Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Cringing with shame, I opt for cover in the resort-wear shop opposite. At least they have hanging clothing areas I can conceal myself under, but it is not a locale of choice for the macho private eye. I would really rather be darting under the goods in the Ferrari–Maserati showroom at the main entrance. Ah. The fragrant drip of Italian motor oil and air of imminent Fontana brothers.

At least here in this domain where the women come and go, talking of mojitos and Michelangelo, I can keep my eyes on the restaurant entrance across the way. I can also spot the telltale style, color, and audible ring of my Miss Temple’s current heels when she leaves. When I tail her, I can get a notion of whom she has met and for what purpose.

I will not bore you by reporting all the chitchat I overhear in the next hour or so. Or the extreme prices of so-called casual wear from an outfit named Dulcie and Gabby Anna.

The continual scrape of hanger tops on rods and incoming and outgoing waves of a dozen different designer fragrances lull me into something resembling a stupor.

My eyes pop wide when I realize I have gazed unthinking on my little doll’s ankles leaving the restaurant in—she has cheated on me!—flats. Shoes that are all sole and no heel at all. No soul.

Someone in a pair of pale pants and oxford shoes was ankling along right beside her.

I throw caution to the caftans and corner like a Maserati outta the joint, immune to the oohs and aahs my exit leaves behind me.

Alas, the pathway between the casinos is a sea of legs mingling in all directions. I need height to spot my flat-footed roommate and her mysterious escort.

Sliding and dodging among the many hairy bare legs (the Terrace Pointe Café overlooks the hotel’s main pools, which are about the size for a dozen orca whales, not to mention overweight gambling “whales”), I race to out-amble my prey.

I concoct a plan. The Wynn has a famous place where a two-story wall of glass overlooks a wall of falling water. Folks like to gather there for a quiet drink. (That is what anyone who spends four hours on the Vegas Strip requires, a quiet drink. I do not use addictive substances, but do take a wee nip now and then. I especially like mine organically grown. I know, that is very ’70s.)

Anyway, I am planning to hitch a ride to the top of the magnificent white-plastered rotunda above the cocktail joint, from where I can spy Miss Temple’s red hair and petite form with no trouble, even if she is going barefoot!