Before Temple could work herself up into attack mode, she watched in dismay as the two magicians and their big cats were suddenly signaled to hustle off-camera.
The Cloaked Conjuror and his animals exited left first. Then Shangri-La cartwheeled off to the right.
Paralyzed by the two sudden exits, Temple stood there like a dumbstruck person born in the year of the Ox.
Eve Castenada, the host/interviewer, faced the camera, her aspect disconcertingly sober.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt the live feature on the big cats and the valuable efforts to breed them for posterity. I’ve just been informed that the president of MADD, Mothers Against Drunk Driving, is attending a conference in Las Vegas and is here to comment on the rush-hour tragedy in Henderson.”
Temple’s mind immediately recalled the front-page story in that morning’s Las Vegas Review Journal: three teens wiped out the previous evening by a drunk driver.
The president of MADD was probably the surviving parent of a similar tragedy. Temple watched the set literally darken as the heavy-set, serious woman walked into camera range.
Temple’s own mood plummeted from high dudgeon to fellow feeling. When she’d been a TV reporter in Minnesota she’d most dreaded covering survivors. She hated the personal questions she’d had to ask on-camera so much that she’d eventually left the job.
Temple also empathized with the host’s switch from feel-good feature to hard-hitting news item. Pros made the transition look easy, but the people behind the smooth facades paid for their professionalism with nerves later.
Temple felt bodies crowding behind her at the curtain to watch. One of them whispered in her ear.
“What’s this?” A man’s voice.
“President of MADD commenting on that terrible wreck last night.”
“Someone came into the other studio and said we were scratched.”
Temple looked over her shoulder. Kenny Maylord stood there in his bland midwestern business suit and receding hairline, looking worried.
“News bulletins happen on TV,” she said. “Even on feature shows.”
From her left came another insistent push. The blond Baylee Harris.
“Ms. Wong is furious. She has friends among the network stockholders. She does their condos and vacation homes.”
“They’re too far away to make a difference now,” Temple whispered back. “And be quiet. This is a TV studio.”
“This is a disaster for us!” Baylee sounded more sad than angry.
“We’re losing our media momentum. What can we do?” Pritchard asked from behind her.
Temple pulled the curtain shut. “Follow me,” she ordered the May-lord and Wong contingent, retracing her steps as silently as possible.
At least they followed suit until they were out in the deserted hall.
“You don’t understand,” Kenny Maylord said. “Maylords hosts its grand opening only once and that’s tonight. A Friday daytime slot is crucial.”
“Ms. Wong seldom appears at small-time events like this,” Pritchard added. “It just happens that some of her biggest Asian clients keep pied-à-terres in Las Vegas. Her next gig is with the sultan of Dubai. She’ll never be available in Las Vegas again.”
“Maylords needs the publicity,” Kenny insisted.
Temple turned on both of them. “At the expense of pushing off that tragic news story? I don’t think so.”
Both groaned, only Kenny’s was more of a moan.
“Okay.” Temple’s sigh blew the curls off her forehead. When she was good, she was very good. And when she was bad, she was with Max, or had been. “Who came in and said your appearance was scratched?”
“One of the page boys.”
Temple checked her watch, then eyed Pritchard and Maylord. “Weren’t you supposed to announce a twenty-thousand-dollar donation to the local arts group?”
“Yeah,” Kenny said. “From Maylords. Ms. Wong was going to present it.”
“Okay. I suggest you make the donation to the Nevada chapter of MADD instead.”
“MADD? That has nothing to do with interior design.”
“It has a lot to do with interior sympathies in Las Vegas at the moment. If you can do that, I might be able to get you and Ms. Wong on-camera for a minute or two.”
“But the details of the store opening—”
“The contribution of Ms. Wong to national culture—”
“Are not the act to follow this. Do you have children? Mr. May-lord? Ms. Merriweather?”
Pritchard shook her lacquered jet black bob, but Kenny Maylord nodded.
“How old are they?”
“Six and four,” he said.
“Add ten years and imagine how you’d feel if they’d just died in a car crash caused by a drunk driver. Not a time to mention cocktail opening receptions for anything! Just get on, let Ms. Wong and Mr. Maylord be introduced. Offer your sympathies to the families and community, and make your donation. Okay?”
Two dazed heads nodded. They followed in Temple’s wake as she skittered faster than a water bug along the slick concrete floor, hunting Lacey Davenport.
Everything went down according to her improvised plan. A briefed Amelia Wong was the soul of gracious sympathy and Kenny Maylord’s balding dome only shone with modest sweat under the brutally bright TV lights. The producer had been more than willing to squeeze in the squeezed-out guests if they became instant donors.
Temple watched from the curtained wings, Lacey at her side.
The Maylords opening was mentioned. Once. Ms. Wong’s expertise was bowed to. The astounded president of MADD accepted a fake check in lieu of the real one, thanking them both so very, very much.
“We’ll flash a card on the Maylords opening time and place at the end of the hour’s final news segment and throughout the day’s programming,” Lacey said. “What was the money really going to go for?”
“The arts fund and a feng shui makeover by Ms. Wong of a local Montessori school.”
“Not bad PR,” Lacey conceded, “but this was even better, more newsy and immediate. I hope your clients appreciate you saving the day for feng shui folk everywhere.”
“I know the twenty-thousand-dollar check will do some real good. And that has got to be better feng shui for the Maylords opening tonight.”