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his first assignment covering the more bizarre aspects of Vegas nightlife.
    â€œThat’s what I am, Sonny,” she said, taking her costume out of the closet.
    â€œName is Rick Dodson,” he said softly.
    â€œYeah, Rick. You’re a handsome young man. This is for the Vegas Weekly? ”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    She peeled off her blouse and jeans. He wasn’t the first man to see her in her underwear. “I have to dress while we talk. Hope you don’t mind.”
    He moistened his lips but kept a firm grip on his pencil. “No. Go ahead.”
    â€œWhat was it you wanted to know?”
    â€œIs Wanda Cirrus your real name?”
    â€œIt is now.” She held the costume up to the light, inspecting it for stains.
    â€œAre you married?”
    â€œNot now. Not for years.”
    â€œAs a performance artist, do you feel you’re closer to the artistic world or to show business?”
    â€œWhen I’m performing in a museum it’s art, when I’m in an Off-Broadway theater it’s show business. What more can I say.”
    â€œWhat is it here in Vegas?”
    She slipped into the snug red and black cat suit, zipping it up the front, and pulled up the hood to cover her hair. Then she slipped her feet into the shiny black boots and picked up the black gloves and blindfold for later. She pressed the button to arm the apartment’s security system and replied, “I don’t know. Why don’t you come along tonight and decide for yourself?”
    COVERING HER COSTUME with a long cape, she talked about performance art as she led him downstairs. “It only dates back to the 1970s, really. It was an outgrowth of the so-called happenings during the sixties, when I was still a child. These usually were collaborative efforts involving a company of performers in a non-structured theater piece. Members of the audience were invited to take part, and there was often a good deal of nudity involved. In the mid-seventies some individuals or smaller groups began to appear on stage. A few became quite well-known in places like New York and San Francisco. I remember a woman who daubed herself with paint and rolled around nude on a canvas. She even sold some of the resulting paintings. I believe there’s a man in New York today who sits on a ladder eating the Wall Street Journal. He’s also been known to crawl through the Bowery wearing a business suit. There’s usually an implied message of some sort in performance art.”
    â€œWhat is the message in your piece?”
    She gave a little shrug. “Chance. One writer viewed me as a personification of Lady Luck.”
    At the car she suggested he follow along in his vehicle. “It’s not far.”
    Ten minutes later Wanda pulled into the parking garage at one of the older hotels, just over the city line. Rick followed along as she led the way through the lobby to a private meeting room that had been converted for use as a bar and casino. A tall man with a mustache was waiting for her at the door. “Hello, Wanda. How are you feeling tonight? Black or red?”
    She laughed, handing him her cape. “I haven’t decided yet.”
    â€œWho’s this?” he asked, indicating the reporter.
    â€œRick Dodson from the Vegas Weekly . Rick, meet Judd Franklyn. This is his operation.”
    The two men shook hands. “Doing a little story about us?”
    â€œWell, about Miss Cirrus.”
    Franklyn slipped his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Sure, you can tell what she does. But call it a performance. Don’t mention the betting aspect. I don’t want the Gaming Commission after me.”
    â€œAll right,” Dodson agreed.
    â€œBetween ourselves, they know what goes on, but we can’t be too blatant about it. We don’t run ads. We depend on word-of-mouth.”
    â€œI understand.”
    Judd Franklyn looked Wanda up and down. “You’re in