Cat In An Alien X-Ray

“That club was always an iffy concept.” Farnum leaned back as their orders arrived. His napkin migrated from being tucked into his high-waisted belt to covering the banana yellow bow tie at the neck of his shirt. “Off-Strip is tricky territory. Often it degenerates into cramped parking lots or ticky-tacky venues, say like from the corner of Paradise and Convention Drive all the way to Las Vegas Boulevard.”

Temple took time to salad-dressing dive with some of her greens while she pictured that stretch of real estate. She recalled a cheap and happy hour–heavy box of a nightclub-strip joint standing on that spot. The location was truly bared, standing cheeks-by-jowls with parking lots and the sleazy souvenir shops that popped up at any tiny gaps on the Mega-Million Miles of the Strip too.

Then she reminded herself that from such seedy sprouts major enterprises could grow, like Hooters, for instance. Which she Did Not Like.

Tourists thronging the Downtown Experience and the Las Vegas Strip might be amazed to learn that nearby real estate could support enterprises far more modest than billion-dollar hostelries. That was especially true now that grandiose expansion plans sixty stories tall stood abandoned in midair ever since the Great Recession had hit Nevada like a ton of bricks from the Luxor’s giant pyramid turned landslide.

Temple was intrigued by where Farnum was placing his secret project as much as by what it was. That area had always been a difficult sell and was a boulevard of broken honky-tonk dreams.

Although her major client on the Strip was the Crystal Phoenix boutique hotel, she was also repping an innovative wine/beauty bar with an ancient Egyptian theme called Chez Shez that occupied the Strip’s top end near the venerable Stratosphere, Circus Circus, and Riviera venues.

Its hunky proprietor was the bronzed Egyptian version of a Greek god in braided wig who played perfectly in person and on the Internet. The combo of custom cosmetics and ancient recipe wines had poised the pricey little place on the brink of becoming a franchise, thanks to her help. She was hoping to groom Shez into a cross between the new Fabio and an Iron Chef.

So she always kept an open mind when it came to offbeat clients with “secret recipe” ideas.

“What kind of new venue are you floating?” she asked, almost afraid to ask. Silas T. Farnum calling borderline venues tacky didn’t mean he was above sponsoring just such a new venture himself, particularly if he wanted a “stunt” PR person.

“It’s a secret,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning closer.

Temple smelled peppermint on his breath, which was refreshing. “You have to tell your PR rep,” she warned him.

“No, I have to show her.”

“Look, Mr. Farnum. This lunch is already two hours out of my day. I don’t work in the dark.”

“Oh, it’s a secret in broad daylight. That’s what I have to show you.”

“This is some … new nightclub?”

“What’s old is new, isn’t that true in the PR game?” He chuckled and stuffed a slider in his mouth to avoid saying more.

“Granted, nothing is so old that it can’t be spun into something new,” Temple told him. “How can a secret be shown to anyone in broad daylight?”

“That’s what you’re going to be promoting. It’s so secret, you can’t see it right in front of your face. Even if X marks the spot.”

With a flourish, Silas T. slapped his napkin to the tabletop and signed what was inside the discreet padded folder at his fingertips. It took him just a few seconds and no credit card.

He was staying at the high-end Wynn?

“Just where are you from?” Temple asked.

“That’s a secret too. Maybe from somewhere out of this world,” he said with a wink.

Temple expected him to bound up a nearby chimney or perhaps one of the clay Mexican chimenea fireplaces on the adjoining patio. The Vegas desert could get cold at night; in the winter, the hotels provided heaters for the outside lounges and restaurants.

The idea of the short but portly Mr. Farnum whisking like a genie into a patio fire urn made Temple swallow a giggle. She was thinking leprechaun now, more than seersucker Santa. The man was infectious and he’d make “good copy.” That was an old newspaper expression. He’d make good multimedia would be the updated way to put it.

“Now,” he said. “We can either go shopping for a Ferrari, or I can show you my mystery project.” He leaned over to glance at the floor and Temple’s four-inch heels on a one-inch platform shoe. “Not exactly Lady Gaga, but I’ll warn you that we are heading for some rough terrain.”

Curiouser and curiouser. Temple reached into her ever-present tote bag and pulled out a tiny drawstring bag and flourished roll-up rubber-soled ballet flats. Who was playing Santa Claus now?

“No problem, Mr. Farnum. I need only dash into the nearest ladies’ room and I’ll emerge as an Abba Supertramper with utterly flat feet.”

“Excellent footwork,” Silas T. Farnum said with another wink.

Chapter 6

Louie Has His Ups and Downs