Cat in a Topaz Tango

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  They would see my agile, unbooted toes doing a fierce flamenco with the unnamed dude in black’s high-heeled boots. Any stomp that I failed to elude would break all my shivs, not to mention my toes.

  It is very close. Only my lithe full-body twists keep me from death by stomping.

  The dark dude is as fast as his rapier work. I dodge both boots and sword-point, seeking two vital goals. One is keeping Mr. Zorro from spearing my roommate’s current beloved (okay, I cannot yet forget Mr. Max, who is a dude after my own parts). The other is attempting to mark the masked man’s hide with my four-on-the-floor: the wide track of my shivs that will identify him later if I can but manage to install a full house of claws to the epidermis.

  I must say that Mr. Matt is surprising both the attacker and myself. He is faster on the draw—and the withdraw—than I expected. And what is any dance but drawing closer and retreating farther, much like human relationships.

  In fact, I must admit that my own amatory adventures are a continual process of advance and retreat.

  Perhaps this attack is a far, far better dancing lesson than Miss Tatyana could administer, if she had truly been hoping a late-night challenge would unleash Mr. Matt’s deepest emotions. Which at this point would be to live, now that he has finally attained the hand of my lovely roommate in marriage.

  Recognizing what is at stake for me and mine, I hurl myself at our opponent without regard to life or limb. I am an unseen shadow tripping his every step, leaping to catch and capture his sword arm on every blow.

  At times the flurry of steps catches me in the staccato enemy fire of his boot heels and I go rolling over the darkened dance floor, my torso caught in the crossfire and beaten and bruised.

  I have not been in such a rumble since I was a young blade. So it is Zorro versus gato. Fox against cat. We are both sly and agile creatures, which is not exactly how I would describe Mr. Matt, splendid fellow that he is.

  He needs his shadow ally and I rise to the occasion, literally leaping into the billows of Zorro’s cloak, rending as I fall, ripping it to shreds. But I am outweighed.

  My ribs are bruised, and my breath heaves in and out like a bellows.

  A random kick sends me spinning like a Frisbee to the edge of the dance floor. I heave myself upright, cheered to see that Mr. Matt has backed our adversary into the heavy velvet stage curtains and smartly rolled him up like a fried rice and bean enchilada.

  Revived, I push myself to my feet and rush forward, slipping under the heavy curtains, risking the flamenco stamp of our contained enemy to leap high one last, desperate time. My shivs flare out, curved scimitars seeking purchase. Both my sword arms sink like pitons into the man’s rear face (except it is hardly his face, heh-heh) as I slide down the mountain of human flesh, leaving a grooved bloody trail of skid marks.

  His screams of frustration are satisfying. This dude will be IDed by his ass for the next six weeks . . . if anyone can find out who he is and order a strip search.

  Parting is such sweet sorrow, as one far more famed than I has noted.

  The dude’s parting scream is muffled by the thick velvet curtains Mr. Matt is using for an impromptu winding sheet.

  Dude! I would slap pads and palms with Mr. Matt if I did not have only ragged shivs to offer.

  We did it!

  Oh, wait. I will get no credit.

  I am so bummed out. You did not notice my baaad, baad moves, my self-sacrificing footwork, my killer rock, rhythm, and rakes? I am to the dance floor born. I should win this thing.

  What is new? My kind is always underestimated.

  All I can do is race to the nearest elevator, eel into a car crowded with people too drunk to notice an unauthorized passenger, sneak onto the all-night celebrity-catering floor, operate a silent butler, silently, with my snagged nails, crawl back into the suite my roommate occupies, and cuddle up to her cell phone so she can get your call for help, Mr. Matt Devine.

  Who should win this competition, paws down?”

  The dude in black who is not carrying a grudge and a sword, only shivs and street soul.

  Me and the ghost of Johnny Cash.

  Okay, we fade to black. Together.

  So.

  Were it not for me, Mr. Matt would not be sitting here now an hour later in the vast living room we all share, having his slashed wrist and hand repaired by the hotel doctor.

