Cat In A Topaz Tango

Knowing a judge couldn’t hurt, but mostly it was good to see Danny get back into the Las Vegas event whirl after the trauma of having his partner murdered.

Another blonde, bottle-variety, was on the judge’s panel, and Matt knew her by reputation and sight: the endlessly self-resurrecting B-movie ex-actress, Vegas hanger-on, and Temple Barr crown of thorns, Savannah Ashleigh.

She was tall, enhanced by towering platform spikes, and dressed in extreme fashion. A purse pooch, all big black eyes and spidery blond hair, peeked out of a ridiculously expensive-looking bag. Savannah had previously traveled with a pair of glamour pusses, shaded silver and gold Persians named after French starlets, like Yvonne or Yvette. Temple’s cat, Midnight Louie, had seemed enamored of the missing pair but they were evidently passé now.

He and Savannah had appeared briefly on a panel together only a couple of weeks ago, but she’d forgotten him already. She proved the makeover crew prophetic by ignoring him to canoodle with the other two male, and brunet, contestants.

“Who’s the third judge?” Matt asked Danny.

“Leander Brock, the show’s creator and producer. Obviously, I’m the serious credentialed gay one and Miz Ashleigh is the over-the-top female impersonator one. Somebody bi of either gender would have been a nice blend at this point, but we’re stuck as a troika.”

Matt made a face. “Is it really pre-set up like that?”

“Absolutely. The judges’ conflicting personalities drive these reality TV competitions. I was brought on board to be demanding and biting. Any choreographer has to be a bit of that. We’re really drill sergeants in tights. Miss Savannah Ashleigh will be ditsy and amusing through no efforts of her own, and Leander will provide the balancing act. Of course, I wouldn’t put it past him to cast his votes in such a way as to trigger the most people calling in, but it is all for charity. Just don’t expect justice. It’s all opinion. Mob rule, really, as so much today. Everybody’s an expert.

“And so, Mr. Devine, the dancing wanna-be,” Danny went on, “what is your better half doing while you’re learning the cha-cha?”

“Temple is—I don’t exactly know. Between my midnight radio call-in show and this last week of rehearsal for ten hours during daylight hours I haven’t had time to think about that.”

“And how are you doing in dance class with—” Danny turned to examine the four buff men and women in rehearsal gear stretching and gossiping against the far wall. “Don’t tell me! Tatyana is your coach.”

“How did you know?” Matt was astounded by Danny’s accuracy.

“Temple is the sleuth, but I know dance. Tatyana, though petite, is an iron disciplinarian. I’d pair her with you myself, because you respond to structure and you’re attracted to small, feminine women with drive.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “I thought I was counseling you.”

“That was on your turf; this is mine.” Danny’s analytical eyes narrowed. “You could learn something from her.”

“I am.”

“But on your terms so far, I’d bet. Let go, dear boy. Dance is an incomparably liberating art, but only if you sweat like a Clydesdale and aren’t afraid to float like a fool.”

“Does Muhammad Ali’s ‘sting like a bee’ part come in anywhere there?”

“Only if you become a judge.” Danny looked around again. “We need the just-right combo of personalities in the judging or this dance party show dies on its tootsies.”

“The whole thing strikes me as a mad tea party.”

Danny eyed the contestants. “A rather lethal tea party. I don’t know all these B-, C-, and D-list celebs, but I do know that Motha Jonz was lucky to avoid prison time when she shot a bystander during that limo hit on the hip-hop gangstas a few years back.”

Matt whirled to eye the Queen Motha filling out zebra-stripe spandex with proud mounds of cellulite while Danny dished on the woman’s history.

“Her ‘man’ was Mad Motown Guitry, record mogul and mobster. She claimed she was just defending herself with her little pistol when the limo was hit by a rival gang, but the car frame was full of cocaine. Guitry died. No one has ever been indicted, but when she lost his sponsorship her so-called singing career went down the drain.”

His eyes returned to Matt’s shocked face. “There are a million stories in the naked ambition sweepstakes along the Las Vegas Strip. Yours just happens to be one of the more mild-mannered of them.”

Mild-mannered. Matt chewed on that wishy-washy adjective after Danny danced away to pounce on other people he knew there, mostly the pro dancers.

Mild-mannered was good enough for Clark Kent, but not Superman. Mild manners didn’t win ballroom dance competitions. Most guys not in the entertainment world would be afraid of looking like a wuss wearing Fancy Dan costumes and waltzing across the polished floor. He got what Danny was saying: do it and do a good job of it, or wimp out and look just like you’re afraid of looking.