Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

“Not to mention the elephant.” Temple turned to eye the huge ankle cuff and chain that kept the immense creature tied down. “I don’t approve of captivity.”

“What you and I don’t approve of is not in the mix here. Just stay put where I placed you, although that may be too much to ask of your inner Zoe Chloe Ozone.”

Temple saluted sharply. “She’s on leave. Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

Rafi moved back to inspect his troops, the two lines of ten guards at attention who served as set dressing for the million-dollar prize.

Temple kept focused on the circle of sidewalk that had been cleared for the drawing ceremony, watching the animals and symbols of the zodiac flash across it. If you weren’t aware of the theme, you could stand in the crowd all night and not notice the zodiac-sign parade, especially the entwined strongman and giant snake that signaled Ophiuchus.

Why did Rafi want her to be present? Did he know about the Synth? That they’d already lost whatever had been hidden in the underground walk-in safe between the Crystal Phoenix and Gangsters hotels, and the Neon Nightmare nightclub?

Whatever Rafi’s motive was for inviting her, Temple was betting these seasoned conspirators wouldn’t let another opportunity to score a bundle, for whatever reason, evade them.

Chapter 46

Monkey-Suit Business

While Temple speculated about what was really going on, the recorded music, which had been on the cheesy tick-tock game show countdown side suddenly revved up with brass and winds as the main event neared.

The elephant behind her trumpeted—Temple shivered at the blaring teeth-rattling screech, being a mere ten feet from the creature. Though the heat had lifted as the sun went down, she smelled some Essence de Barn, hay and mashed cow paddies. She turned to see the trainer tap what passed for the elephant’s knee, which was at her waist level. The impressive bulk of the beast lifted in what would have been a rear to a horse.

Temple gazed at the rising gray wall of wrinkled hide, speechless in her front-row seat. The elephant’s open ankle cuff, about four feet in diameter, lay sprung like a trap beneath its momentarily balancing bulk.

Why did she think she had any business being here?

And then an airborne shadow came shooting from the right as the elephant turned and pulled back its massive ears. Ye gods! Talk about angels dancing on the head of a pin. Temple blinked as a resurrected Cosimo Sparks stood in a spotlight, dressed in top hat, white tie, and tails, the satin lining of his cloak flashing bloodred in the spotlights as he danced on the head of an elephant.

But Cosimo Sparks was dead.

Temple sensed everyone around her holding his or her breath. The effect was staggering, but was it a true surprise to some of the gathering, a resurrected Cosimo Sparks appearing to his Synth buddies and, perhaps, his not-yet-umasked Synth slayer?

Or was the Mystifying Max doing this elephant walk? Whoever, the figure moved like a puppet on a string, barely touching elephant head or back as it lowered and lifted. Max had been “retired” for more than a year from a major Vegas venue. In Vegas time that was an eternity. If you weren’t the object of buzz, you simply “weren’t” in Vegas.

So either way, a resurrected Sparks or Max in disguise, this was a dead man dancing.

The effect had everyone, including the elephant, looking up.

Another figure shot into the lights and the rotating shadows of the zodiac on a batlike gliding descent. This massive, dark-clothed figure landed as lightly as a moth on the sidewalk beside the treasure chest as the crowd gasped.

Oh, my. Was this shaping up to be some sort of a superhero smackdown? Temple felt someone move protectively close to her back and glanced over her shoulder. Rafi.

The Cloaked Conjuror shook out his heavy cape like Batman, lifting his glittering tiger-striped face to the moon. Temple imagined a sidewalk production of Cats and expected CC to burst out singing “Memories” at any moment.

Temple’s time as a repertory theater PR person clicked to the forefront on her dial of past and present media jobs. Everything so far was totally scripted, meticulously scripted.

She glanced at the elephant-dancing swell in top hat and tails. It was hard to see clearly against the intense lights haloing the hotel façade, but he was indeed too tall to be Cosimo.

The Cloaked Conjuror strode back and forth in front of the massive treasure chest crammed with a visible fortune in hundred-dollar bills. Was he too slim for CC? Could it be one of his stunt doubles, like Barry, the poor guy who had plunged to his death at TitaniCon at the New Millennium?

Wait. Max could be atop the elephant! Or … he could be “styling” the Cloaked Conjuror with the jackpot on the ground. He certainly wasn’t confiding his moves to her as he’d used to. Ex-significant others got scarce on the reporting-in roster fast.

Temple inhaled. Hard. Something big was going down here. Scanning the crowd, she spotted an almost seething organic motion rippling through it, as if a giant … snake were threading through the onlookers’ ankles, entangling their ankles.

Meanwhile, more than cell phones were waving on uplifted arms everywhere.

Here, there, everywhere … the flat disks of top hats were snapping into 3-D prominence as they did on Broadway stages or in magic shows. Five, six, eight, nine. Temple was impressed.

Max’s act had used one of those collapsible toppers and they cost about three hundred apiece. This smacked of money and planning. On the other hand, Vegas thronged with high- and low-end costume rental outfits.

But wait! This is Vegas and there was more.

Here, there, everywhere, Darth Vader masks and cloaks were springing up like melting Wicked Witches of the West run backwards on the film reel. Three, five … no, eight. Holy breather apparatus! Darths were everywhere. But both the masks and black cloaks were pretty standard too.

Could some of the crowd, the street performers, all be part of a bizarre plot, probably a social-media-generated group flash mash-up? That would create enough confusion to hide a heist.

Fiendishly clever. Could tons of ordinary folks have been “e-vited” over social networks to show up in one of three costumes … Tap Dance Man, Darth Vader, or Security Guy? In a crowd this unsettled and also populated by gangs of identical fakes, the real money was vulnerable.

“Back, you minions,” the Cloaked Conjuror’s voice ordered, boosted by the major mic amplification of his headgear. The figure in front of the frail-looking Plexiglas chest gestured with one sweeping arm and gauntleted palm, like a traffic cop.

Except he wasn’t one. Nobody here was on the premises to stop anything, only accelerate the mob excitement and …

“You fools,” CC intoned with much overacting. “I, the Cloaked Conjuror, will claim this prize. Watch and weep.”

He strode past the treasure chest, snapping his cloak higher than a matador challenging a bull. By the time he let the cloak fall back to his side, the bill-stuffed chest had vanished. Only the entrance doors to the Oasis showed, and no one hustled in and out, as usual, because the two lines of Oasis security guards prevented anyone from surging out, or in.

The crowd gasped. Temple had never heard such a conjoined mass sigh.

Another amplified voice spoke during the lull. “Good, but not good enough.”

The tails of the elephant-dancing man flapped like bat wings in the silence as he skated to the ground on an invisible spider-string. The costume was all Fred Astaire except for the Zorro-like black eye mask.

He faced the Cloaked Conjuror and flourished his red-satin-lined cape.