Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

door.
    Mariah hopped into the back seat, leaving Temple to scramble up into the SUV passenger seat in her tight skirt and heels.
    Larry gave her one of those quick assessing male looks that said he wasn’t displeased but not personally interested. Maybe Molina had hit paydirt.
    Temple looked around, hard, before they took off. Rafi Nadir was nowhere in sight.
    Now why did that scare the living shih tzu out of her?

    They ended up in the Blue Dahlia parking lot.
    Temple gave Larry a warning look when he came around to help her and Mariah out of the Jeep.
    He shrugged at Temple and gave Mariah a reassuring grin. “That was a world-class performance, kiddo. You’ve got a ripe set of pipes.”
    Temple scanned the parking lot for signs of Rafi Nadir. That was the trouble. If he was here, there would be some.
    “You always this nervous?” Larry asked with a quick whisper.
    “We did just come from a murderer-grabbing scene.”
    “History. I have a feeling you don’t dwell on it. Neither do I. What else is bothering you?”
    “Nothing.”
    He laughed. “Women are the best little stonewallers in the business. And we guys call you the weaker sex.”
    Temple eyed Mariah nervously. She’d been through a lot, plus the poor kid was half-starved.
    “It’s their business,” Larry warned.
    “True, but why do I feel you’re butting into it?”
    He laughed again. “You’re one sharp cookie, aren’t you?” His hand on her elbow was custodial as he steered her inside behind Mariah’s happy jazz steps as she took in the artsy neon and the bluesy adult façade of the Blue Dahlia.
    It was the kind of place Travis McGee would boogie into without a regret.
    Temple hoped that more modern folk of the female persuasion wouldn’t regard it as a hothouse of worse things than mere regret.

    “This place is so cool!”
    Mariah eyed the cocktails on the surrounding tables, the all-adult clientele.
    She was feeling thirteen-going-on-thirty tonight, an emotion Temple remembered well.
    So this was the secret Molina was going to unveil. A small, glamorous secret to start with, before the main course, which was large, hard to swallow, and indigestible.
    Temple had become close enough to Mariah during their days as faux roommates to feel her stomach churning with anxiety. What if her own mother had revealed a hidden past as a... belly dancer! How would Temple, age thirteen, have reacted?
    She couldn’t be certain, but not with unbridled joy, for sure. Oh, Mother! The breed was so embarrassing to begin with. What if Mariah found Carmen laughable? Temple felt herself cringing for the risk Molina was taking, then thought of the bigger one she’d have to take later.
    “How long have you known Molina?” Larry asked her after ordering a Shirley Temple for Mariah and a halfbottle of pink zinfandel for them.
    “Too long and not enough.”
    “My feelings exactly. She isn’t easy.”
    “Why should she be?”
    “Right. I’m not either.”
    “What are you, then?”
    He glanced at Mariah to make sure that she was busy eavesdropping on the sophisticated blues lovers at the other tables, and the sophisticated lovers, period. The Blue Dahlia was a favorite trysting place. Carmen’s torch songs were music to make semipublic love by.
    “I carry a shield, like you didn’t know,” Larry said, way too laidback for a man in blue.
    Temple didn’t doubt him. This was a cop but an unconventional cop. The combination was intriguing and, she sensed, dangerous. She hoped Molina knew what she was doing.
    The jazz trio ended a riff. There was a moment of transition. Were they going to take a break? Or not?
    Not. Carmen merged with the narrow velvet curtains behind the instrumentalists, then passed through, blue velvet fog in motion.
    She was at the lone stool, mike in hand, like smoke in a mirror. Not there, and then there, etched irrevocably.
    Mariah’s jaw dropped before the first low, minor notes of “The Man I Love” escaped her mother’s lips.
    Everything about Molina that was larger than life and downright intimidating in reality became cinematic and dramatic on a musical club set.
    It was intimacy writ large. The microphone seemed an accessory after the fact to her true, husky voice, both bel canto and hip.
    She wove a vocal spell. The dignified sheen of vintage forties blue velvet that made femininity into a sculpted, strong icon was part of that spell. Women had seemed both sturdy and sexy then, part of the war effort maybe. Rosie the