Douglas, Nelson - Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

"Who are you?"

"Temple Barr. My cat's in this commercial too, just like Savannah's."

He whirled to the actress. "Your cat ! Not you?"

"They wanted Yvette desperately. I didn't want to stand in her way."

Cooke turned back to Temple, the charm still radiating on full wattage. "And where is your cat?"

"He's the malcontent in the carrier."

Temple took the occasion to spring Louie, then heft him into her arms. He was, thank goodness, dry as a desert, if not as chipper as a chuckwalla lizard.

"All that's just one cat, Temple?"

"Just one. And only. Meet Midnight Louie."

"Midnight Louie. I like it. Might use that name in the show for a minor character. Well."

Cooke glanced at Savannah, who pouted while discreetly dabbing at Yvette's posterior with the pink satin cushion from the carrier." 'Vannah, when you're done catting around, come backstage. We've gotta get together. Why didn't you tell me you were in town?"

"Didn't know that you were, Dare," she said, her voice becomingly breathless. Yvette was unceremoniously returned to her carrier, cushion and all, and zipped away. "I'll just freshen up and be right down."

He nodded, then swept his eyes over the weary television crew. "Nice to meet you, folks.

Here are passes for the show." Cooke produced the fanned sheaf of colored pasteboards almost as suddenly as the Mystifying Max could conjure a magical deck of cards, and passed them out, not forgetting Temple.

Then he bounded up the stairs to grab a towel from a stool offstage and vanished into the wings.

"Wish I'd had that towel for Yvette," Savannah muttered. Her penciled eyebrows knit as she surveyed the inactive crew. "I'm going to be here first thing in the morning, and I'm not leaving until you finish filming. Obviously you can't be trusted with a delicate creature like Yvette."

She lofted the carrier and undulated up the aisle, no doubt to the nearest ladies' room, where both she and Yvette could wash away the strains--and stains--of the day.

Marcy bent to pull a litter pan from under her seat. "I put that prissy Persian in the box about eight times today and couldn't get Mummy's little sweetums to tinkle once, much less do anything else. Your Louie isn't a great performer, either, but at least he can contain himself."

"Maybe you need separate boxes for the two cats," Temple suggested. "How long do you think it will take tomorrow?"

"We can do our bit on this set in a couple of hours," Kyle said. "Depends how long Mr.

Perfection drills the chorus."

"Well, I'll stay with Louie when we come back tomorrow morning."

Kyle cleared his throat and took off his round, horn-rimmed glasses to polish them. "We really prefer to work without owners present. They can distract their animals."

"Listen, as long as that piece of cinematic cheesecake is here to defend her sweetums tooth and nail, I'll be here to do the same for Midnight Louie."

A martyred sigh. "Amateurs. Maurice was so easy to work with. He didn't have an owner. It's a good thing I have him here on call, just in case."

"In case of what?" Temple asked, highly miffed.

"I have a feeling a lot will go wrong tomorrow. It wouldn't hurt to have a body double on hand."

"Maurice doesn't look a bit like Louie."

"He would if he were dyed black from toe to tail." Kyle turned to his dispirited crew. "Come on, gang. Drinks on me. Tomorrow we'll see action, I promise you."

Temple was left with a heavy cat in her arms, a heavy carrier on the chair seat behind her and an empty stage before her.

"Stardom is a pain in the neck for stage mothers too, Louie," she told him, struggling to stuff him back in his carrier.

Louie fanned his toes, flared his nails and clawed plastic.

"Now don't be temperamental," Temple said, panting. "Fame has its obligations, and if you're too difficult, I'll let a tie-dyed Maurice have all the glory. That Yvette is as much a pain as her owner, anyway, not to mention a bad example in the bathroom department."

Louie's grip on the carrier suddenly gave. He was in and had turned around to face Temple in the twinkling of a green eye.

"Merow," he said, most persuasively, rubbing against the grille.

"I will be good," it sounded like to Temple, but she was a born optimist.

"Ooof!" She heaved Louie and his carrier off the seat to begin the long walk back up the aisle. "I'm going to have to pay a union grip just to carry you."

It wasn't fair, Temple thought. Here she was hoofing it home alone with the Godzilla of the cat world while Savannah Ashleigh was primping herself and her lightweight Yvette for a tete-a-

tete with the charming Darren Cooke, who was obviously no stranger.

Not to be catty or anything, but some bimbos had all the luck.

Chapter 3

Curb Service

"Show business!"

Temple let Midnight Louie's carrier thump to the Circle Ritz lobby floor.

"As in: there's no business like--?" Electra, her landlady, fed Temple the first part of the lyric as if they were on a game show.

"I would hope not. Poor Louie was kept sitting around in a carrier all day and never got a chance to go on."

"I hope he got a chance to go."

"He didn't take that opportunity, either. I better get him up to our digs--and I do mean

'digs' in this case--pronto. Although he almost never honors his box upstairs with a deposit."

"Er, what is his location of choice, then?" An alarmed expression grew in Electra's gray eyes.

"Not in the condominium, trust me. He goes outside, I guess, during his many mysterious outings."

Electra held the arriving elevator door open so Temple could drag in the carrier.

"I did meet Darren Cooke, though," Temple added in parting, as the elevator doors slashed shut between them.

Electra thrust a bangled forearm between the doors faster than Bruce Willis on a Die Hard rampage, then bumped her way through as they opened again.

"Darren Cooke! He's one of my favorites."

"Favorite whats?"

"Favorite performer, favorite comedy actor--and not a bad dramatic actor, either--favorite male, period. Is he as good-looking in person?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of! He's supposed to be a real ladies' man. What did you think?"

"He's professionally charming. If that's a ladies' man, then he's got the title. He did s how mercy on our little A La Cat commercial film crew, though. That bespeaks a gentleman, but appearances can be deceiving, especially when said gentleman is trying to impress the hooker shoes off a certain blond bimbo named Savannah."

"Temple, I wish you wouldn't act so jaded. You're much too young for that. Darren Cooke is practically a movie star, for heaven's sake."

On the second floor, Electra held the elevator doors ajar while Temple and Louie bumped through. Then she commandeered the handle of Louie's carrier and led Temple down the circular hallway.

"What does 'practically a movie star' mean?" Temple wanted to know. "He made --what?

Two movies. And one was a bomb."

"It's hard to find the right vehicle for an actor who does both comedy and drama," Electra said to defend her idol. "So what is Darren Cooke doing in Vegas and where did you see him?"

"At Gangster's, where they're supposed to be filming Louie's A La Cat commercial. At least Darren Cooke promised the crew that he'd get his show on the road tomorrow so that we could film, and gave everyone passes to his show. Poor Yvette waited so long that she . . . ah, sprinkled her carrier."

"Persians are high-strung, unlike your average alley cat. Me, I'd take a mongrel every time."

Electra waited while Temple unlocked her door, then slung the carrier to the entry-hall floor.

"But you didn't. Karma is a purebred, isn't she?"