Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

He felt the idling bike lighten as she jumped off, then he shut off the motor, kicked down the stand, and let it tilt into silence and stillness.

“Gosh. I'm still vibrating!" Temple shook her gloved hands. "I've never had my teeth chatter from motion before, not cold."

“You didn't like it."

“I loved it. Like being in a blender. Makes me want to eat a hamburger with onions on it and a brown beer." "A brown beer?"

“Yeah, you know. That manly stuff that comes in long-necked bottles. Let's hustle inside.”

Matt shrugged and followed her in.

Two steps outside the door they picked up a big black cat with a gray muzzle.

“Hi, Three O'Clock!" Temple turned to Matt. "The critter the place is named after. Isn't that a scream? A name like Louie's and he looks like his grandfather!”

Three O'Clock humped his back, whether in anger or as the prelude to a leg-rubbing it was hard to tell.

“I don't know if he's allowed in," Temple said, hesitating in the open wooden screen door.

“Of course he's allowed in." An elderly man for whom the phrase "old coot" had been invented, down to the handlebar mustache, leaned out to hold the door open for man, woman, and cat. "Come on, Miss Temple Barr. We owe you lunch on the house."

“I can't think what for. We wanted to add to the restaurant's customer base."

“And this fellow is—?"

“Matt Devine, one of Electra's most valued tenants." "After yourself," the guy said with a bow.

“This is Wild Blue Pike, one of the restaurant owners.”

Matt, gloveless again, shook a gnarled hand that gave no quarter.

“Cold hands, warm heart," Wild Blue commented, shaking his fingers gingerly.

“Sorry. We motorcyled out. I guess my fingers are too cold to know their own strength."

“No problem. I like a hearty shake, and a hearty lunch. You ready for a Louieburger, Miss Temple?"

“A Louieburger! What's that?"

“Sourdough bun, almost a pound of prime lean beef with jalapeno cheese, Worcestershire sauce, and cayenne-peppered onion rings."

“Wow. Lead us to it.”

The tables were wood with inset tiles, the chairs heavy to match, and sported woven-rush seats and backs.

Wild Blue led them to a corner near a roaring mesquite-wood fireplace.

“This is neat," Temple said as she sat in the chair Wild Blue held out for her, and then pushed way under the table, as if for a child. "I can't believe I saw this place in the making, a sawdust palace."

“All good things gotta start with a pile of elbow grease," Wild Blue said, slapping plastic encased menus before them.

“Forget the menu. It's a Louieburger for me." "Me, too," Matt said.

“All the trimmings?"

“The full Louie," Temple responded. "And the brownest beer you have.”

Wild Blue frowned. "You like dark ale?"

“No, but I'm suited up and ready to ride.”

After Wild Blue left, Matt regarded her. "You're in a feisty mood."

“I'm probably in the same state you are: my brain is weary and my spirit is wilted. Desperate times take desperate measures. Bad-for-you food is the answer!"

“I never thought of advising that over the radio. These guys should buy a spot on the Midnight Hour."

“Tell 'em."

“That's not my job."

“It's your show."

“No, it isn't. It's his."

“His? Ohhh, your guest celebrity."

“I think he's made his last appearance."

“Really? Why?"

“We had a real go-round the night before last. I pushed him on all the issues. I feel bad about that." "You were too hard on him?”

Matt shrugged out of his jacket. The fire was hot. "No. I feel sad about it, that's all. We . . . he reached a kind of closure. I think he's . . . gone for good this time."

“Really?"

“You keep saying 'really,' in that noncommittal tone. Like everything you say has a double meaning."

“It could," she said seriously, drawing back while Wild Blue plopped a condensation-dewed bottle of dark beer before each of them.

“Should have asked for a glass."

“Easy riders don't ask for glasses."

“Sorry." She sipped, then sighed. "I've been feeling kinda blue too. One of the neatest Elvis impersonatorsoops, we say 'tribute performers' nowadays—died yesterday. He was really, really good. Might even have passed as the real thing, if you were inclined to think that way. Had a great chance of winning the competition. I did it again: found the body, thanks to Midnight Louie.”

Matt only noticed then that Three O'Clock had settled on the brick skirt of the fireplace and was watching them through slitted eyes.

Despite the half-full dining room, he felt that here even the cats had ears, and lowered his voice. "That's the second guy to die at the Kingdome."

“Don't I know it. The first wasn't a real tribute performer, just some petty crook in a cheapo costume. Not a truly cheap costume, but not up to what Elvis had ever worn. That guy was drowned, as far as the police are saying. Lyle was killed onstage, strangled with a white silk scarf."

“Aren't women usually killed by strangling?"