to all at the same level. And so is my work.”

“He found me,” Nicky said bluntly.

“Indeed?”

Van did not like that, Temple knew, even before she saw the faint parallel lines between those almost-as-faint brows. It underlined the perfumed air of “huckster” that oozed from Simply Santiago like … really high-grade motor oil.

“You seem,” Van told Santiago, “to have more of an inside track with my husband than I do.”