I pause. Another entity shares my darkness.
How I can say this? I do not know what it is, only that every hair still left on my spine has stiffened.
Rats I can handle. A chorus line of rats ... would be more difficult.
I twitch my whiskers. I circle in the blackness, knowing my cover is perfect. I see nothing.
And then a light comes wobbling from the distance, a feeble, focused light, like the beam of a flashlight. That spells one thing: homo sapiens. I am not exactly afraid of a run-in with any sample of the species, even to the twelfth power, but I also wish to keep my anonymity.
I debate possible moves as the distant light bobbles closer. By its oncoming brightness I make out another hunched form on the Opposite side of the tunnel. Or call it a Chunnel. It Is big enough, and stinky enough.
Speaking of big and stinky, I cannot yet make out the species of my roommate, save that it is four-legged, smaller than myself and almost as dark.
The nearing light strikes a spark from its narrowed eyes: pure, venomous green.
For a-blinding instant we are both caught in the unwanted glare.
I stare into the gilded eyes of Caviar.
Then we rocket out of there, dodging the light like vampires avoiding a dagger of sunlight.
"Hey," grunts some yahoo down the tunnel. "I think there's rats down here. You never said nothing about rats."
****************
Caviar is boxing her ears with a damp paw as if she would like to be boxing my finer points, such as my face.
We are recovering ourselves outside the tunnel entrance and crouch under the swaying costumes.
"Some dirty trick," she comments.
"How did you get off the bus and back this fast?"
"Did the sunstroke routine at the first stop. Some tourist In a Rent-a-Rustbucket took pity on me and drove me back to Las Vegas. I ditched her at the first gas station, while she was inside buying me Perrier water and some beef jerky." "You are a most ungrateful date."
"And you are so typical of your type, what can I say? Just what I expected. Devious, cowardly--"
"What do you mean 'cowardly? I wanted to spare you the danger."
"You never told me who you really were, Fatso." "I did not deem you ready for such a revelation."
"Right. Who is protecting whom? Okay. As to this. What's the scam, Sam?"
"Now that you know my real name," I say with great dignity, "you might as well use it."
"Okay. No more hooey, Louie. What's up?" I examine the dirt underneath my toenails. "I am not quite sure yet--"
"Then what is our next move, so you can be sure?" "We have to investigate the tunnels systematically." "What are we supposed to do, leave a trail of yarn?" "Well, for starters--" I rise and peer down the opening that we have exited. "No one is coming this way. I suggest that the action is farther down the tunnels. I should go back and investigate. You wait here in case the authorities need to be called."
"You think they would pay me any mind?" "It can be done." I stand and use the advantage of my great height to pontificate. "I have found methods."
"All right," she says, switching her tail. She gives me a sideways glance that I do not like. "Go back and be a hero. I will stay here and keep watch for any suspicious behavior." "Fine," I say, wishing I had a moment to myself. I will just have to make do with the dirt down the tunnel.
"Stay put, and there will be nothing to worry about."
"That is not encouraging," Caviar says, rolling her eyes. She settles onto her haunches like a good little girl, though. I do not for a moment believe that she will still be there when I return from my explorations. I suspect she wishes to make explorations of her own. "Bye-bye, Daddio."
Chapter 36
Offstage Acts
The huge stage curtain, panels of alternating emerald and turquoise velvet, drew back and the first skit was underway.
Matt watched with some wonderment. The cast numbered at least forty. Despite the lavish professional surroundings, these were indeed skits. Tap-dancing choruses might fade in and out, but the dialogue was mainly snappy repartee about local projects, failures and personalities, with a few digs hurled at national figures.
Matt hadn't lived in Las Vegas long enough, or paid close enough attention, to understand every gag. From the serial guffaws surrounding him, most of the audience did. Sometimes they even applauded a well-aimed line. During such pauses in the onstage action. Temple often leaned close to whisper, 'That was mine," against the neighboring din.
Matt applauded when the audience did, but was beginning to wonder why all the pomp and circumstance and men in cummerbunds for what could have been a pleasant show in a high school gymnasium. Then he remembered that Crawford Buchanan was responsible for most of it, and that Temple thought poorly of his qualifications for the job. Still, the audience seemed delighted by spoofs of its power and glory and goof ups. Matt suspected that these people would have applauded a Three Stooges version of this show, just as long as their names were mentioned, no matter the context.
When the curtain closed between major skits, blackouts involving only two or three actors dominated the apron while the stage was readied for the next big scene.
During such an interlude, Temple pulled her program so close to one of the candles that Matt was afraid that her hair would catch fire.
''What is it?" he whispered over the microphone-amplified lines.
On stage, a supposed Steve Wynn of the Mirage Hotel held off a duo of disgruntled Las Vegas Lions--literally the MGM Grand Hotel's oversized Leo and the Luxor's giant Sphinx--with Siegfried and Roy's famed white tigers. Since all of the big cats were portrayed by people in fuzzy suits-, the skit had a surreal Wizard of Oz quality.
"This hokey 'Line Tamer' skit shouldn't be next," Temple fussed. "Not according to the program. Why are they playing for time? My big number is coming up. Must be a snag. I'm scooting backstage to see what. Excuse me."
"Whoa." Matt caught her arm as she prepared to shimmy impetuously down the banquette seat. "Maybe they don't want you there."
"Are you kidding? I know this show almost as well as Danny Dove. It never hurts to have help in a crisis."
Matt slid over the resistant velvet--the soft nap acted like flypaper--to let Temple out. The velvet was even more resistant to her beaded dress, but she wriggled out and then tried to tiptoe unobtrusively up the stairs.
Matt watched her as he took his seat again. Unobtrusive, sure, in that Christmas-tree tinsel dress and those glitter-heeled shoes. Someone else far back twisted to watch her exit. He recognized Lieutenant Molina, lifting opera glasses to her eyes from the far left rear of the house to follow Temple's exit. Beside her, Frank was bending his head to fuss with his watch.
The opera glasses snapped to the stage, but the score was Lions 3 and Tigers 6, if you were counting laughs instead of stuffed tail thumps.
Matt glanced at the strangers next to him on the banquette big enough to seat six. Their profiles were intent on the stage, anticipatory smiles pasted to their faces. They sensed nothing wrong.
Yet now that Temple had left, Matt noticed the occasional curtain bump and bustle backstage, as if the crew were struggling. He glanced at his watch, first impatiently pulling back the cumbersome formal cuff.
Nine-thirty. The show would be working its way to the wind-up. Maybe he should have gone with Temple . . . He turned to gawk at the closed doors leading from the house, not knowing what he expected to see.
What he did see surprised, then shocked him. Molina and Frank were gone, leaving a wine velvet hole in an audience of wall-to-wall glitter and penguin contrast.
Matt stood and made his hopefully discreet way up the long shallow ramp of carpeted steps.
Around him the amplified voices on stage traded mots, bon and not-so-bon. The audience laughed.