Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

That was then. This was . . . so now. His unthinkable, unsayable sin didn’t involve bodily harm to his hated abusive stepfather, but bodily delight with his beloved Temple. Definitely a better class of failing. Only she wasn’t his. She was hers. And there was the rub.

“Matt,” Nick said, regarding him with kind eyes. “You’ve obviously come tonight because you have something the group might be able to help you with. What is it?”

There it was. The pastoral role of the priest. To succor the sick, uphold the shaken.

He didn’t know these men well. He feared they might, would, judge him. And Temple. He couldn’t stand them judging Temple. Still, he needed . . . something. Help.

“I’d mentioned before I’d met a woman,” he said, “but she was claimed. I don’t think she is anymore.”

Nick smiled. Jerry smiled through pursed lips. Damien lifted an intellectual eyebrow. Tom nodded. Phil sighed. Paul frowned.

It was Eve and the Garden all over again.

“You’ve got guts.”

Nick pulled Matt aside as the men shuffled out, the hour near eleven P.M. Matt needed to get to the radio station for his midnight show.

“Listen, Matt, we all have our way of integrating into the secular world. No one way is right.”

“The church says—”

“You the definitive expert on the subject?”

“No, but I know what’s expected of us.”

“Perfection. Right. Listen. The love of your life—don’t deny it, I can tell—the love of your life grew up in a different church, with a different standard. I admire the UUs. Their hearts and minds are in the right place, and so is yours. Look at it this way. The woman you love is eminently lovable, good, kind, and true.”

Matt nodded. He loved Temple for her heart and mind. The body came after. But, oh, boy, did it count.

“She’s also imperfect, as we all are.”

“Maybe.”

Nick laughed. “God, I envy you that first dawning of total love. I had it. I’m happy and so is my wife, but life dulls the edge. The point is, Matt, that her experience, her standards, are valid to her. You have to respect that. Falling in love isn’t a conversion assignment. You’re not among the pagans, looking for babies. You give. She gives. You love. She loves. If you love her, you accept her. As she needs to be accepted for the moment. Capisce?”

“Are you the godfather, Nick, or the Godfather?”

“I’m Italian. I’m Catholic. I’m both, you’d better believe it. And do as I say.”

“Which is love, unconditionally.”

“Is that so hard?”

“No. In this case, not at all.”

He left with a lighter heart, knowing now what he had to do.

Rushin into Trouble

“Any idea,” Temple asked Randy after meeting him in the New Millennium lobby the next day, “why the honchos called this top-secret meeting?”

“Other than murder?”

“Shhhh!” Temple eyed the hotel’s Spaceport entry now behind them. It looked like a flying saucer, the fifties’ riveted-silver-metal variety. Crowds of squealing people were still pouring through the doors that goosed them with a whoosh of air as they decompressed into the hotel’s interior.

Silver-skinned and clad robot types directed the tourists to various areas, including an upward-flowing water slide that would take them to the external roller-coaster ride that circled the hotel’s solar system every half hour.

Between the exotic elements snaked the usual lines of bag-toting tourists checking in and checking out.

“Shhhh!” she repeated. “In Vegas hotels, even the crystal chandelier drops and robot valets have ears.”

“We’re meeting in one of the high-roller suites. Those have the least access and the most security.”

Temple was glad she wore what passed for a power suit in Vegas: white silk suit with a cropped and fitted jacket and slim skirt, with high-heeled gold sandals. With her red hair the outfit was spectacular. With her hair blond these days, it was stellar.

“You look very Heather Locklear today,” Randy commented in the private elevator. Temple didn’t consider that a compliment. At least the gilt woven-leather tote bag on her shoulder proclaimed her as another kind of working woman. She normally didn’t wear metallics but was finding that blond hair dictated a certain style. No wonder they all looked alike.

Her heels clicked on the marble lining the halls on the suite level. They weren’t going to sneak up on their bosses.

Randy had donned a tie for the occasion, a sure sign that this was a serious pow-wow. They both had better report positive ways of spinning the recent murder.

The suite’s entry mimicked a real front door, like Temple’s Circle Ritz condo, but this one had double doors, stained-glass sidelights and transom, with entry torches shining even during daylight hours.

Randy rang the bell.

The door took its own sweet time about opening, probably because there were so many honchos inside, no one was lowly enough to tend to practical matters.

The door opened into a wall of dark navy polyester suit and black shirt with a white tie. What did the museum muscle think this was, a touring company of Guys and Dolls?

“Da,” he said.