Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Topaz Tango

The audience is shrieking with delight. People here have very high auditory pain thresholds.

He reaches down, twirls her on the floor in a spectacular spin as she executes a full split, and then pulls her prone body through his wide-legged stance to slide halfway across the stage.

The audience is on its feet at this spectacular move, drowning out the sound of the music’s final flourish as Mr. Matt strikes a victorious pose beside his partner and then bends to mime one of those frozen passionate lip locks that end dances around here, despite seeming to be a serious contradiction in impulses. Passion is not usually a freezing and posing matter, I would think.

Her supposed-to-be-proud neck bobbles onto her shoulder. Her legs remain splayed and inert, not moving to assist gracefully in her own resurrection for a bow.

While everyone there on two legs freezes in position, possibly passionate, I am there like a bullwhip on a horsefly, sniffing at her mouth and nose. I smell scented lipstick, metal and sweat, and nothing telltale. I think I feel the slightest stir of breath.

And then I am near trampled as the tardy security detail surrounds Mr. Matt and his partner, who will be taking no bows and getting no judges’ ratings tonight.

Postmortem on

a Pasodoble

Temple raced from the greenroom to the stage, only to have Crawford slap the mike in her hand as she headed for the clot of security uniforms that surrounded Matt.

“We’re off-air for two minutes, ZC,” he said. “Get ready to bring on the kids waiting in the wings. I’m out of here. I’m going on my radio station live on the latest Dancing With the Celebs mishap. This has become the most suspenseful reality TV nightly gig in history. Audience numbers are skyrocketing. I’m off to do a national pickup on the ‘cursed celebrity hoofers’ story. See you tomorrow night. Ta-ta.”

Temple stopped on a dime, not willing to be Zoe Chloe to the rescue again.

Then she spotted Rafi directing his troops and Matt carting an unconscious Wandawoman offstage amid a circle of security uniforms. Not to mention Dirty Larry following them with a video camera in hand.

She was stuck announcing the final acts: Sou-Sou’s “special, secret” makeup solo dance and Patrisha and Brandon’s jive. It meant the world to these kids.

So she heard her amplified Zoe Chloe voice tap dancing through some nonsense patter. What caught her attention was Sou-Sou’s costume for her jazz ballet solo.

She came out as “Baby Phat” Barbie, all in hot pink with spandex thigh-high spike-heeled boots, skimpy miniskirt and halter top, with flowing hair and chunky earrings, slinging around a stuffed purse pooch on a leash as she pranced and posed.

Temple could only gape in horror. Sou-Sou’s “secret” routine was as a Barbie doll, with the possibility that the Barbie Doll Killer was in town?

The ninety-second routine seemed to take a year, as did the judges’ warm comments to the little girl.

Only the sight of Patrisha beaming hopefully from the wings with Brandon right behind her wound Zoe Chloe up again. She was beginning to feel like a Barbie doll herself and was relieved to see Molina waiting to pounce on Sou-Sou as soon as she left the stage, the girl’s mother in tow with Dirty Larry behind her. Temple would love to eavesdrop on that quartet, but couldn’t desert her post.

The judges looked dazed too, but Patrisha and her Hermanos brother gamely poured their energy into the lively jive dance, distracting the audience with their show-must-go-on verve.

Lousy Crawford didn’t bother to show up again for the closing, as advertised, so Zoe Chloe winged that one, so torn between concern for Wandawoman, Matt, and Sou-Sou that the usual spirited ZC babble must have been incoherent.

As the cameras blinked off and drew back, people pounded her on the shoulders as if thinking she needed to start breathing again, saying what a “fab” job she’d done. One of them was Danny Dove, who extracted her from the judges and the scrambling tech people and guided her through the noise and lights to a relatively quiet hallway.

“Matt’s fine,” he said. “He handed Wandawoman over to security and the EMTs. She was breathing and en route to the hospital. They’re getting tape of the routine from all the covering media as soon as possible and want to go over it with Matt. Apparently the costume young Sou-Sou wore has really riled up the undercover police people. You okay?”

“Incoherence never killed anyone. Wandawoman?”

“The theory is drugs. Probably not voluntary. We’ve got two dance nights to go. We need to stop this dirty trick stuff, but the producer’s in love with the numbers and the police are even more gung ho about using the competition to nail the trickster and they’re particularly revved by Sou-Sou’s nauseously Barbie outfit.” Danny’s worry-wrinkled face softened. “The judges have decided to view their pasodoble again privately, if Wandawoman recovers, and rate it uninterrupted. It was killer, Temple. Matt was out-Joséing José.”

“I think winning this thing is the last of his worries.”

“Maybe. But he was in it to win it, and he still could. And he knows it.” Danny grinned at her. “I admit his paso knocked me out. I’m damn impressed. Heart is always the key to dance.”

“And everything.”

“And everything.” Danny hugged her. “I think that interesting two-person ‘posse’ of Zoe Chloe’s wants to see her ASAP.”

“Danny, they’re—”

“Enough already.” His voice went Humphrey Bogart. “I recognized the dame the minute I saw her.” He knew Carmina was Molina.

“I want to see Matt.”

“The security people are having him go over all the recordings of the routine. I’d save the best till last.”

A Perfect Barbie Doll

Molina watched the walking Barbie doll bounce offstage toward the wings, not at all subdued by the anxious ending to the final adult dance, the egocentric glee of youth personified. She needed to get back to deal with the major mishap situation, but knew Rafi would be on it, a surprisingly soothing idea.

Meanwhile, she had to find out how a living Barbie doll had ended up center stage at the kind of event that drew a stalker who was leaving a wide swath.

“That went over great,” Sou-Sou bubbled at her, jiggling with teen hyperactivity. “My makeup number and costume was even cooler than the first one. Did you see it? Did you?”

Molina nodded, not to Sou-Sou but to Dirty Larry, whose firm grip held Sou-Sou’s mother in check from the same theatrics as her daughter.

Scattered metal folding chairs for waiting performers caught Molina’s eye.

“Let’s all sit a bit and talk,” she suggested.

Dirty Larry started rounding up chairs and seating Smiths on them.

“You’re with Ms. Ozone’s manager,” Mrs. Smith realized. “Oh, my Sou-Sou is an up-and-coming client for you. That Ozone girl is getting too old.”

“I’m her manager’s assistant, but this is Officer Podesta of the Las Vegas police. I’m helping ask some questions. How did Sou-Sou happen to wear a Barbie doll getup?”

“Well,” Mrs. Smith seesawed her ample behind into place on the skimpy metal seat. “That was my idea. I act as her manager. Glad you liked it. Barbie is an icon, and that’s what I want Sou-Sou to become. I even had some Polaroids taken before her entrance, if you want to see them—” She reached into her garish yellow purse.

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Smith,” Larry said. “What I need to know is why you dressed Sou-Sou that way? Anything trigger the idea?”

“Nooo.” She set her purse on the floor. “I’m just creative. Maybe I saw something in the paper about Barbie dolls being found at shopping malls, but it doesn’t take much to stimulate my brain.”