Cat In A Leopard Spot

I know a thing or two about Pharaoh from a past life—Pharaoh’s past life, not mine—and I know that the Royal Bearded One takes it most unkindly when the hired help clings to the doorjamb like a couple of caryatids. Okay, caryatids were these naked ladies from a little later era, but the ladies along the Nile were not big on overdressing either. Anyway, these statuesque broads would have done well in a late-night topless chorus line at the Stardust, and it is a downright shame to find these two overgrown musclemen making like doorposts on the Cloaked Conjuror’s doorstep, thereby interfering with my eavesdropping.

So I am forced to cosy up to them and rub on their cowboy boots until I could have polished the varnish off a whole herd of ostriches.

Above my head there is much speculating about how I got in here (with my hands and feet just like you did, numbskull, although with a lot more finesse, as my kind is not normally welcomed or allowed on the premises). And about if I am hungry. (Do I look hungry? I weigh about as much as your favorite pit bull, pal.) And some idle chatter about how the Cloaked Conjuror is in a bad mood tonight. (You think your boss is a bit peeved! How about me, who has managed to spy the Mystifying Max in the dark onstage, trail him through the flies and the wings, which are stage parts and not insectoid in the slightest, track him below-stage, and now here I am balked on the threshold of revelation by a couple of oversize klutzes who would rather feed the kitty than protect their boss’s fake leopard-skin mask.)

Luckily, I have a trick up my sleeve.

Okay, I do not have a sleeve to speak of, but the trick does put in a sudden appearance.

It is the old Lassie shtick, and I must say it is the prettiest enactment of a dumb blond of the canine kind that I have ever seen.

I notice her first, leaning against the wall twenty feet away and panting.

Immediately, I stop my boot-black work so the idiots I have been forced to associate with can notice something under their noses down the hall.

She stutters forward on her little black feet, but soon sinks against the wall again, this time giving a little cry.

The dolts stop, look, and listen. By now they have graduated into making good crossing guard material.

She sighs, staggers upright, and begins limping away.

’Atta girl, Lassie! Timmie and the well he’s fallen into must be down that dark hall somewhere. Or a pony. Maybe these guys will be useful enough to stumble into it.

By now her tail is lifting, then jerking down, then perking a bit, then dragging behind her heels. It is a sort of epilepsy of the anterior and it gets the guards running down the hall to tend to the poor thing.

I rub up tight against the door, pressing my left ear to the eighth-inch of air beneath it.

That is how I learn that Miss Shangri-La, the ooh-la-la lady magician who is one nice plate of chop suey in the looks department, is waiting in the wings to join Mr. Cloaked Conjuror’s act. And I learn that a cat is the crux of the matter (of course).

A sharp hissing sound like acid boiling over down the hall tells me that my assistant’s good nature has expired like an underfed parking meter downtown.

The pair of lummoxes heading my way are muttering about “damn cats” and scuffing their pointy-toed boots on the concrete floor as if entered in a roach-kicking contest.

I decide I do not wish to be mistaken for same, and rocket through their ranks, joining my compatriot on the dark end of the hallway.

“What a bum assignment,” she greets me, still fussing and spitting. “I nearly broke a nail on the dumb guy’s jean’s leg. Who ever heard of starched denim?”

“Calm down, sister.”

“Oho. You will not acknowledge me as your daughter, but I am good enough to be your sister when you need a little undercover work done. No go, bro!”

There is no doubt that Miss Midnight Louise needs handling with kid gloves, but there are no convenient kids in the vicinity, and besides, who would want gloves made from their sticky-fingered little hands anyway?

So I resort to my velvet tongue, which I stroke a few times over Midnight Louise’s twitching shoulder blades. Ooh, sharp!

“Cut out the velvet glove treatment,” she snarls, shrugging away. But her shoulders stop twitching. “So what did you learn while I was attracting the attention of those doorstops?”

“That one of our kind is in trouble. The Cloaked Conjuror told Mr. Max Kinsella that a big cat he was training has been kidnapped. There was also some talk about an associate of that lady killer I told you about.”

“I know. The knockout showgirl with the lavender-gray shoulder-length gloves and thigh-high hose. I think she is a figment of your pheromones, Daddy Dude. Her type of femme fatale went out with cigarette holders.”

“Anyway, it behooves us to track Mr. Max Kinsella as he investigates.”

“And hooves is what we will need if we try to keep up with that gentleman.”