Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Aqua Storm

She stumbled to the light switch, then blinked at her watch until she could read it. Six-something. She rushed for the door, tripping over her discarded shoes.

Luckily, she had not been too exhausted to use her chain lock. Turning the deadbolt seemed more than her aching arm could handle, but she finally edged the door open enough to peer out.

“Oh, Matt! I was thinking of you. I mean, I was thinking of you just before I fell asleep—” No, that wasn’t cool, might as well cut to the gory chase. “There’s been another murder at the Goliath!”

He took her non sequiturs with Matt-style equanimity. “I’d like to hear about it, but can I come in first?”

“Yes, but I’m not dressed. I’ll be right back out.”

She undid the chain and left it swaying while she retreated to the bedroom. Not that the huge towel wasn’t perfectly modest. It just made her look like a resuscitated mummy, and walk like one too.

In the bedroom, Temple threw on her handy wraparound dress and low-heeled mules, then checked herself in the bathroom mirror. Nothing makeup could do for her now. The tuna sandwich had gotten soggy absorbing the hot water, and the ice had melted in the glass mug, creating an unappetizing liquid the color of pink lemonade.

She opened the tub drain to let the water gurgle out, grabbed the paper by the phone on which she had scribbled down the rhymes, and hustled into the living room.

Matt was standing by the French doors, arms folded and legs braced. From the back he was well built enough to pass for a Newd Dude, but less intimidatingly muscular. Self-absorbed bodybuilders were likely total losses as romantic interests, anyway.

He turned. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just stopped in to see how you’re doing.”

“Okay. I spent two-thirds of the day at the Goliath and was more tired than I knew.”

“I stopped at the penthouse to ask Electra to keep an eye on you, but there’s no answer.”

“Oh, Electra... she might be doing errands, riding around. You know.”

“No, I don’t. She usually sticks close to the Circle Ritz in case an impromptu wedding party shows up and she has to officiate.”

“I’m sure she’ll be back later.” Temple felt it was Electra’s business to tell anyone what she was up to. And she was sure the landlady had a backup JP to cover the Lover’s Knot wedding chapel attached to the Circle Ritz building.

Matt rotated his lightly tanned wrist to check his Timex. Temple saw a thin white line where it had shifted. None of the strippers, female or male, had tans with unwanted white lines, she would bet. She’d heard the women chattering of tan booths and untimely burns. Too bad they didn’t know that a touch of reality is so much more inciting to the imagination than premeditated perfection.

“I just thought of something,” she said.

“Yes?” Ever-helpful Matt, ever ready to listen.

“I’ve been spending so much time among the strippers, and something about the men strippers just struck me.” She paused. It was probably a dumb question. “Maybe you’d know, being into physical fitness.”

“Wait a minute. I like to swim and I’ve studied martial arts since high school. That’s not ‘being into physical fitness.’ ”

“Well, being a man, then.” He couldn’t object to that. “These guys are really Arnold Jrs., overbuilt, if you ask me. But none of them have hair on their chest—and not much body hair anywhere else that shows. Is it because they take steroids, or what? Or do men who have no body hair become strippers? Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Matt smiled. “I have to answer a lot of difficult questions at the hot line, but I’ve never gotten one like that. It could be steroids, Temple. And I’d guess that if they went to all the trouble to build that muscle, they wouldn’t want anything obscuring it. I’ve heard some guys who wrestle shave their chests, and even their legs.”

“Their legs! You mean these big, macho guys go through the same rigmarole as women?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Maybe they get it waxed,” Temple mused. “That would last longer than shaving such big areas. Can you picture these guys lined up in a salon covered in hot wax?”

“No, but evidently you can.” Matt was laughing. “You don’t miss anything, do you?”

“I’m just curious about people, and being around so many professionally pretty people is mind-blowing. I wonder if men really find women who work at being that calculatedly ‘female’ attractive? Frankly, the guys’ overinflated muscles and bulging veins and jeans turn me off instead of on. It’s all too-too. Is that terrible of me? Am I not with it?”

“Just sounds to me like you know what you like.”

“Real people,” she said promptly and firmly.

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes sobering. “Then the magician’s disappearance must have been quite a shock.”

“Oh, yeah. But then, who is real? As I get to know these women strippers a little, I see their toughness and their tragedies, and I like them. They may be selling a perfect fantasy, but they’re far from perfect, and they know it. I don’t understand if the skin game is kicky and liberating, or a symptom of repression and oppression and obsession and all those other big words. Maybe I don’t understand it because I never qualified for it.”

“What do you mean? You’re attractive.”

“I’m okay. I like me. Some men like me. But I’m nothing to stop traffic, and I don’t try to be. A few of these women were born with breasts the size of watermelons, and otherwise slim. What are they going to do for a living in this society? I can see how they got there. It’s realistic, but at some time they must have suffered for being a different kid. And now their semi-freakdom makes them mucho moolah. Others... were made, not born, formed by abuse, yet stripping seems to free some of them, and to further degrade others. I’m confused. I don’t have a strong moral or philosophical position on the state of the art. Or even know if it is an art.”

“At least you try. You question. Have you ever considered that black guys who are tall and can shoot baskets face the same problems? Should they use their natural advantages, make money young, and forget about whether they’re being exploited until they’re older?”

“No. I never compared Playboy centerfolds, say, with big-money student athletes. But you’re right. They’ve both got something they can sell: being young and in shape. I should judge: I never had those temptations.”

“Why not?”

“Look at me! I looked twelve until I was past twenty, and now that I’m approaching thirty, I look twenty. Well? Don’t I?”

He looked her over, so much more thoroughly than he ever had before that Temple regretted her impulsive challenge. Why draw anyone's attention to your perceived deficits? Bad PR.

“What’s wrong with that?” Matt asked at last. “They sell expensive creams to get the same effect. Someday you’ll be seventy and look fifty.”

“But I’m never taken seriously! Everybody’s always saying I’m too young or too small. They think that my brain matches my stature. They think I’m cute!” she snarled. “They especially think I’m cute when I’m mad.”

He put up his hands. “Not me. Listen, Temple, I understand your frustration.”

“Why? I’m sure everybody takes you very seriously. Face it, you’re one of the born-beautiful people, and you don’t even work at it.”

Tactful, calm Matt Devine suddenly tensed. He turned away, hands in his pockets. “You say you don’t find the perfect bodies in a strip show real. What about the other way around? What if ‘perfect people’ never find anyone else real?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have personalized it. You know what I’ve been working against.”