Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

“It’s not like that, Van,” Nicky said. “I was kicking the idea around with just family. Um, my family, and Santiago had already contacted Gangsters with some redo ideas.”

“The Gangsters’ contact being … ?” Van asked.

“Not me. Aldo and the boys. Gangsters Limo Service has been doing gangbuster business despite the recession. They were wondering how to let that cachet spill over to the boutique hotel. And maybe even the Phoenix, in the most, ah, delicate of ways. Santiago has some killer concepts and execution.”

“ ‘Killer concepts. Execution.’ ” Van’s tone had gone scorchingly serene. “So appropriate to a mobster-themed limo service, hotel, and now our heretofore ‘classy’ enterprise.”

Nicky was a born enthusiast, shrewd but hooked on new ideas, new plans, new people. Also on selling them all to other people, especially his wife. He was not about to be singed by a dose of in-house skepticism.

“Van, baby, this’ll be great. Santiago has set up an audiovisual display in his suite that will knock your socks off.”

“His suite?”

“In our hotel,” Nicky explained. “You don’t even have to walk outside to get the full picture.”

“The Fontana Suite, I presume,” Van said, naming the hotel’s prime quarters as she stood. She nodded at Temple. “Come along after you finish that proposal.”

Temple watched the trio leave, Nicky holding the door so he could exit last and favor her with a knowing wink.

As soon as the door shut, Temple perched on Van’s yummy white leather executive chair she’d spotted Santiago eyeing, and started a Web search, as Van had meant her to stay and do. There was no “proposal” to finish. The subject of the search, of course, was Santiago.

Temple was surprised to find that he was not a flake at first sight.

Simply Santiago was a larger-than-life self-made South American entrepreneur and inventor, the Richard Branson of the southern hemisphere. Born Tomás Santiago in modest lower-middle-class circumstances in São Paolo, by age twenty he’d founded a Web-design business. Now a youthful-looking fifty, he supported projects from slum clearance to advanced communications and the more spectacular art forms, like emo music, futuristic media, and the flashiness of Rio’s famous Carnavals.

His trademark white suit, his dramatic face and figure were prominent where big money gathered, at yacht and horse races, international soccer matches, and in Brasilia, the country’s ultramodern and also dazzlingly white city. He made the Fontana brothers pale by comparison, and that was going some.

Temple couldn’t imagine a more likely candidate to build on Gangsters Limo Service’s hip and successful reputation, and upgrade that stylish mob pizzazz to the attached hotel and Las Vegas. In fact, her only question was why such an international bigwig would want to work for a modest boutique hotel.

The answer came as she darkened the screen and rose from Van’s desk. Follow the money. That was always the key to motivations everywhere. Vegas’s big spenders were strapped for tourists and cash, sitting atop billions of dollars of idled projects. Santiago could make a splash at Gangsters and remake it as a showroom for his gaudy media expertise as well as a more focused and successful enterprise.

Van had wanted Temple’s assessment of this guy, his flashy ego, and, most important, his business and personal history. Temple would have to dig far deeper, but on first glance he was the Prince Charming of Chutzpah for good reason.

She headed down a floor to the Fontana Suite, happy she could endorse Nicky’s instincts and eager to see what Simply Santiago had to show them.

Temptations of Temple Bar

Max had set the Mondeo’s driver’s seat in a position of slight recline to accommodate his six-foot-four frame … if he hadn’t lost an inch or two in height with his leg injuries. Taking physical stock and measurements could wait until later.

At the moment, he felt invigorated, happy he could stretch his spine and legs and be driving … in control and reasonably secure for the first time since he’d awakened in the Swiss clinic a week ago, not knowing who he was.

They drove through a cobblestoned touristy area of shops and art galleries on Dublin’s southern side while Gandolph consulted maps on his cell phone.

“Lunch?” he asked, looking up.

“You’re not as pretty as my last lunch companion, but why not?”

“You drive, Max. I’ll direct.”

“Got it.”

“You don’t seem to have problems keeping to the left.”

“Probably like riding a bicycle,” Max said. “Once learned, it engraves itself on your brain.”

“Then I’m glad this trip of ours is taking you down an engraved memory lane.”

“I can’t say I remember this part of Dublin at all, but back then, it was probably shabby and in need of restoration, considering how popular and tidy it is now.”

“They say the cobblestones date back to the seventeenth century.”

“Our quest hardly needs to look that far backward,” Max said, driving slowly to avoid pedestrians.

“The next right will bring us to a car park. Can you walk about a bit?”

“Need to,” Max said.