I like nothing better than playing the role of Sage in the Shade.
I am well suited to the part, particularly when I tuck my four limbs underneath me—I am the agile type, and double-jointed to boot. Then I let my limeade-green eyes narrow to inscrutable and attractively tilted slits. Just give me a Number One Son and a sackful of fortune-cookie sayings and on a clear day I’ll find Judge Crater, or maybe even Jersey Joe Jackson.
So here I am, on a dog-day afternoon in August, lounging in the shade of the canna lily stand behind the Circle Ritz condominiums, doing what comes naturally: watching others work while I snooze.
My delightful roommate, Miss Temple Barr, is occupied by the pool with Mr. Matt Devine. For once, these two are sensible enough to stand in the shadow of the lone palm tree that dusts the ocean-blue Las Vegas sky while clouds swirl above like schools of succulent albino carp.
In fact, this pair is sensibly attired in what look like dust sheets you put on unwanted furniture in abandoned houses, possibly haunted. Normally my little doll takes care of her innate stature problem by balancing on three-inch heels, but today she is—for the first time in my acquaintance with her—out of doors and barefoot.
She does not act happy about this fact, moving her weight from one narrow tootsie to the other until she reminds me of those shilly-shallying hot-pink neon birds perched atop the front of the Flamingo Hilton in an avian chorus line. I must admit that I prefer a short woman. She has less far to stoop to extend affectionate greetings and thus does it more frequently.
Also, being petite, she is less inclined to try to do what I abhor: pick me up. I am not your run-of-the-mill pickup. As for Miss Temple Barr, she finds her own lack of stature a shortcoming, so to speak. Me, I say you see a lot more interesting things closer to the ground and can smell out a rat—human or literal—in no time flat. Why do you think Sherlock Holmes was always scrabbling around on his hands and knees looking for clues? Trying to overcome his height handicap, of course, not to mention a genetic predisposition to insufficiency of the sniffer.
Right now the ground at Miss Temple and Mr. Matt's end of the pool is not good clue territory, being covered by thick mats, which in turn are covered in an irritatingly bright blue vinyl. I can smell the chemical perfume of pure plastic from here.
Obviously, Mr. Matt Devine is about to give Miss Temple Barr a lesson in the ancient and Asian arts of self-defense.
This I cannot object to, despite the sloppy dress code and the vinyl mattresses defacing my view and foiling my olfactory skills. My little doll could use some beefing up in the self-confidence concession.
Because of the intimate relationship I share with Miss Temple Barr, I have seen her sit bold upright in the night, ever since two dudes with ball bearings for knuckles did a number on her in the Goliath Hotel parking ramp a couple of weeks ago.
As I say, I will be snoozing with my usual concentration when she will lift up from the bed linens like a corpse about to take an unauthorized stroll in a horror movie. I awake at the slightest disturbance of the sheets, and cannot recline on wrinkles, being as sensitive in this regard as a princess to a pea.
At such times, I smell the slight tang of human sweat, which overpowers even the English lavender-scented dusting powder Miss Temple uses after her bath. (Unlike superior species, she must actually immerse herself in large quantities of water to keep clean, hence the need for powder afterward, so her clothes do not stick to her skin. I am a practicing nudist myself, and have never heard any complaints, especially from discriminating ladies of my kind—and others.)
"Oh, Louie," Miss Temple Barr will say a moment after jerking out of her slumber. She sounds glad to see me there, which she should be. When it comes to protection, I am nothing to sneeze at.
She curls her lacquered claws into the roll of muscle at the back of my neck, which has me positively purring. Unlike a lot of ladies these benighted days, Miss Temple Barr has long, strong nails that she does not hesitate to paint in a carnivorous red color. This is not the least of her attractions for me, although her equal propensity for being up to her matching lipstick in crime and punishment is also encouraging. I love a mystery almost as much as I do a massage.
In fact, my own set of claws came In handy in apprehending the Stripper Killer at the Goliath Hotel Rhinestone G-string Contest—incidentally saving my little doll from a dreaded death-by-Spandex.
