I can see why I mistook her for Bast. She wears a collar and from it dangle glittering amber crystal teardrops. She looks like a billion bucks and I am just a two dollar bill. I am always falling for dames beyond my station.
“My apologies, miss. I was so hot on the trail I missed your presence.”
“What trail are you on, sir?”
Well, I cannot come right out and say it. That would be crass.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” I say, bowing so my luxurious black vibrissae blend tips with hers. (Vibrissae are known as whiskers to the commoner sort, such as humans.) “I am working undercover in this hotel. You may have heard of the Dancing With the Celebs event.”
“Then you are masquerading as a dancer?”
“No, I am masquerading as a celebrity mascot.”
“Oh! I am a mascot too!”
“What a coincidence. What are you a mascot of, or for?”
“This whole hotel. And your mascotery is—”
I am not about to identify myself as a “purse pussy.”
“I am a private detective by profession, Midnight Inc. Investigations, assigned to one of those currently popular teen pop tarts in the dance show, one Miss Zoe Chloe Ozone, as a personal pet. Only for appearances, I assure you. I am no one’s personal pet, although there are occasions when I would make an exception for the right little doll who could wrap me around her long supple tail.”
“You look like you have quite a long supple . . . tail yourself, Mr. Midnight.”
I am about ready to belie my words and do the happy dance.
“And how did you become a hotel mascot, may I ask?” I go on. “Other than sublime good looks, of course.”
She tilts her head adorably to the side and runs her little red tongue over her vibrissae, making them tremble, and me too.
“My mistress is a public events coordinator for this hotel.”
“What a coincidence! Miss Temple Barr, my current roommate, is a freelance version of same. She is a clever and comely and petite little doll to whom I am devoted.”
“How amazing. My Miss Tuesday Weldon answers to the same description and is devoted to me. I inspired her theme for the entire hotel.”
“What a coup for catkind. You are truly a pioneer.”
“I only assist my mistress. You are the first feline PI I have heard of. You must have carved a trail too.”
“This is top secret. I assist my roommate too. We are both undercover.”
“This is my hotel, Mr. Midnight. I deserve to know what danger assaults it.”
“The usual death threats so far.”
“Yes, that is quite usual these days. Well, Mr. Midnight—”
“I do not stand on formalities. Call me Louie.”
“Very well, Louie. I am working right now and must be on my appointed rounds.”
“‘Appointed rounds’? Surely you are not delivering mail?”
Her laugh is an entrancing burst of soft purrs. “No, no. Nothing so mundane. I am to cover the floor and show myself.”
“You are not being put on parade like a showgirl!”
“I am a showgirl, Louie,” she responds, patting my cheek with velvet paw. “I appear nightly at the Sandbox Lounge in the hotel, with the house magician.”
I stiffen. (Not that way!) The evil Hyacinth, the late Shangri-La’s feline assistant, had hitched her star to the only Asian female magician in Vegas.
“My main job,” she goes on, “is to stroll around with my necklace of amber-colored jewels. I am a walking special offer. The hotel’s guests can earn free chips, a dinner, a lodgings discount or other prizes by spotting me on my rounds and unfastening a pendant jewel from my collar.”
I would like to unfasten her collar! “So your work is promotional?”
“Purely.”
“I see your mistress is clever indeed and that I must not detain you longer, no matter how much I might wish to, as your job is to be mobile.”
“You are so . . . intuitive, Louie. I do like a sensitive male. I hope our paths cross again.”
“I am sure they will. And if a feline chap were to snag one of your valuable dangles—?”
“He would return it. For, alas, only humans can redeem the pendants for rewards.”
“Oh, I think there would rewards aplenty for an enterprising feline PI.”
“Just between you and I—”
I lean inward, not about to correct the grammar wafting from that honeyed breath.
“One of the faux pendants they place on my collar each morning is not just crystal, but a precious jewel. And the reward for finding that is major.”
I think for a moment, which is a considerable challenge, under the circumstances, as you may imagine.
“‘A precious jewel.’ Perhaps a jewel as precious as your name?”
