cat in a crimson haze

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  The nickname had no significance but to display the seminarians' rebellion and harmless irreverence. Lives steeped in study and prayer need a healthy dose of mischief. Father Frank had been a straight arrow, Matt remembered; he would swear to that. He recalled the man's other nickname: Father Furtive. Matt smiled at that one, which did mean something. Father Bucek seemed to have as many eyes as an Idaho potato. He always knew when mischief or a seminarian's defenses were up. A hard man to fool, Father Furtive.

  Matt didn't relish trying to smooth-talk him into revelations about Father Hernandez. He didn't like the idea of contacting him at all. If there was anybody in the world harder than parents to tell you were leaving the priesthood, it was your spiritual advisor, the one person who knew you inside out--or at least knew you as well as you had to know yourself then.

  Calling Father Bucek, confessing his present status, would be the hardest thing Matt had done yet to disengage from the priesthood. It would be worse than disappointing a parent. It would be like disappointing a good father, which Matt had never had in a family sense. The good father, who was, after all, only a few steps removed from the Heavenly Father Himself.

  Cliff Effinger was dead. Matt told himself, his hand still clenched on the plastic receiver long after he had hung up.

  That didn't mean that Matt had run out of father figures to worry about hurting, one way or another.

  **************

  Twenty-four hours later. Matt sat in the same place, his worn address book open to the long-distance number of St. Vincent Seminary. That was just a formality, a crutch. He knew the phone number by heart.

  In twenty-four hours, he'd had endless opportunities to practice his presentation. The process reminded him of agonizing mental rehearsals for childhood confessions. No one is as scrupulous as a terrified ten-year-old, toting up selfishness and lies and assorted 'unkindnesses to others."

  Those confessions had been a variety of well-intended lies in themselves; nothing of Matt's true home life had come out. Nothing resembling it was covered in the catechisms the children pored over to prepare for each new sacrament.

  Matt picked up the receiver and dialed the number, once more familiar than his home phone number in Chicago.

  A man answered. "St. Vincent Seminary."

  'I'm calling for Father Frank Bucek."

  "Father who?"

  Matt smiled. The voice was deep but young. Some raw recruit was stuck with switchboard duty.

  "Father Bucek," Matt repeated. "He's an instructor and spiritual advisor."

  "There's no Father Bucek here."

  Was that a slim warm filament of relief coiling in the clammy pit of Matt's stomach? Relief tightened into disbelief, and almost exploded into anger.

  "Check the roster" Matt suggested, an edge in his voice he couldn't quite control.

  "Just a moment.''

  The moment became many. Matt hung on, hating the ambiguous silence of an empty phone line. The distasteful task had become imperative. Now that he had committed to contacting Father Bucek again, he intended to get it over with, or know the reason why.

  "Can I help you?"

  Matt started. This voice sounded older, even venerable. Though the timber faltered, the tone was confident. Matt felt like a green seminarian again, caught behaving less well than he should be.

  "I'm trying to reach Father Frank Bucek," he said. This old bird would know the name, Matt was sure.

  "I'm sorry, but Father Bucek is no longer at St. Vincent Seminary."

  Not there? Of course he was there! He was St. Vincent Seminary, as far as Matt was concerned. Human monuments don't walk away from their chosen environments.

  "Where did he go?" Matt blurted, hating his clumsiness.

  "I'm not at liberty to say."

  Another curve ball straight into the solar plexus. Matt remembered the voice now. Old Father Cartwright, the sacristan. How could this ancient still be there and Father Frank gone?

  And why the secrecy?

  "Gee, that's too bad." Matt was sounding his ingenuous, bland phone self again. He went into the well practiced song-and-dance about Father Hernandez's 'This Is Your Life" tribute. He was even beginning to believe it himself.

  And," he finished with glib flair, ''Father Bucek was Father Rafe's assistant at his first pastorate. It would be so great to have Father Bucek here for the tribute. The parish would pay the transportation . . . unless it's somewhere prohibitive, like Hawaii." Matt laughed engagingly at the improbability of that notion.

