Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  She goes on. “I would have dashed over for the latest Anne Perry and Elizabeth George novels.”

  I would have dashed over to find out when Miss Maeveleen Pearl’s Thrill ‘n’ Quill bookstore relocated here, next to my stomping grounds, with Ingram, that snooty tiger-stripe, still in residence.

  The women have stopped to study the window, so I am forced to pause and be IDed by its resident alien.

  “Look,” Miss Temple says. “A cat in the window. How charming.”

  What a lazy, lay-a-book dude he is! Just because I consulted Ingram on a matter or two in the past and he lies around all day on the likes of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, he considers himself my intellectual superior. Even now his acid-yellow eyes descend to half-mast as he spots me. Then he yawns and fans his prized six toes against his lower jaw in a most condescending manner.

  If he were human, he would wear a bow tie, in plaid, like they put on Scottish terriers, which breed happened to be involved in my last case. Ingram is reclining near a magnifying glass in the display, but I would not put it past him to affect a monocle, should he ever get his paws on one.

  “Look at Louie,” Miss Electra chortles. “His tail is bristled up like a tumbleweed.”

  She should talk. Her hairdo is puffed up like a plate of pastel-tinted marshmallows.

  We resume walking, thank Bast. I give Ingram a quick nod over my shoulder, but he has curled up into ball resembling a very large pair of rolled-up stripped socks. I must admit that his camouflage options are impressive.

  “You know,” my Miss Temple is saying, “this is such a cute little shopping area, but it needs some sharp PR to get the word out on it. Then the area would attract new shops.”

  “I know,” Miss Electra says as grimly as a bouncy personality like hers ever manages. “I own the whole kit and caboodle, but the Great Recession hit Las Vegas so hard I lost a lot of renters.”

  Miss Temple has stopped abruptly, causing me to smash my tender nose into her calf. I may have been distracted by giving Ingram a dirty look over my shoulder.

  “Louie! Are you still with us?” she asks.

  I should hope so.

  However, she is more interested in Miss Electra’s revelation than my stubbed nose at the moment.

  “Why did you not tell me, Electra, that you owned some nearby commercial sites too? Drumming up business is my, well, business.”

  “The rent was welcome, but these shops mostly cater to wedding chapel customers. The newest one is the bookshop, which got priced out of its old location and lease after clinging on through the worst of the recession. Maeveleen Pearl, the owner, tells me independent bookstores are making a comeback. But when Vegas ‘comes back’ it is with more topless pools at the big hotels and more blue businesses in offbeat corners.”

  “Blue businesses?” Miss Temple asks my question for me.

  Miss Electra laughs, patting the naturally white part of her coiffure. “In the old days, in the very old days, anything that was a bit smutty was called ‘blue’. Blue humor is a satire on the bawdy ways of the world.”

  “Which are major in Las Vegas,” Miss Temple notes.

  “Yeah. When it comes to commercial ventures, I guess we are all ragtag hangers-on about to be drowned in Las Vegas sleaze.”

  “Electra! That is no way to think.” Miss Temple paces back and forth in a two-foot range like a caged Big Cat, only she is a little cat. “You own the block of shops across from the wedding chapel. Anything else?”

  “A few lots here and there. Most everything here was razed when the Strip expanded south years ago and this area is not on any main drag. You know the Vegas Strip still has odd pieces of property beside and behind and be-shadowed by the huge hotel spreads. That is where tacky tourist shops spring up.”

  We are all walking again, but Miss Temple has not walked back her pep talk.

  “A smaller commercial space does not have to be tacky, Electra. It can be charming. It can be an urban village. You already have a bookstore and wedding accessory shop that complement the Lovers’ Knot. You are halfway there.”

  “Urban village?”

  “Yes! A destination inside the biggest destination city in the country, Vegas. A laid-back shopping and eating area within an encompassing metropolis.”

  “The only people who could see and patronize these few shops are my wedding chapel clients. And with even the Mob Museum downtown doing elaborate weddings, my place is not splashy enough, and I am losing customers. I was thinking of closing down.”

  “Closing down the Lovers’ Knot? Not! You do not want splashy, Electra. You want charming. Trust me.”

