Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

another. Win is for Win ning.



Kissing Cousins

    Matt’s mind was running in circles as he headed to his mother’s apartment in a cab through rush-hour traffic. He’d happened on a hornets’ nest at Brandon, Oakes, and McCall but exactly what variety of wasp had he stirred up? Legal shyster? Loyal attorney protecting a client?
    Maybe he should have stayed. Watched the employees leave for the night. He had a hunch someone would be hearing about his visit. But... no one would be showing up until tomorrow. If ever. Let your fingers do the walking, use the phone or e-mail nowadays. Never show your face. Someone might notice your lying eyes.
    “Here you are, bub.”
    Said pointedly. While Matt had been enacting various scenarios in his head, they’d arrived at his mother’s apartment building. A bland block of windows. Horizontal glass windows, tall vertical exterior columns of stone. Plaid fifties-era urban high-rise.
    Matt paid the driver, tipping him way too well. He couldn’t be bothered calculating a few dollars when his whole life was suddenly a million-dollar question. He entered the echoing lobby, so much more pretentious than the Circle Ritz’s music-box proportions. And therefore, so much less homey. And no Temple here to run into.
    He was whistling by the time the elevator disgorged him on the twenty-second floor, thinking of Temple. The key his mother had given him on his last visit to Chicago turned in the plain apartment door with its lofty four-digit number. He was already relishing the peace and quiet of an empty apartment—Mom was at her job as a restaurant hostess, miles away. Wouldn’t be back until eleven P.M.
    By then he’d have relaxed, chilled out, gathered his wits so he wouldn’t blurt out his discovery before he had any hard evidence....
    The door gave and opened before the key had finished its turns. A tallish young woman stood behind it.
    “Matt! Come in.”
    “Krystyna! Krys. You’re here.”
    “Yup. Live here, off and on. Didn’t Mira tell you?”
    “Uh, no.”
    “Don’t you look as yummy as a caramel sundae! What’s with the bleach, dude?”
    Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Blond in this instance. His cousin Krystyna’s hair was a kaleidoscope of platinum-on-blonde-on-black.
    He put a dismissive hand to his hair, remembering it looked different. “Photo shoot for the radio station. I’m told it’ll wash out.” Close enough. “You, on the other hand...
    “Madonna, Evita-in-Krakow style. You like the indigo highlights?”
    “Colorful. I’m surprised to see you.”
    “Have I got a Mae West line for you! Never mind. Not suitable for ex-priests. I guess my job is to entertain you until Mira gets home.”
    “So... you live here. Off and on. I take it the punk boyfriend is around during the off?”
    “Huh? Him? Oh, history. I was young and stupid then.”
    “Three months ago?”
    “Yeah. Want a beer?”
    She was poised on the carpet verge next to the linoleum that marked off the alley kitchen.
    “Yeah.” Matt realized he needed one.
    Krys. She changed like a rainbow. Since he’d first met her when he’d connected to his Chicago relatives six months ago, she’d gone from breathless teenager to rebellious young adult, heavy on young to now... assertive single chick. Cousin. Assertive single cousin.
    First cousin. Like it mattered to her.
    She brought a Bohemian beer, the dark brown bottle sweating goose bumps of condensation. She didn’t offer him a glass.
    “So.” Leaning against the eating bar that divided kitchen and living room. Five-foot-nine of fine Polish womanhood. Blue eyes both guarded and challenging. “How’ll we kill some time until Mira gets home? Cousin dearest.”

    He suggested that they sit and talk. That was his profession, after all.
    Or watch some TV. The remote was front and center on the small round fruitwood coffee table.
    “I watched you on The Amanda Show today,” she told him, settling beside him on the couch. Settling way too much beside him.
    “Really? It’s amazing how many people in Chicago miss my golden hour.”
    She sighed. “You’re really good. I studied advertising in class. TV is a ‘cool’ medium. The cooler and more laid back you are, the hotter you come across.”
    “Glad you’re learning something in college. Is Uncle Stash letting you major in art?”
    “No.” She sat up from her couch-lounging position, took a long swig of beer. “He still treats me like a kid. A woman.”
    “I