Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit Read online

  “You forget. I was here. The man who found Philomena’s lost son, Martin Sixsmith? Nuns and the church blocked him at every stage. Thousands of records had been burned. Oh, that lying movie, Philomena. The United Nations investigation ruled what the Magdalene institutions did to girls and women and their babies was torture. And the church has yet to admit responsibility.

  “You had better hope there’s truth in a heavenly reunion for those mothers and babies, because I’ll send you all there to see for yourselves before I’m done.”

  “You’re crazy,” the nun cried, turning to retreat into the dark, hulking church buildings behind her.

  “That was quite insanely mad of you,” Max said.

  Kathleen’s breath heaved out of her chest. Her hands were bloodless and so was her face, white marble with the pink veins of the fading cat scratches etched across it. Her expression was as twisted as she was, her beauty gone.

  “Well done,” he added. “You have certainly done your homework on Philomena, but I think you’ve spit in the baptismal font enough for today.”

  He took her arm to lead her back to the car. She stumbled beside him, silent.

  25

  A Valentine Surprise

  Jay Edgar Dyson, killed in the very building that threatened Electra’s financial survival. What a shock. Temple had assumed someone had killed him at the Araby Motel after she and Electra left.

  Temple paced in her living room, alone. Louie had disappeared.

  Just back from their happy, successful visit to her Minnesota family home, and she and Matt had parted on the elevator, both a bit disappointed. One couldn’t see the other’s point of view about Temple’s risky Araby Motel outing.

  She picked up her cell phone and speed-dialed Matt’s apartment to make up.

  There was no answer. She closed her eyes. Such a stupid thing to quarrel over. With all that had happened, of course Matt was hypersensitive about her staying safe. With Electra fearing for her livelihood, of course Temple felt obliged to be there for her.

  Now maybe Matt wouldn’t be there for Temple. She had to admit it was an impulsive outing that courted bad outcomes. She’d apologize, if only…

  Her doorbell rang. She ran to open the door, phone in hand.

  “Matt! I was just calling you.”

  He had his cell phone in hand. “Me too.”

  “I’m sorry,” they said together, then laughed.

  They bumped the wrists of their cell phone-holding hands and then hugged.

  “I guess these smart phones are smarter than we are,” Matt said. “I just worry about you.”

  “It was a stupid stunt. Electra was so upset and she would have gone alone. Now look at the mess we’re all in. Dyson dead. Police interrogations. Us quarreling.”

  “We better drop these cell phones,” Matt said, steering her to the sofa and pulling her down on it with him. “We communicate much better face-to-face.”

  “Umm,” Temple agreed a couple minutes later, stretching her formerly stressed-out shoulders and neck.

  Matt gave her a last kiss and picked up his cell phone.

  “Hey, I thought a cell phone wasn’t ever going to come between us again,” Temple said.

  “This one has to,” Matt said with a smile. “While we were too worried and busy to check, Tony Valentine left a message. I just called him back. He wants a meeting as soon as possible, requesting your attendance.”

  “My attendance? Matt! An agent wouldn’t ask a significant other along for a business meeting unless he had a huge offer. The network must have green-lighted your new talk show.”

  “You think?” He looked a bit dazed. “I haven’t exactly encouraged them lately.”

  “No, you didn’t. You had to drop your career plans to play the hero-decoy and make yourself a target for a psycho. Three a.m. ‘counseling’ sessions with Kitty the Cutter! I’m sure she pulled out all her seductive wiles.”

  “I’m temptress-proof. She threatened you, Temple. I’d do anything necessary to keep you from harm.”

  “Actually,” Temple said, “your being so noncommittal with the Chicago suits probably was savvy negotiating. Now. Where are my lucky shoes? I think I’ll be clicking my heels together and chanting ‘There’s no place like Water Tower Place’ soon.”

  Matt picked her up and spun her around. “I’m ready to leave Las Vegas too,” he said, “but which are your lucky shoes?” He set her down carefully on her three-inch-high heels.

  “Anything that coordinates with what I’m wearing when I’m with you. You know what?”

  “What?” Matt smiled down at her.