  “Well, you are charming, so I suppose I gotta trust you.”

  “Urban villages are popping up in San Francisco, Seattle, out east.”

  “Las Vegas is not really a metropolis, Temple. It is a super-duper commercial roller coaster ride from a very small Downtown ‘Experience’ that has a very long and narrow tail, the Strip, thronged with a massive array of adult Disneyland ‘attractions’. I do not see how you plant a viable ‘village’ in some forgotten corner here.”

  My Miss Temple sighs. This means she is sure she is right, but is going to have trouble proving it. When she thinks she will have trouble proving something, whether it is a commercial venture or a murder case, she will only work harder to do just that.

  “Vegas already supports one super successful urban village, Electra.”

  “You are kidding. I have not seen one.”

  “Think. It is north of the Stratosphere but south of Downtown.”

  “That area is a kind of No Man’s Land, Temple, with a hodge-podge of small downscale enterprises.”

  “Not the Pawn Star development.”

  “Oh, that freaky reality TV pawnshop show?” Electra pinched her nose in a gesture of disgust. “Way too low-brow to be considered a normal business.”

  “That is why it is popular. So popular they have four thousand tourist visitors a day and are putting in restaurants and shops to hold them as fast as they can.”

  “The title of the show has pre-cheapened the concept, Temple. So. You think a Pornucopia offshoot coming in down here will provide that Pawn Star draw? Lord knows what they will call that, and, on second thought, I am sure He would not want to know. Are you saying we should get aboard the X-rated sleaze train?”

  “No. The opposite. I am saying we need to close that family-unfriendly puppy down so you can build your own urban village. You said you want to get a protest group going. That is a start.”

  “Temple.” Now Miss Electra has stopped walking to pace in her cushion-soled flat-heeled shoes. She does not make a sound, whereas my Miss Temple always sounds mucho macho, brisk and businesslike, like say, a rattlesnake, when she gets her low-riding castanets clicking. “We do not have a reality TV show gone viral to draw fans.”

  “Not yet,” says my Miss Temple. She likes mowing down obstacles the way a tsunami would if it had red hair. “Now. Let us see what is what with those would-be ‘Porn Stars’ down the block.”

  She turns to make sure I am bringing up the rear of our little party, my own rear member held high, supple, and handsome. Of course I am.

  “From what you are telling me of this new kid on the block,” she tells Miss Electra Lark, “I am not sure Louie should tail along. He is underage.”

  “I am sure he should,” Miss Electra insisted. “I believe is it several human years to every cat year. At that rate, Louie should last—”

  “Too much information, Electra.” My Miss Temple plants her heels in place and holds up a traffic-cop palm. “I refuse to hear that Louie has an expiration date.” She shudders dramatically in a manner I find most personally satisfying.

  Miss Electra shrugs. “I was about to say I think if anything reincarnated, it would be cats. Especially Louie.”

  “Even worse. I do not want a retread. I want the real and original.”

  “In Vegas? You are an optimist, Temple. But maybe you are ri
ght. Maybe we can turn X-rated into X-iled.”

  7

  Off-Color

  Temple took in the huge, level dirt lot. It looked like a cheesy chessboard with yellow surveyor’s flags deployed everywhere like pawns. Pawn Stars.

  Smack-dab in the middle of the property sat a two-story brick hulk with windows only on the second floor and big double doors like a barn on the first-floor entrance. A forty-foot RV clung to its side like a cub. That must operate as an onsite office and night guard station, although the building was clearly absent any tenant, bare of signage on any side at any level.

  There was, however, a huge construction sign on one corner Temple hotfooted over to inspect. “This billboard is big enough to advertise an entire housing development,” she told Electra as they came around to view its message.

  By now the landlady was breathing down her neck, heavily.

  “Gosh, Temple, you sure walk fast for a petite person. Don’t even think about an adult housing development going up on this land. What would they call it, Hootchy-Cootchy Condos?”

  “Here it is. I’m reading the fine print. They have a pair of managers, Punch Adcock and Katt Zydeco.”