  ''Not quite that far," Father Cartwright conceded . . . gave away ... a dry smile apparent in his voice. ''But--"

  Matt frowned. This was very odd. Had the church grown paranoid with all the current charges against priests? The whereabouts of transferred clergy had not always been a state secret.

  "Tell you what, young man--" Matt could almost see Father Cartwright's lips pursing in doubt. "I can contact him, and give him your address and phone number, if he wishes to call you."

  "Why the rigmarole?" Matt asked bluntly.

  An awkward silence. "Sorry. It's just that it might be difficult, and not appropriate for the

  'This Is Your Life' program you're putting together. Father ... Frank is no longer with us."

  "But where is he assigned now? Surely you can tell me that."

  "That's just it. He's left the priesthood."

  Now the silence on the line was thunderous: the rush of blood pounding in Matt's ears sounded like a faulty connection.

  Matt stumbled automatically through a rote recital of his address and phone number. He wasn't sure he got the still-unfamiliar numerals right, and he didn't care.

  The drone of a broken connection was Muzak to his throbbing ears. He hung up with a slam that mattered to no one but himself. A bang, not a whimper.

  Not there? How dare he? Now that Matt had mastered himself and was ready to confront the past, a big chunk of it had mysteriously vanished. Father Furtive, all right. The other guys had been righter than they knew. Sneaking off like a truant. Beyond reach, like the Pope in Rome or something. Father Oh-so-high-and-mighty now Father Nothing. Left. He left. Too. Why?

  Matt felt his hands itching to seize the phone, hurl it across the room at the wall, at the chintzy crates that served as bookshelves.

  Instead he looked inward at the flushed face of his rage.

  He saw his own face, only an infantile version of it, round and unshapen, yet empurpled by some toddler tantrum.

  Of course. Matt released the breath that had made his chest into a prison and his ribs into iron bars containing the explosion. He rubbed his chin, to assure himself his adult face was in proper place.

  What he felt was infantile rage for his natural father's mysterious defection, transferred to Father . . . ex-Father Bucek. Frank, now. Just Frank.

  Mattes hands slapped his thighs. He should be pleased. If his spiritual director, his personal role model from seminary, had also left the priesthood, it validated Mattes action. Father Bucek had seemed decades older than he, but young people always divided folks into Us and the Ancients Over Thirty, one undifferentiated decaying clot. Thinking about it, Frank Bucek was probably only in his late forties. Young enough to make a career change.

  Would he call? Did it matter? Yes, in terms of testimony about Father Hernandez, who had not yet left the priesthood, and probably never would. In terms of Mattes own peace of mind...?

  He shook his head at the phone, as if it were a sentient thing that could hold an opinion.

  He didn't know. His falsehood about the tribute certainly hadn't given Bucek a pressing reason to call.

  "It's not important,'' he softly told the phone. "I don't need to know his story."

  He smiled to recall Temple's recent lecture on the abuse of the "need to know" principle.

  "And I doubt that Father Furtive needs to know mine."

  Chapter 20

  Dis-guys

  Some may find it odd that I am not home at the Circle Ritz ingratiati
ng myself with Miss Temple Barr during her hour of need, but I was never cut out for the nursing profession.

  My talents are best put to use removing vermin from the mean and dirty streets, rather than from the sterile environs of a sickroom.

  Not that Miss Temple is sick in the classic sense, but I am sure that a bum hind-paw is no fun fast, especially since it will make wearing her trademark high heels difficult for a time.

  So I do not scamper home to the Circle Ritz to throw my two cents and tongue-licks into the feeding frenzy of concern flurrying around the invalid. Miss Temple Barr is a lady whose care for others wins her an avalanche of tending when she is in need herself. Surely she will prefer the tender attentions of Mr. Matt Devine far more than my sand paper brand of succor.

  No, I can better spend my time tracking down the heinous handymen who sent my little doll tumbling down a hill of concrete stairs like Jill on a roller-coaster ride with a pall of sand Instead of water.

  Fortunately, I know just who to look for: one Vito, surname unknown. (Now there is a luckless sire with a pressing reason to get lost.)

