Cat In A Topaz Tango

And hadn’t that been a Max “save”? Disaster magically changed at the last moment into triumph? Could it be a real Max moment? Both CC and Max at six-foot-four were tall and virtually interchangeable, and magicians. Anybody could hide under the Cloaked Conjuror costuming—any body—and CC’s separate dressing room to conceal his identity and increase his security could also cover a switch.

Max had always said naked was the best disguise. The Cloaked Conjuror was a friend of his. A switch would be easy, and Max could move faster and dance better than CC any day.

Temple forced her attention back on the competition. How pathetic! Did she have to see Max under every disguise in Vegas? Maybe she would, for longer than she’d like.

“Wonderful,” Danny told the Cloaked Conjurer. “Your persona and costume would seem to keep you heavy on your feet and your side vision obscured, but you reacted swiftly and sharply when your partner had a wardrobe malfunction. And Olivia, the moment you touched toe to dance floor again, you were right on time. Your heel caught in your skirts, is that it?”

“No,” she answered. “It almost broke all the way off. Just folded out from under me.” She bent to gather up her voluminous skirts and reveal her left foot. The red satin heel swung from the last like a pendulum, affixed only by the cloth covering. “Since the women all have to dance on their toes anyway I just continued, arching that foot a little more so the heel wouldn’t drag.”

“A championship effort,” Danny decreed. “The mishap recovery was so smooth that although we’ll have to dock you for it, it’ll be much less than a fall would have been.”

The audience protested that, but Leander Brock patted his palms downward for their silence. “The judges have no other choice, but the viewing audience can call and e-mail in to support their favorites no matter what happens, and every vote will add to our callboard of success.”

He pointed to the large glitter-decorated LED board that would record the votes for each contestant by name and the cancer fund amount.

“I, too, applaud our sorely tried dancers, and especially Miss Phillips, who is very game to try this at an age, not that she looks it, when many women would be afraid of serious trouble from a fall. You remember the Frank and Ernest cartoon. It’s one of my favorites for the distaff dancers: ‘Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, only she did it backwards in high heels.’ ”

The quote got the expected laugh. “Right on, Leander,” Savannah Ashleigh said, waving her placard and displaying her score, eight, ahead of time. “I don’t dock a performer for a wardrobe malfunction.”

Danny revealed his grade, a seven. Leander also flashed a seven. The crimson couple left the stage for the greenroom to wild applause.

For the first time Temple considered the sympathy vote. Matt might be a little too perfect for the viewing audience. He’d striven all his life to meet high ideals and had made it look easy to be smart, polite, and caring. Good looks on top of his natural charm and civility could spur jealousy.

At least no matter how the votes went, the children’s cancer fund came out a winner.

“And now,” Crawford trumpeted at the mike, “Olympic fencer José Juarez exchanges foil for a female partner, the awesome Wanda-woman, queen of the wrestling arena. Be interesting to see who leads here, folks.”

José Juarez brought on the Hispanic drama as he led Wandawoman down the stairs and then around the floor at a gallop, like Mad Max wooing a human jonquil. Wandawoman had moves, but not for the waltz. She looked clumsy.

“Again,” Danny raved, “a male partner with impeccable posture. Your sport requires it, so it’s not quite as remarkable as it was for Matt, but bravo! Wandawoman, you are a wonder on the wrestling mat, but I’d never give you a waltz to dance. Decent job, under the circumstances, but not designed to showcase your literal strengths.”

Leander was in accord. “The amazing Danny Dove nailed it. Here’s hoping, Wandawoman, you fare better with tomorrow’s dance. Everybody is learning as they go.”

“José,” Savannah enthused. “How can one go wrong with a sexy Latin fencer? Looks, charisma, flexibility, yet really a great upright profile. Wandawoman was just too big to float in a waltz and all that yellow . . . my dear, you should shoot the costume department.”

The scores, from Danny down, were seven, seven, six.

The last couple was the unluckiest.

Motha Jonz did her best, but floating like a butterfly was not her shtick either. Although her sophisticated café-au-lait gown with trailing scarves hid her stocky figure, she resembled a dancing cocoa bean. Keith Salter’s dance for the show was worse than his dress rehearsal. His spine looked like it had been sewn to his stomach to the disservice of both. He was far too stiff.

The judges gave them sixes across. Even allowing for lower scores to start with, it was a glum couple that thumped up the four steps together to return to the greenroom backstage.