  Temple was glad to see that recent faint wince of worry had vanished from his warm brown eyes. “I’m going to celebrate the big deal Tony has for you by getting some new shoes at the Stuart Weitzman boutique in the Caesars’ shopping mall. Is that too extravagant?”

  “Anything your big heart and tiny feet desire. Your stock of estate sale and resale shoes have earned some fresh high-design spikes.”

  “It’s silly, but when you’ve spent your entire life staring into people’s shoulder blades in crowds, a spiffy heel assist is so esteem-building.”

  “I’m sure Tony will be pleased to underwrite such a noble objective while collecting his percentage.” Matt frowned.

  “What?” Temple asked in her turn.

  “I let Kathleen’s taunts get to me, and upped the amount of my income via speaking engagements from Tony that goes to charity from ten to twenty percent. It occurs to me I don’t have a right to reduce my income when I’m not just me, but a ‘we’.”

  “Gosh, you are a saint in the making.” Temple shook her head. “You can do what you want with your money, but including some animal causes among the charities would appease your shoe-hound fiancée. What a guy! Not only generous, but you want to honor your word made to an armed and dangerous psychopath.”

  “How’d you know Kathleen was armed?”

  Temple felt her mouth go dry. “I didn’t. I was speaking metaphorically. Armed with a gun even then? And you went back for more?”

  “Not a gun. Straight razor. I only had to take it away from her once, when she got overwrought.”

  “Unbelievable. You are one cool guy, but it’s time we got outa Dodge. Speaking metaphorically again.”

  “I understood Kathleen. She had absolutely no power until she escaped the Magdalene asylum. She needs to flaunt it now. And she’s not here anymore. She’s off in the wilds of Northern Ireland, playing tag with Max.”

  “Enough of that woman in our lives. I’m going to fetch my currently lucky shoes…the zebra-stripe numbers from the successful trip up north.” Temple consulted the large-face watch on her wrist. “And then it’ll be time to leave for Tony Valentine’s office. Lord, that’s a great surname for an agent. Every new gig is a Valentine gift.”

  Tall, with a full head of taffy-white hair, Tony Valentine looked more like a classics professor than what entertainment agents had been called for decades, a “ten-percenter”…although nowadays a package fee of three percent could be charged on top of it.

  Temple didn’t know how Matt had lucked out in getting a patrician-looking agent in a profession where agents were often regarded as crass, greedy and possibly crooked.

  Then again, not looking like all of those things could be a license to steal.

  As a PR person, Temple had met all kinds of people. As a sometime amateur detective she’d met plenty of the crass, greedy and crooked, and Tony Valentine passed her character test.

  “Late-night talk-show shoes,” he commented as she and Matt sat down, “but with class.”

  Correction: Tony passed with an A-plus. “Thanks. I’m so excited to hear what you’ve got to say. Matt is wonderful with people and on talk radio and on The Amanda Show. I may be prejudiced, but the network is going to be blown away.”

  While Matt looked properly abashed by her gushing, Temple noticed that Tony Valentine was growing more and more amused.

  �
�Temple,” Matt warned. “You’re overdoing my virtues.”

  “No, I’m not. Guys can’t have sissy things like ‘virtues’, they just have strong points.”

  Tony leaned back in his cushy leather chair. Behind him, through a billboard-size window-wall, the sunlit Vegas Strip glittered like a river with lane-to-lane lines of hot metal melted into liquid mercury.

  “Yes, I’ve heard from the network,” Tony agreed, “but Matt’s future isn’t the reason I called you here today.” He tapped long tapered fingertips together.

  While Tony enjoyed a dramatic silence, Temple exchanged a bewildered glance with Matt, who leaned forward.

  “I know,” Matt said, “I’ve maybe been a little indecisive with the network. Some personal issues have been a distraction. I wouldn’t blame them for backing off.”

  Tony let his reclining seat snap upright. “You two aren’t calling off the wedding?”

  “There’s nothing formally decided, like a date, if it would interfere,” Temple explained, wondering whether the network had concluded it would prefer an eligible Matt.

  “It’s on, more than ever,” Matt said, taking Temple’s hand.

