"Deelivered." Savannah Ashleigh dropped that word with a mannered relish. "She will be deelivered, poor darling, in not too many weeks. Of a litter. A litter of your evil black cat's Midnight degeneration."
Temple blinked. Savannah's delivery was as overarticulated as any admirer of the Del Sartian school of nineteenth-century acting could desire. But what did 'degeneration' mean in this context?
"Huh?" Temple responded elegantly.
"Oooohf!" Savannah stamped a Frederick's of Hollywood high heel. A full six inches high, like the fetishists get into, quite literally, unlike Temple's usual three-inch models. The stamping high-rise shoe was leopard-spotted with touches of gold lame.
"Don't play dumb with me! You are up against a master. Look at my lovely babesy-wabesy.
She is PG. Pregnant! She will have a revolting litter by your horrible alley cat, not by the Supreme National Champion of her own breed Mumsy has spent weeks and weeks finding. This is Yvette's first litter, and it is tainted! Your beast did it!"
"How can you know?"
"Because he likes her. He is always coming around."
"But you haven't done DNA testing?"
Savannah frowned. "A lie-detector test is not necessary. A mother knows these things."
She beat her breast to indicate the maternal heart pounding away in o mniscient knowledge, and Temple feared Savannah's personal Silicone Valley might suffer a major terrain shift.
"So what did you do to him? Drug him and kidnap him? To what purpose?"
"Oh, I had a purpose. I fixed him. I fixed him so he will never do this to another innocent pussycat in all his born days. I found him here, plying his oily wiles on my poor innocent. I took him right to Dr. Mendel and told him to fix that damn cat so he could never impregnate another baby like mine. You don't even have to pay for it. It's on the house."
"You have no right to snatch another person's pet and tamper with it. That's kidnapping and... and mutilation. Who is this unscrupulous doctor who'd do such a thing?"
Savannah drew herself up: her high, unfallen frontage, her taut, unlined neck, the taut, expressionless face so like a still photo.
"He is the best plastic surgeon in Las Vegas."
"You had Louie operated on by a plastic surgeon? That's crazy. Veterinarians operate on cats."
"Vegetarians do? I thought they didn't like protein."
"Never mind." Temple was too stupefied to be furious anymore. "I'm going to call this doctor. And if I don't like what I learn, I may sue you."
"You can't. I sue other people. They don't sue me."
"Maybe they haven't yet. But they could, and I will, and maybe the others will get the idea about countersuits before I'm through."
"You have a lot of nerve."
"Yes," Temple said pleasantly.
She left before her nerve reached her fingertips and she did something fatal to Dr. Mendel's other handiwork.
In the lobby, she mauled a Yellow Pages directory until she found the doctor's number.
"Dr. Mendel is with a patient," a receptionist informed her.
Temple was on the warpath. "I'm with the Secret Service. The First Lady is giving a speech in the area, and would like to consult Dr. Mendel on a personal matter. She is not staying in the area very long, but she has heard about him from Cher--"
"Oh! Just a moment."
In just a moment the doctor was in.
"Yes?"
"What did you do to that cat Savannah Ashleigh brought in?"
"I thought you were with the Secret Service."
"I am, and it's a federal crime to kidnap an animal to perform unsanctioned procedures, especially outside your own specialty. The cat was not hers. This incident could cost you your license, Doctor. Depending, of course, on what you did."
"N-nothing. Just what she said to do. I fixed the animal so it couldn't reproduce. Or, rather, so it couldn't father kittens. It's a simple procedure done all the time all over the country on thousands of men. Er, males. I'd never done it before, but I knew what was involved and it was only a cat, after all."
"Only a cat? This cat is a direct forebear of Socks, the White House cat. You have heard of Socks?"
"Yes. Oh, dear. Miss Ashleigh was most insistent, and she is a . . . constant client. I never dreamed the animal was not hers to do with as she would. It was a very simple, uncomplicated vasectomy, I assure you. No undue bleeding, just a couple of internal staples that will dissolve.
He should be as good as new in a day or so."
"A . . . vasectomy? Isn't that difficult on a cat's small, er, appendages?"
"Well, he is a rather large cat. And I am used to working very delicately."
"Isn't a vasectomy unusual in a cat?"
"Why should it be? That's the way we do people. It's not my specialty, of course, but I've read the occasional article. I assure you he got the best surgery available. I doubt any other cat has had such a splendid vasectomy performed. My work is virtually invisible. And I even did a small tummy tuck while I was at it."
"Thank you, Doctor. The, uh, First Lady is most reassured. It will not be necessary to subpoena your records, after all. But in the future, I would advise you to perform only procedures that Miss Ashleigh requests to have done upon herself. And, by the way, I do think a bit more collagen in the lips would be an enhancement."
"Aren't they sufficiently plump, as is? I went further than I thought aesthetic the last time, on her insistence."
"Fashions change, Doctor. You might consider more. I understand the First Lady is considering some enhancement in that direction."
"Really? I will, I will consider it, Miss, uh, Service."
Temple hung up smiling. That was one way to give Savannah Ashleigh the fat lip she deserved!
***************
Temple sensed that 11 a.m. was a tad early to call on Domingo. He did not rise with the flamingos, she guessed, or even the mourning doves. Still, she had neglected his interests lately, and thought it only polite to explain why.
She knew his suite, so didn't need the intervention of a desk clerk to get there.
When she knocked she heard some inside activity, then Domingo himself opened the door.
He was beaming from ear to ear when he saw who had come to call.
"Miss Temple Barr! I have been hip-deep in flamingos and thought I would never see you again. It's all going beautifully, everything you put in motion. I am having brunch; would you care to join me?"
Temple recalled the last brunch she'd had in the suite of an older, famous, charismatic man and was ready to shake her head . . . when she heard the unmistakable sounds of a child banging a spoon on a dish.
Domingo looked sheepish. "I am not used to it, either, but am told it will pass. Do come in."
At this point, a tank division couldn't have kept her out.
Temple edged in, to see a room-service table set up by the windows from which she had looked down on Las Vegas not many days ago.
A woman sat there, a woman in her late thirties with a cascade of curly dark blond hair like a Renaissance Madonna. And to go with the Madonna in the flowered sack dress was a toddler in a high chair who was busy turning fruit cocktail into a hat.
"Temple Barr, my guide to Las Vegas, this is my wife, Constance, and our child, Moira.
Would you care to have brunch with us?"
Temple could have eaten a plastic flamingo at this point and never even noticed. She edged toward the table sitting in a splash of Nevada daylight.
"How nice to meet you. Domingo never said--" She looked at Domingo.
He shrugged, sheepish again. "This is a different life for me. I am slow to share." He turned to his family. "Temple has been a great help to me, but she was only here to get the project started."
Some worry in Constance's eyes softened. "We're greenhorns about this sort of circus, Moira and I. Domingo thought it was finally time we were introduced to the madness."
"Madness it is, especially in Las Vegas," Temple agreed. "I came here only to tell Domingo that my other commitments are heating up. I won't be able to do much more on this project.