A small Las Vegas Scoop item in Crawford Buchanan’s “Broadside” column described my latest foray into criminal apprehension—the criminal being the one who was apprehensive, not me. As usual, Buchanan put my feat in the most degrading light
"An alley cat around Las Vegas leaped into literal action last Friday when the Goliath Hotel serial Stripper Strangler went after local PR flack Temple Barr. The cat, an overweight, solid-black layabout named Midnight Louie, fell from atop a costume cabinet where it was sleeping just as the Strangler was about to tie the luscious Miss Barr's neck into a double-Windsor knot. The snoozing puss proved unlucky for the killer when its claws, extended during the plunge, accidentally raked the perp. Talk about a timely pussy foot. Must have been Friday the Thirteenth somewhere.”
Crawford Buchanan can mangle the truth faster than the Goliath killer could strangle a stripper. My plunging to the rescue of my delightful roommate was no accident: I was buying time until Lieutenant C.R. Molina could rush in with the cavalry from down the hall.
Of course, I am used to feats of derring-do, thanks to my back-alley days, now long behind me. Miss Temple Barr, on the other hand, is a tiny thing, though spirited. I fear that the shock of a severe beating followed by the Attack of the Stripper Strangler would make even the heroine of a Roger Corman movie a trifle overwrought.
She now keeps a flashlight beside her bed. This is a sinister implement, sheathed in a black, rubbery material, that would serve well as a weapon in addition to lighting up the darkness. It also stinks. If only human attackers were as sensitive to smell as I am, they would be knocked out
Every time my little doll has one of these midnight misadventures, she performs the same routine. First she sinks her fingers into my warm fur, if I am there, which I usually am these days—or nights, rather. I do have an escape clause: the open bathroom window. Miss Temple Barr’s rooms are on the second floor and the window is small, so no felon larger than a midget is able to enter, although I can both enter and exit with the ease of a garter snake. Nowadays the domestic life suits my more laid-back style. I rarely take a nighttime stroll unless I have business of a crime-fighting or personal nature abroad.
Anyway, Miss Temple takes up her high-tech flashlight and I see the back of her Garfield T-shirt as she makes a tour of the premises, particularly of the French doors leading to the patio.
She returns, often with a granola cookie. This I keep strictly between her and me: a lady’s nighttime habits are no one’s business but her own. I must admit that I do not relish crumbs in the bed, especially when they are the sort I do not personally find consumable, but I understand my little doll's need for comfort after her attack, and at least she has not yet imported any crumbs of another sort entirely to her—and my—California king-size bed. There is only one King of the Hill here and the name is Midnight Louie.
Of course, it is because of a dude before my time that Miss Temple was so rudely interrogated by the pair of hoods in the Goliath garage. His name at least I approve of: the Mystifying Max. His game was okay also: magician. What was wrong with him was that he vanished—permanently, and without bothering to tell Miss Temple. I would not do such a thing to a little doll like her unless I was road kill, which I fear is one of the theories that is bothering my lovely roommate about her missing ex-significant other.
To tell the truth and speaking from my own experience around here, I cannot understand why any dude in his right mind would walk out on Miss Temple Barr, who has hardly any faults except for her addiction to certain health foods, including a preparation called Free-to-Be-Feline.
Tha
t is her only lapse in taste, and the Mystifying Max could have put up with it. After all, he did not have to eat anything worse than granola. I have managed to ignore the Free-to-Be-Feline for nearly a month now, with the result that I am getting a superb class of delicacies ladled over the top as a temptation: smoked oysters, baby shrimp in Creole sauce and other appetizers that add up to a full-meal deal, as they say on the television.
Perhaps there is one tiny incident I am not fond of, although it is understandable. After the attack on Miss Temple, her helpful neighbor, Mr. Matt Devine, stayed the night. I hung around long enough to see him ensconced on the living-room hide-a-bed. Then I comforted my little doll in the bedroom until she drifted off to a Tylenol-3 sleep before I skedaddled on errands of an investigative nature. All right, in this particular case I had a personal interest—my lost ladylove, the Divine Yvette, had witnessed the first stripper murder.
