Cat In An Aqua Storm

“I’m okay. I like me. Some men like me. But I’m nothing to stop traffic, and I don’t try to be. A few of these women were born with breasts the size of watermelons, and otherwise slim. What are they going to do for a living in this society? I can see how they got there. It’s realistic, but at some time they must have suffered for being a different kid. And now their semi-freakdom makes them mucho moolah. Others... were made, not born, formed by abuse, yet stripping seems to free some of them, and to further degrade others. I’m confused. I don’t have a strong moral or philosophical position on the state of the art. Or even know if it is an art.”

“At least you try. You question. Have you ever considered that black guys who are tall and can shoot baskets face the same problems? Should they use their natural advantages, make money young, and forget about whether they’re being exploited until they’re older?”

“No. I never compared Playboy centerfolds, say, with big-money student athletes. But you’re right. They’ve both got something they can sell: being young and in shape. I should judge: I never had those temptations.”

“Why not?”

“Look at me! I looked twelve until I was past twenty, and now that I’m approaching thirty, I look twenty. Well? Don’t I?”

He looked her over, so much more thoroughly than he ever had before that Temple regretted her impulsive challenge. Why draw anyone's attention to your perceived deficits? Bad PR.

“What’s wrong with that?” Matt asked at last. “They sell expensive creams to get the same effect. Someday you’ll be seventy and look fifty.”

“But I’m never taken seriously! Everybody’s always saying I’m too young or too small. They think that my brain matches my stature. They think I’m cute!” she snarled. “They especially think I’m cute when I’m mad.”

He put up his hands. “Not me. Listen, Temple, I understand your frustration.”

“Why? I’m sure everybody takes you very seriously. Face it, you’re one of the born-beautiful people, and you don’t even work at it.”

Tactful, calm Matt Devine suddenly tensed. He turned away, hands in his pockets. “You say you don’t find the perfect bodies in a strip show real. What about the other way around? What if ‘perfect people’ never find anyone else real?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have personalized it. You know what I’ve been working against.”

“You hate being typecast by your size. I hate my so-called looks. I don’t think of myself that way, but everybody else does. I have to wonder if they’re fooling themselves, and if they’re fooling me.”

“I suppose,” Temple ventured, “that women have chased you since Day One.”

He nodded, not happy at the memory. Was that how the women with big boobs felt? Valued for their outsides and not their insides? You could get cynical and use it. Or you could be honest and come to hate it.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “I might be tempted to try myself, except that I’m recovering from my own emotional Waterloo.”

He turned back with a smile that would melt an igloo. “Why try? You have all those physical handicaps, remember?”

“I am ‘cute.’ Some people find that appealing.”

“And you’re fated to hate the ones who do.”

She nodded. “Are you fated to hate the ones who are attracted to you?”

“I hope not,” he said, just lightly enough that she knew the heavy stuff was over. For now. “Saddest of all are the people who hate themselves.” Matt glanced at his watch face, frowning.

“Is something wrong?” Temple asked.

He went to sit on the sofa arm, then rubbed his neck. Maybe Cheyenne would come out to the Circle Ritz and give him a back massage.

“I’m punchy from switching shifts,” he admitted. “And I didn’t remember until this afternoon that I have a regular caller who missed me last night when I was here instead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry that I—”

“It’s not your fault. She was on the brink in her personal situation—cutting it close, that’s all. Abusive boyfriend or husband, never said which. I’ll be at the phone again in half an hour, and she never calls until evening.” He paused, concern still puckering his face. “I just checked with my substitute, but she didn’t call at all yesterday.”

“Maybe when she heard you weren’t in she rang off without leaving her name.”

“We don’t use names, not even the counselors, only invented “handles,” like CBers. Sometimes they’re pretty revealing anyway.”

Temple nodded. “Like stripper names. Pseudonyms say a lot. Can’t you reach her somewhere, somehow?”

He shook his head. “Anonymity is the heart and soul of a hot line. I can’t find her, she can’t find me.” He sighed. “She’s probably all right. Just like you.”

“Yeah.”

“So tell me about the second murder?”

Temple sat on the matching arm. “Terrible. I know now how you must feel about your clients, because I met this girl last night just before I left the Goliath and had my head-on with the Goon Squad. She was in a bad way, but I thought I’d cheered her up. This morning, she was found dead. Strangled with her cat’s tail.”

“Her what?”