“And what would that be, Louie?”
I am about to display my precious deductive gift.
“It is a gemstone,” I say, watching the flash of an appreciative gleam in her glorious golden eyes, “often having others substituted for itself: plain citrine, even lowly smoky quartz. But the true stone is worth a thousand times the lesser stones’ value, and ranges through a divine rainbow of warm gilt colors, from faintest dawn gold to the warm, ruddy sherry of sunset, and it is called ‘precious topaz,’ as are you.
“It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Topaz. I trust it will not be the last occasion.”
I am rewarded by the sight of her almost invisible airy black eyebrow vibrissae lilting high in shock and pleasure at my correct prediction of her name. I bow and back away.
Midnight Louie knows when to leave them laughing, and, more important, when to leave them swooning.
Brothers, Where
Art Thou?
It nearly killed Temple to wake up early the next morning. This was Sunday, the day of the first live evening show but she doubted Matt would miss mass.
She ached to trail the cop side of the undercover team, but she knew Zoe Chloe Ozone needed to hang with her “peeps,” the four teen girls dancing with the barely older singing sensations, Los Hermanos Brothers.
The boy band’s name was redundant, hermanos being the Spanish word for brothers, but Temple supposed record and TV moguls liked the spin of a bilingual name.
The brothers themselves, ranging from twelve to sixteen, were reassuring both to their adoring fans and their mothers, and even to Temple.
Early showbiz exposure and training had made them smooth and creamy tween idols. They all had the cheeky, choirboy innocence of the young Bobby Dylan, not that it meant that they were. Nowadays, though, looks were everything.
Each girl had her soundproof mini-rehearsal “room.” Ekaterina was unique in having her own “manager,” Mariah.
Temple imagined Mama Molina was as thrilled as she was that Mariah and EK were joined at the hip for this competition. Official nerves were as tight-strung as the high E-string on a guitar about the junior competition members’ safety with reports of the Barbie Doll Killer elsewhere as well as the usual Cloaked Conjuror worries.
Los Hermanos Brothers made millions and the girl contestants were invaluable as the ordinary members of the community who were getting a gazillion-dollar chance to turn pro. Anything bad happening in this neighborhood was a disaster.
Temple donned Zoe Chloe makeup and clothes, which took an hour over a room service tray, and headed for the theater area. Things were getting serious. Maybe that’s why Midnight Louie had donned his best ears-perked attitude and came along like a lamb in his tote-bag transport.
He even proudly wore the silver collar trailing a bib of rainbow-colored heart-shaped beads Temple had made from an overdone ankle bracelet she found at the nearest dollar store. Well, he wore it without bucking out from under it and scratching it with the massive scimitars of his hind claws once Temple had explained that they all had to suffer through abominable articles of clothing to make this undercover operation work.
Louie’s aloof gre
en eyes had then surveyed Molina’s Woodstock tie-dyed headband, Rafi’s leather vest and Navajo shirt, Temple’s Goth fingerless spiderweb gloves, navy-blue-painted finger and toe-nails, and skunk-striped pantyhose, then leaped for cover in the depths of her zebra tote bag, his collar strands clicking like mini-castanets or Chihuahua toenails on a kitchen floor.
All four girl contestants were in EK’s and Mariah’s “rehearsal room,” sitting on the wooden portable dancing floor in frog posture with their ankles together and their knees splayed flat as if they didn’t have a joint or sinew or protesting muscle in their bodies.
Louie jumped down to join them, getting copious oohs and aahs and pettings.
Zoe Chloe elected to perch pixielike on a nearby ladder, so as not to overstress her knees. Jumping down would be so much more graceful than jumping up from the cold, hard floor.
“That José Juarez is hot!” the black girl named Patrisha opined.
“So is Captain Jack!” a blond girl breathed.
It took Temple a millisecond to realize they were referencing the metrosexual Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean. She blinked at the advanced level of sophistication of young girls today. She’d never dreamed she’d be behind the curve ball at thirty.
