Matt was surprised to find himself sliding slowly over a metal landscape of toggle switches on a tide of slippery syrup. Couldn’t pass out. His tormenter was probably coming to by now, and velvet curtains weren’t iron manacles . . . .
Lights blazed on in the audience area. House lights.
Footsteps came pounding. Someone grabbed Matt and propped him up against the light board console.
“God, look at the blood. Looks like the left arm.”
“Tourniquet, quick. Belt will do.”
“We found him, sir,” a youthful tenor male voice crowed from what seemed like a half-block away.
“Get the hotel doctor immediately,” Sir ordered in an urgent basso Matt didn’t recognize.
“Matt!” Temple cried, her slightly raspy alto voice soprano with anxiety, her warm palm soothing the side of his face. And then, said to someone behind him, “I’m watching her! She’s with me, all right? I wasn’t staying behind to babysit.”
“I don’t need babysitting.” He recognized Mariah’s light soprano, scared and defiant. “Is he all right? Mom? He’s supposed to take me to the school dance.”
Ah, Matt thought, feeling oddly buoyed by the young’s assumptions. The thoughtless egotism of the tweenager . . . he’d be happy to go to that dance now.
“Attacker’s gone, but the sword isn’t.” A male voice from a distance. “Skewered in the curtain. Maybe we’ll get fingerprints.”
“Wearing gloves,” Matt croaked.
“Damn!” The dark mezzo of Carmen Molina had the last word, as always, and sang the same old song.
“Rafi, get your guys locking down this whole area pronto while I call forensics. Everybody else in this damn-fool party—you know who you are—get up to the”—a very pregnant pause—“Zoe Chloe Ozone suite. Now! Mariah Molina and EK, your shadow, that means you.”
Fighting Form
Of course no one recognizes that were it not for my extreme sensitivity to vibes of both a physical and psychic nature, no one would know Mr. Matt Devine was suffering from duel fatigue and blood loss deep in the deserted part of the hotel.
Even my Miss Temple did not suspect I was fresh from clawing my way up the silent butler shaft from the high-roller suite service area two floors below, which includes a fully staffed kitchen as well as twenty-four-hour maid, bar, and concierge services. It pays to be rich in Vegas.
So it just looks like I was idly sleeping on her vibrating cell phone when in fact I had just arrived there, panting and not much better off than Mr. Matt Devine himself at the moment. But I knew he would be phoning her if he could manage it, and I had to make sure our joint Sleeping Beauty would hear it.
This may seem a desperate and frantic ploy, but I am not Lassie. I could run howling through the casino and no one would heed and follow me, except to boot me out onto the Strip.
I have done what I could through this whole awful nightmare of lethal surprise attack.
I have no doubt that both the masked attempted murderer and our own Mr. Matt have the impression that they were dueling mano a mano all over the Dancing With the Celebs set. And quite a thrilling, but lamentably unfilmed, contest that was.
But no, the contention was mano a gato in some respects. (“Gato” is the Spanish word for cat.)
I keep a keen eye on all the Circle Ritz folks at this shindig and happened to be sniffing around the company buffet table backstage during the very wee morning hours, hunting clues about the mishap involving Mr. Keith Salter. Okay, he ate separately, but you never know. Not that I was copping a free meal, although I was not loath to lap up any unclaimed crumbs from said spread for a Midnight mid-night nosh.
Be that as it may, or may not, my sharp olfactory senses can pick up what humans overlook even without a supersensitive canine nose. I did find crumbs of things I would rather die than eat, such as cranberry muffins, but nothing that I could die from if I ate it.
So it is the wee-est hours on the deserted set when I hear footsteps and decide to widen my area of inquiry.
I am there when Mr. Matt blunders in, searching for Miss Tatyana.
Any other investigative dude would suspect him of making an unlawful romantic rendezvous. I, however, know Mr. Matt is already uneasy enough about his unsanctified hanky-panky with his own fiancée and my dear sweet roommate, so I doubt he would be canoodling with a hot-tempered Russian fireball.
At that point, I am as innocent of suspecting lurking menace as he is and am merely curious about this after-hours rehearsal. Perhaps Miss Tatyana thinks she can draw out more of his secret Latin soul with late-night sessions. He was not Antonio Banderas material until he did that righteous paso doble the other night.
I myself, on the other hand, was born with dark, Latin good looks, masculine grace, and cojones (and I kept them despite now being politically correct for my species in the reproduction department).
As I was saying, I was born with the brunet swagger to stomp and slither about the stage intimidating the ladies into swooning at my feet. All four of them. Feet, I mean, not ladies. Though I am not averse to social quintets.
I expected to have some merriment watching Mr. Matt trying to go Latin lover again in the tango, and then Zorro shows up.
I see instantly that Mr. Matt is outmatched.
I see instantly that the only dude here who can fight Hispanic fire with Hispanic fire is a longtime alley shivmeister.
So while Mr. Matt does his best to sidestep the unexpected weapon, I am playing the cape in this lethal pasodoble for dudes.
This means I must hurl my much outweighed self into the fray.
Alas, the cameras are not rolling.
They would see my agile, unbooted toes doing a fierce flamenco with the unnamed dude in black’s high-heeled boots. Any stomp that I failed to elude would break all my shivs, not to mention my toes.
It is very close. Only my lithe full-body twists keep me from death by stomping.
The dark dude is as fast as his rapier work. I dodge both boots and sword-point, seeking two vital goals. One is keeping Mr. Zorro from spearing my roommate’s current beloved (okay, I cannot yet forget Mr. Max, who is a dude after my own parts). The other is attempting to mark the masked man’s hide with my four-on-the-floor: the wide track of my shivs that will identify him later if I can but manage to install a full house of claws to the epidermis.
I must say that Mr. Matt is surprising both the attacker and myself. He is faster on the draw—and the withdraw—than I expected. And what is any dance but drawing closer and retreating farther, much like human relationships.
In fact, I must admit that my own amatory adventures are a continual process of advance and retreat.
Perhaps this attack is a far, far better dancing lesson than Miss Tatyana could administer, if she had truly been hoping a late-night challenge would unleash Mr. Matt’s deepest emotions. Which at this point would be to live, now that he has finally attained the hand of my lovely roommate in marriage.
Recognizing what is at stake for me and mine, I hurl myself at our opponent without regard to life or limb. I am an unseen shadow tripping his every step, leaping to catch and capture his sword arm on every blow.
At times the flurry of steps catches me in the staccato enemy fire of his boot heels and I go rolling over the darkened dance floor, my torso caught in the crossfire and beaten and bruised.
I have not been in such a rumble since I was a young blade. So it is Zorro versus gato. Fox against cat. We are both sly and agile creatures, which is not exactly how I would describe Mr. Matt, splendid fellow that he is.
He needs his shadow ally and I rise to the occasion, literally leaping into the billows of Zorro’s cloak, rending as I fall, ripping it to shreds. But I am outweighed.