All that is history as I sit here drowsing, humming along with the bees circling the canna lilies. The Goliath killer is in an institution for the criminally insane, and I am the victim of a criminally frustrated romantic entanglement. The Divine Yvette has returned to Malibu with her mistress, a so-called actress named Savannah Ashleigh.
The future holds nothing more for me than bittersweet memories and the sour breath of the lonely alleyways I tread. Speaking of which, I should cruise by the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and see if they have replaced the koi fish in the decorative pond. Last time I went by there, a sudden population drop occurred, and Chef Song, who keeps the pond stocked, could be heard hurling Chinese curses to high heaven.
But he is an optimist, and almost as fond of carp as I am. I am sure that a new batch is frisking in the sunlight and bobbing near the surface, looking for tidbits from tourists. At the least, I will be able to snatch what looks like some fallen Tender Vittles, which is what these fat fish eat.
Sufficiently stimulated by my imagination to move, I do a slick fade into the canna lilies before you can say “Charlie Chan.”
2
Nancy Ninja Strikes Again
“Where’s Louie?” Temple stared toward the canna lilies’ red-and-yellow blooms bright against large green leaves. “He was there just a minute ago.”
“Probably got bored by how long it was taking us to get going,” Matt said pointedly. “I thought you didn’t want any witnesses.”
“Right. I’m still not sure I’m cut out for this.” Temple savagely jerked her waistline sash tight. “I feel like Dopey the Dwarf in this outfit.”
She stared down at herself drowning in loose, white cotton pajamas she wouldn’t have worn to a junior-high slumber party.
The most disconcerting sight was her bare feet, flour-white against the blindingly blue-vinyl mat they both stood on. Matt’s feet were lightly tanned, at least, and therefore interesting instead of pasty. Of course, Temple found everything about tall, blond Matt Devine interesting, darn it. Matt remained oblivious to all but his lesson.
“This outfit is called a ‘gi’,” he said, pronouncing the word with a hard “g.”
Gee, Temple thought. Okay. She plucked unhappily at a gigantic sleeve.
“You’ll get used to it,” Matt said, “and it shouldn’t feel too big. I got a child’s size, after all.”
Temple watched his warm brown eyes grow dismayed as he realized that his intended reassurance had gone right for a sore spot with Temple: her height, or—more precisely—the lack thereof.
She shrugged fabric-swaddled arms, not used to making a hissing rustle with her every move. “Great. Teach Shirley Temple to do this, then. Not me. She’d probably even sing something.”
“This won’t be so bad. I’m not going to give you chapter and verse of any particular discipline, just some tricks that you can use if anyone attacks you again. Jack Ree showed me the short-form women’s defense stuff. Anyone can do it.”
Temple eyed Matt, who looked as right in his gi as Robert Redford would, if ever RR would descend to doing a martial-arts movie. Maybe Matt’s light tan and sun-gilded hair made his gi look less like a flour sack with a rubber band in the middle.
“I still don’t know if I want to do it,” she said. “I’ve never been good at athletic things. Balls always went over my head and team captains always picked me last.”
“That’s the beauty of the martial arts,” Matt insisted with an enthusiast’s seriousness. “They all grew out of the peasants’ need to defend themselves without the weapons the nobility took for granted. And Asians are a small people. Any martial art is based on discipline and skill, not on size and brute force.”
The last two words made Temple wince in memory. “Those two guys were brute force, all right, up close and personal.”
Matt stepped nearer and lowered his voice. “Are you going to group?”
“Going to group! That’s so California, Matthew.” Temple looked up at Matt in the shade. This was definitely one way to get closer to Matt Devine, and she certainly wanted to do that, didn’t she?
“Group therapy is not exclusive to California, and my name isn’t short for Matthew.” He sounded a little stiff, even a bit miffed. Temple’s surprised silence forced a further revelation. “My name is... Matthias.”
“Oh.” Matthias was an odd name, was that why it bothered him? Temple decided to move past the issue. “It still shortens to ‘Matt.’ And couldn’t I see a counselor solo?”