For a moment, she ardently sympathized with Molina, who must be at least seven years older than she, and only a decade away from being able to sit on the floor. At all.
Watching the four competitors sink bonelessly to the floor and let their hair down was amazing. They chattered away, ignoring her now that Zoe Chloe was just another semi-adult supervisor.
EK’s doe-eyed, sallow look made her seem as wary as a starving alley cat. Skateboarder Patrisha’s elongated ebony frame was pertly elegant. She seemed a likelier candidate for a supermodel contest than this gig. Meg-Ann was a soccer star, big-boned, strong, and determined. Her long brown ponytail and sunshine-spawned freckles gave her tomboy appeal. And, of course, there was the perfect, cool, spoiled blond girl wearing the latest fads and destined to be prom queen, if nothing else: Sou-Sou Smith.
“What we really need to decide,” Sou-Sou said with a toss of her highlighted hair, “is who has the hottest Hermanos brother. I vote for my partner, Dustin. His sideburns just radiate sex.”
Sideburns on teen boys? Temple wondered. When did the world turn back to the seventies when she was born?
“You’re just pimping your dance partner,” Patrisha said with a, well, patrician sneer. “I got Brandon, babe. He has that delicious name and that open shirt and tie bit going. Speaking of bite—I may go gaga vampire on stage.”
Temple blushed at this open teen lust.
“Chris is cool,” tomboy Meg-Ann added matter-of-factly. “That back flip he did on the last tour was awesome. He’ll win this thing hands down, literally.” She glanced politely at the tongue-tied Russian girl. “You like your guy, EK?”
“Adam has very nice curly hair.”
“Wuss!” Sou-Sou hooted.
“And he has much better rhythm and tempo than the other boys.” EK sounded positively assertive for a change. “We will do very well together.”
A silence prevailed. Girly had gone gritty. Each one of these girls was highly competitive, far more than the already famous boys, probably.
Mariah, on the sidelines with Temple, leaned against the ladder.
“EK’s right. Adam is the youngest, but he’s the least anxious to impress the girls, rather than the judges. The older brothers think they’re so big boy and hot! They’re such a pain.” She rolled her eyes.
Mama Molina would be happy to hear her only daughter dissing smooth older boys.
Temple wasn’t.
There was as much rivalry, gender maneuvering, and naked ambition among the junior dancers as among their supposedly wiser and older counterparts.
Musing about naked ambition, Temple escaped the adjoining rehearsal rooms for the ballroom performance area and looked up her most likely source for an inside view on the show personnel.
Unfortunately, that was her least favorite person, Crawford Buchanan.
She cornered him in the backstage area, already preening in penguin evening dress.
“How did you get the emcee gig for this event?” she demanded.
It took him a moment to recognize her previous disguise from the Teen Queen house.
“Well, if it isn’t the one-girl brat pack. How’d you arrange to emcee the junior division?” he shot back. “I guess you go where your Teen Queen little buddy girl goes, the cop’s daughter who got me into so much trouble. Guess she didn’t run away after all.”
“Mariah was never lost,” Temple lied. “And Zoe Chloe Ozone is an online diva in high personal demand.”
“So am I.”
“You?”
“Check it out. I’m the Dick Clark of the West Coast.”
Dick Clark had founded the teen music TV show, American Bandstand, in the fifties, and, forever young, had been a major figure in TV and pop music until his stroke a few years ago. To imagine Crawford Buchanan enduring another forty years like his on-air idol was revolting.
“‘Dick’ is so right,” Temple retorted. “I need a quick rundown of who’s who and what’s what. How long does this show run?”
“It runs all the lighter attendance nights in Vegas, starting Sunday to finish with a flourish on Thursday, when all the weekend crowds come in. We introduce the contenders tonight with a dance de jour, then they have the next day to rehearse a new dance with their proteacher and present it that night, and so on until the Friday grand awards ceremony.”
“Who’s all participating?”
Crawford finally had a chance to show true form and leer at her. “Checking up on the competition your sweetie is facing, huh? I see you and Matt ‘Mr. Sob Story Radio’ Devine hanging together. José ‘Hot Hips’ Juarez, the Olympic fencer, will samba him off the stage.”
