Cat In An Aqua Storm

Temple caught her breath at the unspoken volumes behind those few words.

Blondie shrugged, as if dismissing herself, her notions, her past. “Being tied between two horses and ripped apart.” She laughed again.

Temple remained speechless, more shocked by these words than she had been by anything she’d glimpsed yet in the world of sex entertainment. Classic clues to abuse and battered self-esteem had come tumbling out. Temple didn’t have to be a professional counselor like Matt Devine to know that.

“Say,” said Wilma’s deep, motherly voice. “Why not write down Lady Godiva? You know, on the horse.”

“Oh, right.” Blondie was happily diverted, her problem solved. “I can do something with that. Um, ‘Fantasy: To ride a horse naked through Caesars Palace.’ There. Done. Can you drop it at the DJ’s booth on the way out?” She thrust the flimsy paper at Temple. “I gotta finish getting ready.”

Temple nodded automatically, and glanced at the sheet with its childish block printing. In her haste, Blondie had to cross out several transposed words and letters.

“Let’s go, ” Ruth said uncomfortably between her teeth.

In the silence Temple heard another suspicious thump, but Scarlet turned on her hair dryer and began fingering mousse through her kinky curls.

Lindy crushed her cigarette out on the painted concrete floor next to a crumpled food stamp—Temple hadn’t noticed ashtrays anywhere—pushed away so hard that the locker door twanged like a drum, and led them back through the ladies’ john.

Temple regretted her mission for Blondie. It forced her to slip backstage behind the waiting performers. Then she had to do an elaborate pantomime to get DJ Johnny’s attention. She finally eeled out between the seminude bodies crowded backstage.

Ruth and Lindy waited for her near the door next to the stage. They wove their way through the tables again just as the DJ was announcing a fresh new talent, Little Sheba—Blondie in stage persona.

Finally the trio stood on the sidewalk outside, adjusting to the shower of daylight.

“Well?” Lindy demanded.

“Sad,” Ruth said. “The false names and the faux glamour can’t hide the fact that they think so little of themselves that they have to display their bodies before men for money.”

“Oh, come on!” Lindy’s fists clapped to her hips. “Who do you think gets rich off of those evil, exploitive men? The clubs and the performers. Those poor jerks put a lot of good money down those G-strings, and down their gullets in an afternoon or evening of drinking. The strippers control them, not the other way around. You saw that, didn’t you, Temple?”

Temple looked from one to another, thinking. “I saw what you both saw, and something else. Strippers are performers who put their hearts and souls into their acts. Maybe it’s a neurotic need to manipulate the men who abused them when they were too young to fight back. It still adds up to a performance with personal significance. And that’s what all artists do.”

“We don’t want to be called artists! We just don’t want to be called tarts!” Lindy said.

“You can’t excuse what they’re encouraged to do by calling low self-esteem a royal road to self-expression!” Ruth argued just as forcibly.

They were united in disagreeing with her. Temple stood between the two women feeling like the cat that ate the canary and followed it up with a sparrow chaser.

“You know what I’d like to do? Book you two on some local talk radio shows. Pro and Con. And then I’d like to hear what the strippers say when they call in, and I bet they will, in droves. Are you game?”

The two women regarded each other suspiciously, and then Temple, with dawning excitement.

“Talk radio would really get the word out on the competition next weekend,” Lindy said first.

“Radio is an excellent forum for WOE,” Ruth added, “and would be a lot less hot than stomping the pavement all day.”

“Don’t bet on that.” Temple, who had heard her share of talk radio shows on controversial subjects, felt obligated to warn Ruth. “But it would bring some interesting issues out into the open.”

“The interesting issues are already out in the open,” Ruth pointed out as the door to Kitty City exploded open and a miniskirted stripper dashed out.

Temple turned to watch the Zebra lady stride down the street on long, tan, bare legs. “Don’t count on it,” she advised, wondering exactly how much might come out if the strippers got revved up enough to speak for themselves—how much about their always-titillating profession, and how much about the murderer among them. The horrible death of Dorothy Horvath was not a debatable issue.

As she watched, and just before the door swung shut, a black cat with ruffled fur slipped out, gave her a furtive green glance over one shoulder and trotted around the corner of the building.

Temple opened her mouth, but the cat was gone.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ruth, who had noticed Temple’s expression.

“Nothing. I thought I recognized another Kitty City escapee.”

Lindy and Ruth craned their necks to look around.