“Sure.” Matt relaxed into his usual good humor once back on neutral ground. “But then you wouldn’t hear the stories of people who’ve been through the same thing as you have.”
“Most of them haven’t.” Matt’s smooth face roughened as he began to object. “I know they’ve been attacked,” Temple said quickly, “but by muggers or husbands and significant others, however nasty. How many other people in ‘group’ are going to have to confess to getting creamed by a couple of professional thugs intent on beating information out of them? They won’t believe me. In fact, I have a hard time believing me.”
Matt’s smile was rueful. “I’ve never known anyone who was so outright embarrassed at being the target of a crime, but I’ll bet there are a couple just like you in that group-therapy session. That’s why you need to put your own experience in perspective. And this is an all-women’s group.”
“I’ll look like a crybaby compared to people who’ve been really abused. Rape victims—”
“Survivors,” Matt corrected. “We’re trying to get away from reinforcing the victim feeling. You’re a survivor.”
“Survivor. I guess if I can survive interrogations by Lieutenant Molina, I can survive playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle with you. Okay, Counselor. I’m ready. Let the games begin.”
Matt’s manner became all business, as if a screw at the top of his head had tightened. Temple, still sheepish about what she was trying to do and the costume she had to wear to do it, realized that the martial arts were serious stuff to him.
“First,” he said, “are you pretty much recovered physically? No sore spots?”
Temple nodded. “Amazingly recovered. I can see how abused women keep hoping the abuse will stop.”
“You don’t have any old injuries, say, from high school? A broken wrist or anything?”
Temple shook out her arms in the long sleeves. “Not yet.”
“You won’t break anything here. That’s why the pads. You said you weren’t athletic in school. What about at home, in your family? Did you have any brothers and sisters to tussle with?”
“Not in the physical way.” Temple let her head wag from side to side in resignation. “You sound like Molina during an interrogation. Yes, Officer, I had brothers, four of them. And, no, we didn’t go at it much, for fun or for fury, because I was—naturally—the youngest. And the littlest. With eight years between me and the next youngest, obviously my siblings were too grown-up to have much to do with me. I did get endless icky clothes handed down from older girl cousins.”
“So you were almost an only child. That’s interesting.�
��
“To a counselor, maybe. To me, no. You know how they say parents over control the first child and loosen up for the later ones? Well, I was such a tail on the dragon that my parents got neurotic all over again. In fact, my brothers all joined in. Everybody knew what was best for me, except me.”
“Sounds like you were the apple of the whole family’s eye.”
“Yup. My father called me ‘Ladybug’ till I left home. And when I flew away from home and left Minneapolis with Max—they went ballistic.”
“They sound a tad smothering. Try to direct your frustration with your family into what we’re doing here. Redirect the irritation into action. And remember, I’m not going into the ‘Kung Fu’ mystical stuff. These are just some moves you can use to get an attacker off balance.”
“Will I be able to throw you over my shoulder?”
“Eventually,” he promised with a smile.
She sighed, looked around again for witnesses, found none, then grimaced. “Just don’t call me ‘Grasshopper.’ ”
Temple padded barefoot into the Circle Ritz and up to her apartment. She hated to “pad.” It made her feel like a child who’d gotten out of bed to ask for a glass of water, like she had to ask permission of someone for whatever she wanted.
Matt had been right. She was more deeply irritated by her family’s overprotective ways than she knew. When she drew on that ancient annoyance, pretending to be Nancy Ninja didn’t feel so weird. Not that she’d get to the stage of tossing him that quickly.
In her bedroom she fought the fabric knot and won. Round One for the little lady in bare feet. When she shrugged off the—what was it, a uniform, a costume?—gi, the unfurling fabric released the scent of her own sweat, faint and pleasantly pungent rather than reeking.
Temple changed into aqua knit shorts and top, then slid her bare feet into cork-soled wedgies two-and-a-half-inches high at the heel. Did she feel more self-confident—-any more vindicated, or vindictive? Had she made a breakthrough in her slo-mo relationship with her attractive but elusive neighbor? Maybe.
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