Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Crimson Haze

That was then. Now Gridirons across the country had died of disinterest, hopefully due to low-grade content. The Mother of all Gridirons in Washington had always been a bigger, tonier affair. Las Vegas also mounted a major show each year. After all, the city was choking with performing spaces and talent that included top acts from Hollywood and Nashville.

One of them was walking toward Temple right now.

She'd only seen Gentleman Johnny Diamond in bigger-than-life photos on hotel placards; in the flesh he was almost as imposing as the Colossus of Rhodes figure straddling the entrance to the Goliath Hotel. He was big, broad without being burly, and blond in a robust way reminiscent of frontiersmen. The shoulder-length hair he swept back into a trendy ponytail furthered the Old West impression, as did his no-holds-barred handshake with Temple.

She liked that. Nothing made her feel worse than being treated like a porcelain princess.

Johnny Diamond's voice was as big as his body. ''You're the PR whiz who's going to turn Nicky and Van's magic kingdom here into the family farm," he boomed into the giant echo chamber of the hotel basement. "You also sling a mean satirical line. I'm gonna have fun doin'

this gig. Nice to meet you."

Since Gridiron roles were unpaid, Temple practically did a somersault to hear that her suggestion for the lead singer of "Las Vegas Medley of 1994" had gotten past Crawford. Having its headline singer in the show's big production number wouldn't hurt the host hotel--Temple's current client--either.

She actually turned to an advancing Buchanan with a left-over smile on her face, which faded quickly. He had traded his around-town suit for his idea of informal rehearsal attire: blue jeans about six shades too new (even for Beaver Cleaver) and a golf shirt in an obnoxious shade of lime. (Were there any other shades of lime clothing? she wondered. She would have to look into that later.)

''How's it going?" she forced herself to ask.

"Fine." Crawford seemed distracted. He barely glanced at his guest star, as hard as Johnny Diamond was to miss. "The director's over here. He wants to see you."

The director was a guest star too: the Phoenix house choreographer named (honest-to-plain-Pete), Danny Dove. His crimped dark-blond hair was as woolly as an English barrister's wig and framed a genial, slightly homely face. Temple was surprised that Dove was so slight-looking; most male dancers had to be strongmen to partner and sling about the females of the Terpsichorean species, who were often tall. Temple pictured Danny Dove piloting Carmen Molina through Swan Lake and fought back giggles.

"Cute skit shtick," Dove pronounced after Crawford had introduced Temple, pushing up the sleeves of his black. Gene Kelly turtleneck to his bony elbows.

Danny Dove's jeans were black, too, and so well-used that they looked chalk-dusted in places, though they fit tighter than the skin of your chinny-chin-chin after a ten-thousand-dollar facelift. They sported a completely sincere frayed horizontal slit in one knee, also bony.

Danny Dove was a spare man whose gestures were bigger than he was. They had to be to control dozens of dancers, including giraffe-tall showgirls.

"I'll do a total takeoff of the 'Broadway Melody' shows of the thirties," he said, separating his hands into the frame of a proscenium stage. 'The backdrop will be wallpapered with chorus girls kicking their little asses into next week against a Big White Set. You know, kaleidoscopic knees and such. That's what you intended, right? The overdone approach. Do you dance?"

Danny Dove's dark eyes zeroed in on Temple's legs in such a professionally assessing way that she could not take offense, though Crawford Buchanan's monkey-see scan was distinctly unwelcome.

"Yes," she said. ''I mean, I don't dance, but I did envision an over-the-top production."

''One thing." Danny Dove scratched an angry pimple on his five-o'clock shadow. "We might be smart to lay off on a few things."

"Oh?" Temple's voice had moved into cool neutral. She wouldn't tell Danny Dove how to block a ballet; she hoped he wasn't about to tell her how to write a revue.

"This mob stuff, isn't that rather old?"

"That's the idea. It leads into the 'Luck, Be a Lady' part of the number."

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn what it leads into, it's such a hokey concept. The mob.

I've been in Vegas for over fifteen years and the only mobster who's set tacky wing-tip in this town since then is the figurehead from Little Caesar's pizza chain."

"The skit satirizes all of the legendary forces that shaped and tried to control Las Vegas,"

Temple said patiently. "Crime syndicates were no laughing matter in the early days. Sure, musical comedy gangsters don't run this town, anymore than a secret government alien-intelligence installation sits under the new Luxor's pyramid. Let's just have some fun and pretend all the cliches are true."

Danny Dove shrugged. "It's your show, but I hate to put my dancers into those tacky brown zoot suits with white ties" His blase face brightened. "I could have the ladies wear just the jackets and skip the baggy pants, though, and do a bluesy Kelly nightclub number." He came as close to a smile as a choreographer who was a combination of Tinker Bell and General Patton ever could. "Yeah. It would play."

Danny Dove retired nodding and happy. Too bad Crawford Buchanan had suffered no such mood change.

"Maybe he's right." Crawford's deep voice burst in the air right next to Temple's left ear like a bad-news bomb.

She tried not to jump, and tried even harder not to jump into a defensive position. That would be sure to cement Crawford's irritating objections.

"I think so too," she said sweetly. ''His notion for the Gangster Guys and Dolls bit sounds terrific."

"Yeah, a lot of leg is always good, but maybe we should soft peddle the mob angle."

''Why? Everybody agrees they don't exist, right?"

"Sure, but--" Crawford leaned uncomfortably close. "Maybe we shouldn't aggravate 'em, just in case."

"This is a satirical show." Temple's voice was rising to match her aroused temper. "It's supposed to aggravate everybody!

Maybe I should write out the alien enclave; that might make E.T. phone home with a complaint about stereotypical misrepresentation.''

Crawford visibly thought about it, nodding solemnly. "The UFO people do take this stuff pretty seriously. And the Luxor might be annoyed. Not to mention the government."

"The Luxor should be delighted with the publicity. The UFO people will feel vindicated to be even mentioned! The government can't do anything about conspiracy theories because they're everywhere in real life. This is only a stage show, Crawford. For Helen Hayes's sake, don't take it so seriously."

"Easy for you to say. I'm in charge of this show. You're just a hired hand."

"Thank you for explaining the facts of life. May I stay a while and watch?"

He looked around as if searching for government toadies to okay her request. "I guess so, but you gotta promise not to meddle."

Temple folded her arms over her chest, which Crawford had been concentrating on rather too much. ''I won't if you won't," she promised.

And on that unpromising note, the rehearsal began.

An hour later. Temple took the back stairs up to the hotel's main floor, just to hear the angry clatter of her high heels on hard cement.

The rehearsal was so preliminary that they barely got through two phrases of her script at a time. She had expected that.

She had not expected Crawford to sit beside her, whining with worry over every phrase.

How on earth do you put on a satirical revue if you're afraid of offending someone? She fussed to herself. And why was Crawford so worried about offending people at this late date? The notion had never troubled his tiny little mind before.