  “Glad to hear it.” Tony beamed like a presiding clergyman, ready to direct them to exchange vows and rings. “Actually, I have an unexpected offer from a client of the network’s. It’s a bit awkward, since I don’t represent either of the entities in the deal.”

  “You mean you don’t rep the network’s client?” Temple said, puzzled. Agents represented individuals usually. If not Matt, who…?

  “It’s a big advertiser.”

  “Talk-show hosts don’t do ads,” Temple said.

  “Usually not, no.”

  Temple eyed Matt again. Why was Tony acting so coy?

  The agent cast a mock-rebuking glance at Matt. “You didn’t tell me you were cohabiting with a TV personality.”

  Squeaky-clean Matt, ex-priest, had to set the record straight. “Temple worked for a couple years as a TV reporter in the Twin Cities, but that was her first job. Nothing anybody would remember.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Temple said.

  “Of course she was tops at her job,” Matt told Tony, “but who would want…I mean, TV reporters don’t usually move to the entertainment side of the camera.”

  “Neither do radio counselors,” Temple said.

  Tony jumped in fast. “The wedding may very well be off if you continue speaking, Matt,” Tony said. “So I’ll get to the punch line. The ‘TV personality’ I’m referring to is your cat, Miss Barr.”

  “Midnight Louie?”

  “I believe that is the name. Why so incredulous? He has a certain rep in this town.” Tony grinned. “A rap sheet? Or should I say a track record.”

  Temple leaned back in her chair. “So that’s it. À La Cat pet food is back with an empty bowl, begging for Louie’s services again. He was so much more personable than that yellow tabby they were using before, that Maurice.”

  Temple gave the French name, “Mau-reece”, the British pronunciation, Morris.

  “I swear that camera hog my roomie replaced tried to kill Louie when he was strutting down a long staircase wearing a flamingo pink fedora.” She turned to Matt. “I swear Louie wanted to kill me for allowing them to fasten that headgear on him. He looked so dashing in vintage fifties black and pink, though.”

  “I’d want to kill you if you tried to fasten a flamingo-pink fedora on me,” Matt told her.

  “Well, the Fontana brothers wore fedoras matched with pastel zoot suits for that commercial and looked terrific.”

  “We can’t all be Fontana brothers, thank God,” Matt answered.

  “Agreed,” Temple said. “I’m a one-of-a-kind girl myself.”

  They smiled at each other like there was no tomorrow.

  “Hello, young lovers,” Tony interrupted. “I’m not through talking the deal.” He rapped his knuckles on the glass desktop. “Apparently the network execs like what they saw of Miss Barr when you two had dinner with them. À La Cat wants to do a series of ‘story’ TV ads, which is a big deal.”

  “Oh,” Temple was rapturous. “Like those Taster’s Choice coffee ads back before I was born, with the cute courting couple.”

  “Before you were born.” Tony sighed. “Depressing fact. Early eighties phenomenon. I remember them like they ran yesterday. How do you know about them?”

  “Communications major. We had classes in advertising and TV. Besides, they’re on YouTube. Louie’s first round of commercials did a bit of that, using the Persian cat, Yvette. And Fancy Feast has used a smashing Yvette-type cat for years, and did a kitten/couple story segment recently. Oh,” Temple said, her voice turning sour.

  “What?” Matt asked. “If you don’t want Louie doing commercials again, we can just say no.”

  Tony frowned. “What’s the matter?”

  “I hope they’re not going to use Yvette again. I just remembered Yvette’s owner is that unbearably overbearing B-movie actress, Savannah Ashleigh.”

  “‘Oh’ is right,” Matt said. “I’ve met and dealt with her. She definitely is Ego à la mode.”

  “Well,” Temple went on in her usual spritely tone. “She’s more to be pitied than despised. Maybe they won’t be using Yvette. That’s an old approach.”

  “One thing I’m sure they’ll be using, Miss Barr,” Tony said. “And that’s you.”

  “Me?”

  “You. Their idea is all cat’s-eye view. Well, your shoes and legs, and possibly your voice, if it passes muster. Mr. Midnight will be given an off-camera voice as well.”

  Temple turned to Matt. “That’s a radical new approach. Too bad Humphrey Bogart died. He’d be perfect for Louie’s voice.”