  This involves a process called “stitches” that Miss EK, Miss Mariah Molina, and I gather ’round to watch with equal curiosity. Only a child can rival a cat for a certain carnivorous attraction to blood and gore. Of course, we cats cannot coo, “Ooh, gross.”

  Not that Miss Mariah Molina would care to be characterized as a “child,” but she still is one, as are various kits I know, like Gimpy.

  Mr. Matt is pale under his spray tan, but then he always was. It comes with that yellow hair of his.

  Mr. Rafi Nadir has ordered from room service a gleaming topaz liquid called Scotch despite Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s disapproving scowl. In fact, he has ordered an entire bottle of this Caledonian beverage on the tab of the LVMPD and is imbibing himself, as is Miss Temple.

  “The cuts are not very deep and will heal well,” Dr. Cuthbert is saying to Mr. Matt. “With rest you can perform this evening, although I recommend against it. With the palm slash, you can expect tingling and loss of feeling for some weeks. Blood loss is never as flagrant as it looks, and you did an excellent job of keeping the artery compressed by elevating your cocked elbow. Smart. I understand you are committed to this dance contest. A pressure wrapping should be fine for now, and can be disguised by the show’s clever costumers. I suggest a Michael Jackson glove approach. I will stand by during the show to ensure we have no unseemly bloodshed.”

  “From a preexisting wound,” Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina adds sardonically.

  This “sardonically” is a lovely word that means she is being sarcastic and is in no way convinced that this contest will not produce future bloodshed.

  She is a woman after my own heart in this respect. It is obvious that some bloodthirsty souls have been drawn to this display of the terpsichorean arts. That is an ancient Greek term for their goddess of dance, and we all know how good the ancient Greeks were at war, gore, and dark tragic family secrets.

  Luckily, cats were not the factor in that culture that they were in the Egyptian, or the body count would have been much higher.

  I must admit I am feeling particularly bloody-minded at the moment and take the first opportunity to slink out of the suite (with the doctor) to consort and consult with the cat known as Topaz.

  As a famous mascot she will have lots of first-whisker lickings when it comes to gossip about the celebrities to whom we are accessories both before and after the fact.

  (Besides, I know who will be sleeping in my bed the rest of the night. Mr. Matt will recuperate under my roomie’s fond care in Miss Temple’s bedroom here.)

  No room on the bed for Midnight Louie.

  As soon as I enter the casino area, I am ambushed and spurred by a single scimitar claw to dodge under a twenty-one table.

  Rich eyes of pure gold with the pupils a pair of dagger-thin slits interrogate me.

  “I heard the security staff abuzz over the attack in the dance set area, Louie,” says the sublimely slinky Topaz. “Am I wrong to think that you know all about it? This is my hotel and I am not going to take some cheesy dance show making itself the subject of tabloid TV headlines. I want this out of the news pronto. What are we going to do about it?”

  “We?” I ask, afraid for the first time this perilous morning.

  Manx! The last thing I need is another female partner in Midnight Inc. Investigations. Still, I can hardly wait to do the noir tango around the Oasis with this toothsome bit of decidedly unfluffy feline.

  Rest and Recreation

  Matt was beginning to know what a sultan would feel like.

  He’d been established naked on his back in the thousand-thread-count sheets on t
he huge double king-size bed in Temple’s bedroom. (Getting him pajamas at this wee hour hadn’t exactly been a priority.)

  His left arm was positioned on a feather pillow beside him to feel the least stress. Another feather pillow supported his head and a satin soft cotton sheet covered him to the shoulders. On his right side, a satiny soft Temple, clothed in some skimpy slip thing, cuddled against him.

  The lights were all on rheostats and dialed down to a peaceful glow. On one of the elaborate bedside tables rested a room service tray of sirloin tips. Temple would feed him one bite-sized piece from time to time. The doctor had recommended eating protein, but had not prescribed the soft kisses that bracketed its administration.

  How wonderfully decadent, Matt thought, to lie here while Temple doted on him, unable to keep her hands and lips from constant caresses. It wasn’t passion; it was an expression of love and fear.

