Cat In A Topaz Tango

The ladies he met were Olivia Phillips, a postmenopausal soap opera star who reminded him of Temple’s aunt Kit; Motha Jonz, a hefty black hip-hop diva; and last, but decidedly not least, Wandawoman, a World Wrestling Wrangle Amazon got up like Wonder Woman on steroids.

Matt couldn’t help thinking he’d joined some X-manish federation of talented freaks as the token ordinary guy.

Their pro dancing instructors were present, the guys a muscled mystery meat mélange of straight and gay and bi—you figure it out—the women young and sleek and as ambitious as spawning silver salmon leaping upstream.

Matt grinned to think that Temple had pushed him into the heart of this gender-ambiguous, openly sexual world. She must think he was pretty secure. Which he was. Nothing like publicly advising other people about their deepest desires and identity crises to make one blasé.

Matt sat beside the Cloaked Conjuror. He was a Klingon-imposing figure on high platform boots, wearing a completely concealing tiger-striped full head mask.

“I, ah, met you at the costume contest you were judging at the TitaniCon science fiction-fantasy convention,” Matt said, not sure the man behind the mask would remember him.

“That’s right.” He stretched his long legs ending in the Frankenstein boots. “The Mystifying Max’s pretty little redheaded girlfriend helped engineer catching a murderer that night. You were there too.”

“I’m always surprised when anyone remembers me at such a huge event.”

“Not my problem.” CC chuckled. His mask contained a voice-altering device, so he sounded unnervingly like Darth Vader giggling. “They mentioned you used to be a priest. I bet that and sitting behind an advice-line mike doesn’t make you a natural at tiptoeing through the triple-time foxtrot.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Matt conceded, “but you don’t seem geared for that either.” He nodded at the industrial-strength shoes in size fourteen.

“I’ll ditch these for the dances.”

“Temple said something . . . don’t you get death threats from disgruntled magicians because your act is built on exposing the tricks behind their most famous illusions?”

“Temple! That was her name! Max’s squeeze.”

“Not anymore.”

“No? Max dump her?”

“He’s missing. And . . . we’re engaged.”

“Humph. So my old compadre bugged out and left you with the girl.”

“It didn’t exactly happen that way.”

“No, I guess not. You look like a nice guy. You’d wait your turn.”

Matt held his temper, figuring he’d have to do it a lot in the next week. This greenroom looked like a theatrical variety show and he didn’t fit in.

“Aren’t you taking a risk?” Matt pushed. “Exposing yourself at a hotel that isn’t set up to protect you 24/7?”

“All Vegas hotels are set up for 24/7 surveillance, and I brought my own guys.” The massive feline head nodded at a two men in wife-beater T-shirts holding up the far wall. Matt had taken them for idle workmen or technicians. Which was the idea.

“Why are you doing this?” Matt asked.

“The charity. I lead a pretty isolated life because of the disguise and the death threats. That makes people even more eager to see me outside of my secure home hotel. Everyone who votes for me during the six days of this competition pledges twenty bucks to cancer research. I figure it’s worth the risk. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Yeah. The kids’ leukemia fund. And my girlfriend made me.”

CC’s weird, wheezy, basso laughter somehow conveyed warmth. “I’d do almost anything for a smart girl like her myself. You’re a lucky man. I can’t afford a romantic life.”

Matt just nodded. He gazed around the room at the assortment of strangers who’d become friendly rivals very soon. They were sizing one another up as the team of male and female hairstylists, makeup artists, costumers, and pro dancer-choreographers made the round of contestants with the show’s director.

“Good,” said the head guy when he reached Matt and CC. “You guys are getting acquainted already. Dave Hopper, director. You’ll discover a real camaraderie developing between you eight. You’ll work harder mentally and physically than you ever have, and cross barriers you never faced before. It takes guts to try something you’ve never done much of right before live TV cameras.”

He sat on an empty folding table as his production team gathered around.

“The Cloaked Conjuror here will be a challenge from start to finish.”

“The Penn Jillette of Penn and Teller of our show,” a costumer said. “A huge guy, larger than life. I’ll have to work around the mask.” The tall, blue-jeaned bottle redhead glanced at the lithe blond dancer beside her. “Vivi, you’ll need to dream up Beauty and Beast type routines. The masked man is a romantic image; we’ll have to play on it with the costumes and the choreography.”

She turned to Matt. “Stand up.”

He hesitated. He hadn’t been ordered to move since grade school.

“Stand up, cutie. I need to see your build.”

He hadn’t been called “cutie” ever. But he stood.