Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Nevada still wallowed in a stagnant stew of recession. It wouldn’t hurt to rustle up new business while Matt was waiting to hear on plans for his network TV talk show career. Even if they relocated to Chicago, she could always commute back to Vegas to finish projects in progress.

The Crystal Phoenix would need more than a fly-in-by-night PR person, though, she thought with a pang.

“What about the Wynn?” her caller was suggesting.

Temple was glad they weren’t on Skype so her caller could see her twin elevated eyebrows. That was a high-end venue for this low-brow-sounding huckster.

“Lunch today?” he pushed.

She agreed, more out of curiosity than great expectations.

*   *   *

Steve Wynn was the self-made Las Vegas tycoon most known to the public. The crazy karma of his last name alone had been a gift. Naming an entire hotel-casino after it had been marketing genius. Talk about “branding.”

So it was no wonder that his self-named hotel-casino had led the charge to super-upscale venues in Vegas. Not far from the Wynn’s display area of high-six-figure Ferrari and Maserati sports cars was a charming restaurant.

The Terrace Pointe Café extended from indoors to outdoor tables overlooking an aquamarine pool and formal gardens with Italian pines and awnings and a cloudless blue sky. The hostess led Temple to a prime table for two with wicker chairs resembling small thrones. Just what the vertically challenged ego would order.

An elderly man at the table stood at her arrival, waving a pale linen napkin, having ID’ed her from news reports of the recent debacle at the Oasis.

Silas T. Farnum standing wasn’t much of a production. He was barely taller than she and four times as round. He reminded her of a Mini-Me of someone she couldn’t quite place, she realized. He hadn’t been insulting when he’d called her a munchkin on that morning phone call. He was bonding.

“Sit, sit, sit. Do sit, Miss Barr,” he urged. “We can have a delightful tête-à-tête here.”

“Mr. Farnum,” she greeted him as she set her tote bag on the floor, a bit dazed and wondering if Alice’s rabbit hole wasn’t far away.

She’d better avoid anything on the menu that called to her with an “Eat me” vibe, like—she glanced at the single placard menu faceup on her place setting—like the upscale turkey burger with sherry vinaigrette and pea tendrils in addition to the usual lettuce, tomato, and onions. She’d come to terms with her five-foot-zero plus three-inch heels and yearned neither to shrink nor expand. The same was true about her business, so her host had better have an interesting assignment.

“Now, Miss Barr, you must keep this discussion confidential, whether you decide to accept the assignment or not. Are you agreeable?”

“I’m always agreeable, Mr. Farnum. That’s my job,” she added with a smile. “However, anything you say will be between you and me and the wicker.”

A bottle of pinot grigio was open on the table. The filled water goblets and wineglasses sparkled in the sunlight.

“I took the liberty,” Mr. Farnum admitted with a bow as he reinstated the large napkin … behind his belt.

He still gave off a distinct whiff of “confidence man,” but merry brown eyes under shaggy gray brows and Santa-style flushed cheeks intrigued Temple. Whatever this jolly little man had in mind, it would be original.

When the waiter came promptly, Temple relaxed and felt free to order salad for lunch. It was obvious Farnum was going to be doing all the talking and she wouldn’t be caught with dressing on her lap or radicchio in her teeth while speaking and making notes at the same time. PR people had to think ahead.

Silas T. had no such concerns, ordering veggie burger sliders primed for disaster with a full complement of slippery edibles like red onions, zucchini, yellow squash, mushrooms, lentils, tomato pesto, and Boston lettuce. It was colorful, just like his peach-and-white-striped seersucker suit. She was surprised to see a straw boater on the table that seemed more like a prop for a summer picnic setting. Then she noticed that only five shriveled strands of gray hair crossed Silas T.’s bald head, reminding her of an impromptu musical staff.

“One thing I must make clear at the outset, Mr. Farnum: I am not a ‘stunt’ PR person.”

“No? What about your performance on the elephant at the Oasis?”

“That was the elephant’s idea. Apparently, she was a big girl used to working with a, well, petite woman.”

“What about the headlines about the secret tunnel leading to several Vegas venues? While you were emceeing the live, formal opening of an old hidden walk-out safe for possible treasure—voilà!—a fresh corpse was found within?”

“That corpse was … unforeseen.”

“And was wearing white tie and tails. What a terrific publicity coup for Gangsters, the Crystal Phoenix, and the Neon Nightmare club.”

Temple sipped wine and squirmed. “If it was such great publicity, the outcome hasn’t been great. Neon Nightmare has since gone dark.”