“Well, Louie, what do you think? Am I feng enough to satisfy the Queen of Shui-ba?”
Huh? Since when did my daring and darling roommate, Miss Temple Barr, consult me on fashion matters?
I am a gentleman of the old school, from my polished nails to my formal black tie and tails that are a blend of Fred Astaire and gangsta record mogul.
One can never go wrong wearing black. Perhaps Miss Temple’s crisis of confidence in the mirror is because she is wearing silver.
I do love those burnished sea shades, though. The memory of glints of gold and silver—the shiny-scaled koi that swim in them—reminds me of my dear old dad, Three O’Clock Louie. He retired to Vegas a while back from a Pacific Northwest salmon-fishing boat.
There is nothing golden—or fishy—about my Miss Temple, however. She has red-hot cinnamon fur, yum-yum, and baby-big steel blue eyes. She also is heir to the sad human fate of wearing a union suit that is all skin and virtually no hair, like the unfortunate Sphinx breed of my own cat kind.
Today Miss Temple is wearing a short skirt and skimpy sweater set in gray-silver. This is a knockout with her fur color but the outfit does make her look about twelve years old, always a worry for a petite public relations woman who has to elbow her own way to the fore of a competitive profession.
Miss Temple tries to pull her skirt an inch or two below her kneecap, which I agree is an ugly human attribute and hairless to boot.
The ploy does not work, though I have to admit the legs below the kneecap are pretty elegant despite their unfurred condition.
“This damn Wong woman,” she tells herself, the mirror, and me, “is supposed to be hell on Jimmy Choos.”
I normally do not deign to answer the meaningless growlings of discontented humans, even my own.
Sherlock Holmes had the newspaper agony column. I have the remote and daytime TV. Thus I instantly recognize the Asian-American celebrities that Miss Temple refers to: Amelia Wong, the decor design queen of this feng shui mania, and the red-carpet footman to the stars, a spikemeister named Jimmy Choo. Except it turns out that the force behind Jimmy Choo is really an enterprising female named Tamara Mellon, who built the business under a male business name, like Laura Holt on TV’s Remington Steele, which brought us Pierce Brosnan. (I have been told by female admirers that we have similar hair and sex appeal.)
Anyway, I must ponder what celebrity females adore more: the aforesaid Jimmy’s costly and kicky footwear . . . or simply referring to their “Choo shoes,” which sounds like something that used to chug into train stations.
My Miss Temple is no slug herself when it comes to sling-backs. She has a world-class high heel collection, including one covered with diamond-bright Austrian crystals. These updated Cinderella slippers bear my likeness in coal black crystal on the heels, so you could say they come with a Prince Charming attached. You could say it. I cannot, without sounding conceited. I guess the true Prince Charming in this case is Mr. Stuart Weitzman, who designed the fabled footwear.
But, hark, my Miss Temple addresses the mirror one last time.
“Well, I cannot dally.” She spins from the mirror to snatch up a burgundy patent-leather tote bag that matches her burgundy patent-leather Nine West clogs. (Now that Miss Temple has discovered platform clogs increase her height by two to three inches without the need for stiletto heels, she reserves her high-rise shoes for dress-up.)
Also, she can outrun crooks better in clogs, crooks being a little hobby of hers ever since I have known her.
The fact is that I am the pro PI in our ménage à deux here at the Circle Ritz. Still, Miss Temple is racking up quite a crime-busting résumé of her own . . . for a two-footed amateur sleuth.
Mind you, she is cute (which some benighted souls have erroneously said of me, to their regret) and smart. But I never like my mysteries dominated by little doll amateurs, even if those little dolls are my own personal property.
I hear Miss Temple scrape the car keys off the coffee table in the living room. A moment later the door plays patty cake with an open-and-shut case. I am alone in our digs at last.
I jump down from the zebra-pattern coverlet that is such an excellent backdrop for my midnight good looks and pad into the living room.
The Las Vegas papers, both morning and evening, are splayed open on the coffee table. Both feature ballyhoo about the imminent advent of the “dowager empress of enterprising interior designs, Amelia Wong.” The accompanying photo pictures a domestic domi-natrix of sleek but severe expression. I would not want to meet her in a dark disco.
Hmmm. I wonder briefly if I should tail my little doll to her meeting with this media Medusa. But, no. She is thirty now. It is time I let her face the big, bad world on her own occasionally. Since she is an ace PR freelancer with enough charm to sell Cheerios to Eskimos, I am sure she will handle the upcoming challenge with almost the same skill I would.
I settle into my favorite snoozing spot on the couch . . . dead center, stretched full out, so no one can sit there until I vacate the premises, and especially not if I garf up a hairball . . . and soon tiptoe through the catnip-dusted tulips of dreamland.