Cat In A Topaz Tango

Holding his left arm high, elbow doubled back to apply at least some pressure higher up the arm, he turned and stumbled farther into the backstage dark. The light board’s high-intensity bulb that illuminated the controls should overcome the fuzzy glare of his double vision.

Leaning against the console, he was dismayed by how slowly he moved now, by how close the attempted murderer still was, a sagging lump in the curtains. He saw enough to use the menu to auto-dial Temple’s cell phone, but what chance was there that she’d hear it at three in the morning? It was probably tucked away in a purse outside the bedroom suite. She’d said the place was palatial. He doubt he’d remain conscious long enough to tell 911 the complex details of where he was and what had happened.

Her cell phone rang and rang, and there was no answer.

He punched the number again. He was feeling drained. No kidding.

The phone rang and rang and there was no answer.

Again.

Again.

Matt’s head was throbbing. Adrenaline, blood loss. He’d seen a finger cut sop an entire terry cloth bath sheet with blood. This was way more serious.

Then a faint voice, as if from heaven.

“Louie! Where are you?”

Temple’s voice. She wasn’t talking to Matt, though, but to the cat in the room.

“You must be really hard up, cozying up to a cell phone I left on vibrate. It’s not a purring pussycat in heat. It’s just a damn midnight solicitation—”

“Temple!” Matt called into his phone. His voice was half the usual loudness. “Temple, it’s Matt.”

“Matt? I thought you were going to get all the sleep you could after your radio show, given the early-morning rehearsals.”

“I’m here already.”

“Here?”

“The dance set. ‘Zorro’ just tried to slice me to ribbons.”

“Oh, my God. Matt!’

She was moving. Her voice stuttered like a strobe light. He could hear her pounding on a door.

“Rafi! Matt’s in the hotel. He’s been attacked on the dance set. He’s bleeding. Call your guys pronto!”

The phone sounded as if it was being dropped.

“Yeah, Lieutenant. I know your daughter is sleeping. Matt’s been attacked on the dance show set. Rafi’s gone to—God, that’s a big gun! Do you sleep with that thing? Yeah, I’ll watch Mariah. But—”

Matt was surprised to find himself sliding slowly over a metal landscape of toggle switches on a tide of slippery syrup. Couldn’t pass out. His tormenter was probably coming to by now, and velvet curtains weren’t iron manacles . . . .

Lights blazed on in the audience area. House lights.

Footsteps came pounding. Someone grabbed Matt and propped him up against the light board console.

“God, look at the blood. Looks like the left arm.”

“Tourniquet, quick. Belt will do.”

“We found him, sir,” a youthful tenor male voice crowed from what seemed like a half-block away.

“Get the hotel doctor immediately,” Sir ordered in an urgent basso Matt didn’t recognize.

“Matt!” Temple cried, her slightly raspy alto voice soprano with anxiety, her warm palm soothing the side of his face. And then, said to someone behind him, “I’m watching her! She’s with me, all right? I wasn’t staying behind to babysit.”

“I don’t need babysitting.” He recognized Mariah’s light soprano, scared and defiant. “Is he all right? Mom? He’s supposed to take me to the school dance.”

Ah, Matt thought, feeling oddly buoyed by the young’s assumptions. The thoughtless egotism of the tweenager . . . he’d be happy to go to that dance now.

“Attacker’s gone, but the sword isn’t.” A male voice from a distance. “Skewered in the curtain. Maybe we’ll get fingerprints.”

“Wearing gloves,” Matt croaked.

“Damn!” The dark mezzo of Carmen Molina had the last word, as always, and sang the same old song.

“Rafi, get your guys locking down this whole area pronto while I call forensics. Everybody else in this damn-fool party—you know who you are—get up to the”—a very pregnant pause—“Zoe Chloe Ozone suite. Now! Mariah Molina and EK, your shadow, that means you.”

Fighting Form

Of course no one recognizes that were it not for my extreme sensitivity to vibes of both a physical and psychic nature, no one would know Mr. Matt Devine was suffering from duel fatigue and blood loss deep in the deserted part of the hotel.

Even my Miss Temple did not suspect I was fresh from clawing my way up the silent butler shaft from the high-roller suite service area two floors below, which includes a fully staffed kitchen as well as twenty-four-hour maid, bar, and concierge services. It pays to be rich in Vegas.

So it just looks like I was idly sleeping on her vibrating cell phone when in fact I had just arrived there, panting and not much better off than Mr. Matt Devine himself at the moment. But I knew he would be phoning her if he could manage it, and I had to make sure our joint Sleeping Beauty would hear it.

This may seem a desperate and frantic ploy, but I am not Lassie. I could run howling through the casino and no one would heed and follow me, except to boot me out onto the Strip.

I have done what I could through this whole awful nightmare of lethal surprise attack.