Cat In A Crimson Haze

Chapter 36

Offstage Acts

The huge stage curtain, panels of alternating emerald and turquoise velvet, drew back and the first skit was underway.

Matt watched with some wonderment. The cast numbered at least forty. Despite the lavish professional surroundings, these were indeed skits. Tap-dancing choruses might fade in and out, but the dialogue was mainly snappy repartee about local projects, failures and personalities, with a few digs hurled at national figures.

Matt hadn't lived in Las Vegas long enough, or paid close enough attention, to understand every gag. From the serial guffaws surrounding him, most of the audience did. Sometimes they even applauded a well-aimed line. During such pauses in the onstage action. Temple often leaned close to whisper, 'That was mine," against the neighboring din.

Matt applauded when the audience did, but was beginning to wonder why all the pomp and circumstance and men in cummerbunds for what could have been a pleasant show in a high school gymnasium. Then he remembered that Crawford Buchanan was responsible for most of it, and that Temple thought poorly of his qualifications for the job. Still, the audience seemed delighted by spoofs of its power and glory and goof ups. Matt suspected that these people would have applauded a Three Stooges version of this show, just as long as their names were mentioned, no matter the context.

When the curtain closed between major skits, blackouts involving only two or three actors dominated the apron while the stage was readied for the next big scene.

During such an interlude, Temple pulled her program so close to one of the candles that Matt was afraid that her hair would catch fire.

''What is it?" he whispered over the microphone-amplified lines.

On stage, a supposed Steve Wynn of the Mirage Hotel held off a duo of disgruntled Las Vegas Lions--literally the MGM Grand Hotel's oversized Leo and the Luxor's giant Sphinx--with Siegfried and Roy's famed white tigers. Since all of the big cats were portrayed by people in fuzzy suits-, the skit had a surreal Wizard of Oz quality.

"This hokey 'Line Tamer' skit shouldn't be next," Temple fussed. "Not according to the program. Why are they playing for time? My big number is coming up. Must be a snag. I'm scooting backstage to see what. Excuse me."

"Whoa." Matt caught her arm as she prepared to shimmy impetuously down the banquette seat. "Maybe they don't want you there."

"Are you kidding? I know this show almost as well as Danny Dove. It never hurts to have help in a crisis."

Matt slid over the resistant velvet--the soft nap acted like flypaper--to let Temple out. The velvet was even more resistant to her beaded dress, but she wriggled out and then tried to tiptoe unobtrusively up the stairs.

Matt watched her as he took his seat again. Unobtrusive, sure, in that Christmas-tree tinsel dress and those glitter-heeled shoes. Someone else far back twisted to watch her exit. He recognized Lieutenant Molina, lifting opera glasses to her eyes from the far left rear of the house to follow Temple's exit. Beside her, Frank was bending his head to fuss with his watch.

The opera glasses snapped to the stage, but the score was Lions 3 and Tigers 6, if you were counting laughs instead of stuffed tail thumps.

Matt glanced at the strangers next to him on the banquette big enough to seat six. Their profiles were intent on the stage, anticipatory smiles pasted to their faces. They sensed nothing wrong.

Yet now that Temple had left, Matt noticed the occasional curtain bump and bustle backstage, as if the crew were struggling. He glanced at his watch, first impatiently pulling back the cumbersome formal cuff.

Nine-thirty. The show would be working its way to the wind-up. Maybe he should have gone with Temple . . . He turned to gawk at the closed doors leading from the house, not knowing what he expected to see.

What he did see surprised, then shocked him. Molina and Frank were gone, leaving a wine velvet hole in an audience of wall-to-wall glitter and penguin contrast.

Matt stood and made his hopefully discreet way up the long shallow ramp of carpeted steps.

Around him the amplified voices on stage traded mots, bon and not-so-bon. The audience laughed.

Bursting through the exit doors, he was taken aback by the usual bustle of milling gamblers in the casino beyond. He had gotten used to the theater's programmed give-and-take of show-and-clap.

Temple was nowhere to be seen, which did not surprise him, but Lieutenant Molina was, which did.

He approached her. ''Where's Temple?"

Molina kept her voice and her eyebrows level. ''Isn't that your job?"

"Is something going on? Where's Frank?"

"Frank." Her tone did not imply a question, but Matt knew he better explain.

"We ... ah, used to know each other. In school."

Molina looked intrigued, but lifted the large, forties-style evening bag she carried, a large, encrusted envelope that bristled with gilt metallic curls and leaves until it more resembled a weapon than an accessory.

"I'm here as a civilian, honest. This is not my bailiwick."

"Then there is something going on!''

Molina tossed her head impatiently. Before she could say more, Van von Rhine and Nicky Fontana came rushing over, both attired as formally as he and Temple. Matt had noticed them slipping in and out of their seats at the very back of the house like nervous hosts double-checking arrangements every five minutes.

''What happened?" Nicky demanded in his turn, and much more impolitely than Matt. ''All the undercover cops took off down the Strip like Godzilla was after them. Are we on our own here, or what?"

Molina glanced cautioningly toward Matt, then shook her head. Her short, thick hair swung back to reveal heavy vintage earrings that gleamed like brass knuckles at each ear. Matt was willing to bet that industrial-strength clips and not fragile posts held those earrings on.

"It's a wash," she admitted. "They were wrong. There's a heist on tonight, all right, but not here. The Goliath just got hit. Eight hockey-masked men in the back room."

"All the cash?" Van asked, her face ashen.

"Reports are sketchy, but they supposedly hauled it out on the collection carts."

"But the Phoenix is okay?" Nicky asked.

Molina nodded. "The Phoenix is fine. All the pre-show hanky-panky here must have been a diversion to make us think that this casino was about to get robbed. Slick," she admitted. "Well, at least we had heavy personnel committed here, and the Goliath is just down the Strip. Believe me, they'll never get away with it. That much money is much too cumbersome to move out fast.

I suggest we leave the work to the people who are on duty and go back and enjoy the show. I don't want to miss Miss Barr's supposedly scintillating final act." She turned to Matt. "Maybe she skipped out early because it's a bomb."

He frowned to find his fingertips poised on the plastic dial of his watch as delicately as a waterbug's legs. Ten minutes. Temple had been gone for ten minutes, and the countdown for her skit's big moment had begun. Where was she and why hadn't she come back?

Molina had taken her own advice along with Nicky and Van. Matt glimpsed the trio's backs as the dark theater doors hushed shut on them and a faint burst of laughter.

Nothing was going to happen at the Crystal Phoenix but the Gridiron. Maybe something bad had been expected, but that impression was part of a ruse. Here, everything was hunky dory.

Matt had that on good authority. Police authority.

Why was he worried?

Maybe because it was too quiet at the Phoenix and everything was a little too normal to believe. He was beginning, he realized, to think like Temple.

He was acting like an amateur sleuth.