Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

Temple was always tempted to answer “da,” as in Da-da. Or Dada, the art movement. Or da-DAH, the theatrical presentation syllables.

All of these creative possibilities were lost on Boris, whose broad peasant face never showed its teeth. He stepped back, drawing attention to his unimaginative brown shoes.

She and Randy crossed a foyer paved in a mosaic of multicolored marble and stepped down onto the living room’s thick off-white carpet. A wall of distant windows framed the very tops of the Strip’s highest landmarks against a background of vivid blue sky.

The pale cream grasscloth walls hosted paintings from the hotel owner’s private collection of French Impressionists.

Such huge and luxe suites went for $30,000 a night, or more, but were often given gratis to major domestic and foreign high rollers called “whales,” visiting ex-presidents and film stars. A lot of Las Vegas insiders had never seen such a layout, and Temple was making her debut as one who had.

The usual suspects had gathered in the huge dining room under a pair of vintage Lalique crystal chandeliers. Natasha, the muscleman whose Prince Valiant haircut grazed the bottom of his rear suit collar, stood guard by the granite-topped sideboard loaded with various samovars, plates and napkins, and finger food so elegant it defied description.

Temple always avoided that kind of spread, not wanting to discover mid-mouthful that she was eating an exotic pet . . . like a snake or a tarantula. One could never trust high-end chefs in their race to be edgy and unexpected, especially since the Fear Factor reality TV show had made the public mass consumption of living vermin its main dish.

Being an animal lover, although not a vegetarian, Temple often walked a fine-line foodwise: raw unadulterated body parts were off her list, so none of the no-doubt pricey varieties of caviar on the buffet were for her. But truffles were all right. Also chocolate. And Strawberries Romanoff. Deviled eggs were iffy.

Everyone nodded at the new arrivals and continued eating voraciously. All had red-rimmed eyes and furrowed brows. Obviously the higher-ups really had been up . . . all night, discussing whatever crisis this was: bungled theft, tragic accident. Or murder. She’d been up worrying too, and not only about the public relations fallout of sudden death. She was haunted by her first impression that the dark, dangling body was Max’s. His midnight visit the other night proved that he was out prowling somewhere in the service of counterterrorism. Could this Russian exhibition be connected to his shadowy current concerns? The Synth? Shangri-La?

The lowly flacks had just been called in for the post-decision duty roster.

Randy shrugged at Temple, having come to the same conclusion, and attacked the buffet with gusto and little or no conscience for the contents of the platters.

Olga Kirkov, the ex-ballerina turned exhibition director, already sat at the boardroom-long dining table with its malachite top and pale beige travertine stone base. Correction: she sat at the head of the table, in one of the cream leather captain’s chairs.

Gradually, they all took their plates and cups and settled at seats flanking her down the fifteen-foot expanse. Temple and Randy chose seats opposite each other, in the exact middle, so they could parry questions from each end.

Dimitri Demyenov, the Russian government representative, was backed by his bodyguards now that door duty was over. Temple watched him, thinking that he wasn’t as ignorant of the English language as he appeared to be.

Ivan Volpe, the Parisian descendent of fleeing White Russians during the nineteen-teen Revolution days and curator of the exhibition, remained standing, the obvious spokesman. Temple began to realize that this ritzy secret meeting was for her and Randy’s benefit. It was a pre–press conference strategy session.

“Mr. Wordsworth, Ms. Barr,” the aristocratic curator began, “we are faced with a terrible crisis. We haven’t invited the emissaries from the co-sponsoring corporations, or the art media that are covering this installation and debut. Given the uncertainty about the nationality or motive of our personal Hanged Man, who had the rather bizarre name of Art Deckle, are we to forge ahead or admit to the tragedy and say it was . . . a personal act, having nothing to do with the exhibition? I report directly to the owner and executive board of the hotel consortium, which promises to do anything necessary to safeguard this exhibition and see that it continues its mission to foster international culture and accord.”

Temple had withdrawn her reporter’s notebook (slim and lined) and made notes on the last bit of gobbledygook. Volpe always spoke as if every syllable was quotable, so he would appreciate attentive underlings.

Opposite her, Randy was assiduously doodling in a way that passed for rapt recording.