  “Great. They’ve got the strip club biz covered from A to Z. The guy sounds like a thug or boxer and the woman a hooker.”

  “Don’t sound so glum. ‘Zydecko’ is a Cajun dance. I bet ‘Katt’ was born just plain Katherine Smith and this is her performance name.”

  “So I’m somehow relieved that one manager may be a stripper?”

  “Remember way back when I solved the Stripper Killer case? Believe it or not, it’s a step forward that some women now own and manage strip clubs. Less exploitive that way.”

  “Somehow I don’t see the redeeming social value.” Electra pointed to the big-type teaser line at the billboard’s top.

  Temple read, “Coming soon…and we mean it literally.”

  She groaned in disgust at the bawdy pun. “Cheesy.” No class.

  The pitch went on: You know Lust ‘n’ Lace downtown as an multiplex playground of toys and joys, lingerie and latex, you name it, you get it. Now opening soon, Lust ‘n’ Lace Live on Stage!, Vegas’s latest and lustiest and de-lace-iest gentleman’s club. We’ll have packages to suit every type and size of party. VIP, Bachelor, Bachelorette, Birthday, Couples, Corporate or Divorce Party. Each party package includes limo transport, liquor, admission, etc.

  It was that “etc.” that Temple suspected covered a mega-lot of sins and extra charges.

  “What was the building before someone decided to make it a gentlemen’s club?” Temple asked Electra.

  “I think it was a garage back in the forties. Driving to Vegas in the early days was hard on cars. Rumor was Bugsy Siegel parked his cars there.”

  Temple sighed. “Another ‘surviving trace of Bugsy’ claim. If he did all he was purported to do, and been everywhere he has been purported to be around Vegas, he’d have needed to live to a hundred…not be down, out, and dead at forty-one.”

  “True. He’s among the soft sculpture people in the Lovers’ pews.”

  “Really? I never noticed him.”

  “Well, he’s slumped down and missing an eye under his gangster fedora, but otherwise nattily dressed, as always.”

  Temple winced. The blast of bullets that had ended Bugsy’s life had shot out one eye. “I didn’t know your artistic streak had such a macabre bent.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Electra intoned mysteriously, making Temple laugh.

  “I certainly don’t know what color or colors your hair will be from day to day,” Temple said. “Your rainbow hair was ahead of all the young pop stars.”

  Electra grinned. “At my advanced age, being ahead in anything is a triumph.”

  “So we’re looking at Bugsy’s garage, and what else?”

  “I know the building was a nightclub back in the fifties when the mob was running the Strip hotels, then empty for a while, and then a big five-and-dime. Its last retail life was as an antique mall, with individual dealers having side-by-side booths.”

  “Oh, I love those places. Any vintage clothing and jewelry sold there?”

  “Down, girl. That’s long gone, and it was more used than vintage.”

  “So the old place is returning to its nightlife stage.” Temple ambled closer to the gaudy billboard. The panoramic illustration portrayed a nightly naughty Strip show, with circus-tent poles and chorus girls wearing feathers and rhinestones and not much else. Showgirls had starred in the typical Vegas advertising image since Bugsy had pushed up roses in L.A.

  Beside her, Electra sighed deeply. Louie stalked over until he sat right under the sign. In the next second he’d ratcheted up a rear wood support post to leap atop the three-inch-wide frame. He stretched a long forelimb down to paw a giant feathered headdress.

  “I bet this outfit will carry a lot of ‘toys’ that might tickle Louie’s fancy,” Temple said, rolling her eyes.

  “Sure. The traitor. Flash a feather at a cat and he doesn’t ask if it’s socially redeeming or not. Listen, Temple, Vegas was built on bad, and I don’t turn up my nose at other people’s preferences in anything. Seeing the size of this building, I know any PR makeover you might do for my miserable few acres will be hopeless in the face of that.”

  “Picketing would only publicize the place,” Temple conceded.

  They stood in glum silence, Temple was out of bright ideas as they viewed the sheer size of the project. It was bigger than Pornucopia and the two-story Adult Superstore south of Downtown. Once the exterior was wrapped in female body parts and neon, it would turn Electra’s wedding chapel into an also-ran.

