Carole Douglas - Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

“That he knows you love vintage things, and, like the Clairol ads say, you’re worth it. Or do the ads still say that? I fear my decades are showing.”

“Here in Vegas flash is common, and often taken for a good fake. I put it on for that disastrous dinner, but my folks seemed too dazed to much notice it. So what should I say about the ring if they comment on how expensive it is?”

“That Matt picked it out for you and you love it and it’s both something old and something new for the wedding.”

“That’s the perfect answer. Thank you, Electra!” Temple embraced her, then withdrew, shaking out her red-gold waves of hair. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous about this meet-the-fiancé ritual.”

“They didn’t approve of the last one, did they? But you’ve been independent and away on your own now for a couple years. You don’t answer to anyone but yourself.”

Temple nodded. “Why do the people who want only the best for you become the last to admit that you know what you’re doing?”

“It’s the parent thing. It’s hard to let go of feeling responsible. That’s why I do this.” Electra swirled one hand over her wildly color-enhanced hair. “If old Mom can be an unconventional free spirit, there’s nothing my grown children can do to shock me. Right?”

“Right.” Temple looked around the forlorn space. “Why would anyone buy this sad mess for a strip club? The defunct Neon Nightmare club building. I can see that. But this? I don’t get it.”

Footsteps interrupted her monologue.

“Excuse us,” a woman’s voice said, “but what are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same thing,” Electra said, stepping forward.

The man answered. “We’ll be managing this new joint.”

Temple jumped into the awkward moment of this standoff. “You must be Mr. Adcock and Miss Zydeco. So glad you dropped by. I talked with Mr. Nemo just now. Your plans for the building and site are wonderfully intriguing.”

While laying down her PR patter, Temple did a fast read of the managerial couple.

Katt Zydeco was showgirl tall, wearing the riding habit look so popular: skintight jeggings and high boots. Her long hair was frankly dyed jet black. Pancake makeup couldn’t disguise the badly pitted complexion some unlucky teenagers carry for life. Katt must be in her late thirties.

Punch Adcock. Hard to say if he was chubby or beefy, but his expression was petulant, and his lips pursed like a rather nasty Cupid’s. His eyes were too close together and his huge shoulders hunched. All in all an unappetizing actor, as the cops might say.

Challenge radiated off both figures. Who are you? Why are you here? We’ll handle you, toots, don’t worry.

Temple had immediately dropped Nemo’s name, sure he was the boss of the operation. Now she had to patty-cake these two unforgiving characters into pretending to be the professional managers they could never be.

Piece of angel-food cake.

“I’m Temple Barr. I do public relations for several on-Strip businesses.”

“Well, we’re in the public relations business ourselves,” Punch said with a smirk at Katt. “We have to beat our customers off with a stick. Like what do you rep?” Punch asked, unconvinced.

“Like Gangsters, both the limo service and hotel-casino, and the Crystal Phoenix Hotel.”

“Sniffs like all Fontana operations. Pure bottled spaghetti sauce.” Punch snorted in distaste. His nose did indeed look hard used from his boxing days.

“It’s true Mama Fontana’s Italian sauce empire underwrote most of the family businesses,” Temple said. “Still, it’s one of the most profitable brands along the Strip, and this project, being a bit off-Strip, could use extra PR promotion.”

“So you’re sneaking around here looking for a job.” Katt Zydeco put one booted foot before the other as she stalked toward the two women.

Electra gave a little mewl of warning and grabbed Temple’s arm.

Temple agreed. These were tough customers. Time to show them a bit of T as in Teflon.

She stepped out on her steel-heeled Weitzman’s to match Katt Zydeco step for step and meet her in the middle.

“Nice boots,” Temple said.

“Nice booties,” Katt said. “I do like the ankle accessory.”

Temple didn’t wear ankle bracelets. Then she felt the velvet brush. She looked down. Midnight Louie, of course, putting one sleek black velvet foot ahead of the other at a pace that had matched the two women’s.

“Something I picked up in a dark alley some time,” Temple said, stopped and shrugging.

“Hope it didn’t require medication,” Katt said. “Nemo is interested in your services?”

“He likes my pedigree.” Temple cocked an eyebrow.

Katt Zydeco stopped her catwalk advance and shrugged in her turn. “If you’re good enough for Nemo, you’re good enough for me.”

“Hey,” Punch said. “What just happened here? We okayed Nemo hiring this little clueless redheaded dame and her cat and her grandmother? Or what?”

Temple flashed one of her cards at him. “Looks like it. Expect to see a lot more of us as the Lust ‘n’ Lace empire expands. We are the total package when it comes to viral social media expansion.”

Punch’s jaw remained dropped at hearing Temple’s jargon, as if hit by a heavyweight. Temple turned Electra around and they left.

She hoped Midnight Louie had followed suit and left with them (but she didn’t look back because it would ruin their exit), so Punch would really be confused.

She was sure Louie’s chronic curiosity would not allow him to leave such a mysterious building unexplored.

9

Girls Club

“Well, Electra,” Temple said on returning to the Circle Ritz lobby, “I guess we’re back in the strip club business.”

“What do you mean?”

“We need to pay Les Girls a visit.”

“Why would we want to visit a strip club,” Electra asked glumly, “when we’ll soon have a new one so conveniently located in our backyard?”

“We’re visiting Lindy Lukas.”

“Lindy Lukas? I don’t know—oh, yeah, the ex-stripper. We met her during the G-string murder case, when I made my stripping debut on Max’s Hesketh Vampire motorcycle.”

“I think the motorcycle stripped more than you did on that occasion, Electra.” Temple’s smile grew sad. “I have one of the stripper’s extra pair of black-cat design spikes, but I’ve never worn them. It’s hard to walk in a murder victim’s shoes.”

“No kidding, but why are we seeing Lindy?”

“I’m guessing if Katt Zydeco was a stripper, Lindy would know her.”

“That’s right. Lindy is head of WHOOPE, the professional strippers organization. What did it stand for again?”

“It was an unforgettably labored group acronym. Not my work. Let’s see. We Have an Organization Of Professional Ecdysiasts.”

“Ecdysiasts describes snakes shedding their skins, right?”

“ Uh-huh .”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Electra said. “From what you learned at the stripping contest, some of them are from abusive backgrounds. They’re hardly snakes.”

“And some of them are savvy self-employed businesswomen. You can’t stereotype them, so let’s see what Lindy knows about the new game in town.”

Visiting a strip club in Las Vegas meant mingling with a crowd, even in the middle of the afternoon.

Neon sandwiched Les Girls inside and out. Its several stages fostered a sense of intimacy over the space of a football field of skimpily clad flesh. Acts were mostly aimed at men, but women and couples populated the milling audience.