“Whew. You heard it all. What about Katharine—Kitty Cardozo? She wasn’t like poor Glinda North. She had nothing to lose, except a woman-beating man worth getting rid of. She had her own business—”
“She got the business, Temple, just like Glinda. Wait’ll you hear the stuff I dug up. That’s why I was at Kitty City. Who do you think it’s named after?”
“Lots of strip joints play on cat names. The Pussycat Lounge down Paradise, Le Chat Noir—”
“Only one is named Kitty City, and that’s because Kitty—your Kitty!—started it. Or her then-husband did. Twelve years ago. Named it in her honor. She was the star. Then they split. Kitty claimed she owned half, but had no papers to prove it. It seems she trusted them to the office safe, and guess who got custody of that when she walked out?”
“Her husband?”
“The one and only. What a sweetie. Say, I might have a new career. Kitty City doesn’t use novelty acts, but they’re willing to let me try out.” Electra tossed her head. Not much of her moussed midnight-black hair moved, but her earrings shimmied like everyone’s sister Kate. “The Vampire and I just might blow their carburetors.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Swear to Sally Rand! I’m telling you, I could have a sixth career here.”
“Speaking of which, what about your wedding chapel clients while you’re tripping the light fantastic?”
“Listen, there are two dozen wedding chapels in Vegas. Let ’em eat rice cakes somewhere else for a couple of days. The Lover’s Knot will still be here tomorrow. This is fun!”
“I'm glad you’re enjoying yourself. You certainly got a lot of information. I bet Molina would give her best penny loafers for half of what you know.”
“Don’t count on it. That woman is all over that place like a bad dream. I’ve been interviewed by one of her associates already.” Electra paused. “Not bad. About fifty-three. Decent build. Cute little bald spot.”
“Electra! You’re beginning to sound like one of the dancers. Keep your mind on business.”
“Okay. Here’s something I kept hearing, and finally this little voice starts ringing in my ears, sort of breathy, like Marilyn Monroe. Maybe I’m channeling her, who knows? Anyway, it keeps saying: What name keeps coming up, dummy, in all the gossip? And guess what does?”
Temple was at a loss, especially after the Marilyn Monroe allusion out of left field. “Joe DiMaggio?”
“No, silly! Even—get this!—even Savannah Ashleigh has a connection. The word is she’s judging this competition because, if she doesn’t, some photos from her past might show up in the North American Examiner.”
“That supermarket rag!”
“Yes, well-read but not good for the career in ‘filmah.’ ”
“You talked to Savannah Ashleigh, too?” Temple was impressed. Electra knew how to get in there and boogie.
“Oh, yeah. She admired my earrings. I promised to make her some. Glinda did a stint at Kitty City, too. And that’s where Savannah got her start more years ago than she’d care to let on. Supposedly, some sleazy photos of her would have hit the street if she hadn’t agreed to judge this year’s competition. Actually, everyone thinks that some scandalous photos in the right places could jump-start her stalling career, except hers are so old that she no longer displays the top form she used to, and the contrast would be shocking.”
“So Savannah, Glinda and Kitty all worked, even began their careers, at Kitty City?”
“Them, and more. It’s a big club, in a big-club town.”
“You’re not saying that the same man who cheated Kitty of her interest in the business and is blackmailing Savannah, who gave Glinda her start and who wants you to audition is—”
Electra nodded. “The one, the only, and the oily. Ike Wetzel.”
26
. . . All Must Come to Dust
The aqua Storm sprinted through the colossus’s braced legs like a cartoon car—bright and fast. As it pulled under the hotel’s metallic entrance canopy, a parking valet came scampering in his Ramses kilt to open the driver’s door. Temple was happy to exchange a dollar bill for the precaution of avoiding the parking ramp.
She faced her reflection in the Goliath’s mirrored revolving doors. She felt less stiff and sore today, and even looked a little more... perky. Too perky. Her impromptu outfit made her resemble a patriotic tap dancer, she thought, whisking into the midst of her reflected spinning selves, then around and out into the Goliath lobby.
Today she was going to take this town by the tail and whip the convention PR into apple-pie order. The ballroom would be open again, the troops gathered, and she had lots of juicy new information to confirm and expand upon. Best of all, Electra would still be undercover.
The landlady had told Temple she had resolved to continue her charade “as long as it takes” to clear the competition of the pall of bad press. Temple was relieved to have a reliable inside source, but had wondered aloud just how far Electra was prepared to take her stripper persona.
“To the limit the law allows,” Electra had declared doughtily. She even refused Temple’s offer of a ride to the Goliath.
“I’ve got to take the Vampire in for a tech rehearsal. We got the music keyed in yesterday.”
“What music?”
“The music for my routine,” Electra said indignantly. “ ‘Born To Be Wild.’ You don’t think you can just show up and claim to be a stripper without an act?”
“I didn’t think about it at all.”
“Hmph. Good thing I’m the undercover operator.”
“I think the word is ‘operative.’ ”
“Whatever. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be in later. Strippers sleep late. You don’t want me to blow my cover, do you? You’ll hear me coming.”
What have I wrought? Temple asked herself, pausing before the ballroom doors as she remembered Electra’s parting words.
Today no security men were plastered against the doors, legs braced and faces sterna, like miniature colossi. Better. Normalcy was returning. Temple sailed inside unchallenged, full of the spirit of Scarlett O’Hara. Today was not only another day, it was an unfolding origami paper sculpture, rife with surprise and elegance.
“Hi there, T.B. Coming in a little late, aren’t we?” Temple hit the breaks on her Jourdans at the sound of that ever-so-deep baritone, and turned in its direction.
Yes, Crawford Buchanan occupied a ballroom chair against the wall. He was riffling through some papers as pale as his silk-blend oyster trousers and yuck-yellow shirt. A straw fedora hid most of his silver hair and a brass-headed cane leaned against the wall beside him. He looked like a decadent English invalid.
“What are you doing out of the hospital?” she demanded, not meaning to sound as annoyed as she did.
He tremulously patted the left side of his chest. “The boy is better. They released me, with odious instructions on diet and exercise. I decided to begin my new physical-fitness regimen by ambling over here and seeing how you were doing.”
“Just dandy until now.”
Buchanan fished a folded newspaper tear sheet from among his papers. “Actually, ‘dandy’ doesn’t appear to do justice to such happenings as a double murder.” He flashed the Las Vegas Scoop’s front page with ten double-column bylined inches on “Jack the Stripper-ripper Strikes Again at Goliath.”
“I’m doing this PR job because you keeled over, and you’re knifing me in the back with sleazy stories on the tragedies?”
“Now that I’m no longer handing PR, the stress is gone,” Buchanan said. “No conflict of interest, I think you’d say. I did the first story from the hospital,” he added modestly. “You mind checking it to see if all the facts are right?”