  The danger had drawn them closer.

  “You don’t really know,” she whispered, “how much you love a person until you realize you’re in danger of losing him.”

  “I couldn’t stand to think of dying without seeing you again, saying how much I love you. The thought of you kept me alive, Temple.”

  Their mutual smiles of complete understanding felt like a soul kiss. This seemed like a honeymoon.

  Matt closed his eyes and drifted into sleep for a while.

  He opened them a few minutes later to find her still there, right there for him. “It might not have been a man,” he said.

  “Zorro, you mean?”

  “Wandawoman is about that size, and strong.”

  “And trained to fight. But why her?”

  “José is too obvious a suspect. Still, neither one of them have motives.”

  “You forget José’s your closest rival for the men’s championship, and you beat him at his own game, the pasodoble. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but he’s an Olympic champion already. They live to win.”

  “Hmm. For a small-time dance contest? I don’t think this has anything to with that. Whoever it was bellowed, ‘Die, bastard, die!’ in such visceral hoarse tones it didn’t sound human, the rage was so intense.”

  “How could you evoke that emotion in anyone, Matt?”

  “Maybe it’s not me personally. Maybe it’s what I represent.”

  “An ex-priest? A radio shrink. That’s pretty far-fetched. Still, you really shouldn’t perform the tango tonight,” she said. “It’s only twelve hours away, and it makes you a target again.”

  “The police and hotel security are determined to end this tonight. As for the dance, we all rehearsed steps from all the dances the previous week before the competition. Each number is just ninety seconds. Tatyana will figure out a way to help me memorize the steps without walking through them full tilt over and over.”

  “I know you can do it, but should you? Other performers have been attacked, maybe not as obviously, and they’re real celebrities. In fact, if you think of it, several of them have been celebrities behaving badly. I wonder—”

  He was following his own new line of thought.

  “The loaded prop pistol incident was just before me, and that was the most serious so far. Until now. Olivia’s broken heel could have been a repaired shoe that malfunctioned, or minor sabotage, and Keith Salter’s illness could have been ordinary food poisoning.”

  “It’s escalated from a sabotaged dancing slipper to a sickened performer to a drugged one, to a shot one, all onstage during the dances. You were lured here to your attack, alone, at night. That was one-on-one with a deadly weapon. You must have done a heroic job of fighting off a surprise assault like that.”

  “Amazing how the life force kicks in. Whoever it was should have some pretty good body bruises. Once I had the . . . person—can’t say ‘bastard’ back, could have conceivably been a woman—temporarily disarmed by rolling ‘Zorro’ up in that curtain,’ I did my best to disable the attacker with martial arts blows. But I was already weakening.”

  “So if it’s another dancer, he or she might move a bit stiffly.”

  “Wandawoman was a victim herself,” he objected, going back to the earlier suggestion.

  “Self-administering too many antianxiety meds would put her out cold and remove suspicion. And she could control the timing.”

  “I suppose you’re going to suggest the Cloaked Conjuror as a suspect too.”

  “Good idea. Just because we know him a little . . . who can tell what size and build he is under that costuming?”

  “He doesn’t need a mask for something like this, though. Going maskless would be a better disguise.”

  “True. Brilliant, in fact,” she said. “Apparently you have plenty of blood to the brain despite it all.”

  “Yeah. Other places too.”

  “Oh?” Temple looked deliciously wicked at the moment. “Maybe I’m as good as Tatyana at figuring out a way to help you go through the steps without having to go over and over it again. But I’m aiming at a bit more than ninety seconds.”

  Last Tango in Zurich

  Humid warmth wafted from the small-by-American-standards bathroom when Revienne opened the door thirty-five minutes later, her pink skirt and the suspected black garter belt over one arm.

  Max’s automatic inventory was part investigation, part self-indulgence.

  The black camisole was really a thigh-brushing teddy. If she’d ever worn a bra in this escape escapade, it wasn’t on her now. Not that she needed one. Probably never had worn one. She was French. Whew.

