Louie was gracious to both ladies of the feline persuasion, a lamb when with Temple, and a lion when with Savannah. But he never crossed the line to out-and-out misbehavior.
Although Savannah accused him during one film session of "leaking" on her best Ultrasuede skirt, no spot could be found, even by the agency art director, who examined it thoroughly. The group conclusion was that the warmth of Louie's considerable weight had felt like a "leak" to her.
Temple feared that Savannah's running critique of Temple's failings had struck home and mentally agonized over how to compensate for them:
Savannah's Slams-----------Temple's Fixes
Toothpick legs---------------Calf-Length skirts
Bony Ankles------------------Boots
Squints at camera----------Glasses (no, contact lenses)
A Midwestern accent------A French accent
Red Hair----------------------A blond wig
Speaks too fast-------------A molasses mouthwash
Waves hands too much---Handcuffs
Of course, by the time Temple had actually corrected all the supposed flaws Savannah had mentioned, she would be unrecognizable and quite literally unspeakable.
The replay session ended with actual film of the recent Las Vegas commercials done at Gangster's casino and surrounding attractions. Temple was not in these segments, so could settle down to watch Louie's shenanigans with unselfconscious pleasure. Among the chorus line of pastel zoot-suited gangsters in lime-green and flamingo-pink fedoras, his nimble black form stood out like a flea on a tie-dyed cat. He certainly could cavort down onstage stairways faster than Marilyn Miller at full tap, swim harder than a sinking hamster on an exercise wheel in the Mirage's volcano pool, and leap over Gangster's thirties-vintage car seats with a single bound, she thought proudly.
Finally the room's peripheral down lights came on and the huge built-in television screen went black for the last time.
"Most instructive," said the lead client, whose first name was Gerald.
The foursome now wore sticky name labels pasted to their left chests. Temple wondered why people always affixed such labels right where their hands would rest over their hearts when reciting the Pledge of Allegiance in school.
She was too exhausted to worry about what the verdict was, and suspected that none of them would know until Monday.
Chapter 14
"... A Creature Was Stirring"
Nothing is more annoying than home movies. Even if you happen to be one of the stars.
Luckily, I have established myself as a free spirit, thanks to Miss Temple's innovative carrier. I never thought I would come to appreciate that embarrassing sling of purple nylon straps attached to a drawstring baggie, or looking like a couch potato. It simply does not befit a media star in the making.
However, it is a snap to get in and out of when no one is looking. And no one is looking when they can see the likes of myself on the silver screen. (All right, it is a black screen until it is turned on. But my personal style is silver screen. Just give me a cravat and a pencil-thin mustache and I would be Ronald Colman. All right. I have a pencil-thin mustache already. It just does not show to good advantage amidst all this hair.)
I must say that the Sublime Solange does show to good advantage on camera. The Divine Yvette is most cast down by this reversal of fortune. I, however, have obligations to the entire project and cannot show favoritism. Besides, has she never seen A Star Is Born? As one goes up, another may go down. I hope that this is not the case between Miss Savannah Ashleigh and my little doll. I do all I can to provoke Miss Ashleigh to unleash her most vixenish characteristics.
But she is so relentlessly competitive that I fear she has done Miss Temple irreparable harm.
Then, again, perhaps my little doll should consider toning down her hair color. And her figure is not of the Rubenesque proportions the Sublime Solange illustrates so well. I am not too sure who this Rubens was. Perhaps he invented the sandwich of that name, which I understand can really pile on the pounds, containing as it does so many healthful items from the four major human food groups: fatty protein (corned beef), salty vegetable (sauerkraut), fatty dressing (Thousand Island), bread (which is for the birds), and fat fat (whatever else you put on it).
Now that I am as good as a spokescat on matters nutritional, I believe I should not hold back in criticizing the human diet. Nutrition, after all, is a cross-species issue.
But a dude can only take so much self-adulation, so I paw open the conference door so narrowly that no one notices, and slip out into the well-lit hall. I am never at ease until I know the lay of whatever landscape I inhabit. I begin to sniff around discreetly.
What I notice first off is that this is not a place that welcomes any but human visitors. The only interesting scents I detect are Miss Temple's shoes, the airborne essence of three felines, two of them female, and it does not take a genius to figure out that these individuals are all present and accounted for and in the conference room.
So I amble down the hall, hearing the halfhearted buzz of distant employees whose immediate supervisors are otherwise and other where occupied. Since I know what areas are sure to be mostly unoccupied, I head to the back and the windows. Sure enough. The hallways widen, the carpet thickens, the piped-in Muzak gets tonier.
I nudge open a wide door of some exotic wood and find myself in a handsome outer office. I push onward and inward to forbidden territory. The dude's desk is the size of a Ping-Pong table, but much classier. The wood-paneled walls smell of lemon wax, which does nothing for my taste buds. I am not a citrus kind of guy and thank Bast that I was not born in Florida. I can just see my old man lolling on some boat called the Bastet Royal Flush, snagging marlin and sailfish with one mitt while dolls in thong collars come calling with sickening regularity. My old man is more than somewhat old-fashioned.
I, however, embrace the coming millennium. I am all for high technology and cyberspace cruising. I have been known to tap-dance on a keyboard or two in my day. So I hop atop the desk and take a gander at the screen. I have glimpsed screens with glowing letters the color of my eyes, and Miss Temple had a Karma-blue background on her computer screen, with white letters. But then she got a new one and it all comes up plain old black on white, which is not a bad combination once you think of it. And this is the kind of screen I see here with rows of black letters.
Now I can read the writing on the wall, and this office has the same boring bank of wooden plaques with gold lettering and framed certificates as the other executive offices. Why does having a big office make dudes think they must tack up every piece of paper they ever collected in life?
Me, if I had an office like this, I might go for trophy specimens. Like a gopher. Or maybe that record-quality blue and white koi I snagged from under Chef Song's meat cleaver at the Crystal Phoenix when I first blew into town. There are a few rats I could display, but why upset the visitors?
And of course I would have framed photos of all the glamorous tootsies in my life, feline and human.
And could I curl up on this emerald carpet and make a pretty picture! In fact, I am considering artfully allowing the Big Boss--Brent Colby, Jr.--to catch me in just such an irresistible circumstance when I hear voices down the hall and must vacate the locale lickety-split.
The other back offices are nice, but not as big. After a hurried scramble, I manage to zip into a maintenance closet someone has thoughtfully left ajar. I am hoping nobody sees me who might return me to the matinee of tedium down the hall.