“Blimey, Crawf ‘the Barf Bag’ Buchanan! Are you going to introduce every contestant with those ‘quotes included’ nicknames? Pretty lame emceeing. Come on, tell me who’s in the whole cast, besides Mr. Olympic Olé.”
“I’m sworn to secrecy,” Buchanan said. “So hold your horses, honey, and weep.”
Temple wanted to say she was a designated police snitch, but she was sworn to secrecy on that. She stomped her foot so hard he jumped to save his patent leather slip-on shoes from danger of smudging.
“My horses say your hide is history,” she said.
At that instant the tons of teenyboppers in line recognized their fave YouTube Girl.
With a screech, a wave of them surrounded Zoe Chloe, pushing Crawford Buchanan out of the bright lights of the roving videographers.
He turned away, hunching against the sound and fury. If this were a Victorian melodrama, he’d be muttering, “Curses, foiled again!” into his mustache.
Temple was only able to ditch Zoe Chloe’s fans by signing about a hundred autographs and escaping into the maze of rehearsal, makeup, and wardrobe rooms. Major hotels could tailor-make spaces with portable walls to fit any event.
While she shook her aching right hand and wrist, she quickly toured the facilities.
Separate dressing and makeup rooms were assigned the male and female adult and junior dancers. She encountered Mariah outside the female junior rooms, along with Rafi Nadir. Temple thought Molina would cringe to see the pair camped out on metal folding chairs, chatting like buddies.
“Where’s our Glorious Leader?” Temple asked. “Liaising between the hotel and competition and media and the police people,” Rafi told her seriously. “Rotten job. And all the while playing in character as your obnoxious agent. The police are in on the joke, but they’ll never let her forget it at work later.”
“It’s so totally cool that I have an obnoxious agent,” Zoe Chloe trilled. “Mariah here can learn how to rep her ‘talent.’ ”
“Have you seen your boyfriend yet?” he asked.
“My boyfriend is in a boy band,” Zoe announced as som
e tech workers passed by. She lowered her voice. “I clued Matt in, but maybe Mariah’s mom will do more of it. It was a fast phone call. Zoe Chloe would sooo not hang with an older guy unless he was Ashton Kutcher.”
Rafi chuckled.
“You see something funny in this situation, dude?” Zoe asked.
“Yeah. I see the new, New Age Molina telling your straight-arrow boyfriend that we are all here on police business and he needs to play along. Exasperation becomes her.”
Temple glanced at Mariah, who was watching Rafi with a certain hero worship of his obvious disregard for her mother’s authority, if not the outright adoration she rained on Matt. Temple couldn’t say what she wanted to in front of the kid but realized she wouldn’t have traded places with Molina for all the cool jazz arrangements in ASCAP.
Undressed Rehearsal
Just like on Dancing With the Stars, Temple discovered, the local Celebs stars got only one dress rehearsal, two hours before the live show.
Four couples doing a minute-and-a-half routine didn’t seem like it would be a big production, but they had to rehearse the opening intro, coordinating with the live band and backup singers, and wrestling the buttons, bows, and spangles on the elaborate costuming that had been cooked up literally overnight.
(This was Vegas, baby! Costumes were the equivalent of street clothes here on the Strip.)
Zoe Chloe settled down in the front center row of audience seats, her bodyguards-cum-posse at her side. Louie prowled the area, his favorite perch being the empty judges’ table, where he sprawled finally to yawn, scratch, and lick his privates throughout all the rehearsed numbers, greatly amusing the crew.
“Two hours wasted,” Rafi groaned, “to watch amateur twinkletoes. Private cop work is worse than public cop work.”
“Anything might happen,” Molina snapped. “A life may be at stake, given the threats, and it’s on your turf and your watch.”
“I get it, Carmen. Too bad Mariah’s whole life wasn’t on my watch.”
“And what would you have had to offer? Child support? Please.”
Cat in a Topaz Tango Page 16
