Cat In A Leopard Spot

Temple had almost forgotten, but she kicked off her pumps…had to dig out something snazzier for dinner tonight…and kicked off her tale of indignities.

She stopped just short of the judge’s searing lecture.

“No wonder Louie’s so pleased with himself,” Max commented. “He earns you twenty-five hundred bucks and manages to squeeze in some quality time with the foxy lady.”

“Honestly, the way those two cats were behaving, you’d think Louie was the father of those kittens.”

At that the cat thumped resoundingly to the floor and disappeared.

“Alone at last,” said Max, who had never released her fingers. “Apparently fatherhood is a tender subject for Louie just now. He can never be one now, you know.”

“You’d think he’d thank me! Look at the grief those striped kittens have caused. Besides, Louie isn’t the paternal sort.”

“How do you know?”

She looked after him, or where he’d disappeared to, probably her bedroom. He knew how to pick his theater of operations. Lose one beachhead, take over the next most likely contested spot.

“I don’t,” she admitted. “And I never will. Anyway, it was so delicious to see Savannah Ashleigh wailing and screaming. Such a baaaad loser.”

Temple decided not to ruin the celebration by mentioning the judge’s lecture. “Where are we going for dinner?”

“How about the Rio?”

“Oh, great! I love that blue-and-magenta free-form neon all over the new high-rise building in the complex. It has more ooomph for being off the Strip. Did you ever notice how the swoopy wings and plinth look like that ultramodern statue, the Christ of the Andes?”

“No.” Max laughed. “And don’t point that out to anyone else. Las Vegas is supposed to be godless.”

“More churches here per capita than any city in the U.S.”

“Thank you, fountainhead of PR information. Now, are you going to change into something celebratory? You do sort of resemble Allie McBeal.”

“Ick! Lawyer power suit. At least my skirts cover my bony…knees.”

Temple hied to the bedroom, where Louie was sprawled diagonally across the zebra-print comforter, managing, with his forelegs and luxurious tail extended, to pretty much make the surface unfit for human habitation.

Since the Rio cultivated a Mardi Gras air, and since Fat Tuesday was coming soon, Temple pulled out the Midnight Louie heels in all their Austrian crystal glory. With her feet shod in Stuart Weitzman’s, she was up to anything, including rummaging through her jumbled closet to find something suitable to wear. What did you wear with your Cinderella shoes? She paged past a simple black dress with buttons all down the front, quickly, and settled on—aha!—that exquisite vintage ’60s silver-knit suit with short swirly skirt and tailored jacket.

Grabbing a small black purse, she was ready for a night out.

She did pause in the living room to grab Max, not literally.

He stood when she entered the room. No matter what she wore, Max had the gift of looking perfectly attired to complement it. His wardrobe of magician’s black was just casual enough, and just expensive enough, to suit any occasion. A shawl-collared Italian blazer over his black turtle neck made him look fresh from the Concorde, and before that Paris and Milan.

“Aren’t we a couple of quick-change artists?” Temple asked rhetorically. “You still driving the Maxima?”

“Afraid so.”

“It’s actually nice to know what our transportation is, for a change.”

He opened the door to the hallway just like a regular date, and they were off.

Within thirty minutes they were seated at a window table in the VooDoo Café, on the fiftieth story, just a story below the rooftop VooDoo Lounge. The restaurant was dim, the better for diners to eat up the view. Tables lit by candles in colored glass holders were standard, but the view of Las Vegas as the Bloody-Mary sun slid down behind the mountains and the Strip’s neon landing lights gassed up for the night ahead was spectacular.

Temple didn’t ask how Max had managed to get a good table so fast. She suspected it had something to do with a cell phone and his invisible but potent brand of “pull.”

Their before-dinner drinks were tall, exotically colored, and expensive, but uniquely flavored.

“To twenty-five hundred dollars in a day’s work.” Max tipped the sickle moon of orange slice hung on his glass lip to her lime-slice-hung glass lip.

“Peanuts compared to what you used to make,” Temple noted.

“At least brazil nuts. And I didn’t make it from upgrading a thirty-two-dollar cat to a twenty-five-hundred-dollar one.”

“They don’t usually award much of anything for crimes against animals. Luckily, Louie’s high-profile performance history played a role.”

“I imagine you’re still enjoying seeing the Great Satan, Savannah Ashleigh, properly fried.”

Temple nodded, sipped, then thought. “You know, she was really disappointed. I had the funny feeling she could have used the money.”

“Now, don’t ruin your victory by worrying about the loser.”