Whew. Showgirl material must be in short supply. Despite rhinestone swags hanging off everything from headdress to feathered skirt, I have never seen such bony elbows, knees and feet, not to mention razor-stubbled legs that should be peach-satin-smooth. Despite the dim light, I even detect a smudge on her upper lip.
Imagine my amazement when my unattractive prey is joined by a man in a brown UPS
uniform who is at least four inches shorter than she. Lili Marlene at her lamp-post she is not.
"God, I am dying for a cigarette," she mutters in greeting, her voice as grating as her appearance.
"Not on the job," he growls, eyeing her up and down with a leer. "Some snazzy outfit. Get any dates yet?"
"Shut up!" she growls, smashing her heel-clad shoe to concrete, "You will get a blind date with an incinerator if you keep up the smart remarks. Are you sure no one saw you come down here?"
Naturally, I am extremely interested in the turn this conversation is taking. I edge forward in the dark of the dressing room, closer to the door.
How am I to know that I am stepping on the trailing chiffon veil of a headdress gracing a white styrofoam headblock high on an unseen shelf?
This is how I know: the gruesome head and about twelve pounds of rhinestones come smashing down on my unprotected form, flashing and crashing like a Fourth of July firework all the way.
At least I have the sense to dive back deep into the room and burrow into a box of tap shoes--ouch! Those metal toe-stubbers hurt. Not the best shelter, but the pair at the door are too busy bickering to search high and low, which is the only place they would find a savvy customer like Midnight Louie.
"No one here," the UPS guy announces after a cursory search.
"Of course not," Lady Godiva says in a baritone grumble. "These damn outfits are so heavy the thing probably collapsed of its own weight and fell. I do not know how those broads manage to shake a leg, much less the good stuff, in this body-armor. Let us get to work before intermission comes and somebody spots us."
The high heels click away like they are being worn by Chester Goode from "Gunsmoke." Now is that not a mental image to cherish?
But I have no time to dwell on vintage television shows, for I have finally seen through the sawdust and the glitter to spot the five o-clock shadow and the gut beneath the rhinestone facade, skimpy as it is. That is no showgirl, that is Vito in the flesh, if you can call it that.
I scamper to the doorway and poke a cautious muzzle down the hall.
I cannot believe my eyes, ears and nose. I am too late. The pair have vanished like the Cheshire Cat, not even leaving a grin behind.
I thoroughly reconnoiter the area. No dice. No dudes in showgirl skin. Even my ever-faithful nose loses the trail when I pause by the costume rack. In sneezing at a noxious aroma of powder and sweat, I Inhale a pink cloud of tiny ostrich feathers and ruin my sniffer for the nonce. Done in by a dead bird.
Of course my investigations are over for now. Sometimes life is a drag.
Chapter 21
Unauthorized Landing
Some call a flock of songbirds an ''exultation of larks."
Some call a crowd of carrion birds a ''murder of crows,"
What does one call a full complement of Fontana brothers?
Temple pondered this intriguing question. A press of pastel suits? A bulk of bodyguards? A huddle of hoods? A muscle of mobsters? Or just a mob of undirected motive and opportunity?
The brothers Fontana, a uniform six feet tall, surrounded Temple on her triumphal return to the Crystal Phoenix, forcing her to ponder another fine point.
Could even the most optimistic public relations specialist call limping along in silver metallic sneakers (one loosely laced to accommodate an ankle the size of a breakfast bagel)..."triumphal"? Temple didn't have to worry about answering her own question, for a Fontana brother spoke.
"We are here to render assistance," said one tall, dark and striking brother.
Another offered a supportive arm with a mute smile.
"We are here to protect you," a third corrected threateningly.
''And to protect the hotel." A fourth spoke with equal ferocity.
''Where would you like to go?" a fifth asked.
"Would you prefer to be carried?" suggested the sixth.
"She is little," the seventh said. "We could put her in a chair and easily tote her to and fro."
"Is there anything you need?" The eighth cocked a helpful head in her direction, the better to display a single tasteful pewter earring in the form of a chain-saw.
"No, thank you, Ralph," Temple said, relieved to recognize one familiar face, no matter how luridly accessorized. "Except maybe . . . name tags for you guys?"
A flurry of Fontanas dispersed, leaving Temple alone with Ralph and a naked-ear clone who swiftly introduced himself.
"Giuseppe. Nicky said we was responsible for nothing going wrong with you or your work for the hotel. You can expect us to stick to you like a mudpack from now on, whenever you're on the premises."
Ah. A mudpack of Mafiosi. . . only we all know The Family doesn't exist, and besides, the Fontana brothers are not it, Temple reminded herself. Great. A high-profile escort of dubious types was likely to get Temple arrested. All she needed now to keep her from getting any kind of job done anywhere was a tail of tall lieutenant on her track.
Temple cautiously examined the glittering Crystal Phoenix lobby. No obvious police present.
Not a soul in the vicinity who looked even faintly authoritarian, except for the burgundy-uniformed security personnel with gilt phoenixes embroidered on their breast pockets.
Oops. And a pale-suited flock of returning Fontana brothers. Temple swallowed a smile as they came close enough for her to read. Each expensive lapel now bore a stick-on name label outlined in a different color. Red for Rico, green for Eduardo, blue for Aldo, lavender for Ernesto, yellow for Julio, orange for Armando, fuchsia for Emilio, and purple for Giuseppe, the brother who had stayed behind. Ralph, of course, was readily identifiable by his earring . . . and also by a new pink bordered nametag that decidedly clashed with the earring.
''Now" Ralph asked, ''where would you like to go?"
"To the Gridiron rehearsal. Didn't that move to the actual stage yesterday?"
"You are correct."
"No more dark, damp, dangerous basements," said Emilio.
"You will be safer up here," Ernesto announced.
"Uncle Mario's men are patrolling the lower regions," Julio added forbiddingly.
"And the railings are fixed ... with concrete," Rico put in modestly.
"Is there nothing we can do?" Eduardo demanded with a note of pleading. "Nicky will be mad if we don't make ourselves useful."
"Mad again," Ralph said.
"Well ..." Temple hated useless people, too.
She eyed the brothers. Why did she get the impression that each bore a bulky something under his left arm, except for Ralph, who sported a suspicious lump under his right arm? Ralph must be a lefty. Why did Lieutenant Molina never look like she'd used a wad of wet newsprint for deodorant? Surely the police went armed in a town where a gat of gangsters packed more iron than a team of manic mangier-operators?
Temple lifted her obligatory tote bag crammed with everything essential to her working life--in other words, almost, everything portable she owned.
"Could one of you carry my bag?"
Several brothers dove for the privilege, converging on Temple, a flapping phantom of albino crows. . . .
Half an hour later, Temple was ensconced front-row center on a banquette in the Crystal Phoenixes Peacock Theater, the smaller of its two performance facilities.
Her injured foot lay elevated on the crimson velvet banquette seat as if awaiting a glass slipper. She hoped it was a Weitzman plastic and Plexiglas pump. She certainly faced no shortage of Prince Charming candidates. One had recently deposited a short-stemmed goblet of sparkling mineral water before her. Another had opened a lined notebook. Three gold-trimmed Mont Blanc pens, produced in an instant by three different Fontana brothers--did that make them "Fontana pens?"--lined up at her right hand like well-decorated soldiers at her service.