  “I can’t stand another moment in that suit! Okay with you?” she asked.

  “I’m sometimes an idiot, but not now.”

  “You Americans. All for sex but so ignorant of sensuality. I suppose you will stay fully dressed, wearing that tight belt, although it is Versace, those nice new shoes, that silk tie with the subtle but expensive tack.”

  “Good tailoring is as comfortable as pajamas.”

  “Well said. I know you are rich, but rich Americans usually go for the obvious. How did you escape that?”

  She settled in the other upholstered chair, like Venus curling into her clamshell, her bare legs tucked under. They were shaved, but a slight stubble caught the light. Whether there was anything under that slip of a skirt was up to the imagination of the beholder.

  “Is seduction a part of your therapeutic technique?” he asked.

  “Not usually, but thank you for noticing. I have been through hell for you, Mr. Randolph. I am going to enjoy the first few decent hours I’ve had in days. I am clean, I am not wearing the same clothing, I have a cool drink coming and a handsome man hanging on my every . . . word. I plan to enjoy it. I also plan to strip your psyche down to the bare neuroses, whether you intend to let me or not.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He settled into his chair, enjoying sinking his bone-tired frame into a cradle of goose-down upholstery. This psychic striptease was not going to be a one-way street. His chair was placed to observe both the door and the windows. And even if there was any “consummation devoutly to be wished” tonight, he’d be fully clothed and ready to fight, flee, or some other appropriate f word.

  “I’ll buy you some new clothes in the morning and a ticket to wherever you need to go,” he told her. “I owe you much more, but that’ll have to wait until I’m far away from your friends in the Mercedes and their ilk.”

  “They weren’t very friendly.”

  As she lifted a hand to push back her dampened hair he saw the bracelet of bruises on her pale wrist.

  “I see that.”

  “What?” Her eyes followed his gaze. “Oh.” She turned the wrist and looked at the other one, also marked. “Didn’t know that showed. I didn’t just hitch a ride, as you put it, with them. Although, once they produced their firearms I admit I cooperated. I wouldn’t make a good Bond girl, would I?”

  “In that outfit, maybe. But you’re too cerebral.”

  “Cerebral?” English wasn’t her first language
and some words weren’t in most textbooks.

  “Smart.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You like that in a woman?”

  “No.” He’d surprised her, as he’d meant to. “I require that in a woman.”

  “‘Require.’ That is a demanding word. Are you demanding, Mr. Randolph?”

  “Of myself.” He stirred uneasily.

  “I see you don’t like that in yourself.”

  “What? Why? How?”

  “Your restless body language.”

  He laughed. “My ‘restless body language’ isn’t giving away my inner state. It’s because my ‘banged-up’ body can’t stand any position for too long at the moment, no matter how cushy.”

  “You can’t stand?” She sat forward, alarmed. “Just a few minutes ago you did, and walked quite well.”

  “‘Stand’ is an expression. It means I can’t tolerate”—she still looked blank—“endure”—she nodded—“the same position long.”

  A soft knock came on the door. “Room service,” he said, starting to struggle out of the chair softer than quicksand.

  She leapt up to anticipate him.

  “You can’t answer the door in that,” he said. “That’s why I stayed fully dressed.”

  “I can, but I’ve a feeling you wouldn’t . . . stand . . . for it.”

  He threw her a grin. By then he had used the cane to get him to the door. He nodded to the bathroom, and she ducked inside.

  He used the peephole, then opened the door to admit a waiter rolling in a room service cart. He laid the cane atop the cart as he signed the bill and indicated the tip. His curled left hand concealed a roll of coins from a money exchange kiosk in the street, his only weapon besides the cane.

  The balding waiter murmured “Danke sheine” and left.

  Max double-bolted the door and swept the cane under the cart’s tablecloth, ensuring no assassin lurked beneath the snowy linens.

  “You are suspicious.” Revienne spoke from the open bathroom door.

  “And you’re not, after what you went through?”

  “Of course. But I’m also suspicious of you.”