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“Electra! That is no way to think.” Miss Temple paces back and forth in a two-foot range like a caged Big Cat, only she is a little cat. “You own the block of shops across from the wedding chapel. Anything else?”

“A few lots here and there. Most everything here was razed when the Strip expanded south years ago and this area is not on any main drag. You know the Vegas Strip still has odd pieces of property beside and behind and be-shadowed by the huge hotel spreads. That is where tacky tourist shops spring up.”

We are all walking again, but Miss Temple has not walked back her pep talk.

“A smaller commercial space does not have to be tacky, Electra. It can be charming. It can be an urban village. You already have a bookstore and wedding accessory shop that complement the Lovers’ Knot. You are halfway there.”

“Urban village?”

“Yes! A destination inside the biggest destination city in the country, Vegas. A laid-back shopping and eating area within an encompassing metropolis.”

“The only people who could see and patronize these few shops are my wedding chapel clients. And with even the Mob Museum downtown doing elaborate weddings, my place is not splashy enough, and I am losing customers. I was thinking of closing down.”

“Closing down the Lovers’ Knot? Not! You do not want splashy, Electra. You want charming. Trust me.”

“Well, you are charming, so I suppose I gotta trust you.”

“Urban villages are popping up in San Francisco, Seattle, out east.”

“Las Vegas is not really a metropolis, Temple. It is a super-duper commercial roller coaster ride from a very small Downtown ‘Experience’ that has a very long and narrow tail, the Strip, thronged with a massive array of adult Disneyland ‘attractions’. I do not see how you plant a viable ‘village’ in some forgotten corner here.”

My Miss Temple sighs. This means she is sure she is right, but is going to have trouble proving it. When she thinks she will have trouble proving something, whether it is a commercial venture or a murder case, she will only work harder to do just that.

“Vegas already supports one super successful urban village, Electra.”

“You are kidding. I have not seen one.”

“Think. It is north of the Stratosphere but south of Downtown.”

“That area is a kind of No Man’s Land, Temple, with a hodge-podge of small downscale enterprises.”

“Not the Pawn Star development.”

“Oh, that freaky reality TV pawnshop show?” Electra pinched her nose in a gesture of disgust. “Way too low-brow to be considered a normal business.”

“That is why it is popular. So popular they have four thousand tourist visitors a day and are putting in restaurants and shops to hold them as fast as they can.”

“The title of the show has pre-cheapened the concept, Temple. So. You think a Pornucopia offshoot coming in down here will provide that Pawn Star draw? Lord knows what they will call that, and, on second thought, I am sure He would not want to know. Are you saying we should get aboard the X-rated sleaze train?”

“No. The opposite. I am saying we need to close that family-unfriendly puppy down so you can build your own urban village. You said you want to get a protest group going. That is a start.”

“Temple.” Now Miss Electra has stopped walking to pace in her cushion-soled flat-heeled shoes. She does not make a sound, whereas my Miss Temple always sounds mucho macho, brisk and businesslike, like say, a rattlesnake, when she gets her low-riding castanets clicking. “We do not have a reality TV show gone viral to draw fans.”

“Not yet,” says my Miss Temple. She likes mowing down obstacles the way a tsunami would if it had red hair. “Now. Let us see what is what with those would-be ‘Porn Stars’ down the block.”

She turns to make sure I am bringing up the rear of our little party, my own rear member held high, supple, and handsome. Of course I am.

“From what you are telling me of this new kid on the block,” she tells Miss Electra Lark, “I am not sure Louie should tail along. He is underage.”

“I am sure he should,” Miss Electra insisted. “I believe is it several human years to every cat year. At that rate, Louie should last—”

“Too much information, Electra.” My Miss Temple plants her heels in place and holds up a traffic-cop palm. “I refuse to hear that Louie has an expiration date.” She shudders dramatically in a manner I find most personally satisfying.

Miss Electra shrugs. “I was about to say I think if anything reincarnated, it would be cats. Especially Louie.”

“Even worse. I do not want a retread. I want the real and original.”

“In Vegas? You are an optimist, Temple. But maybe you are right. Maybe we can turn X-rated into X-iled.”

7

Off-Color

Temple took in the huge, level dirt lot. It looked like a cheesy chessboard with yellow surveyor’s flags deployed everywhere like pawns. Pawn Stars.

Smack-dab in the middle of the property sat a two-story brick hulk with windows only on the second floor and big double doors like a barn on the first-floor entrance. A forty-foot RV clung to its side like a cub. That must operate as an onsite office and night guard station, although the building was clearly absent any tenant, bare of signage on any side at any level.

There was, however, a huge construction sign on one corner Temple hotfooted over to inspect. “This billboard is big enough to advertise an entire housing development,” she told Electra as they came around to view its message.

By now the landlady was breathing down her neck, heavily.

“Gosh, Temple, you sure walk fast for a petite person. Don’t even think about an adult housing development going up on this land. What would they call it, Hootchy-Cootchy Condos?”

“Here it is. I’m reading the fine print. They have a pair of managers, Punch Adcock and Katt Zydeco.”

“Great. They’ve got the strip club biz covered from A to Z. The guy sounds like a thug or boxer and the woman a hooker.”

“Don’t sound so glum. ‘Zydecko’ is a Cajun dance. I bet ‘Katt’ was born just plain Katherine Smith and this is her performance name.”

“So I’m somehow relieved that one manager may be a stripper?”

“Remember way back when I solved the Stripper Killer case? Believe it or not, it’s a step forward that some women now own and manage strip clubs. Less exploitive that way.”

“Somehow I don’t see the redeeming social value.” Electra pointed to the big-type teaser line at the billboard’s top.

Temple read, “Coming soon…and we mean it literally.”

She groaned in disgust at the bawdy pun. “Cheesy.” No class.

The pitch went on: You know Lust ‘n’ Lace downtown as an multiplex playground of toys and joys, lingerie and latex, you name it, you get it. Now opening soon, Lust ‘n’ Lace Live on Stage!, Vegas’s latest and lustiest and de-lace-iest gentleman’s club. We’ll have packages to suit every type and size of party. VIP, Bachelor, Bachelorette, Birthday, Couples, Corporate or Divorce Party. Each party package includes limo transport, liquor, admission, etc.