Cat In A Topaz Tango

Temple scored Matt and Glory B. tops for a flawless waltz, with CC and Olivia the crowd-pleasers for sudden drama. The other two were ill-matched, but that would all change tomorrow.

She was so busy analyzing Matt’s chances of partner she only realized it was her turn in the spotlight as she heard Crawford’s oily baritone summoning Zoe Chloe Ozone.

She quickly joined him at the sidelines near the judges’ table.

“Here she is, folks, the dainty darling of the YouTube set, our junior emcee, the petite pint of dye-no-mite, the little girl who puts the Goth in ‘Goth, she’s good,’ Miss Zoe Chloe Ozone.”

Temple grabbed the mike and put several steps between her and the self-proclaimed “emcee of excellence.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Zoe Chloe riffed, “it is time to sit up and stand up for the next generation of dancing dervishes. The jazzy junior division debuts its first A-list couple, dreamy Dustin of Los Hermanos Brothers and Sou-Sou Smith, putting all the sass in the mambo that the older folks do.”

Out they pranced, miniature versions of the adult dancers. Sou-Sou wore a short, tight spangled costume as cute as a pink rhinestone butterfly pin. Cuban-heeled black Mary Janes encased her tiny, flashing feet. Her nonexistent hips flounced to the rhythm as the older boy managed the odd hips-back moves of the adult male dancers, which was as if an invisible string from their butts went straight up to the flies above.

The junior pair was impressive, and too cute to believe, until Sou-Sou suddenly stepped away in a series of turns from her partner . . . and kept on turning, her rouged little face screwing up in an agonized cry, her feet prancing high off the floor as if she were tap dancing on a red-hot stovetop, or doing the tarantella, not a slick, hip-slinging samba.

For endless, awful seconds she was like the girl in the Red Shoes fairy tale, dancing and spinning endlessly, unable to stop. She twirled finally to her hands and knees, and her slim body kept on rolling as she scrabbled as wildly as a water bug across the polished floor. Her appalled partner followed, stunned, his hands reaching out to stop her.

She ended sitting on her sequined rear, kicking her heels on the floor and bawling like a three-year-old, her red face making the hot pink of her costume pale by comparison.

Onlookers rushed toward her.

Her mother, obviously, was the larger version of blond and rouge and glitter that swooped to her side first. The thump of six twelve-size shoes on hardwood came hard on her heels as three Oasis security guards arrived to hold back concerned onlookers.

Oasis security uniforms were unisex and more discreet than at most Vegas hotels: khaki cargo pants and short-sleeved safari jackets. Even the essential duty belts were low-profile, which was both good and bad.

Molina and Rafi and Zoe Chloe’s disguises kept them held back among the concerned onlookers being pushed away, but Midnight Louie slipped and slid between the gathered forest of legs, which included the spindly shanks of Sou-Sou’s three rival junior dancers, Mariah, and the three other Los Hermanos brothers.

Then something dark and huge swooped down to pick her up. Sou-Sou left the stage in the strong arms of the Cloaked Conjuror, whose persona awed her long enough to forget the cause of her distress for a few key moments. She was swept behind the rear velvet curtains, her mother and the security forces trailing them, the rest of the cast and crew and audience held back.

“Rats,” hissed Molina as her group retreated as ordered by Crawford Buchanan’s deep bass over the microphone. “No badge, no gun, no authority. Undercover sucks.”

“No kidding,” said a retreating videographer who overheard her, lowering the camera to reveal his face.

Dirty Larry.

“Welcome to my world,” he said.

“Did you film anything important?” Rafi demanded.

“Kid squalling. Couldn’t tell why. We’ll go over all the footage with a magic-tech program later.”

“Who’d sabotage the junior contestants?” Temple wondered.

“Someone wanting to raise a ruckus,” Dirty Larry said promptly.

“To create a distraction.” Rafi turned away, lifting a cell phone to his ear to warn his security forces to watch the adult competitors.

“Take Mariah to the suite where she’s staying with the rest of the junior dancers,” Molina ordered Temple. “I’ll be along as soon as I can check on the injured girl backstage.”

Zoe Chloe Ozone could have pointed out that she didn’t babysit, but at least Molina wasn’t ordering her daughter home, which would have produced a tantrum that would have made Sou-Sou’s distress look like an attack of the sniffles.

“Bring Louie along when you come back,” Temple told Molina.

“I’m not toting your alley cat anywhere.”

“I’m not babysitting your daughter unless I have a bone fide feline icebreaker present. Louie will distract those girls into speaking truth.”

“I’m not hunting all over for a cat.” A smug light dawned. “Maybe I’ll call Rafi to bring him to me backstage.”