Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

“We know all about it. She is a mature woman. This Kit Carlson has never been married. We do not want to live to be old enough to be our own mothers and say we have never been married. If Aldo can do it, so can his younger, dumber brothers.”

Brother! This is a fine kettle of koi! My sleek Italian posse is being hustled into servitude most unfeline. It is okay if Aldo wishes to give up his life as a street dude. He is about to get gray around the whiskers anyway. But the whole litter should not be forced into domesticity.

I stare hard at Macho Mario Fontana, who has been as macho on this scene tonight as a limp eel. He is the paterfamilias. Time to dredge up some pater and slap these slaphappy, upstart girls down the way they have been disciplining his nephews.

This whole scene is on the edge of turning from a prank into something prosecutable.

Satin rubs against me. “We have got to do something, Louie. Those bridesmaids are getting bitter. At least they are not in jeopardy of being left with a litter to support.”

I cringe a bit at the reminder. You can never tell when a dame is rubbing it in or really on the warpath. I sympathize with the Fontana boys.

Miss Kitty, the madam, chooses that moment to appear from the kitchens behind the bar with the biggest bottle of champagne I have ever seen.

Behind her comes a blue lady bearing a silver tray with a gadzillion champagne glasses. It all looks very festive, even, er, bridal.

Satin chirps with satisfaction beside me. “Our housemother always knows when to calm a crowd. Usually it is the men she has to sedate, but in this case the women are getting a bit rowdy.”

“I hate to tell you, but I have seen a lot in Vegas, and women in general are as capable of getting as rowdy as anyone, properly motivated by spite, jealousy, and hurt feelings.”

“They are silly! It is as clear as the fangs in your face that your compadres are enjoying the idea of a night in a bordello with their girlfriends. Except for Mr. Macho and the one called Aldo who is spoken for.”

Before I can correct her several erroneous assumptions, Miss Kitty steps up to the girls in black. “I need a pair of male hands free to liberate our champagne. And you might tell me your names while we are at it. I won’t remember them all, but it will be a bit more civil for drinking partners.”

“Champagne! All right!” says a redhead who’s about a foot taller than my Miss Temple.

The women’s variously colored heads confer. In a clot they much resemble a litter of calicos. Almost all are showgirl tall, I notice. No wonder the Fontana brothers treat my Miss Temple like a litter of adolescent Dobermans escorting a Yorkshire terrier.

The women quit buzzing and straighten up. “Aldo. He is the man among you. He is getting married.”

Aldo offers his wrists to be freed from the gaudy bracelets with an air of relief.

As he rises to address the champagne bottle the way a golf pro would contemplate the lie of a ball, I notice he skims a look at the parlor table bearing all the Fontanas’ looted hardware.

I can see what he is thinking. Shake the bottle a little while working on uncorking it, then spray the female felons in charge and reclaim the upper hand, bearing a Beretta.

“Come on, girls.” Miss Kitty gestures to her crew in blue. “We will all relax with a glass of champagne, and then we can take the ladies upstairs to select the room of their choice for their later entertainment. After all, they paid for it.”

“When do we get a glass of champagne?” Ernesto asks.

The invaders like the madam’s idea. Several grin. “If you are good, you will get yours upstairs. After we pick out just the right . . . setup for you.”

That sounds like a threat and a promise. The Fontanas are still hot to play along, as this is definitely an amorous dude’s bonus.

Aldo has concluded the same thing, because he uncorks the bottle with the signature pop known the world over. Only a tiny bit foams over the bottle lip. I am thinking Aldo wants Charlie’s Angels and their sisters-under-the-silicone tipsy and off guard.

And from the way his eyes flit around the parlor and adjoining bar, he has not forgotten for a minute that his youngest brother, Nicky, and Mr. Matt Devine are not present, cuffed, or anticipating horizontal romps.

“I am sorry,” says the pouting brunette bearing the turquoise fur handcuffs. “You did a great job with the champagne cork, but we really cannot leave you alone down here unsecured.”

Aldo sighs, extends his arms, and shoots his impeccable suit coat sleeves and shirt cuffs. And then he is. Cuffed. Again. Sure does ruin the line of his tailoring, especially across the shoulders.

Meanwhile, seven gals in concealing black and thirteen in revealing blue trip up the stairs, the same stairs I herded Mr. Matt up an hour ago.