  “A voice actor can suggest anything,” Tony said. “There’d also be podcasts and social media. For all of which you and Louie would be reimbursed. It could add up to a fat sum, and I’d stipulate that you’d get all the footwear you wore for the commercials gratis.”

  “Paid in Prada. Oh, my. That’s worth clicking your heels together and having to relocate to Kansas.”

  “Temple.” Matt was shaking his head. “Slow down. They may want to portray an ordinary woman with ordinary shoes.”

  “No woman wants to see ordinary shoes on TV. Well, maybe marathon runners and such do.”

  Tony responded to Temple’s enthusiasm with a broad smile. “À la Cat is the producer, of course, but they’ve committed major funds to this campaign and want a top-notch creative director, so it’ll be a slick project. In fact, they mentioned that ‘fedora’ commercial with the Fontana brothers chorus line of zoot suits, and wanted something similar, this time with Louie in a zoot suit.”

  “What’s a zoot suit?” Matt asked, “as compared to a monkey suit?”

  Temple and Tony exchanged glances. He was old enough to know, and Temple was hip enough to know, but no way would a Gen X Midwestern ex-seminarian and parish priest know.

  She tried to explain. “A zoot suit can be a monkey suit, but it can’t be the other way around.”

  “A monkey suit, my dear boy,” Tony told Matt, “is something you’ll be wearing at your upcoming wedding, unless your lovely fiancée gives you a pass. Usually it’s formal white tie and tails getup, but it could be a dinner jacket ensemble. With side-satin-striped black trousers. On the other hand, a zoot suit—” Tony deferred to Temple with a glance.

  “It’s a hip man’s entire outfit, from the time when baggy-pants Vaudeville entertainment gave way to Le Jazz Hot and a sleeker, more modern look. Picture Judy Garland in frumpy baggy clown suit singing ‘Be a Clown’ to Judy Garland in a man’s black tuxedo jacket, fishnet tights, heels and fedora singing ‘come on get happy’. Funky to sexy in a generation or two.”

  Matt frowned. “Can you get me some DVDs on that?”

  “It’s all on YouTube,” she said. “Jazz came out of the black music scene. In the twenties and thirties black performers started showing up in movies. Cab Calloway got famous an
d wore exaggeratedly formal pale zoot suits, but it wasn’t until swing dancing in the forties that the zoot suit culture took off.”

  “It was the first commercial ‘teenage’ fad,” Tony said with nostalgia. “And it appeared in minority cultures, both black and Hispanic, before it went mainstream.”

  “That didn’t end well,” Temple took up the narrative. “It was punished at the time in both cultures. The high-waisted baggy pants with tight ankle cuffs and loose, knee-length Civil War general coats, along with extravagantly swagged watch chains called hipster cat-chains were socially threatening. Think gangsta rap, which I have major problems with. Can it convert to something less misogynistic? Time will tell.”

  “I think I’ve seen photos. ‘Swagged watch chains’,” Matt repeated. “Origin of ‘swagger’ and ‘swag’ today?”

  “Good point,” Temple said. “Hip dudes used to be called hep or hip ‘cats’. Louie would love that, without the chain.”

  “I remember,” Tony mused, “post-war zoot suit riots. We fifties teens of the James Dean era were hit with comparisons to ‘hoodlums’. With zoot suits in the forties, the excuse for a teen rebel uniform with the many yards of material zoot suits required was considered ‘unpatriotic’ in a time of fabric shortages.

  “What’s expensive is faddish,” Tony added. “Wealthy zoot suiters wore multiple gold ‘watch chains’ looped down to their ankles. Poor guys yanked toilet chains off old-style tanks and used them. The point was, WASPs didn’t wear them. The underclasses did. And during World War Two sailors took offence and beat and stripped the zoot suiters.”

  “That’s not faddish fun,” Matt said. “That’s a horrible footnote of history. How can people be dressing in zoot suits now and dancing down stairs in cat food commercials?”

  “Because we’ve gotten over teen fads and outcast castes,” Temple said. “Not totally, but the creativity and expressiveness of that time and those people has been integrated into our cultural fabric. So we can share the fun and enthusiasm without the negative connotations.”