Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Topaz Tango

Wait a minute!

Rico hadn’t fallen, as in the song. That was what was so confusing. Both men wore black, but one was bulkier.

“Tony” CC had fallen. Hard. Gracelessly. His limbs were splayed in ugly disarray.

Music and passion were always the fashion.

The audience giggled at the awkward staging.

The music stopped.

The cast froze in place.

Music and passion were always the fashion.

Lola’s shot had gone wild, which wouldn’t have mattered if she had been firing blanks as planned. If not . . .

Someone breathed “Oh, my God” over a microphone in a deep, dramatic voice, Crawford Buchanan finally getting to use his most sepulchral tone.

A man from the sidelines executed an emergency knee slide toward the fallen fencer. Rafi Nadir of all people, also all in black.

The audience actually broke into scattered, spontaneous applause.

This was all part of the show. “Wasn’t it?” they were asking each other.

For a moment Temple recalled Max’s identical knee-slide entrance on the stage of the Elvis impersonator competition at the Kingdome.

But the next onstage speedster was Danny Dove, the choreographer-judge used to handling dance floor injuries. He joined Rafi in gauging the fallen man’s condition.

Molina didn’t slide on her knees but she was there almost as fast as Danny. Her hands, gloved in latex, which went oddly with her hippie garb, snatched the toy gun from Motha Jonz’s hand.

“He’s been shot,” Rafi announced softly, pressing hard on the downed man’s upper arm. “We need a doctor!”

“Oh, my God,” Crawford Buchanan intoned again. “Commercial break, goddammit! Commercial break. What the hell?”

José and Motha Jonz, after freezing with disbelief, had edged over to the fallen man.

Temple’s close observation of the scene was rudely interrupted.

Crawford grabbed her arm and twisted her to face away from the crime scene. “Thirty seconds to the Brat Brigade. Thirty seconds until you’re on.”

Temple opened her mouth like a fish told it was headed to a sushi bar.

He shook her a little. “ You are the distraction, ZC. Get yourself and your junior hoofers onstage. Now!”

Yeah, right.

Temple wanted to know what Danny and Rafi were doing, how CC was. Instead, she had to amp up the annoying Zoe Chloe Ozone. What would even she say in the face of televised mayhem?

Something snappy and ad-libbed.

The cameraman was pointing to her. The red light on his camera flashed as if a train were coming right at her. Five, four, three, two . . . live!

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. And dance freaks everywhere. This is your instigative reporter, Zoe Chloe Ozone, on site and on—ah, none-of-your-business-unless-you’re-a-narc—here at Dancing With the Celebs , said celebs taking a well-deserved break as all old folks should.

“Do not worry. We are going to shake and shiver and quiver your YouTubes. I am here to hype those two teenage masters of the samba, Meg-Ann and Chris.

“Now, Chris you know as the senior, sexiest, and most-likely-tobe-mobbed Los Hermanos Brother. Meg-Ann you don’t know as the girl most likely to kick a soccer ball to kingdom come.

“They are here up close and personal to kick assumptions about young dancers to bits and bytes. Get your home videos rolling; let’s give it up for a couple of young up-and-comers who never give up, Chris and Meg-Ann, dancing the samba!”

Zoe Chloe clasped her fingerless gloves together in a gesture as much prayer as goad.

The young couple galloped into camera range on cue, heads level, feet flashing, and butts bouncing like Meg-Ann’s carroty curls.

Girls in the audience started screeching like banshees to see a nobody like themselves primped up and polishing the hardwood with the oldest Los Hermanos hotshot. To Temple he looked like a full-cheeked choirboy with unfortunate sideburns. To teen girls everywhere, he was the hottest thing on Clearasil.

Temple watched her kids with an almost maternal pride. Much as she was invested in EK and her booster, Mariah, athletic Meg-Ann was displaying lots of pizzazz and personality as she moved from intense sport to hard-driving dance.

Their energy and enthusiasm were banishing the image of the Cloaked Conjuror being wheeled away on an emergency gurney like a downed football player, surrounded by people never introduced from the stage, except for Danny Dove, who got a round of applause when he vaulted the judges’ table again to take his seat at the far right.

Savannah Ashleigh was looking around as if still not sure what had happened, her mini-Chihuahua purse pooch scrabbling its claws in tune with its owner’s panic and scattering judging papers to the floor. Producer Leander Brock was still frozen in disbelief.

Zoe Chloe’s emergency stint as emcee ended with the wild applause for the junior dance routine.

Unfortunately, nothing about tonight’s show had been routine, except for yet another onstage mishap.

Temple was mobbed by young autograph seekers as she tried to escape along the hallway to the back elevators.

“You were sooo coool,” her girly admirers cooed.

“We wanta see you dance!”

“What did it feel like to be right next to Chris after they left the stage?”

“Is he hot or what?”

“Meg-Ann is kinda butch for a hot guy like that.”

“Patrisha would rock his world.”

“Dustin is hotter, don’t you think?”

“Brandon is, you dork!”

“Adam!”

“Where do they hide out before and after the dances? We can’t find them anywhere! ”

Zoe Chloe retreated, disappearing into the service elevator finally. “Forget about Adam and Chris and Brandon and Dustin. Where’s Waldo!” she asked as the doors closed, citing a kids’ picture book from before when these ardent fans were born.

That oughta confuse them long enough to make a getaway.

One-armed Bandit

“How bad is CC’s arm wound?” Rafi wanted to know.

They’d all been waiting in the suite for Molina to return.

“Nasty,” she said, collapsing into an armchair. “But everyone’s happy, including the Cloaked Conjuror, because they can put him on pain pills, wrap up the arm, and he can still dance the tango for the final round tomorrow. The mishaps just up the ratings. Showbiz!”

She laughed, adding, “Look at you all! I’ve never seen a sadder set of glum clowns, including me. The show will go on, but I’m not sure the junior division will be onstage for the awards shows.”

“Mo- ther, no!” Mariah wailed from the huge ottoman she shared with EK.

“There’s been gunplay on the stage, sweetie. No way am I going to risk any minors.”

“Did Motha Jonz fire the shot?” Matt asked. He’d returned to the suite and shared one of the living-room love seats with a sober-faced Zoe Chloe Ozone.

Molina raised an eyebrow. “You supposed to sling an arm around that underage professional brat?”

“I’m eighteen, copper,” Zoe crowed, sticking out her tongue, much to Mariah’s giggly approval.

“Forget staying in character,” Molina said. “It’s wearing; on us, if not you. We all have some serious thinking to do. I haven’t given the producer the go-ahead on the show. They’re continuing rehearsals for now.”

“You can shut this whole thing down?” Matt asked.

“You betcha, chorus boy.”

“Mo- ther !

Molina glanced sourly from Matt to her daughter and back. “And you’ve all got dance fever.”

“You don’t want to shut down the show,” Rafi said.

“And you have a say in this, because—?”

“I don’t have a say in it, but I am involved, Carmen, and you know why.”