  Unfortunately, I have not spied Vito or his ilk around the Crystal Phoenix of late, though this trick with the loosened stair-rail brackets has his no-doubt-well-documented fingerprints all over it.

  So I hunker down in the Crystal Phoenix basement, with which I am well acquainted. Some of my most cherished moments occurred in the dressing rooms here: my tender rendezvous with the Divine Yvette; my quite literal nailing of the Stripper Killer; the TLC I received from the Phoenix showgirls when I was only a down-and-out street dude without a reputation as a world-class shamus.

  My long-stemmed gals from the good old days remain in full feather, I discover as the clock ticks toward the evening hours and showtime nears.

  "It is Louie!" they chorus when I make my rounds of the dressing rooms.

  "Ooh," says Miss Darcy McGill Austen, lifting me atop a makeup-cluttered dressing table.

  "You have gained weight!"

  I do not make a practice of sweeping people off their feet and commenting publicly about their supposed avoirdupois.

  "Then it is lucky that we have no treats on hand," Miss Midge Mancini responds quite carelessly. She flourishes instead the wire brush for polishing my topcoat to black satin. I produce a half-hearted purr as I undergo this massage, being most annoyed that the eats are absent.

  Soon my flock of attendants scatter. Their hour upon the stage draws near. The busy, bustling underbelly of the Crystal Phoenix is suddenly silent and empty.

  This is the way I like it. I jump off the red velvet pillow Miss Darcy McGill keeps for my visits and land soft as a powder- puff on the hard concrete. If evil is afoot down here, now is when it will stir.

  Yet all remains still, except for a few feathered costumes trembling like aspen leaves in the air-conditioning vents' icy exhalation.

  I prowl the hallway, seeing and hearing nothing. ... Finally, I detect a familiar sound. Not the drip, drip, drip of a forgotten faucet, but the patter of high-heeled feet. Miss Temple Barr cannot be abroad! Perhaps a showgirl has left behind an essential item of dress, such as a g-string.

  I duck into a dressing room doorway, then peek.

  Sure enough, one of these long, tall tootsies is hotfooting it down the hall on silver size-eleven high heels, none too quietly ... or gracefully. In fact, when one ankle twists she pauses to emit a few choice words, most of which would not be chosen by anyone who wanted to avoid an R-rating on a movie script. I am sorry to say that these dancing dolls sometimes grow a tad hardened from their gypsy lifestyle. My subject grabs the metal upright bar of a hallway costume rack, continuing her colorful cussing and yanking at the rhinestoned heel strap of her offending shoe. This gives me a chance to examine her full undraped glory.

  Whew. Showgirl material must be in short supply. Despite rhinestone swags hanging off everything from headdress to feathered skirt, I have never seen such bony elbows, knees and feet, not to mention razor-stubbled legs that should be peach-satin-smooth. Despite the dim light, I even detect a smudge on her upper lip.

  Imagine my amazement when my unattractive prey is joined by a man in a brown UPS

  uniform who is at least four inches shorter than she. Lili Marlene at her lamp-post she is not.

  "God, I am dying for a cigarette," she mutters in greeting, her voice as grating as her appearance.

  "Not on the job," he growls, eyeing her up and down with a leer. "Some snazzy outfit. Get any dates yet?"

  "Shut up!" she growls, smashing her heel-clad shoe to concrete, "You will get a blind date with an incinerator if you keep up the smart remarks. Are you sure no one saw you come down here?"

  Naturally, I am extremely interested in the turn this conversation is taking. I edge forward in the dark of the dressing room, closer to the door.

  How am I to know that I am stepping on the trailing chiffon veil of a headdress gracing a white styrofoam headblock high on an unseen shelf?

  This is how I know: the gruesome head and about twelve pounds of rhinestones come smashing down on my unprotected form, flashing and crashing like a Fourth of July firework all the way.

  At least I have the sense to dive back deep into the room and burrow into a box of tap shoes--ouch! Those metal toe-stubbers hurt. Not the best shelter, but the pair at the door are too busy bickering to search high and low, which is the only place they would find a savvy customer like Midnight Louie.

  "No one here," the UPS guy announces after a cursory search.