  “You ladies can’t wait for the Grand Opening, huh?” said a smirking voice behind them.

  Temple turned faster than a whipsnake. “Crawford Buchanan? You’re repping this project?”

  “No, I’m just reporting on it.” His smarmy grin widened as he looked Temple over like she was one of the sex objects on the billboard.

  “Send that smirk to the Snark Hall of Fame, Crawford,” she said. “I can see why some of the neighboring businesses are ready to picket this humongous expansion of down-market enterprise.”

  Buchanan, the local Napoleon of nasty gossip media, seemed oddly taller. In addition to the usual shoe lifts, his graying dark hair had now been gelled into an impressive peak atop his head.

  That “look” would soon be the laughing stock of the 2010s, the way the 1980s brassy gold bathroom faucets were despised on Home and Garden Decor TV today. Temple couldn’t wait until actors and other media men unloaded the “anthill” hairdo so fashionable and so unbecoming. At least Matt wasn’t about to join the mob on that.

  “Picketing,” Buchanan said, “would just stir up publicity for Lust ‘n’ Lace, as you noted, T. B.”

  Temple also loathed his using her initials as a nickname. The implied intimacy made her skin crawl. At least he didn’t know her middle name was the also-loathed “Ursula”. Crawford could sure make hay with T.U.B.

  “Seriously,” she told Buchanan, “who or what corporation is bankrolling this project? Isn’t it risky to put a Vegas Downtown-type business so far south?”

  “Yeah, but there’s not much land left anywhere now. I heard some out-of-town owner is getting older and ready to unload investments. And Vegas has finally come back from the biggest real estate dive in the country.”

  Telling Temple how much inside info he knew gave Crawford a superior glow. She just smiled politely and let him yammer on. “This will be a huge deal. The managers are a colorful couple.”

  She eyed the billboard. “I’ll bet. Who are Punch Adcock and Katt Zydeco?”

  “Each of them has run sex entertainment businesses, but they’re hooking up to expand into this game.”

  “There are, what, thirty sex shops in Vegas, not even counting strip joints?” Temple noted.

  “You’re not saying you can ever get enough sex, are you, T.B.?” The smirk was back.


  “I’m saying no matter how much the economy has bounced back, a big investment in an off location like this is iffy. I find it…puzzling.”

  By now Midnight Louie had tired of two-dimensional billboard feathers and had hopped down to stalk over and sniff Crawford’s pointy-toed ankle boots. His nose reared back as his furry black belly swayed to the sidewalk, stretching to display his three-foot length from nose to tail-tip.

  Then Louie strolled over to twine himself around Temple’s ankles, offering a flash of fangs and a snakelike hiss.

  “That animal looks rabid.” Buchanan pulled out his cell phone and contemplated its face with faux regret. “Animal Control would snatch him up in a minute if they happened by.”

  Electra gasped. “That’s a threat if I ever heard one.”

  “A fact,” Buchanan told her, basking in her shock.

  Temple was unfazed. “Louie has gotten into, and out of, worse dangers. And if you try anything like that, I will restyle your stupid hair with my steel-heeled shoes.”

  Buchanan glanced down in alarm. “You have steel-heeled shoes? By God, you do. Do you have a license for those things, T.B.?”

  “Just a sales receipt, C.B. You don’t have to register shoes as deadly weapons, even if they are.”

  Temple was glad she’d worn the vintage Stuart Weitzman spikes she’d bought as much for self-defense as style.

  “Just watch you don’t impale your cat on one of them someday.” Buchanan finally moved away to photograph the billboard with his cell phone.

  Electra edged close to Temple and Louie. “You’ve said he was a creep, but he outdoes your opinion. Is that the kind of person this new adult emporium is going to attract?”

  “The business is legal, Electra, and many tourists come to Vegas for a walk on the wild side. A lot of mainstream couples patronize businesses like these. The biggest audience for Fifty Shades of Gray, the film of the kinky bondage novels, came from the South and Heartland. Folks who’d be gun-shy about being seen entering a strip club in their hometowns, know that here…nobody cares.”

  “Buchanan,” a rough male voice yelled from fifty feet away.