Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

“Right. No spills from uncontrolled leaks.”

Temple doubted that Max had ever been uncontrolled in his life.

At least he wasn’t maxed out in a black spandex body suit, twisting in a deadly vortex for all to see. And whoever had killed Art Deckle, improbable name, had blown the whistle on the exhibition as a serious target for someone.

She returned to the Circle Ritz one downhearted frail, as the blues songs called sad women. Ick! She didn’t want to even think of Molina the torch songstress.

So running into Danny Dove bouncing out the back entrance to her building was not the upper it should have been. He looked puckish again, though, instead of as shrunken and sere as an autumn leaf.

“Why, Miss Temple. Imagine meeting you here.”

“Are you renting at the Circle Ritz after all?”

“Almost.” He doffed his sunglasses, revealing eyes still blasted with strain. “And how are you doing? Looking a little peaked for a Teen Idol contender, hmmm?”

“Please, Danny. That was undercover.”

“Speaking of undercovers—”

“I wasn’t,” Temple said severely. Danny was like a favorite old-fashioned uncle, always trying to fix her up with a steady beau.

“Well, I’d think you’d be dying to see our friend Matt’s new improved look.”

“I didn’t think he could improve on it.”

“Not personally,” Danny said, rolling his eyes with some of the old spirit. “I’m talking about his . . . decor.”

It occurred to Temple that she could learn everything she wanted to learn about that right here and now. From Danny, if she worked it right.

“You’ve been helping Matt out,” she said in a leading way.

“Au contraire. The dear boy has been helping me out.”

Temple remained silent, the key to good interviewing technique.

Danny looked down to watch himself swinging his fragile designer sunglasses by one bow. It was a new quirk, as if he were measuring the seconds the concealing tinted lenses were away from his face, his eyes.

“He’s a damn good counselor.”

Temple smiled, proud of them both. It must be an uneasy alliance: a celibate ex-priest and a gay man bereft of his partner. Somehow they had bridged the cultural and religious divide, and it said a lot for both of them. It showed her hope, and her anxieties about Life in General lifted a little.

“He doesn’t have the slightest notion,” Danny added.

“About what?”

“Anything, my dear one.” He leaned close, voice lowered. “I’ve brought him kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century as far as decor goes. Someone else will have to drag him in the rest of the way. Not my type, if you know what I mean.”

Temple did, and tried not to blush. “So, what worked?”

“You.”

Oh. She’d hoped Danny didn’t know about that.

“What a little motivator you are.” He took her arm, walked her farther out into the parking lot.

“I’m engaged,” Temple said. Firmly.

“You’re between engagements, as far as I can tell. Honestly, Munchkin. You know he’s—well, divine. He needs guidance. Be still, my . . . heart. You’re lucky I’m bereaved, or I wouldn’t answer for myself here. And, he’s depressingly straight. What’s holding you back?”

“You know.” Temple couldn’t quite keep her voice even.

“I know even you can’t keep up the pretense that you’re sufficiently spoken for to keep the strings of your heart from zinging in another direction.”

“Danny! This is none of your business.”

“It’s all the business I have left.”

Temple couldn’t meet the blaze of anger and loss in his eyes. Nor could she argue with his accurate diagnosis. Still, she said, “I am not your matchmaker project. Not even if it would . . . ease something for you right now.”

“Matt has become my project. Such a dear boy. Reminds me of myself before I dared come out, even to myself. There are such standards for a boy, Temple. Being manly. Being hard and callous. Being tough. Being a braggart about women, even if they’re not your thing. Demeaning everything honest and soft and true for fear you’ll show a weakness some boy who’s even more uncertain than you will kick a hole through, just to prove he’s all right.”

She felt tears sting her eyes. Danny was talking universals. She remembered how girls had to hide too, pretend to be blithe and uncaring in the face of relentless bitchiness. To pretend when your heart was breaking.

“Awful years,” she said, thinking that pretending and heartbreaking could track one for many years afterward.

“No argument. We must speed him through them.”

“We?”

“It’ll take both of us. Now, I’ve civilized him in the decor department. It would help if you would . . . bless my efforts with your approval.”

“Just how much approval are we talking here?”

“Follow your heart and your healthy libido. At least back up my efforts.”

“You make a very odd advocate,” Temple said.

“I’m only following the path you trail-blazed. That red suede Kagan couch is to die for.”

“It’s a Goodwill find.”

“I can guess who found it. And you let him have it?” Danny frowned playfully. “You were caving even then. I’m afraid my domestic improvements have been more upscale. Was that naughty of me?”