Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Leopard Spot

The woman let out an explosive breath, part relief, part unspoken expletive. “You got it. And that’s why the security. They don’t want anyone to know what’s going on, and I’m not so sure they wouldn’t shoot anyone who found out about it, especially someone out here on their own without witnesses.”

“So. You’re not government investigators?” Max eyed them all again. “You look like a college archeological expedition—sorry, no offense meant. And you don’t have a handgun between you, much less a rifle…. So what are you?”

“Hunt breakers.”

“And you think I’m a fool. You’ve seen the patrols, the weapons. Those men will kill you, whether you’re alone or in a pack, if you interfere with their operation. That’s what they’re paid to do.”

“But not in front of the hunters.” The woman smiled grimly. “That’s why we won’t show ourselves until they’ve got a customer with a gun in his hand and some poor declawed retired circus lion cornered against an outbuilding so the coward can be a big-game hunter when he goes home with a dead head for the wall.”

Max shook his own head, thankfully not yet dead, just aching. “You won’t believe me, because I look like an amateur, but I’m not. If they’ll steal a performing leopard from a Strip show just to get stock, they’ll kill to protect their setup….”

He let the sentence trail off because it didn’t make sense, even as he said it, not even to him. He believed that these hunt breakers were in mortal danger, all right, but why would this illegal canned hunt operation risk drawing attention to itself by abducting a prized animal from a man as powerful as a multimillion-dollar-salaried magician?

Not just for kicks, but he couldn’t see any other reason for the leopard’s abduction. Maybe that walking stick had shaken up his brains more than he liked to think.

“Would you like to the see the operation up close and personal?” Van Burkleo asked, smiling genially at Temple.

“Of course,” she said. “I’m already impressed. I had no idea such a sumptuous accommodation was out here.”

“We like it that way,” Leonora said. “But don’t drag our guest—Cyrus, you haven’t introduced her to me—”

“Temple Barr of the Crystal Phoenix.”

“The Phoenix!” Leonora’s virtually invisible brows rose with surprise. “We haven’t had any clients from there yet. Of course we are pleased to accommodate a Fontana family enterprise. What is your position at the Phoenix?”

“Informal,” Temple said, watching both Van Burkleos’s eyes narrow suspiciously. She was by no means in like Flynn, which meant getting out might be dicey. Very dicey.

“I’m a humble publicist, but Nicky and Van have entrusted me with the concept and execution of their new virtual-reality Action Jackson ride and holographic experience, and also for a small animal area, with all the close-up and personal effect of a Vegas show, but strictly appropriate protection for the animals on display, of course.”

“Of course.” Leonora’s frighteningly inhuman eyes regarded Temple with the same expressionless intensity she sometimes encountered in Midnight Louie’s gaze. “We will have a drink while I explain our setup and rules. I’m sure Cyrus neglected the details. Would you like a golden lion?”

“Actually, I’m interested in something smaller. A panther or a leopard, possibly both.”

Leonora’s laugh was half a growl. “Silly. I meant a drink. A golden lion is my own invention. Lochan Ora with rum and Kahlúa.”

“Sounds…delish,” said Temple, who couldn’t imagine combining coffee and scotch liqueurs with rum, but sensed that you didn’t argue with a lioness.

Leonora opened a tall cabinet lined with mirrors and cut glass, quickly mixing the contents of two Waterford decanters in a pitcher. The amber-black concoction was poured into delicate liqueur glasses. Temple sipped at hers after Leonora brought it over. Maybe lion fangs weren’t venom bearing, but Leonora’s filed teeth looked fairly aspish.

During the social lull, Temple asked innocuous questions, which got innocuous answers.

“How long have you been here?” she tried.

“Long enough to develop the property, and our very quiet but solid reputation, as we wanted to,” said Leonora.

“It’s wonderful to have a nearby resource for the occasional animal,” Temple soldiered on. “I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t heard of you.”

“And how did you hear of us?” Van Burkleo asked, his voice as smooth as a rum sundae.

“Oh. A friend of Macho Mario’s, of course. I mean, Mr. Fontana.”

Leonora’s eyes glittered as she looked significantly at her spouse.

Temple realized that her clumsy attempt to name-drop had gotten her pegged as the old man’s girl Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night.

These people thought like National Enquirer reporters!

But the instant that false impression had been made, it was as if Temple had joined some secret sorority. Leonora came to take away the triple-power liqueur, favoring Temple with what passed for a wink from one of her beastly eyes.

“We better not keep you away from the Phoenix too long. Come along. I’ll show you what we have available. Something, I’m sure, will suit.”

Temple thanked Mr. Van Burkleo profusely, more from relief at leaving his presence and that of the surrounding animal heads than from gratitude, and trotted out after Leonora.

As she recalled, lionesses were the huntresses of the pride while the extravagantly maned males lay and sunned themselves like romance-novel cover models. So she had been handed over to the more dangerous of her hosts.

They left the house by the rear, after passing palatial rooms filled with animal memorabilia, that is to say, taxidermied body parts.

Temple began to imagine a wonderland filled with Van Burkleo parts to infinity….

Behind the living quarters was a pathway and a deep moat, beyond which unnatural natural habitats for big cats and other exotic animals were established at the base of the mountain.

Temple was sure it was all impressive, but she was taken only to the big-cat area. She couldn’t help thinking that the animals were on display like department store mannequins, only these were living. A lion roared from behind the scenes, causing her to jump and then come to a dead halt.

“Just old Leo,” Leonora reassured her.

“Definitely not what we want at the Phoenix. The leopard and panther are…quieter, aren’t they?”

“Of course.”

“And, as I told your husband, we do have a wildlife consultant who will be in charge of the animals and exhibit. This is just a preliminary scouting expedition on my part, to decide whether we want to include a big cat or two. Or not.”

“I understand. There we have two snow leopards. Very nice. Very expensive. Forty thousand apiece? Does that suit your budget.”

“This is Las Vegas, Mrs. Van Burkleo. That is not exorbitant.”

“A black leopard.”

“Oh.” Temple stopped. The panther was sunning himself on some rocks beside a narrow waterfall that trickled into the moat far below. His muscled black coat shone like fresh tar in the light, and his big blunt head was far more massive than Midnight Louie’s. “He’s gorgeous. Is he like a leopard?”

“The same thing, really, except for the coloration. Like golden retrievers and black Labrador retrievers. Black big cats used to be called pards, and the spotted big cat was named after the more golden lion—”

“Leo-pards!”

“Exactly. Yours for thirty, shall we say?”

“Oh!” Temple tried to sound pleased. “And a plain—that is, regular—spotted leopard? Van von Rhine is a blond, and more partial to spotted leopards than the black ones.”