  "Of course not," Lady Godiva says in a baritone grumble. "These damn outfits are so heavy the thing probably collapsed of its own weight and fell. I do not know how those broads manage to shake a leg, much less the good stuff, in this body-armor. Let us get to work before intermission comes and somebody spots us."

  The high heels click away like they are being worn by Chester Goode from "Gunsmoke." Now is that not a mental image to cherish?

  But I have no time to dwell on vintage television shows, for I have finally seen through the sawdust and the glitter to spot the five o-clock shadow and the gut beneath the rhinestone facade, skimpy as it is. That is no showgirl, that is Vito in the flesh, if you can call it that.

  I scamper to the doorway and poke a cautious muzzle down the hall.

  I cannot believe my eyes, ears and nose. I am too late. The pair have vanished like the Cheshire Cat, not even leaving a grin behind.

  I thoroughly reconnoiter the area. No dice. No dudes in showgirl skin. Even my ever-faithful nose loses the trail when I pause by the costume rack. In sneezing at a noxious aroma of powder and sweat, I Inhale a pink cloud of tiny ostrich feathers and ruin my sniffer for the nonce. Done in by a dead bird.

  Of course my investigations are over for now. Sometimes life is a drag.

  Chapter 21

  Unauthorized Landing

  Some call a flock of songbirds an ''exultation of larks."

  Some call a crowd of carrion birds a ''murder of crows,"

  What does one call a full complement of Fontana brothers?

  Temple pondered this intriguing question. A press of pastel suits? A bulk of bodyguards? A huddle of hoods? A muscle of mobsters? Or just a mob of undirected motive and opportunity?

  The brothers Fontana, a uniform six feet tall, surrounded Temple on her triumphal return to the Crystal Phoenix, forcing her to ponder another fine point.

  Could even the most optimistic public relations specialist call limping along in silver metallic sneakers (one loosely laced to accommodate an ankle the size of a breakfast bagel)..."triumphal"? Temple didn't have to worry about answering her own question, for a Fontana brother spoke.

  "We are here to render assistance," said one tall, dark and striking brother.

  Another offered a supportive arm with a mute smile.

  "We are here to protect you," a third corrected threateningly.

  ''And to protect the hotel." A fourth spoke with equal ferocity.

  ''Where would yo
u like to go?" a fifth asked.

  "Would you prefer to be carried?" suggested the sixth.

  "She is little," the seventh said. "We could put her in a chair and easily tote her to and fro."

  "Is there anything you need?" The eighth cocked a helpful head in her direction, the better to display a single tasteful pewter earring in the form of a chain-saw.

  "No, thank you, Ralph," Temple said, relieved to recognize one familiar face, no matter how luridly accessorized. "Except maybe . . . name tags for you guys?"

  A flurry of Fontanas dispersed, leaving Temple alone with Ralph and a naked-ear clone who swiftly introduced himself.

  "Giuseppe. Nicky said we was responsible for nothing going wrong with you or your work for the hotel. You can expect us to stick to you like a mudpack from now on, whenever you're on the premises."

  Ah. A mudpack of Mafiosi. . . only we all know The Family doesn't exist, and besides, the Fontana brothers are not it, Temple reminded herself. Great. A high-profile escort of dubious types was likely to get Temple arrested. All she needed now to keep her from getting any kind of job done anywhere was a tail of tall lieutenant on her track.

  Temple cautiously examined the glittering Crystal Phoenix lobby. No obvious police present.

  Not a soul in the vicinity who looked even faintly authoritarian, except for the burgundy-uniformed security personnel with gilt phoenixes embroidered on their breast pockets.

  Oops. And a pale-suited flock of returning Fontana brothers. Temple swallowed a smile as they came close enough for her to read. Each expensive lapel now bore a stick-on name label outlined in a different color. Red for Rico, green for Eduardo, blue for Aldo, lavender for Ernesto, yellow for Julio, orange for Armando, fuchsia for Emilio, and purple for Giuseppe, the brother who had stayed behind. Ralph, of course, was readily identifiable by his earring . . . and also by a new pink bordered nametag that decidedly clashed with the earring.