Boos and hisses from gathering Red Hat Sisterhood women answered that statement.
Natalie Newman raised her voice so the looming multistation mikes could capture it.
“When and why did the Black Hat Brotherhood form?”
“ ‘When’ was at the previous Ragin’ Hormones hooha last year in St. Louis. ‘Why’ was because we men are tired of being used, abused, and put out to pasture when the women get their change of life.”
“Don’t men undergo a change of life?” Temple asked. “Only because the women go crazy then, Hot Pink. You better come on over to our side. We can use a pretty little blond filly like you, instead of these old gray mares most of us are stuck with.” Like all protesters, they meant to inflame.
The Red Hat Sisterhood started up their own chant: “Two, four, six, eight, you old guys discriminate.”
The Black Hat Brotherhood retaliated in kind: “Two, four, six, eight, you old dames are full of hate.”
It was a PR person’s nightmare. The Crystal Phoenix mar-quee would star in the local news on every station tonight. Temple had to do something.
She used her high heels to stomp her way through the crowding media reporters and videographers. With a trail of ows in her wake, she seized the media attention from Natalie Newman by projecting her voice.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Temple declaimed. “In this corner we have the Black Hat Brotherhood.” She pointed like a carnival barker. “In this corner we have the Red Hat Sisterhood.” She pointed again. “I propose a no-holds-barred debate on these issues tomorrow at 2:00 P.M. right here.”
Her bold proposal had hushed the contending factions. Tern-ple racked her brains. Who would make a media-friendly moderator?
“The debate will be moderated by … Mr. Midnight himself, Matt Devine, syndicated host of Las Vegas’s own WCOO-AM radio’s ‘Midnight Hour.’ “
A series of ooohs among the assembled media and onlookers told Temple she’d hit publicity gold.
She just hoped she didn’t lose a fiancé over it.
Chapter 25
Hot Water and Cool Tequila
Or a major client.
Temple was called onto the carpet in Van von Rhine’s office, only it was all bleached wood floors and no carpet.
Nicky was there, with his brother, Aldo, as a witness.
Van was tapping one sleek Italian designer pump on her high-end wood floor, very audibly. Temple was thinking that Van could wear a bath towel to work if it was Italian-made and be just as happy in it, as she was with her easygoing husband, on whom Temple was banking with every instinct in her.
“Pardon me, Temple:’ Van said, maintaining her natural blond cool. Or ice. “I don’t see how transferring a distasteful media brawl from the Crystal Phoenix’s front porte cochere to our meeting rooms inside is an improvement. But you’re the public relations expert.”
You’re the one whose baby-blond bleached head this is on, was the message.
“The media was eating us up for the five, six, and ten P. M.
news,” Temple said. “I had to do something to stop it for the moment.”
“But they’ll be back tomorrow, hunting for blood. For red ink for the hotel. We’ve worked very hard to establish a reputation as a first-class destination in Las Vegas. Not as the equivalent of World Wrestling Federation contest between middle-aged men and women.”
Nicky lit up. “Hey, maybe we can get all the debaters to wear those Stingy Dingy underwear like they do on the wrestling shows.”
“You mean tighty whities,” Temple said.
“Oh, my God!” Van hid her face in her hands. “There is no way out of this but disgrace.”
“Matt will lend an air of dignity,” Temple suggested.
Van looked up to skewer her with a steel-blue gaze. “Are you sure he’ll be willing to go along with this tasteless stunt?”
Temple stretched out her left hand and wiggled the heavy-duty engagement ring on it.
Van blinked at the high-end glitz. “Congratulations. Okay,”
she conceded. “He’s just a fool in love. I still don’t think he’ll do this, even for you.”
“I would,” Nicky said.
Van lifted a pale eyebrow. “You’d do it for Temple if you were Matt, or just on principle?”
“I’d do it because it makes sense.”
Temple released a hot, long-held breath. Van was the head of this operation, but Nicky was the guts and the heart.
“Look,” he went on. “The damage was done. Our clients were being attacked by a rowdy protester group. Someone sicced the media on that and I’d sure like to know who.”
Nicky eyed Temple, who nodded. She had media contacts all over town and they were going to get roasted on a red-hot grill until she knew who’d masterminded that ugly scene. Shehad her suspicions. She’d get to that just as soon as she got to Matt and did what Van von Rhine rightfully thought was going to be a hard sell.
Three nights tied to his four-poster bed ought to do it for a fiancé. Also for her.
But Matt had scruples, and those were very costly indeed.
Maybe five nights.
“So who do you think did it?” Nicky asked.
“Huh?” Temple pulled her imagination and libido back to the problem at hand. “I have my suspects,” she said mysteriously.
Actually, it was “suspect” singular, but she wasn’t ready to go on record for that.
Temple raced back down to the holding cells.
Wait a minute! She’d been doing too much unofficial police work lately. They weren’t holding cells, just neighboring conference rooms.
A pair of Fontana brothers stood guard outside each set of double doors. Aldo was waiting for her, and he introduced her to his siblings, just so she wouldn’t get embarrassingly confused about names.
“Ernesto and Rico are keeping the Black Hat Brotherhood bottled up with lots of beer,” Aldo said, rolling his eyes. Italians preferred wine to beer and hard liquor.
“Armando and Julio, on the other hand, have been trying to keep the Red Hat Sisterhood from unnecessary stress.” Temple could hear female hooting inside. “What did you have them served? Tea?”
Aldo winced. “Texas Tea, I was told. I was also told it would knock a mule-headed beer-drinking Black Hat Brother back on his ass.”
Texas Tea, Temple thought. Wasn’t that Jack Daniel’s and lemonade? She braced herself to enter the conference room to meet with the Red Hat Sisterhood on ninety proof.
Once inside, the double doors snapped shut, locking her in.
There wasn’t much choice of debaters. Whoever had been in the unruly crowds on both sides had been swept into swift custody by the Fontana brothers at Temple’s instructions.
She was surprised to see two pink hats among the red.
Holy Hattie Carnegie!
One was her aunt Kit, sure to be a strong debater, and one was Savannah Ashleigh. Talk about a loss leader.
Looking around, she was relieved to see that two of Electra’s Red-Hatted League members were among the group, Judy and Phyll, the Mutt and Jeff librarians. And of course she’d had to invite Jeanne Johnson, Her Royal Hatness, the founder and head woman. That pretty much made up a debate team, if she could ditch Savannah.
“Traitor!” the woman in question now spat at Temple. “I beg your pardon?”
“You named a man moderator. Why not me? I’m much better known nationally than some local radio personality.”
“The title is ‘moderator.’ You’re not moderate.”
“I’m as modern as the next Teen Idol.”
“Moderate. Like the weather.”
“Oh.” Savannahtrout-pouted, which collagen treatments to her lips had well qualified her to do. “You mean dull, boring. Bland.”
“Exactly,” Temple said.
“Well, I certainly am not that!”
“I agree,” Temple said with a broad smile.
HRH spoke next. “This could be a good publicity opportunity for our message,” she said, “but I’m worried about lowering ourselves to debate these rowdy protesters. This is our convention. We were violated.”