Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

“I can’t guarantee that, but I can give it the old art college try. What about the show’s basics, like security?”

“Absolutely the latest high-tech world-class museum paraphernalia. I can’t be specific—”

“Of course not. The fewer who know how and where, the safer the installation. But with all that archaic bling from days of empire, your prime audience will be women, and we’re generally a rule-abiding lot. Sometimes too much so.”

“Yes. Women will be dazzled by the paintings, the artifacts, the jewels, the gowns, the tragic death of the Romanovs, and the brutal end to empire.”

“And they’ll hopefully urge their honeys to dazzle them after a tour of the exhibition with the costly but less arty goodies in the exhibition gift shop and the hotel’s Milky Way shopping arcade.”

“You got it.” He frowned as he sipped the de rigueur watered-down wine. “Apparently, you don’t place all your faith in high-tech security.”

“I’ve . . . dated a magician. I think you’d do well to import some human bloodhounds to mingle with the patrons. Just in case the lasers and eyes-in-the-sky don’t work.”

“You have a security firm in mind?”

“No.”

Wordsworth lifted pale, caterpillar eyebrows.

“I have a discreet family business in mind, given that your patrons will be mostly middle-aged women.”

“Paying twenty bucks a head to eyeball the exhibition? Yes. And if they can’t drag hubby along, they’ll view it on their own. Diamonds and rubies and emeralds and sapphires and plique-à-jour enamels and Fabergé and all.”

“Exactly. The, uh, gentlemen I have in mind for the job are impeccably continental and most amenable to middle-aged ladies. To ladies of all ages, in fact.”

“I will get some references—?”

“Certainly. My aunt, the well-known novelist Sulah Savage, for one. And Nicky Fontana at the Crystal Phoenix, for another. They’re his brothers.”

“The Fontana boys?” Wordsworth sputtered a discreet swallow of wine spritzer into his napkin. “You do think outside the box.”

He sipped again to recover, then nodded, as if approving the wine’s vintage. It was something else he was approving. “They do discreetly straddle the line between legit and illegal.”

“To catch a thief . . .”

Randy nodded. “Perfect casting, now that you mention it. You have a theater background also, don’t you?”

Temple nodded. “Rather minor and very distant.”

“Still, with the Ocean’s Eleven and Twelve caper movies so popular, we wouldn’t want a nouveau Rat Pack trying a heist at the New Millennium.”

“I and six million women might, if George Clooney came along for the ride. After all, he and Brad Pitt are putting together a new Las Vegas hotel deal.”

“You know, that’s not a bad idea. Turn it around to focus on the star and not the deplorable use of robbery for entertainment. It’s like turning the Fontana Brothers out on security detail. I imagine they’d take extreme issue with anyone challenging their protective services.”

“Yes. Picture them as pit bull–Italian greyhound crosses. They’ve been extremely protective of me in the past. Sometimes I think ‘shady’ is just another word for sex appeal.”

Randy laughed until he needed to quiet his hilarity with another tepid sip of wine spritzer.

Temple went on. “Getting Clooney to attend the exhibition opening shouldn’t be too hard. Tape-cutting. Lots of high-roller comps from the hotel, the five-thousand-square-foot Nebula Suite, and flashy media up the ying-yang.”

“I’ll let you look into that. I’ll do all the traditional stuff: local press, major national general interest media. Anything off the wall is your area.”

“Don’t use that expression! We are talking about an art exhibition, after all. Nothing will be ‘off the wall’ on our watch.”

“Done.” Randy gave Temple a rather anemic high-five. They were talking serious culture here, after all.

Temple couldn’t believe it. The contract Randy would be sending to her home office at the Circle Ritz could keep her in everything, including Stuart Weitzman shoes, for a year. This was her first truly major PR commission for a major Vegas hotel. It took her breath away and almost took a girl’s mind off of all things Scarlett.

When she got home, Louie was waiting on the kitchen counter-top, white whiskers twitching on his Jack of Spades black face.

Temple opened three cans of mixed shrimp, scallops, and red snapper supper, and then added dollops of caviar and capers over the Free-to-Be-Feline cat health kibble he’d only eat if it was adulterated.

Or maybe not. After gazing at the lavish stew, he turned tail and thumped down. She followed him anxiously into the living room, thinking he was expressing annoyance at her recent absences. Although he had hardly been confined to quarters lately himself. . . .

By following him, she discovered that her answering machine was blinking red with a message.

“Temple, you formerly red-headed little rascal!”