Cat In An Aqua Storm

Almost as bad was watching Electra as Moll Philanders participate in the backstage bustle, hovering over the Vampire in its below-stage position near one of the stage elevators, mingling with undercover officers and strippers as if born to be wild indeed.

Temple, meanwhile, had been consigned to cold storage.

“I understand that you consider it part of your job to be on the scene for the preliminaries,” Lieutenant Molina had told her. Temple was beginning to hate hearing that Lieutenant Molina understood. “But I don’t want you mistaken for Kitty Cardozo. Despite the hair, you’re the same build. Don’t confuse matters. Stick to the dressing rooms downstairs where it’s safe.”

“I used to think parking ramps were safe,” Temple objected.

“They weren’t,” Molina snapped.

The lieutenant herself was done up as a stage technician in blue jeans and oversized T-shirt, her dark hair drawn back into a sweat band. The new look didn’t fool Temple for a moment. Molina would broadcast authority in a Bozo the Clown costume. How myopic was a murderer supposed to be?

“Downstairs!” Molina ordered as if Temple were somebody’s misbehaving canine, when the performers and tech people were in place and all the real fun was about to start upstairs.

Chaos reigned in the dressing rooms. Savannah Ashleigh was having hysterics over some missing rhinestone earrings. Since Yvette’s disappearance she had become even more the quintessential spoiled movie star. In the common dressing rooms, strippers thronged back and forth, modesty a foreign concept, as they fussed with last-minute touches,

A dozen panicked voices cried for safety pins as costumes revealed their eleventh-hour genius for falling apart. Hair that had performed docilely for weeks would not curl, pin up or stay put. Hair spray clouded the air.

Zelda, the competition’s buxom wardrobe lady, ran to and fro, a jingling wire ring of safety pins fixed like a badge of courage upon her motherly breast. She ran to first one victim then another, saving the day with safety pins and calm, fixing fingers. Part dorm mother, part madam, she tarted up her girls for the preliminaries like a society mama primping daughters for a debut.

Wilma, the costume lady, was there, too, wearing a bright pink smock-top over her black slacks as if she were pregnant, and whisking out new T-back G-strings for suddenly insecure strippers who felt their acts needed a little more flash.

Temple winced to see a run developing on Wilma’s supply of black lipstick. The macabre color had been ultra-effective with Kitty’s cat mask. Now everyone had seen it on Electra, who found it the perfect partner for heavy metal and leather. Switch Bitch was commandeering the last tube as six others pressed around, pleading to try it.

Temple rolled her eyes as she caught Wilma’s harried glance. Madness, all madness.

The first onslaught of performers suddenly deserted the dressing room like a flock of frightened birds. Who’s on first? Forget it, Bud and Lou, not you guys. The other strippers soon followed, unable to resist rating their peers from the wings, even if watching made them nervous about their own acts.

Zelda moved to Savannah’s dressing room. The actress wasn’t needed today, but wanted to perfect the timing on the six costume changes, each representing a queen of burlesque, that she would accomplish during the final competition. If there was any method to her acting, it was in being the consummate choreographer of her own image.

Temple sat in an abandoned chair in the community dressing room, her feet in their spirited electric-blue spikes braced on the concrete floor. A Milky Way of spilled iridescent powder glimmered on the long makeup counter before her. In the sandwich of reflecting mirrors, she glimpsed her own blue back, a clutter of makeup littering both countertops, and Wilma sitting in her customary seat nearest the door, her ring of teeny-weeny spandex G-strings lying unmauled for the moment.

The dressing room speakers broadcast backstage chatter from the wings and the muffled blare of the sound system spinning its discs. Someone was shouting for quiet.

Temple rose and went over to Wilma. “We’re kind of useless now.”

The older woman nodded, serene.

Temple let her fingers riffle through the gaudy-patterned G-strings, elastic-puckered flights of fantasy. “Do you ever sell this stuff to civilians who want to perk up their lingerie wardrobes?”

“Heavens, no. The department stores have enough bustiers and bikini bottoms to satisfy ordinary people nowadays. Those models aren’t strong enough for the stage, though. That’s why my girls buy from me.”

“How did you get into doing this?”

Wilma’s broad face frowned. A more down-home, ordinary woman you could not find. Her work-thickened fingers roved among the sleazy, shiny fabrics meant to showcase sleek thighs and taut tummies.