Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

The setup is clear once we are high above the exhibition area. The magic act is laid out on an invisible web. You always knew every illusion comes with strings, did you not?

A single tightrope stretches straight and strong across the chasm below. It is steel cable, a half-inch circumference of metal filaments, both flexible and taut. If one has the impeccable balance for the job, it is a royal road of stability. A human foot, trained to curl, can toe dance across . . . as long as the body above those feet is lean, schooled, and attuned for infinite balance. No magic, just rosin and gutsy skill. The feline foot, clawed by birth, is even more flexible and clingy.

That is not to dismiss the heart and skill it takes for any living thing to perform sixty feet above the ravening crowd.

Black bungee cords are all over the place, swagged against the side walls like anorexic curtains. The way they are arrayed, you could grab one and swing down from any point on any of the four walls, which narrow into a funnel at the very top.

There is a ledge about twelve feet from the top. Squeaker (I will have to find a pet name for her, and soon!) points out black sliding panels that allow humans to enter and exit the scene and the black platforms where the Big Cats perform.

Of course, from a vantage point far below, all the machinery blends into a solid firmament of black, against which any wires, cords, platforms and escape hatches become invisible.

“So,” I ask myself as much as my guide, “the dead man had to have come out here, willingly or not, before he could get entangled in a bungee cord and garotte himself.”

“Or before someone could ensnare his neck in a bungee cord and push him off one of the launching platforms.”

I study these platforms. They are built for strength. The act’s Big Cats are of the leaner, smaller variety: black leopards. They weigh maybe a petite 250 to 300 pounds. The Cloaked Conjuror in all his gear runs perhaps 250 himself. Shangri-La, 110. Hyacinth, maybe 7 or 8. I am a bruising 20 pounds myself, and not even the tightrope trembles at my few steps upon it.

“Louie! Do not toy with the tightrope. It takes a trained professional to walk it.”

“I am a trained professional.”

“On the high wire?

“When this joint was brand new, I busted into it through the neon planet sign on the roof.”

“Really!”

“Really, S. Q.”

“S. Q?”

“A nickname, compliments of Midnight Louie. Short for ‘Cute-with-a-Q.’ Or the more common ‘Susie Q.’ Do not thank me, S. Q.”

“I was not about to, M. L.”

She is especially cute-with-a-Q when she is mad. “Tell me,” I ask again. “How do two black cat dudes, no matter how outsize, show up against all this black matte paint when they perform?”

She uses her elegantly pointed tail to indicate the doused stars in our artificial sky. “Pinpoint spots. Plus, their coats are dusted with iridescent powders. Kahlúa with black diamond, and Lucky with rainbow platinum.”

I nod. Such serious shimmer will keep all eyes on the cats while their human partners do-si-do with illusion and misdirection.

“What does Hyacinth do during the show?”

“Her personal brand of acrobatics. She even has a fur-colored harness and does several high dives from a bungee cord.”

If I could whistle, I would. Instead I manage a high-pitched wheeze. “That Hyacinth is no shy violet.”

Squeaker sighs. “Do not remind me. They want a stage name for me, even though, as a body double, I will get no credit in the program.”

“You mean that will be you bungee jumping your little heart out?”

“I hope not, Louie. It is more than possible that Hyacinth will be strong enough and will not require a substitute. But if she does, I need my heart right where it belongs when I do these stunts.”

I look down, eyes narrowed. Human workmen in white painters’ overalls blend with the pale travertine floor below.

“So, you’re the bungee cord expert up here?”

“Along with Shangri-La herself. She did not want to risk her treasured companion in rehearsal.”

“The Cloaked Conjuror?”

“Hyacinth.”

I should have known. “So what does CC do here?”

“Stays safe high above, on the platform. He has never been an acrobatic performer.”

No, not weighed down with those height-enhancing boots, that heavy face-concealing, voice-altering device that makes him into the magician in the iron mask.

“Wait a minute! Have you seen the whole act?”

“Of course not. None of us has. Only bits. It is secret until the grand opening.”

“Then maybe . . . just maybe, CC needed a secret body double himself. Maybe the double needed secret practice. Maybe that was the guy who got a little too friendly with a bungee cord coil and dove. And died.”

“Maybe.” Squeaker’s big blue marble eyes light up, even in the shadows up here. “So . . . CC might need a replacement. Who could he get on such short notice?”

I put a testing foot on the high wire again. Something in me would like to prove I could still give Death a run for my money. But I am older and out of practice.

I wonder if Mr. Max Kinsella faces the same dilemma.